11th of December, 1976
A lot had changed in three months.
September had been about proving himself. Running messages for Tommy, watching doors at the shebeen on Florence Street, learning faces and names and who owed what to whom. That first week Tommy handed him fifteen quid—felt like a fortune, first real money he'd earned that didn't come from nicking or begging. By the second week it was twenty-five.
End of September, Tommy had him on doors regular. Three, four nights a week at ten quid a night. Stand at the door, watch who came and went, stop trouble before it started. That last part was easy. Ronan could feel fights coming—that cold spreading through his chest, copper taste flooding his mouth—and he'd move before the first punch got thrown. Tommy noticed. Bumped him to fifteen a night.
October brought collections.
Small debts at first. Twenty, thirty quid owed to Tommy by men who'd borrowed for rent or lost on the horses. Ronan would show up with Bam and most of the time that was enough. The big lad had just attached himself after that business with Davey—said he owed Ronan for stopping that wee cunt's razor. Ronan hadn't asked, but Bam started showing up whenever he left the flat. Eventually Tommy made it official. Paid Bam ten quid a week to be Ronan's bodyguard. Bam seemed happy enough with it, barely said more than a dozen words a day.
Collections paid ten percent. Twenty quid collected meant two in Ronan's pocket. Didn't sound like much but Tommy kept him busy—five, six a week—and the debts got bigger as Ronan proved reliable. Fifty quid. Seventy-five. A hundred. By November he was clearing twenty-five, sometimes thirty quid a week just from collections, on top of the shebeen work.
Then there was running bets. Tommy's bookies needed someone fast and smart to collect slips and deliver winnings. Ronan was both. Another twenty, thirty a week depending on how busy the races were.
By November, Ronan was making a hundred and thirty, sometimes a hundred and sixty quid most weeks. More than his da had ever earned at the warehouse. And Ronan was twelve years old.
He started giving his ma eighty quid a week once the money got good. Enough to cover rent, food, bills, let her cut back hours at the pubs. She'd tried to refuse the first time he put that much on the kitchen table.
"That's too much, Ro. Ye need tae keep some for yerself."
"I'm keepin plenty, ma. Take it."
She had. And the flat had felt different after that. Lighter. The constant weight of worry that had pressed down on all of them since his da died had finally lifted. His ma smiled more. Callum got new shoes when he needed them instead of hand-me-downs from the neighbour's boy. The gas meter always had coins in it now.
Ronan bought himself some things too. New clothes that actually fit. A new blade—proper one in a leather case, not some cheap folder. A new cap that didn't slide down over his eyes. Started smoking Benson & Hedges instead of whatever was cheapest. The gold pack. Nothing flash, but better than the Woodbines his da used to smoke.
The rest went into a sock under his floorboard. Forty quid a week, sometimes fifty. Over five hundred now. He didn't know what he'd spend it on yet. Just knew it'd be something that made him more.
Tommy taught him things the other boys didn't see. How to keep track of who owed what and when. How to spot which polis could be bought and which couldn't. How the beat coppers didn't matter—it was their bosses ye needed, the ones doing the actual investigating. How to size someone up. Figure out what they'd pay before they knew it themselves.
"...three hundred, three hundred and one, three hundred and two. All there boss. Mr. Aziz was good for it surprisingly. Don't know how he got it all together, but he didn't sell the taxi business to get the money like we thought he would," Ronan said.
Tommy nodded. "I reckon he got the cash from one of his cousins. A few of them just shipped in from Pakistan. Probably fired those drivers he had an gave them the jobs." He grabbed the bills, peeled off thirty quid for himself.
Ronan had sized up Aziz two weeks ago when they first went to collect. Watched how the man's eyes kept darting to the taxi office next door, how his hand went to his pocket every time a cab pulled up. Family man. Business owner. The type who'd find the money before he'd lose face in front of his family. Tommy had been right to give him time. Even with a debt as much as three hundred quid including interest.
"Good haul for today, lad. Don't spend it all at once—not that ye seem tae spend what ye earn anyway."
Ronan saw the opening. "I might have somethin tae spend it on. Just have a few questions first."
Tommy put the stack in the safe, closed the door, gave it tug to make sure it was locked then spun back around. "Another one of yer interrogations then." Checked his watch. "Ye have ten minutes, lad. What ye thinkin?"
Ronan sat down, smoothed his jacket—the new one, black wool with brass buttons, still stiff from the shop. His stomach felt tight—the way it did before saying something that might get him laughed at. But he'd been thinking about this for weeks now.
"My question is aboot the game."
Tommy's eyebrows went up. He actually laughed. "Bit young, aren't ye? I suppose I could find a nice one for ye."
Ronan's face went hot. "No, not that." He hadn't actually been with a girl yet, which was embarrassing enough without Tommy bringing it up. "My question is aboot why there's nae structure. Why we don't run it ourselves. Why dae we just take our drink from the fancy men an leave it at that?"
Tommy reached over to a bottle of whisky and poured himself a glass, then took a slow gulp as if letting the liquid slide down his throat.
"Because runnin girls brings different heat than what we dae," Tommy said finally. "Polis don't care much aboot bookies or shebeens—they take their cut, everyone's happy. But they care aboot the game. Vice squad, churches, newspapers. Too much attention. An the girls themselves—they're trouble. They talk, they get lifted, they gie up names. The fancy men deal with all that shite, we just take oor percentage for keepin them safe. Clean money, nae hassle."
He set the glass down, eyes on Ronan. "Why? Ye thinkin different?"
Ronan nodded. He'd thought about the why and it seemed like he'd guessed right about the reason, which meant the pitch he'd worked up was still worth something.
"I think the girls talk because the fancy men take but gie nothin in return. Sure they protect them if the competition comes sniffin around but they don't dae nothin otherwise. Also, it's in the open. On the street. The polis an the churchies hate it because they can see it. But what if they couldnae see it? What if we set up somethin like a shebeen but for girls?"
"Yer talkin aboot a brothel?"
He nodded. "I am. I've been askin around. There's a family that came from Australia I've been talkin tae. They came from a place near Kings Cross. Apparently it's like Vegas but smaller. Strip clubs, bars, nightclubs. Everythin ye could think of."
"An ye want tae dae what? Set up oor own?"
He shook his head. "I know that would be almost impossible. People don't like that sort of thing in the open. But what if it wasnae open? What if it was—" He paused, trying to find the right words. "What if it looked like somethin else on the outside? A working man's club. Somewhere ye could walk intae without everyone on the street knowin what ye were daein."
Tommy leaned back and rested his hands on his lap.
"It's no a bad idea, lad. Not somethin I've thought tae dae meself. It's somethin that's considered a dirty trade. Flesh peddlin. But if that doesnae bother ye, then ye have my blessin." He opened his cigarette case and lit a cigarette. Ronan followed suit.
"Ye know how much this is goin tae cost ye?"
Ronan gave a so-so gesture with his hand. "Some. I know the buildin will set me back. I don't want tae rent it, I'd rather own it. I know there's a club a few blocks away that's been strugglin. I reckon it would cost a few thousand quid. Renovations. What I'd need tae make rooms for the girls. I'd need a licence for a working men's club. It's goin tae cost a lot."
Tommy nodded. "Aboot right. I know ye wouldnae have what ye need yet. I know what ye earn." He leaned forward. "I could help ye with it, lad. I have a few ideas if ye want tae hear them."
Ronan nodded. He took a long drag of his smoke. "I would."
"First, I could lend ye everythin ye need. The buildin. The licence. The bribes tae the polis. All of it. But I'd want fifty percent an ye'd still need tae pay back the loan with interest. Also, I'd expect a kick up of say fifteen percent of what ye earn."
That wasn't happening. That would be a stupid move. Ronan would be working for Tommy, not himself.
"I don't expect ye tae take that one, lad. I know ye." Tommy tapped ash into the tray. "The second is similar tae the first but the loan will come with nae interest. But I'll take seventy percent an ye'll kick up ten. After ye've paid back the loan, it'll go tae fifty percent ownership but my drink will be the same. Ten percent. Best in the long term, bad in the short."
That was better but it still didn't appeal to him. He wanted this to be his. Tommy had seen the gap in the market and done nothing about it. This would be Ronan's.
Tommy watched him, reading his face. He smiled slightly.
"Ye've proven yerself capable. Ye learn quick an ye have the guts for this business. The blood an bone doesnae bother ye the way it does for lesser men." He took a drag. "So my final idea would be tae gie ye some specific sort of jobs. Lucrative but dangerous. The type of job that if ye're caught, ye could be sharin a cell with yer old pal Davey. If ye're as good at that sort of work as ye have been at everythin else, then ye'll earn the cash ye need right quick. I'll help ye set everythin up oot of the goodness of my heart. I'll still expect my payment like I dae from every establishment that I protect, but that's it."
He was talking about killing people. That's what he meant about sharing a cell with Davey.
Could he do that? Kill someone because Tommy told him to? For money?
He didn't know. He'd seen a few deaths since working for Tommy. Didn't happen often but it did happen. Mostly fights between patrons that went too far. Not unlike his own da's death.
He'd cut a few people doing collections. Bam would've done it for him in a heartbeat but that wasn't him. If he had dirty work, he'd do it himself.
But that had been defence. Protection. This would be different. Walking up to someone and ending them because Tommy said so. Because there was money in it.
His stomach twisted. Not the cold warning—just twisted.
He thought about his da bleeding out on the cobblestones. Thought about standing there with blood on his face, watching the light go out. How pointless it had been. How stupid.
His da had died for nothing. For pride. For a tenner and some words.
But this would be for something. Real money that could build something. Money that made sure he never ended up like his da—loud and proud and dead in a gutter.
Everyone died eventually.
His da. The man who'd killed him. All the cunts who overdosed or drank themselves to death or got knifed in alleys.
Dead was dead. If someone had to die anyway—and they did—then at least this way it meant something.
"What's it pay?"
Tommy smiled, sharp like a shark.
"Depends, lad. For someone who's low risk, someone who's on their own an shouldnae be too much trouble—aboot three, four hundred quid. More high risk? Double that. It changes each job."
He thought about it. That was a lot. In one or two jobs he could earn as much as he'd saved over three months. Not counting anything else he made. He could do this. For that sort of money, he could do this. He could afford to start the brothel. Then he'd be bringing in good money. Then when he had enough, he'd open another one, then another, until there were no more girls on the street and they were all in his buildings.
"Ye've got somethin in mind."
Tommy nodded. "Aye, I do. One of my men has been skimmin for the last two months. Forty quid in, thirty tae me. Thinks I huvnae noticed."
"I've let it go because the question was: is he worth more tae me alive an skimmin, or dead an made an example of?" Tommy took a long pull of his cigarette. "I've decided."
"Ye want him gone."
"Aye. An I want you tae dae it." Tommy blew smoke. "Three hundred quid. Clean, quiet, looks like a robbery or a fight. Dinnae care which. Just needs done by the end of next week."
That much money? More than he made in two weeks of regular work.
But something clicked in Ronan's head. The way Tommy had laid out the three options—the loans, the partnerships, then the jobs. The way he'd been watching Ronan's face when he talked about the working men's club. The way he'd smiled when Ronan asked about the pay.
This wasn't Tommy coming up with an idea on the spot. This had been planned. Tommy had known Ronan would come to him eventually with something—some scheme, some plan—and he'd been ready with this. The job. The test.
Tommy had been waiting to see if Ronan was ready for this kind of work. And Ronan had walked right into it.
Smart. That was smart.
"Ye had this in mind for me before I came tae ye aboot my plan. Why dae ye want me for this?"
Tommy smirked. "Aye, I did. The man skimmin is Tam."
The words hit like cold water.
Tam.
Ronan had thought Tam was smarter than that. Liked him well enough—still saw him now and again when he was running bets. Their mas were friends. Saw each other at the shops, had tea sometimes. Tam was always smiling, always quick with a joke.
His ma and Tam's ma—Mrs. Brennan—had known each other since before Ronan was born. Both from the same close when they were girls, both married young, both had their men working the docks or the warehouses. After his da died, Mrs. Brennan had brought over soup. Had sat with his ma in the kitchen while they both smoked and Mrs. Brennan said things like "It'll get easier, Eileen" and his ma had nodded even though neither of them believed it.
He hadn't known that Tam was her son until his ma had brought it up all those months ago, after she heard that Tommy had spoken to someone called Tam before coming to there house. Mrs. Brennan had been around for as long as he could remember.
And now he was being asked to kill her son.
He liked Tam, he really did but, he'd been stealing from Tommy. For two months. Thought he was smarter than that.
Stupid. So fucking stupid.
"So why ye? Because ye worked with him. Ye can get close. Because ye're young—he won't see it comin. An because if ye're gonna run with me proper, do the things we're talkin aboot, ye need tae show me ye can dae this when it needs doin." Tommy's eyes were flat. Not cruel, just business.
"He's one of yer own crew," Ronan said.
"Was. The moment he started stealin from me, he stopped bein crew. Now he's a problem that needs solved." Tommy tapped ash. "So. Dae ye want the job or should I get someone else?"
Ronan took a deep breath. Steeled himself.
Three hundred quid. His working men's club. His operation. No partners, no splitting profits. Just his.
Tam had stolen. Had broken the rules. Had made his choice. Stupid fookin choices.
This was just business.
"Aye." His cigarette had burned down to nothing between his fingers.
"I'll dae it."
<==========>
The next few days moved in a blur. Ronan did his usual work with Bam by his side—three collections on Tuesday, four on Wednesday, two more on Thursday morning. Mr. Kerrigan's gambling debt. Mrs. Murphy's dead husband's loan. A shopkeeper on Rutherglen Road who'd borrowed to restock after a break-in. All of them paid up when they saw Bam standing in the doorway, all shoulders and silence.
Thursday afternoon, Ronan sent Bam to handle a collection alone. Easy one—twenty quid owed by a regular who always paid, just needed reminding. Bam didn't question it. Just nodded and headed off toward Bridgeton.
Ronan followed Tam.
Tam's movements were easy to track. If he wasn't at his ma's house—a tenement on Norfolk Street, third floor, window boxes with dead plants—he was between the two streets where he worked for Tommy, collecting betting slips and paying out winnings. Mornings he'd hit the bookies on Crown Street, afternoons the one on Ballater Street. Evenings he was either at his ma's for tea or shacked up with a girl called Sandra Hughes who had a bedsit above the chippy on Florence Street.
It only took three days to learn the pattern. Tam never looked over his shoulder. Never checked if he was being followed. Just walked his routes, smiling at people he knew, stopping to chat with punters, completely fucking oblivious.
Ronan made sure he wasn't spotted. Stayed back, used crowds, ducked into shops when Tam turned around. But Tam never looked. Not once.
By Friday, Ronan knew everything he needed to know.
He and Bam had just finished their last collection of the day—seventy quid from a taxi driver who'd bet on the wrong horse three weeks running—when instead of heading home, Ronan turned toward Argyle Street.
"One more stop," he said.
Bam followed without asking.
As they walked, Ronan looked at him properly. The big lad had filled out a bit over the past few months—still massive, still built like a brick shithouse, but the new clothes made him look less like a street thug and more like proper muscle. Ronan had insisted on it after that first month. Bought him a decent jacket—dark blue, heavy wool—and proper trousers that fit instead of the threadbare things he'd been wearing. A shirt that didn't have holes in it. Boots that weren't held together with wire.
Bam's face was still flat and expressionless as always, scarred from old fights, nose broken at least twice. Dark hair cut short. Hands like shovels. But dressed proper, he looked like he belonged to someone. Like he was professional muscle, not just some random hard man off the street.
"There's one more job," Ronan said quietly. "Someone different."
Bam looked at him. Waiting.
"A doin."
One of Bam's eyebrows crinkled upwards.
"Who?"
He took a breath.
"Tam."
Bam stopped. Turned to face him fully.
"Why?"
"He's been skimmin off the top. Tommy's no havin it."
"No." Bam's voice was flat, patient. "Why are ye daein it?"
That surprised Ronan. He'd thought Bam might have a misgiving or two about Tam—they'd all run together before, shared cigarettes and car rides and that business with Davey. But Bam wasn't asking about Tam. He was asking about Ronan.
"The money. I've got plans, Bam. Plans that need money. Lots of it. I've been savin but it's no enough." He met Bam's eyes. "Besides, Tam's goin tae get done anyway. Tommy's decided. Might as well be me that earns from it."
Bam stared at him for a long moment. His face didn't change—still that same flat expression he always wore—but something shifted in his eyes. Not judgment exactly. More like... recognition. Like he was seeing something in Ronan he'd suspected was there but hadn't been sure of until now.
"How much?" Bam asked finally.
"Three hundred quid."
Bam nodded slowly. "Good money."
"Aye."
Another pause. People walked past them on the pavement—women with string bags full of tatties and mince, men heading home from the yards—but they might as well have been invisible.
"Ye want help?" Bam asked.
Ronan shook his head. "Tommy wants me tae dae it maself. Prove I can."
"Aye." Bam turned and started walking again, like the conversation was settled. "Where we goin then?"
"Camping shop. Need a proper blade for this. Razor's no enough—need tae make sure it's done right."
Bam gave a single nod. "Smart."
They walked in silence for a bit, boots echoing on the pavement. Ronan's stomach felt tight—not the cold warning, just the weight of what he'd said out loud. Tam's going to get done anyway. Might as well be me that earns from it.
It sounded so simple when he said it like that. Logical even. But his mind kept circling back to Mrs. Brennan sitting in their kitchen with his ma, both of them smoking, both of them widows trying to figure out how to keep going.
He pushed it down. Business. This was just business.
"Ye nervous?" Bam asked.
Ronan glanced at him. Bam rarely asked questions like that. Rarely asked questions at all.
"A bit," he admitted.
"First time's always hard," Bam said, voice matter-of-fact. "Gets easier."
"Ye've done it before?"
Bam didn't answer. Just kept walking, hands in his pockets, face blank as always.
That was answer enough.
They turned onto Argyle Street. The camping shop was halfway down—McKenzie's Outdoor Supplies, the sign said, faded green paint peeling at the edges. Window full of tents and rucksacks and fishing rods. Ronan had walked past it a hundred times but never gone in.
He pushed open the door. A bell jingled above them.
The shop smelled like canvas and oil and something else—leather maybe, or wood treatment. Shelves lined the walls, packed with gear. An old man sat behind the counter reading a newspaper, glasses perched on his nose. He looked up when they entered, eyes flicking from Ronan to Bam and back again.
"Help ye, lads?"
"Lookin for a huntin knife," Ronan said. "Somethin proper. No a wee folder."
The old man folded his newspaper, set it aside. "Deer huntin? Rabbit?"
"Just huntin," Ronan said.
The man studied him for a moment—taking in the good coat, the polished shoes, the way Bam stood behind him like a shadow—then nodded slowly. He moved to a glass case behind the counter, unlocked it, and pulled out a wooden tray. Set it down carefully.
Six knives. All fixed-blade, all serious.
"These are what ye're after," the man said. "All proper huntin knives. Legal tae own, legal tae carry if ye've got reason."
Ronan looked them over. His eyes settled on one in the middle—about six inches long, blade thick and heavy, single-edged with a slight curve. Wooden handle, brass cross-guard. Came with a leather sheath that had a belt loop.
"That one," he said, pointing.
The old man lifted it out, handed it over. The weight felt good in Ronan's hand. Solid. Real. Not like a razor that could fold shut or slip. This was meant for killing—game maybe, but the principle was the same. Push it in, twist, pull it out. Simple.
"Good choice," the man said. "Sheffield steel. Keep it sharp an it'll last ye a lifetime. That'll be four pound ten."
Ronan pulled out his roll, peeled off a fiver. "Keep the change."
The man's eyebrows went up slightly but he took the money. Wrapped the knife in brown paper, handed it back. "Enjoy yer huntin, lad."
"Aye. Cheers."
They walked back out onto Argyle Street. The wrapped knife felt heavy in Ronan's coat pocket. Heavier than it should have been for just six inches of steel and wood.
"When?" Bam asked as they walked.
"Tomorrow night. He'll be at Sandra's. Been going there every night after he's done his rounds."
"Ye want me nearby?"
Ronan thought about it. Tommy had said to do it himself, but having Bam close wouldn't be the same as having him help. Just... insurance. In case something went wrong.
"Aye. But stay back. If it goes smooth, ye dinnae get involved. If it goes sideways..."
"I'll handle it," Bam said simply.
Ronan nodded. His stomach was still tight but something else was there now too. Not quite excitement—more like... readiness. Like standing at the edge of something and knowing you were about to jump.
Tomorrow night, Tam would be dead. And Ronan would have three hundred quid. One step closer to everything he wanted.
Just business.
He kept telling himself that as they walked home through the December cold, the wrapped knife heavy in his pocket, Mrs. Brennan's voice layed with Bam's echoing in his head: It'll get easier."
Maybe it would.
<=======>