Sunday January 13 th 2008
That fuckwit Ron talked. I should have guessed. I was on the hostel steps yacking to ‘the Stink’ when a black Ford Mondeo cruised passed. Not unusual but when it circled for the fourth time it caught my attention. It was too early for a gang on a ‘beat a tramp’ trip so I just sat and talked, with one eye looking out for the Mondeo. When it slid by for the fifth time I told ‘the Stink’ I was going in for a cup of tea and he nodded.
Once inside I pulled up a chair near one of the front windows and sipped the monkey brew as I scanned for the Mondeo but it didn’t reappear. My wrist was giving me gip and my ribs were joining in the fun. The last thing I needed was some more aggro.
Around six o’clock I went out for a walk and a think. I needed some tools of the trade but I was skint. I was just wondering if Ron still kept a spare kit when the Mondeo screamed around the corner and the doors flew open.
I didn’t wait to see who was emerging and turned and ran. I hit High St with a full turn of speed and crossed the road to the wail of a horn as a bus slammed on its brakes to avoid me. As I made the pavement on the far side I looked round and saw two figures hot on my tail. Behind them the Mondeo had started moving towards me.
I headed into the Merchant City with no idea of where I was going to end up. All I knew was that I was a target and the beating the other night might be the start of something quite nasty. I hauled my backside onto Albion St and headed north.
You can only keep running flat out for a short time and I was already down to a jog. Add to that the cast on my wrist and I was struggling. Fortunately so were my pursuers.
I crossed Ingram St and kept on up Albion St and passed the old Glasgow Daily News building. I was entering Strathclyde University land and, as I ran out onto George St, I turned left and headed for George Square. I needed people around me. I was less likely to take a kicking in a public place.
I looked back. The pursuers were at the corner of Albion St and were getting into the Mondeo. I slowed to a walk. George St was one way against them and I walked out into the square, heaving breath, but safe for the moment.
The town was coming off the back of rush hour and there were still a fair number of people doing the ‘going home’ thing. I dropped into one of the benches that ring the western end of the square and tried to blend in while keeping a sharp lookout for the Mondeo.
It appeared five minutes later and I hunkered down as it drove by less than twenty feet away. It turned right to circle the square. I got up and headed away from it and down towards the river.
Walking down Queen St I turned onto Royal Exchange Square and then down onto Buchanan St — thank you Glasgow council for the foresight in introducing pedestrian only zones.
Every few steps I looked back expecting to see the pursuers but if they were there they were doing their best Ninja trick and keeping out of view.
As I walked I considered my options. The hostel was out. I had no idea who these jokers were but they knew where I lived and it wouldn’t take a genius to stake out the hostel and wait for me. I had no one I could turn to. My return to Glasgow had been as close to a secret as I could have made it. Ron seemed an obvious mouth to have yacked.
It occurred to me that there might be another reason. The gang of boys that had beat up on me had used my name a few times and maybe the Mondeo gang and the beating weren’t unconnected.
I passed the subway entrance at St Enoch’s Square but dismissed it as an escape route — even if I had wanted to I didn’t have the money for the ride.
I crossed over Clyde St and stepped onto the river walk that runs along the north bank of the River Clyde. To my left was a suspension bridge for pedestrians that had a claim to fame as the setting for some of the movie Gorky Park — it would seem that Moscow and Glasgow look similar in some lights. I turned away from it and headed down river, ducking as the walkway ran under one of the many bridges that cross the Clyde.
On the other side I began to walk slowly, watching the brown carpet of water slide along beside me. There was no sign of activity on the river. This far up, there never is. In the Clyde ’s hey day it was entirely possible to cross the river at this point by jumping from ship to ship. Now you were lucky if you saw a duck paddling.
On the far side of the river some kids were trying to hit a plank of wood floating mid stream with stones. I watched them for a while wondering at where those days had gone: the carefree afternoons when the riverbank transformed itself into one giant playground. The smallest of the kids let rip with his right arm and scored a bull’s eye on the plank. A shout went up and he high fived thin air for thirty seconds.
The tallest spotted me watching them and flicked me a V before shouting something that was lost on the wind.
I think it rhymed with anchor?
I reached the Kingston Bridge — a giant concrete structure that stretches sixty or seventy feet above the river. I read once it was Europe ’s busiest bridge and the endless roar of tyre on asphalt did nothing to dispel the belief.
The bridge is a single span between two mighty piers. On my side a sign telling me that Her Majesty the Queen Mother had opened the bridge on June 26th 1970 was embedded in the concrete. I was wondering what I was doing on that day when I heard the slam of a door and turned to see the Mondeo less than ten yards away and the two goons launching themselves in my direction.
There are some things in life that you do that, on reflection, were both genius and insanely stupid in the same breath. This was one of those moments. I looked up and down the walkway but it was empty. I could run but there was nowhere to go. The goons would be on me in seconds and I knew this was not a good news event.
I flipped a mental coin and when the coin dropped I sprinted for the fence that stops the innocent falling into the river. In an instant I grabbed the handrail with my good hand, vaulted over and began the plunge towards the dank water.
The drop was a good twenty feet and I landed arse first and sank. My clothes combined with the cast began soaking up the river and my descent refused to reverse. I thrashed my arms around to try and pull me back to the surface. Somewhere deep down I realised that I was making things worse and my survival instinct took over. With a kick of both feet and tug of my good arm I headed up. When I broke the surface I hauled in air like a stranded whale.
I looked up at the bank and I was already fifty yards downstream. The dark waters were far from still when you were in them. I could see the goons looking at me. They had no idea what to do next and began to slowly walk down the river keeping pace with me.
The water was cold and I’m not a strong swimmer. I knew I needed to get out and I struck out for the south bank. As soon as I did this the current picked up as I crossed into the faster flowing centre of the river. A quick look back and the goons were jogging to keep up. Ahead of me was the so-called Squinty Bridge — one of Glasgow ’s newer river crossings. I needed to make the bank as quickly as possible or the goons would cross over and be waiting for me when I emerged.
The water was foul. The Clyde might be a million times cleaner than it was fifty years ago but it is still a country mile from being drinkable. I spat out a mouthful and knew I would need industrial strength mouthwash for a month to get rid of the taste.
The cold was starting to bite and I seemed no nearer the far bank. I looked back but the goons were out of sight.
Seconds later I was swept under the bridge. I needed to get out and even if the pursuers were waiting for me I was losing the battle with the water and a kicking was marginally better than a drowning. I had no choice but to claw my way to the bank and hope for the best.
Around me the river was hemmed in by a brick wall with a set of steel runged ladders every couple of hundred yards. Even at high tide there is still a clear ten feet between the river and the safety rails that run next to the walkway. At the moment that was closer to fifteen feet.
The next set of rungs were coming up fast and I pushed hard towards them. I wasn’t sure I had the strength to keep afloat much longer.
I was close to the bank and if the goons were above me they were lost to view as the wall loomed up. The next set of rungs were twenty feet down river and I was now skimming the wall, my good hand sliding along the slime that coated everything.
I rushed towards the ladder.
The rungs were old and pitted and the lower ones were covered in the slime. As I drew level I grabbed with my good hand but it slid free. I threw my bad hand over the bottom rung and jammed my elbow into the gap between metal and wall. I screamed at the pain as it stopped my downward travel. I could feel the pressure building on my elbow joint as the river tried to drag me away from safety.
Working against the current I pulled myself a few precious inches closer to the ladder and launched myself at the next rung up. I jammed my good arm in the gap between rung and wall and then let my weight fall on it as I heaved in air. I needed to get my feet out of the water but a combination of the river’s current and the way my arm was wedged tight had me with my back to the wall.
I took a deep breath and let go with my right arm and swung it high, grabbing for the next rung. At the same time I pulled hard on my left arm and felt water slide from my feet as they came free of the water. Every sinew in my body told me to let go as my wrist — already broken in several places cracked. My feet flailed around to find a foothold and I slammed my left foot onto a rung and clung on.
Ten breaths later and I straightened myself and started to climb. My clothes had tripled in weight and the cold and exertion of the swim was draining the last of my reserves. I reached the top rung and, as I placed my good hand on the top rail, a face appeared above me and my heart sank.
‘Not a nice evening for a swim, sir.’
I have never, and I mean have never, been so glad to see a policeman’s uniform.