The following morning Carl and Kevin came marching into my cellar with Bernie in tow. Carl fastened the chain around my neck and told Bernie to attach the other end to his belt.
“Flintheart wants a hand with various things,” Carl explained to Bernie. “Just the job for you and the ape.”
Then Carl and Kevin left without waiting for an answer from Bernie.
Bernie took me to the shop called Oswald Street Antiques that was situated on the ground floor of the building. Inside, a labyrinth of passageways snaked through piles of dusty bric-à-brac of every kind. The place reeked of mothballs and ingrained dirt.
The small counter at the entrance was occupied by a woman who kept a watchful eye on things. She gave me and Bernie a 211bitter look and then, talking to herself but loudly enough for us to hear, said, “Well, well. An idiot and an ape. That’s what I have to put up with, I suppose…”
The woman was short, fat and blowsy, her face round and flushed. I discovered later that her name was Fiona Flint, but behind her back everyone called her Flintheart.
Flintheart put me and Bernie to work. For a start, a bureau had to change places with a stuffed lion and, at the other end of the room, a billiard table had to be stood on end to make room for an old and decrepit piano.
There was heavy lifting involved and not much room to do it in. The air was warm and muggy. Sweat ran off the lumps and dents in Bernie’s face and my arms and back ached. I almost fell over a couple of times when the chain tugged tight between me and Bernie. His movements were clumsy and he gave no thought to the fact we were chained together.
Flintheart stayed close, ever ready to point out how badly we were performing. Time and again she warned Bernie about what would happen if we broke anything.
“If you make a single little scratch on that piano, I’ll be telling Moira,” she croaked. “And she’ll deduct it from your pocket money, Bernie. And it will be a substantial deduction!”
The threats didn’t help. Quite the opposite. They just made big Bernie nervous, and the more nervous he became, the 212clumsier he got. Flintheart, of course, was aware of this and she obviously enjoyed tormenting Bernie.
Flintheart went off to the hairdresser that afternoon, leaving her husband in charge of the shop. I recognized him from the first day of my imprisonment. He was the man who had shadowed the Chief to the hotel on Park Terrace.
Mr Flint, a tall, scraggy man, said no more than was necessary and never raised his voice. The other people in the building called him Skinflint and I would soon understand why.
At six o’clock Skinflint told Bernie and me to scrub the floor, then he locked the outside door and put a ‘Closed’ sign in the window. He’d no sooner done so than there was a knock on the back door, the one that led out to the Broomielaw. Skinflint let in a young man with his cap pulled right down. The man had a pocket watch he wanted to sell.
“I nicked the watch off an old fellow in Hillhead,” he said. “I want at least ten pounds for it, otherwise I won’t sell.”
Skinflint examined the watch under a low-hanging shoemaker’s lamp. His yellowish skin shone where it stretched over his cheek bones. A quarter of an hour later the thief left the shop with a gloomy look on his face. He’d only been paid one pound, twelve shillings and fourpence for 213the watch. Skinflint was laughing quietly to himself. It was an unnatural and unpleasant sound that made the hairs on my neck rise.
During the hours that followed a dozen or so thieves came into the shop with stolen goods to sell. Skinflint haggled tirelessly, driving the price down penny by penny until he was sure he was getting a really good deal. And he celebrated every victory with one of his unpleasant wheezing laughs.
The next day was exactly the same. Bernie and I had to shift heavy items, while a bleary-eyed Flintheart watched every step we took. We were just about to lug an iron stove from the shop to one of the stores out in the backyard when Gordon came in from Oswald Street. As usual, he had his nose stuck in the Noon Record.
He stopped and said to Bernie, “Lucy wants you to take that ape with you when you go to the club this evening. You and the ape are to cover the door together. The idea is to bring in more guests—Lucy says that people like gimmicks like that.”
Bernie looked baffled, but Gordon just gave him a pat on the shoulder and walked on.
214When the day’s work was over, I fell asleep down in my cellar. But I didn’t get to sleep for long before the sound of keys in the locks woke me. Bernie came in. I barely recognized him at first. His hair was slicked down and he was wearing a black suit and tie. He didn’t look comfortable in the posh clothes.
Bernie led me through basement corridors into a big room with rows of plain wooden tables. Behind the bar, which was distinctly worse-for-wear, rose shelves full of bottles and glasses. A hand-painted sign stood on the topmost shelf; it read Lucky Lucy’s Social Club.
A big, blonde woman behind the bar caught sight of Bernie and me and waved us over. I discovered later that this was Lucky Lucy, the club hostess. She wasn’t the owner, though—that was Moira. In fact, Moira owned the whole building.
Lucy looked me up and down, her mouth pursed in disapproval.
“The ape looks a bit scruffy, don’t you think? We’d better smarten it up somehow.”
She raked around under the bar and found a tie like the one Bernie was wearing. Once it was tied round my neck, Lucky Lucy gave me a friendly pinch on the cheek.
“That’ll have to do,” she said. “Go up and stand at the door now. It’s very nearly nine o’clock.” 215
Bernie and I spent the next six hours on the door at Lucky Lucy’s Club. We had orders only to allow in people who looked as if they had money to spend—scruffs and paupers were not welcome. Many of those we barred lost their temper when they weren’t allowed in and they hurled every kind of foul abuse at us.
Towards midnight the club was packed. That is when two policemen came strolling along the Broomielaw.
“Hi there, Bernie,” one of the constables said. “What’s this then? Have you got an ape as your partner on the door now?”
The other constable sneered, “Looks as if you complement one another, Bernie. You provide the muscle and the ape provides the brains!”
The policemen laughed loudly and for a long time. Bernie kept his eyes down on his feet.
When the first constable had finished laughing, he said to Bernie, “You know what it’s about, Bernie. Nip down and fetch Gordon. We’ll look after your ape while you do.”
Bernie handed his end of the chain to one of the policemen and plodded off down the stairs to the cellar.
The two policemen inspected me more closely and one of them said, “Wonder where Moira Gray got hold of this beastie? Smuggled it in from Africa maybe.” 216
“I wouldn’t be surprised,” the other one said. “She is the queen of Glasgow smugglers, when all’s said and done.”
The constable fell abruptly silent when Gordon appeared in the doorway. Gordon took an envelope from his inside pocket and began to count out a wad of notes. The constable quickly stopped him and grabbed the envelope of cash.
“The night has eyes…” he said, looking anxiously over his shoulder. “We’ll count it later.”
“Do as you like, gentlemen,” Gordon said. “See you again next week.”
“You can count on that!” the other constable said as they moved off.
At that time I didn’t understand what the money was all about. But I do now. It’s illegal to sell alcohol in Scotland after nine o’clock at night. Gordon was paying the police every week so they would leave Lucky Lucy’s Club in peace.
It was early morning by the time the last guests left the club, quarrelling, yelling and fooling about. Some of them came up to Bernie on unsteady legs and pretended to box with him, swinging their fists right in front of his face.
“Come on, Bernie, Bernie the Butcher!” they yelled. “Let’s see what you’re made of!” 217
“Put up your guard, Bernie the Butcher! The bell’s sounded!”
They all laughed, all except Bernie. His unhappy eyes were fixed on the ground and he looked as if he wanted to be far, far away. It was obvious that this had happened many, many times before.
After all the guests had gone at last, Bernie and I had to wipe the tables and mop up the spilt beer, broken glass and tobacco spit from the stone floor.
I wondered about the name the drunks outside the club had called Bernie—“Bernie the Butcher”.
Why had they called him that?
I shuddered and thought I’d rather not know.