Wullie the Painter wasn’t a clever man by conventional standards. He had no school certificates, no educational or training diplomas and, in 1972, he had even failed his cycle proficiency test. However, he was street smart. And he was convinced he had pieced together a cunning undercover plan in which – unfortunately for him – he was a pawn. Wullie had watched a lot of Columbo. That scruffy wee cunt could figure anythin’ oot in under an hour, he’d told Des Brick before revealing his thesis. It had taken him a bit longer, but then the telly detective with the flasher’s Mac had a lifetime of experience … an’ a team ae scriptwriters, Des had pointed out. Wullie the Painter was a comparative novice.
‘Right, here’s the script, Des,’ said Wullie. Before he launched into it, Wullie outlined the basis of his research. Personal meetings and detailed discussions with Terry Connolly, Benny Dunlop and Ged McClure; the latter of which had ultimately resulted in Wullie getting headbutted. His very explanation of the whole story had been prompted by Des Brick’s ‘Whit the fuck happened tae you?’ when he saw the twin black keekers. Wullie kept his covert role as Don McAllister’s paid informer to himself though. Some details are best left out, he reckoned.
‘Connolly’s oan the vans up in Onthank. They’re aw goin’ like a fuckin’ fair. Ye widnae believe it, Des! They ice-cream vans are jist a front for floggin’ aw kinds ae illegal shite.’
‘Fuck, Wullie … that’s hardly a massive surprise, is it?’ said Des.
‘Aye, but he’s gettin’ the gear affa the fuckin’ McLartys,’ Wullie revealed. ‘An’ the Fatman’s jist lettin’ it aw happen! Ah don’t fuckin’ get that bit,’ said Wullie. ‘Connolly’s up front an’ open aboot it aw wi’ me, tae. Christ, ah’m even dain’ the odd stint oan them as well.’
‘Well, ah dinnae see whit yer problem is then. Yer benefittin’, naw? A bit late tae be huvin’ a moral dilemma, mate!’
‘It’s no’ that, Des,’ said Wullie. He was struggling to avoid blowing his cover and telling Des that his work on the vans was at the behest of – and paid for by – the local cops. ‘It’s bigger than that though. McClure fae that manky Quinns mob, is getting bags ae skag doon fae Glesga affa this fuckin’ Gregor bruiser, Connolly’s placing it an’ distributin’ it, an’ – fuckin’ get this – that wee Wisharts’ prick, Benny Donald ower in Crosshouse is washin’ aw the money.’ Wullie the Painter took a deep breath. ‘It’s a fuckin’ organised racket, Des, wi’ the McLartys pullin’ the strings. It’s a fuckin’ takeover, an’ the three big knobs are dain’ fuck aw aboot it,’ said Wullie. He felt his blood pressure rising. Des Brick was impassive. Wullie appreciated that Des had his own personal shite to contend with, but still, his apathy was surprising to say the least.
‘Look Wullie, ah dinnae ken whit tae tell ye, mate. If yer concerned for yer ain safety…’ Des motioned towards Wullie’s eyes, ‘… then back oot. Ah’ve done that. It’s no’ really that difficult. Try an’ get a real fuckin’ job.’ The minute the words were out of his mouth, Des realised how ludicrous they sounded.
‘Whit, alang wi’ three million other folk! Fuck sake, Des … it’s no’ like I’ve got a folder full ae glowin’ references.’
This chat wasn’t panning out the way Wullie the Painter had imagined. He’d looked on Des Brick as a mentor; someone to be looked up to. But now he felt little but pity. Des looked a shadow of the man he was a year ago. Effie Brick wouldn’t live much longer than the turn of the year, but by all accounts she was upbeat and sanguine despite the care being essentially palliative. Des, on the other hand, looked like he had already given up. The strain had aged him dreadfully. His hair was thinning and grey. The tell-tale scissor marks of his ‘short back an’ sides’ betrayed his current barber as Auld Joe, an eighty-year-old handyman who also washed windows. Around Onthank, an ‘Auld Joe number two cut’ was a sign of real financial difficulty. Whole families had them, even the women. Des Brick’s jacket hung off him like it was two sizes too big for him. He was emaciated and pallid. If anything, Des looked like one dying from cancer.
‘Ah’m sorry, Wullie. Ah’m shot ae it aw, noo. It was good while it lasted. Franny’s got his ain problems, an’ probably his time’s came tae. Nothing lasts forever, pal.’
‘Aye. Aw’right, Des. Jist one last thing though,’ said Wullie.
‘Sure, mate.’
‘If aw this McLarty business is comin’ back, why are the plods no’ aw ower it like a rash?’ Wullie felt he already knew the answer – him – if not the full rationale. But he needed to know if Des did too.
‘Fuck knows, Wullie. But they cunts couldnae find their ain arseholes wi’ a bullshit detector. How d’ye think we aw avoided the jail aw this time? That’s probably yer answer, plain an’ simple.’
With that, and Des Brick wishing his former colleague well, Wullie the Painter took his leave. Wullie didn’t really do compassion. He felt desperately for Des, and obviously for Effie and the rest of his family, but he couldn’t express it properly. Every well-intended comment invariably emerged framed in sarcasm or dripping in cynical humour. He was aware that his concern sounded false, and therefore Wullie the Painter decided that he wouldn’t visit Des Brick again.
His next move was a meeting with Charlie Lawson to pass over his observations. He already suspected none of it would come us a surprise to him, and that subsequently, Wullie would still be in the dark about the bigger picture. When the bigger picture got its full Technicolor Cinemascope release, Wullie the Painter had to ensure that he remained out of the blinding searchlights reserved for its stars.