The Long Glasgow Kiss

‘You could say Singer is a man of action, not words.’ Sneddon paused to take a cigarette from a gold cigarette case so heavy it threatened to sprain his wrist. He didn’t offer me one. ‘Singer’s Da was a real bastard. Used to beat the shite out of him when he was a kiddie. Knocked his mother about too. You know, more than normal. But Singer had this talent. He got it from his Ma. He had a cracking wee voice on him. Or so people tell me. Never heard it myself. Anyways, at weddings and shite like that Singer and his Ma was always asked to stand up and give a song. Not that he took much asking, did you, Singer? He used to sing all the time. The only thing the wee bastard had …’

I looked at Singer who returned my stare emptily. He was obviously used to Sneddon discussing his most intimate personal history with a complete stranger. Either that or he just didn’t care.

‘But it used to wind up his Da no end. He’d come home drunk and no one was allowed to make a sound. Any peep out of Singer and his Da would kick the shite out of him. Literally, sometimes. Then one day Singer’s old man comes back with a really black one on. Wee Singer is innocently chirping away with his Ma in the kitchen, but his Da gets the idea that there should be a meal on the table for him. He goes fucking mental. He grabs Singer and starts to beat the shite out of him. So his Ma comes to try to defend the wee fella. So do you know what he does?’

I shrugged. I looked at Singer: I had a good four inches on him, but he was a hard-looking bastard. Vicious-looking. But I didn’t like listening to Sneddon rejoicing in his misery.

‘He cut Singer’s Ma’s throat,’ Sneddon answered his own question. There was a hint of awe in his voice. ‘Took a penknife – a penknife mind – and cut her throat from ear to ear, right in front of the wee fella. So Singer’s never sung – or spoken – since.’

‘I’m sorry,’ I said to Singer because it was the only thing I could think to say. He looked at me expressionlessly.

‘Aye … a bad bastard was Singer’s Da. They hung the fucker at Duke Street and Singer was put into an orphanage. Then a kind of funny farm because of him not talking and that.’ Sneddon looked at Singer knowingly. ‘But you’re not mad, are you, Singer? Just bad … all the way through. I found out about him because Tam, one of my boys, did time with Singer. Shared a cell. Will I tell him what your speciality was, Singer?’

Singer, unsurprisingly, said nothing. But he didn’t nod or move or blink.

‘Someone grassed him up to the police for a robbery he did. But without the witness there was no evidence. But Singer didn’t kill the bastard. He cut his fucking tongue out. All of it. Kind of poetic, isn’t it?’

‘Yeah …’ I said. Singer’s face was still impassive. ‘Positively Audenesque.’

‘Anyway,’ said Sneddon. ‘I like having Singer around. D’you know the ancient Greeks liked to have mutes around at funerals? Professional mourners. Anyway, I look after Singer now, don’t I, Singer?’

Singer nodded.

‘And Singer looks after me. And my interests.’

I was acutely aware of Twinkletoes’ absence in the car on the way back into town, as if he had left twin voids of space and silence. I took a Player’s Navy Blue and offered the packet to Singer, who shook his head without taking his eyes off the road. He was that kind of guy. Focussed. I had forgotten exactly where I’d left the car, but Singer found his way to it first shot.

‘Thanks,’ I said as I got out of the car. Singer was about to drive off when, on an impulse, I tapped on his window. He rolled it down.

‘Listen, I just wanted to say …’ What? What the hell was it I wanted to say? ‘I just wanted to say that I’m sorry about the wisecracks I made … you know, about you not talking. I didn’t know about … well, you know … that was a shitty break …’ I fell silent. It seemed best considering I seemed to have lost the ability to string a coherent sentence together.

Singer looked at me for a moment, in that cold, expressionless way he had, then gave a nod. He drove off. I stood and watched the Humber disappear around the corner, wondering why the hell, after all of the other shit I had done and seen in my life, I had felt the need to apologize to a cheap Glasgow hoodlum. Maybe it was because what had happened to Singer had happened when he was a kid. It was the one thing I found tough to take: the crap that happens to kids. In war. In their own homes.

Not for the first time, I considered the colourful life I had forged for myself here in Glasgow. And the interesting people I got to meet.

CHAPTER THREE