I did a bit of asking and it transpired that the Sid I knew and Sid the new boy were one and the same.
It wasn’t the greatest piece of Sherlockian deduction to figure he might be holding a kit on his person or in his bag.
Fortunately he had decided to hand in his bag and the staff duly placed it in the lost property cupboard, as it was the only place with a lock. A paperclip took care of the lock and a quick rifle of Sid’s bag revealed a small but adequate tool kit. I pocketed it, returned his bag to the cupboard and locked it.
I took the kit to the rear of the hotel and, placing it in a plastic bag, buried it in the flower bed. If Sid reported the kit missing they would turn the place upside down looking for it.
Sometimes it feels like I simply swapped one prison for another. The lack of bars and guards seems to matter little. In my head I feel as trapped as ever.
In my fourteen years as a guest of Her Majesty I had dreamed of the moment that I would walk free the way a teenager dreams of his first sexual encounter. Now I was out there seems to be no freedom in my freedom. An ex con, no cash, living in a hostel — at least back in prison I had hope. Out here hope should be piled high around every corner. I just don’t seem to be finding the right corners at the moment but maybe Sid’s lockpick is a start.
I’m off to case the Easterhouse Credit Union tomorrow.
Gordon Brown
59 Minutes
Sunday January 20 ^th 2008
I forgot it was Saturday. I lose track so easily. It was after lunch before I got there and it was closed.
The building sits in a row of shops in a run down mall. The mall is the epitome of a shopping experience in one of Glasgow ’s more challenged areas. In order, left to right as you look at them from the pavement — the row of shops contains the following — Charlies — fish and chips, Ho Wah — Chinese take away, Five in One — kebabs et al, Mother India — Indian, Tantastic — sun beds for the masses, ‘Booze for All’ — cheap drink, Kenny’s — sweets and fags, Easterhouse Credit Union, Priced Out — corner store, MacWilliams — bookies.
It doesn’t take much of a challenge to the intellect to realise why some areas of Glasgow have a life expectancy twenty years less than others.
The whole block is a sixties strip with a car park on the roof. Behind it lies a small lane that provides access for deliveries. A couple of CCTV cameras pay lip service to security but the real issue is the out and out quantity of plate steel that rolls down of a night and protects the front and back of the shops.
The shop owners are no fools and the Credit Union is no exception. I’m not sure what I had in my head but my target isn’t welcoming me with open arms. The shutter is a serious deterrent and the locks that bind it to the pavement would need plastic explosive to break them.
The rear is not much better but, as with every break-in I’ve ever been involved in, the obvious routes are always the best and the most obvious is the tiny window that sits next to the back door.
Unlike the door it is protected by a wire grill not a steel shutter, but it is sturdy and the window is re-enforced mesh glass. It looks too small to let a man through but you would be amazed at what you can slip through if you have to.
Tomorrow I’ll suss out the other two and then it’s down to the hard bit.
Chapter 30
Monday January 21st 2008
I’ve hit a slight problem. Although the Castlemilk Credit Union is a doddle, it’s almost a mirror of the one in Easterhouse and, better still, the window at the back has no grill, relying instead on the wire mesh that runs through the small pane — Drumchapel is a different kettle of fish altogether.
For a start it is inside a new shopping mall with all the attendant security that that now entails. It sits near the south entrance but when the mall is locked down it’s patrolled by security guards and is heaven for CCTV junkies — there has to be a couple of dozen that I saw and I probably missed half. To make matters worse the Credit Union has a steel shutter and there is no rear access to the shop.
I’ll start with Castlemilk and if it’s a blank I’ll try Easterhouse. If I’m still none the wiser to the key’s secret I’ll need to figure a way to crack Drumchapel.
Castlemilk is on for tonight.
Chapter 31
Tuesday January 22 nd 2008
A dud and a bad dud at that. I arrived at the row of shops in Castlemilk after 11.00pm and almost got myself in a fight straightaway as I stumbled on a gang of lads glugging MD 20/20 in the lane behind. Four or five bottles to the good and the six of them were up the far end of the lane.
At first, I thought I could break in and leave them be but, as I walked down the lane, I was spotted and they started towards me. I did the manful thing and retreated, waiting for half an hour before I chanced my arm again.
This time they were sitting outside the Credit Union back door and starting to kick up some nonsense. One of them was balancing on the wall that bordered the lane and was trying to back-flip like a beam gymnast. It was never going to end well and he crashed to the ground to the amusement of his mates.
I watched them fanny around for twenty minutes and when they cracked open another bottle I considered walking away but, just then, I heard footsteps behind me. Before I could move I was slammed into the wall as ten or twelve boys hurtled past screaming and shouting. The next I knew, there was the battle of Bannockburn going on in the lane and, by the sounds of things, the new gang were no less the worse for wear on the alcohol front than the gang they were attacking.
I watched from the relative safety of the end of the lane as the fight geared up. Ten minutes in and the police siren on the wind told me someone had dialled 999. I turned, sprinted across the road, dived into a close in the tenement opposite and waited for the police to arrive.
Three patrol cars cruised up to the entrance of the lane — blues and twos now in quiet mode. They pulled up out of sight of the lane and seven policemen got out. There was the faint buzz of a radio and then they disappeared around the corner and into the lane. Seconds later bodies started streaming out of the lane entrance. The police emerged a few minutes later with five of the boys in tow. They were thrown into the back of the cars and it was over before it really had a chance to begin.
I heard a door open behind me and turned to see a figure emerging from the dark.
‘Whit the fuck are you doing?’
The voice sounded heavy with drink. Does every fucker drink round here?
‘Just avoiding the nonsense out there,’ I said, pointing to the entrance of the close.
‘I don’t give a shit. Piss off or I’ll break your legs.’
Outside the police were still tidying up and I needed to be part of that scene like a hole in the head.
‘I’ll be out of your hair in two minutes.’
The stranger was now in sight, lit by the glow of the streetlights from outside and oozed wee man syndrome in a big way. I’ve seen it all before — men shorter than they want to be, making up for it by being aggressive unreasonable shits. Trying to add inches to their height by acting the big man. It stinks and can be a pain in the arse but I was fucked if I was going to let some little shit with a vertical complex piss on me.
He had brave pills going on and stepped in close. I could smell the booze as the vapour wafted up my nose — his head barely up to my shoulder.
‘You’ll be out of my hair right fuckin’ now.’
I turned to him and, as the car doors were still shutting behind me, I lifted my right knee, grabbed his mouth with my good hand and sunk a knee deep into his bollocks. My hand caught the scream. I pushed his head back and caught his leg with my foot and sent him to the ground.