London Is Burning and I…I Live By The River

“Ronnie, you still got a pair of those binoculars, the big old heavy Zeiss numbers the Met used to give you for surveillance?”

“Eh, most likely, somewhere. Why, you on somethin’ moody? Some tail job, surveillance? No? Don’t tell me you’re going bird-spottin’ or some mad ‘hing?”

“Actually…”

“Whit? You’ve lost it, McCabe. Truly. You’ve turned back into your fifteen-year-old self. Your face’ll be breakin’ out in plooks next.”

Phone ringing, screen saying it was Bernie. Bernie Feeney, my ex, my partner, my former lover, my significant other, my past, my future, my victim.

“Early in the day to hear your voice, Bernie, they tell me the weather up there is-”

“Sorry, Stevie, later, eh? This is business just now. You see the news, from up here I mean?”

“Oh, that guy wiped out his family, happened in Elder Park, some of it anyway. Shockin’ thing, Tommy Mac phoned and I-”

“No, not that, something else - remember the Dornoch Textiles fire?”

“What? Ah…warehouse or a factory or somethin’, out on the Southside, I used to pass it sometimes when I was working on that TV show, you could still see the-”

“Aye, that’s the one. Client of ours got five years for arson, racist attack as well, they said, because the factory employed mostly Asians.”

Ronnie was shouting that he had left the binoculars in the hall as I flipped open the laptop to scrape the rust off my memory of Dornoch Textiles and their convicted firebomber, described as Murray Gilchrist, 24.

“It’s coming back to me now…I’m Googlin’ it, I’m lookin’ at the old news report here…okay, it’s history, I don’t see the joy?”

“Well, we think there’s something to play with. Murray Gilchrist always denied he did the attack – I mean, genuinely denied it. And there’s been a second firebomb attack, same deal, same method, same result, and Gilchrist’s still in jail. We think this goes to his innocence. It was never a strong prosecution in the first place, they painted a load of shit on his back just cuz he was a zoomer in this white power mob, hooked an Asian one time, used all the non-magic words while he was doin’ it…”

“I dunno, that sounds pretty good evidence to me – punch a Punjabi for Scotland, that’s a crime even if he’s wearin’ a tartan tammy when he does it.”

“Well, we’re his lawyers-”

“’course you are. Every wide-o with an agenda knows he’ll get the best defence from his enemies, unless he just wants to make a point and wave his flag. So he picks you, nice liberals. And now you think this second firebomb’s gonny help an appeal, right? When anybody else’ll jist think it’s one of his Nazi buddies. Even if these guys’re not givin’ him some help, they might just do it for the fun – that’d be a good night out for the master race on the Southside.”

“Like I say…we’re his lawyers. It’s our job, and we just get the message – strong message - that the coppers aren’t too keen to find anything that’ll take one out of the win column. We need a second opinion.”

“Bernie, I’m not your guy, I’m in London, for Chrissake, I-”

“Nobody knows better than me that you’re in London, Stevie, nor why. At least, I think I know why, but you weren’t usually the kinda guy to run away from something. Kinda the opposite.”

“Ah, now, suddenly it’s you-and-me talk?”

“Actually, no. That was just me taking a shot – I’m entitled, don’t you think? So, if you plan to get your arse back in Glasgow any time soon, we’d appreciate your help with this wee business. And I’m saying that nice.”

“I’m the only guy you can use? Just call anybody on your books, or do you not trust all the other ex-coppers not to get a wee bit too cheerful gettin’ a gig as cheerleaders for white power? Unless you think there’s somethin’ about me that I’d be your best bet for-” 

“No. I think there’s somethin’ about you that might make you do it for me.”

Call ended, and I knew I’d lost. Fucked if I could tell what it was I’d lost, but it was something, maybe more than just one battle and it hadn’t even been close.

Fuck you, Murray Gilchrist (24). Who were you, creeping into my day unbidden and smearing your shitty hands all over it? Another guy in a black hat, hundreds of miles away, like Pradip Jadeja, letting other people broadcast their versions of his story, another tribal historian telling tales. This one, though…I owed her. Not this way, I didn’t think, but when you’re in debt, you don’t always get to pick and choose how you pay. So, Dornoch Textiles…

Their warehouse/factory was only a few blocks from the location of a TV show I’d worked on, Unmissable You, the cause - one way and another – of all my recent troubles. Unmissable You was the reason I found myself in London, the reason I was separated from Bernie, the reason why I was considering a change of career, and the reason why I had money to spend…hey, sometimes there’s a silver lining. Different effects, different outcomes, different feelings, but all stemming from Britain’s most sensational, most ridiculous, most talked-about (for mostly the wrong reasons) TV show.

Dornoch Textiles was located a little south of the TV studio and occasionally, when I wasn’t using West Street subway station, I’d pass the factory on my way there from where the bus dropped me off. Those would be the times I was arriving from Bernie’s place…better times.

The textile factory occupied an entire block, classic red Victorian brickwork around dirty windows, secured behind I-defy-you security screens, as if the building protected gold, not silks and cottons. And along the longest wall that faced the main road, soot-blackened bricks told one part of Murray Gilchrist’s story…

…sharp frost nipping at his face, he kept close to the wall as he turned the corner. He knew there were no CCTV cameras here, but he didn’t need anybody seeing his face – don’t wear a mask, ya fanny, Magsy said, it’ll jist make you look rank, walkin’ right out there like some kinna criminal. He was outside the place now, where all they Pakis worked. The screens looked impressive over the windows, but they were attached to the wall with crappy brackets that his wee crowbar pinged off like party poppers. He peeled back enough of the screen to take aim at the glass beneath, punching a jagged hole with a half-ender, simultaneously trying to muffle the sound the brick made as it shattered the window. He squirted petrol through the hole, spraying it as far as he could and hurling the incendiary after. Don’t make that fuckin ‘hing blow up in your face, Magsy said, keep the wick ‘hing , the fuse timer ‘hing, whatever it is, away from ye when ye light it, ye get me?  So he did, the deep whoosh of flame startling and exciting. He launched the flaming missile through the hole in the window and watched the dark factory interior jangle to life in the light-and-shadow dance choreographed by the juddering spikes of flame. He wanted to stay and watch it burn, but Magsy said get off yer mark, quick as, the busies’ll be down in a minute and you need to be somewhere else by then.

Was that how it happened? I don’t know, I wasn’t there, I made that up. But, yeah, it made sense and it was the story people believed.  The blaze caused “extensive damage”, whatever that means, despite whatever fire-detection and prevention systems Dornoch Textiles had (or hadn’t) installed.

Later stories told me that Murray Gilchrist was arrested, charged and convicted for the offence, betrayed by his boasting-down-the-boozer and a cache of “incendiary devices” found in his home, in a classic stupid/evil mash-up. He pleaded not guilty to the end, but…oh, here we go, here we are…his membership of Scotland: White Power did him no favours, made the jury believe that he was that wee bit more likely than the next guy to firebomb a factory employing largely Asian workers. Bye, bye, Murray Gilchrist (24), see ye in five.

And now, it seemed like somebody else was intent on pursuing his unholy mission, because Dornoch Textiles had suffered a very similar attack and it wasn’t – for sure - the bold Murray, since he was still in HMP Barlinnie. I guessed all the other members of Scotland: White Power, if any, would be tidying up their cupboards and garages as a matter of some urgency, jettisoning anything that would burn.

Anyhow, so what? Me, I’m in London, what do I care?