2nd of September, 1976
"Gallagher, come on." Shuggie's voice echoed up from the street below his window. Ronan looked down—Shuggie standing on the pavement, hands shoved in his pockets, breath fogging in the morning air. He gave Ronan a wave and a nod.
Ronan moved to put his new coat on—a proper crombie, black wool, still stiff from the shop, not like the thin hand-me-downs he'd worn before—and settled his da's old flat cap on his head. It didn't sit quite so low anymore. He'd grown a bit in the past few weeks, filled out slightly, though he was still small for twelve.
It had been a few weeks since he started running with the Crown Street Boys and he couldn't be happier. The work was steady, the money real, and for the first time since his da died, the rent notices had stopped piling up on the mantelpiece.
They had yet to rob the warehouse—Davey wanted to make sure that whoever owned it wasn't someone that would throw them in the Clyde if they nicked the wrong product. Still, they had broken into a few stores outside of Gorbals, places where the owners didn't have connections, where the coppers wouldn't look too hard. They stole mainly hard cash from the tills and safes, but they also made off with a few dozen cartons of cigarettes, a few crates of whiskey, and once, an old car that Tam hot-wired in under a minute. They sold most of it down the docks to contacts Davey had, keeping only a few cartons of cigarettes for personal use, distributed among the crew.
He had gotten his cut of the earnings yesterday—he'd been a good lookout, stayed sharp, caught the one time someone walked past who looked too interested. Davey had noticed. A little over a hundred quid, more money than Ronan had ever seen in one place. He'd bought himself the new coat and a good quality razor of his own—a proper straight razor in a leather case, not some cheap folder—but put the rest on the kitchen table last night for his ma. Didn't say anything. Just left it there under a cup so it wouldn't blow away when she opened the window.
He moved toward the kitchen now, boots quiet on the floorboards. He could hear his ma cooking something on the stove—porridge, probably, the smell of it mixing with the ever-present cigarette smoke. He could hear little Callum sitting in his high chair, clanging his spoon against his empty bowl, making that repetitive banging sound he loved, giggling to himself.
He entered the kitchen and his ma turned to look at him. Eileen Gallagher stood at the stove, wooden spoon in one hand, cigarette dangling from the other. She was small—where Ronan got his slight build from—with the same pale skin that never took the sun right, same sharp cheekbones and angular face. But her eyes were different from his, darker, more green than grey, and her hair was lighter, a dull brown going grey at the temples though she was barely thirty-five. She wore a faded floral dress under a cardigan with holes in the elbows, slippers on her feet. Looked tired. Always looked tired these days, dark circles under her eyes, shoulders hunched like she was carrying weight that never got lighter.
She noticed the coat and raised an eyebrow, her Irish accent coming through as she spoke. "Nice coat. Ye gettin the money from where I think ye are, Ro? I've noticed ye've been runnin with those boys from around the block."
He took a breath. He knew this had been coming, knew she'd spotted him leaving with Shuggie and the others, coming home late with cash in his pockets.
"Aye ma. I'm with the Crown Street Boys now."
She snorted as she turned back to stirring the porridge, the spoon scraping against the bottom of the pot. "Crown Street Boys, is it? Jaysis."
"Aye ma. Disnae matter what we're called. We're makin money."
Her face fell, some of the sharpness going out of her expression. "Yeah, I figured that with the money in the cup."
"We need the money, ma."
She turned to face him properly now, wooden spoon still in her hand, and her voice went hard. "Yer fookin twelve, Ro. It's not yer job to pay the fookin rent. It's mine."
"Ye workin yerself to death isnae goin tae dae us any good, ma. If yer gone, how am I supposed tae look after Cal?" He gestured toward his little brother, still banging away happily in his chair. "With nae money, we'll get sent off tae an orphanage. Probably never see each other again. Besides, I'm the man of the hoose now, ma. Gotta pay ma way."
"Yer fookin twelve!" Her voice rose, sharp enough that Callum stopped banging and looked up, lower lip trembling. "Ye shouldn't have to be thinkin about payin rent. Ye should be out playin with yer friends and learnin at school, not runnin around with those little gougers breakin into shops!"
He didn't want to argue with his ma but he wasn't budging on this. He was making good money and if they ended up robbing the warehouse and selling the heroin, there was big money in it, so Davey said. From what his cousin in New York told him, one of those crates could be worth thousands of pounds—actual thousands, not just a few hundred quid from nicking tills. Thirty crates in that warehouse. Even if they could only move a fraction of it, even if they had to sell it cheap to someone bigger, it could set them up for life. He could move Ma and Callum into an actual house, not this damp tenement flat with mold creeping up the walls. A place with heating that worked. A garden maybe, or at least a proper kitchen.
"Ma. I know ye dinnae want me tae dae this, but I cannae stop. I want tae make a good life for us. So we don't have tae worry aboot the rent bein late or the hoose goin cold. That we can wear new clothes. So that Cal can go tae a good school." He gestured around the cramped kitchen, the peeling wallpaper, the window that didn't close properly and let the cold in. "Yer daein yer best, ma, but yer only one person. Let me dae this."
She stared at him for a long moment, wooden spoon still in her hand, cigarette burning down to ash between her fingers. Her jaw worked like she was chewing on words she didn't want to say. Then she let out a frustrated noise, half-growl, half-sigh. "Fook! Fine, fine." She took a breath, trying to calm herself down, her shoulders dropping. "If yer goin to do this, then I want ye to do it right. I don't want ye to be some little fooker who gets himself killed in the gutter like yer da." Her voice cracked slightly on the last words, but she pushed through. "I'll send me da a letter. He knows some tough fookers in Dublin. Best ye learn how to look after yerself proper if yer goin to be runnin around with criminals."
He moved forward and gave her a hug, wrapping his arms around her thin shoulders. She smelled like cigarette smoke and the lavender soap she used, familiar and safe. "Don't worry ma, I'll be careful."
She returned the hug, one hand coming up to the back of his head, holding him close for just a moment. "Oh Ro, when did ye grow up so quick?" He felt her shake her head against his shoulder, then she released the hug, stepping back and wiping quickly at her eyes with the heel of her hand. She gave a wave toward the door, her Dublin accent thick. "Now off with ya. I heard yer man out the front callin for ye. Make sure to be careful, ye hear me?"
"Aye, ma." He adjusted his da's cap on his head, pulled his new coat straight.
She turned back to the stove, stirring the porridge again, her back to him. "And Ronan?" Her voice was quieter now. "Don't be like yer da. Don't let pride make ye stupid."
He paused at the doorway. "I won't, ma."
He walked out of the kitchen, through the narrow hallway, and down the close stairs. Shuggie was still waiting on the pavement, now leaning against the wall, smoking a cigarette.
"Aboot time, Gallagher," Shuggie said with a grin. "Thought yer ma was goin tae keep ye hostage."
"She knows," Ronan said simply.
Shuggie's eyebrows went up. "How'd that go?"
"She's no happy aboot it. But she's lettin me do it."
"Better than ma maw." Shuggie flicked ash onto the pavement. "She threw a plate at ma head when she found oot. Nearly took ma ear off." He laughed. "Come on then. Davey wants us all at the usual spot. Says he's got news aboot the warehouse."
They moved through the streets toward the block of flats where Davey lived, Ronan sparking a cigarette as he walked, cupping his hand around the lighter to keep the wind off. September morning was cold, grey clouds hanging low over the tenements, threatening rain. A few people were out—women hanging washing despite the weather, old men sitting on stoops smoking, kids kicking a ball in the street who scattered when Ronan and Shuggie walked past.
"Know anythin aboot what he found oot aboot the warehouse?" Ronan asked, taking a drag.
Shuggie shook his head, red hair catching what little light there was. "Nah, Tam's got the lead on this one. From what he told me, he threw a few quid tae some of the people livin in the flats doon the street from the warehouse. Got them talkin."
"Dae ye think it'll be Tommy McKenzie's?" Ronan asked. That was the worry, wasn't it? That they'd scope out a job only to find it belonged to someone connected, someone who'd come looking with more than just fists.
"Nah, Tommy's more aboot protection an a bit of match fixin, or so they say. Takes his cut from bookies an pubs, keeps things runnin smooth. No one talks aboot him slingin drugs. Too risky for his operation—brings too much heat from the coppers."
Ronan nodded as they moved into the alley where they hung out—a narrow space between two tenement blocks, hidden from the street, with a few crates and an old table someone had dragged in. Good spot. Private. No one bothered them here.
Davey, Tam and Bam were already there, sitting around the table playing cards—looked like pontoon from the way the cards were laid out. Tam was smoking, Bam just watching his cards like he was trying to remember what game they were playing. Him and Shuggie moved to grab a chair each, pulling them up to the table.
"Took yer sweet time," Davey said without looking up from his cards, a slight grin on his face.
"Ma maw wanted tae talk aboot me runnin with ye lot," Ronan said, settling into his chair. "Took her a bit but she's no goin tae lock me up in the hoose."
Davey chuckled and nodded, glancing up at Ronan briefly. "Good tae hear. Would hate for us tae lose oor lookoot. Yer daein good, Gallagher."
"Cheers," Ronan said, pulling out his cigarettes. "She said she was goin tae send a letter tae me granda in Dublin. Reckons I should learn how tae look after maself proper."
Tam raised an eyebrow, his Irish accent more noticeable as he spoke. "Dublin? I didn't know ye were Irish."
Ronan nodded. "Me maw's side. Said that me granda knows some tough fookers who could teach me."
Tam squinted at him, cards forgotten for a moment. "Tough fookers in Dublin?" He took a drag of his cigarette, eyes sharp. "Might be from the Dunne Family. They pretty much run things there when they're not buttin heads with the 'IRA, or so me da says." He grinned. "That's some luck there, Gallagher. Might open new doors for us, havin connections like that."
Bam laid his cards down on the table—twenty-one, perfect hand. "I win," he said, voice deep and flat like he was reading off a shopping list.
Tam threw his cards down with a disgusted noise. "I don't know how ye win so god damned much, Bam. Face like a slapped arse but by Christ yer good at cards."
Bam reached over to pick up half a dozen notes that were his winnings—had to be at least thirty quid there. He gave a small smile, just a slight twitch at the corner of his mouth. It was the first time Ronan had ever seen him do anything but stare straight ahead with that blank expression.
Davey threw his own cards down and lit a cigarette, leaning back in his chair. "Right, let's get doon tae business. Tam found oot whose warehouse it is." He took a drag, let the smoke out slow. "Some fookin sassenach. English bastard. Only has one other person with him as muscle from what we can tell. I followed their truck when it came in for a delivery. They stopped at a hoose not far from the Royal Theatre in Bridgeton. Saw them talkin tae a couple of locals. Probably who they've got slingin the stuff. No one big time, just street dealers."
Shuggie nodded, leaning forward with his elbows on the table. "So how are we goin tae clear it oot? From what Gallagher said, there's too many crates for us tae carry oot. We'd need a truck, an that's a whole different level of risk."
Davey nodded slowly, like he'd been thinking about this for a while. "Been thinkin aboot that. I dinnae reckon we should clear it oot. Only take a few crates at a time. This sassenach bastard is the one bringin it in, right? If we steal it all, we'll no be able tae get more. But if we steal some here an there—just a crate or two every few weeks—we can stock up free of charge. He'll think it's spillage, maybe blame his dealers for skimmin. Long as we're careful, we can milk this for months."
That sounded like a good plan. Smart. Ronan could see the sense in it—why kill the goose when you could keep taking eggs? Everyone around the table seemed to agree, nodding, murmuring approval.
"When dae ye think we should make oor move?" Ronan asked, flicking ash from his cigarette.
Davey looked up at the bleak grey sky, considering. "I'd wanted us tae move on it tomorrow night. Their truck comes every Friday night, like clockwork. We wait until they leave, then we sneak in. Gallagher unlocks a door from the inside, an we help oorsels."
Tam raised an eyebrow, his Irish accent cutting through. "Ye wanted us to? But not now?"
Davey shook his head. "There's some bampots over on Houston Street. They broke intae ma uncle's shop last week. Cleaned him oot—took the till, stock, everythin. I promised him we'd get his money back an gie these fuckers a proper doin." He took a drag of his cigarette. "Said there's twenty quid in it for us. Seein as he's ma uncle, I'll gie ye lot ma share. So that's a fiver between ye."
Shuggie leaned forward, grinning. "Sounds like a good fuckin time. We huvnae had a bit of violence in a while." He paused, turning to look at Ronan. "Ye goin tae be awright with this? Ye huvnae got yer blade wet before, have ye?"
Ronan shook his head, meeting Shuggie's eyes steady. "No. But I had tae clean ma da's blood off ma face when he got his throat opened. I'll be fine."
The table went quiet for a moment. Even Bam looked up from counting his winnings.
Davey nodded slowly. "Aye. Fair enough, Gallagher."
He stood up from the table, grinding his cigarette under his boot. "Come on then, lads. Houston Street isnae far. Should be nice an quick an we can be back tae catch the Old Firm game tonight."
They all moved to the car, piling in the same way as always—Davey driving, Tam up front, Ronan squeezed in the back between Shuggie and Bam. The engine coughed to life, black smoke belching from the exhaust. Radio stayed off this time. This wasn't a casual drive.
They drove to Houston Street, which was only a few minutes away—rows of tenements, same as everywhere else in the Gorbals. Washing hanging from windows, kids playing in the street who stopped to watch the car pass. Then Davey started driving up and down slowly, eyes scanning both sides of the road, looking for the bastards who'd robbed his uncle.
They went up and down twice, crawling along at walking pace. Ronan watched out the window, looking for anything out of place—groups of lads, anyone moving quick, anyone who looked nervous.
Tam shifted in his seat, Irish accent sharp with impatience. "Are ye sure these fookers are here?"
"Aye, I'm fuckin sure," Davey snapped, jaw tight. "Just keep lookin."
It was as they were turning to make another pass when Ronan spotted three boys moving down the street toward an alley—looked around his age, maybe a bit older. One of them kept looking over his shoulder. Another had something bulky under his jacket.
"Is that them?" Ronan asked, pointing.
Davey looked, eyes narrowing. Then he grinned. "Good fuckin eye, Gallagher. Best spotter in Glasgow." He pulled the car over to the side of the road, shutting the engine off. "Right, lads. Let's have a word with these cunts."
They all piled out and moved after the boys, boots quiet on the pavement. The alley was narrow, brick walls on both sides, rubbish bins overflowing. Smelled like piss and rotting food.
As they moved into the alley that the boys went down, they could see a tall old wooden fence at the end with several planks kicked out—gaps wide enough for a body to fit through. Ronan could hear the boys on the other side. They were laughing loudly, voices echoing.
"...fookin see the cunt's face? Ha!"
"Aye, near shat himself when we—"
Davey walked in front of the group and had a peek inside the fence, then turned back to whisper to them, voice low and hard.
"Right. Me, Tam an Shuggie will go in an dae the dirty work. Gallagher an Bam, ye keep an eye oot an make sure no one sneaks up on us or any of these cunts get away. Clear?"
Everyone nodded.
Davey, Tam, and Shuggie slipped through the gap in the fence, moving quiet despite their size. Ronan pressed himself against the wall near the gap, Bam standing a few feet away blocking the other direction. His heart was beating fast now, palms sweating. He wiped them on his trousers.
From inside the fence, he could hear everything.
"—the fuck are you?"
"We're friends of the shopkeeper on Crown Street. The one ye robbed."
"We didnae—"
The sound of a fist hitting flesh. Someone gasped. Then boots scuffing, bodies hitting the ground.
"Don't fuckin lie tae me!" Davey's voice, loud and angry. "Ma uncle saw yer faces. Now where's his fuckin money?"
"We spent it! We spent it already!"
Another hit. Someone cried out. More scuffling. Grunting. The wet sound of punches landing.
"Fuckin hold him—"
"Get off me!"
Then fast footsteps. Running. One of them was making a break for it.
A boy burst through the gap in the fence, maybe fourteen, skinny, blood on his lip. His eyes were wide, panicked. He saw Ronan and Bam blocking the way and tried to dodge past.
Bam reached out to grab him—
And Ronan saw it. Like a memory that hadn't happened yet. Saw Bam's hand closing on empty air, just catching the edge of the boy's jacket as he twisted away. Saw the fabric slip through Bam's fingers. Saw the boy getting past them, running down the alley, getting away—
The image was there and gone in a blink. Less than a second. But Ronan's body moved before his brain caught up.
He stuck his leg out.
The boy hit it at full speed, momentum carrying him forward. He went down hard, hands out to catch himself, hitting the cobblestones with a crack.
Bam was there immediately, one big hand grabbing the back of the boy's jacket, hauling him up.
But the boy twisted as he was being pulled up, hand going to his pocket—
And Ronan saw it again. That same feeling, like remembering something that was about to happen. Saw the boy pull a razor from his pocket, saw him do a wild blind slash as he turned, saw the blade catch Bam across the forearm, saw blood—
Ronan's hand was already moving. He pulled his own razor from his pocket, flicked it open smooth. Timed it perfect.
The boy's hand came up with the blade.
Ronan's razor came down on the boy's wrist—not deep, just enough. The blade bit into skin. The boy screamed, dropped his razor. It clattered on the cobblestones.
"Fuck!" The boy clutched his wrist, blood running between his fingers.
Bam grabbed him properly now, both hands on his shoulders, holding him steady. "Got him," he said in that deep flat voice.
Ronan stood there, razor still in his hand, breathing hard. His heart was pounding. His hands weren't shaking. The razor was clean except for a thin line of red.
What the fuck was that?
That feeling. Like knowing what was about to happen. Like seeing it before it did.
He'd had it before—outside The Grapes, that cold feeling in his stomach before his da died. But not like this. Not this clear. Not like watching it happen and then making it happen different.
It was like…he was seeing the future. He'd heard of mystical shite before. He knew that some people still held to things like that—his ma's side, the Irish, they talked about second sight sometimes, about knowing things before they happened. He'd always thought they were daft. Maybe they weren't.
"Ronan. Ye alright?" Bam's voice cut through, bringing him back to the present.
He nodded to Bam, moved to wipe the blood off his blade on the boy's jacket, the fabric soaking up the red. "Aye, I'm alright. Cheers, Bam."
Bam gave him a nod, expression unchanged, like Ronan cutting someone was just another Tuesday.
The rest of the boys came back through the fence a moment later, dragging the other two through. Davey saw Ronan putting his blade away, looked down at the ground and spotted the discarded razor lying in a small pool of blood. Raised an eyebrow.
"What happened?"
Ronan stood taller, met Davey's eyes. "He tried tae slash at Bam after he tried tae push past. I cut his hand."
Davey gave a chuckle, that sharp grin coming back. "Good work." He turned his head to look at Tam. "Whit'd I tell ye? He might be small but he's got it in him."
Tam fondly rolled his eyes, Irish accent cutting through. "Yeah, yeah. Ye were right."
Davey turned to look at the boy he'd dragged out—the one with the bloody nose, face already swelling, eyes watering from the pain. "Right, tell me where the fuck the money is."
"We spent it all!" the boy screamed, voice cracking with panic.
"Fuckin bullshite!" Davey stepped closer, voice dropping to something cold and dangerous. "Ye would've made at least ten quid each from ma uncle's shop. Ye little cunts wouldnae know where tae spend that much that fast. So I'll ask again—where's the fuckin money?"
"We don't have it!" The boy was crying now, snot running down with the blood.
Davey gave an almost growl-like noise, jaw clenched tight. He looked at Shuggie. "Shuggie. Gie the one Tam's holdin a smile. I reckon these little cunts'll talk after that."
Shuggie's grin went wide, mean. He pulled his razor out, flicked it open. "Right then, boy. Hold nice an still for me."
Tam grabbed the crying boy's face roughly with one hand, fingers digging into his cheeks, forcing his head still. Shuggie stuck the blade into the corner of his mouth and gave a sharp tug upward.
A spurt of blood followed. The boy's scream was high and terrible, echoing off the brick walls of the alley. He thrashed in Tam's grip but couldn't get free.
"Where's the fuckin money?!" Davey grabbed the face of the one he was holding—the one with the bloody nose—pulled his own razor out of his pocket and flicked the blade out with a practiced snap. Held it up so the boy could see it, blood from the other one still screaming behind them. "Or I'm goin tae match the pair of ye! Ye want yer face opened ear tae ear?"
The boy's eyes went wide with terror, looking at the blade, at his friend bleeding and screaming. "Mick Dolan! We gave it tae Mick Dolan! He runs the bookie on Morrison Street! He told us tae rob the shop, said he'd fence the gear an gie us a cut! We gave him everythin!"
Davey held the razor there for another long moment, letting the boy see it, letting the fear sink in. Then he folded it closed, put it back in his pocket. Let go of the boy's face.
"There we go. Wasnae so hard, was it?" He straightened up, brushed off his jacket like nothing had happened. Looked at Tam. "Let them go."
Tam and Bam released their grips. The boy with the cut mouth collapsed to the ground, hands over his face, blood pouring through his fingers. The other two were frozen, terrified.
"Right," Davey said, voice almost conversational now. "Here's whit's goin tae happen. Ye three are goin tae fuck off an never come near Crown Street again. Ye dinnae talk tae Mick Dolan. Ye dinnae talk tae anyone aboot this. Ye forget ye ever saw us. Clear?"
They nodded frantically, the one on the ground trying to nod through his hands.
"Good. Now piss off before I change ma mind."
They scrambled away—the two helping the bleeding one to his feet, half-carrying him as they ran down the alley, leaving a trail of blood drops behind them.
Ronan stood there, watching them go. His first real violence. Not just cutting a hand—watching someone get their face opened. Hearing the scream. Seeing the blood.
He knew he should be horrified. His ma was Catholic, went to Mass every Sunday when she could, read the Bible to him and Callum at least a dozen times growing up. Thou shalt not kill. Vengeance is mine, sayeth the Lord. The nuns at school had drilled it into him—turn the other cheek, forgive those who trespass against you, judge not lest ye be judged. He knew what they'd just done was wrong. Sinful. The kind of thing that sent you straight to Hell if you didn't confess and repent.
But he wasn't horrified. Wasn't disgusted. Wasn't feeling the weight of sin pressing down on him like the priests said he should.
He thought back to when his da was killed. How in that moment, standing over the body with blood cooling on his face, he'd understood something true. Something the priests and nuns never talked about in their lessons.
Violence was power. Real power. Not prayers or promises or being the loudest voice in the room. Just the willingness to act, to hurt, to end things permanently.
This just further proved it.
Those boys had talked. Had given up Mick Dolan without hesitation once the razor came out. Fear worked. Pain worked. Violence got results.
His ma's Bible said to love your enemies. His da's death had taught him that having enemies got you killed.
He'd take the lesson from the cobblestones over the one from the pulpit.
"Come on, lads. Let's go talk tae this fucker," Davey said, already moving toward the car, wiping his clean razor on his trousers before folding it and putting it back in his pocket. They followed, boots crunching on broken glass and gravel scattered across the alley entrance.
Bam gave Ronan a pat on his shoulder as they walked, the weight of his big hand solid and surprisingly gentle. Ronan looked up at him.
"Cheers," Bam said, voice quiet and deep. For stopping the boy with the blade, Ronan realized. For having his back. Then Bam dropped his hand and moved to get in the car, ducking his head to fit through the door.
After they all got in—same positions as before, Ronan squeezed between Shuggie and Bam in the back, the springs in the seat digging into his legs—Tam spoke up from the passenger seat, turning slightly to look at Davey. His shirt had blood spatter on the collar from holding the boy while Shuggie cut him. "Anyone know anythin about this fella? This Mick Dolan?"
Davey shook his head, starting the engine. It coughed twice before catching, black smoke belching from the exhaust. "Never heard of him. If he runs a bookie, then he probably kicks up tae Tommy McKenzie. Most of them dae in Gorbals."
"Isnae that dangerous tae go against someone who's one of Tommy's?" Ronan found himself asking. The question came out before he could stop it, but it seemed important. Tommy McKenzie wasn't someone you crossed lightly—his da had done work for him, and even Patrick Gallagher, who wasn't scared of much, had been careful around Tommy. Respectful. Tommy ran things in the Gorbals, had his fingers in half the pubs and bookies and protection rackets in the area.
"Was gonna ask the same thing," Tam said, his Irish accent cutting through. "Tommy won't be happy if we stand over one of his earners. Could bring a lot of heat down on us."
"Maybe," Davey admitted, pulling the car out onto the street, taking the corner sharp enough that Ronan had to brace himself against Bam's shoulder. "But I want tae know why the fuck he sent those little cunts tae ma uncle's shop. Ma uncle's a civilian—doesnae run anythin, doesnae deal, just sells groceries an keeps his head doon. He shouldnae have tae worry aboot fuckers breakin in an cleanin his shop oot."
"What if it was Tommy who put him on it? Tam pressed, turning in his seat to look at Davey properly. "What if he wanted protection money and your uncle wouldn't pay?"
Davey shook his head, jaw tight. "He would've paid. He knows how it is. Everyone in the Gorbals knows how it is. Ye pay yer dues, ye dinnae get bothered. That's the arrangement. An Tommy's no the type tae send kids tae rob a shop—he'd just send Big Davey or one of his boys tae have a word. Make it clear. This isnae how Tommy operates."
Everyone went quiet after that. The only sound was the engine coughing and the radio crackling static between stations.
Ronan wasn't sure what to think. Why was Davey so sure it wasn't Tommy? Sure, he said that's not how Tommy did things, but how would he know that for sure? From what he'd heard his da talk about Tommy McKenzie—late at night when Patrick thought Ronan was asleep, or when his mates came round for cards in the kitchen—if you owed Tommy money, then nothing was off limits.
He remembered one story in particular. His da telling it to Denny and Shug, voices low over their pints, cigarette smoke thick in the kitchen. Tommy had sent his da to burn down a bakery that wouldn't pay protection. Ronan knew the daughter of the man who owned it—Mary Campbell, she'd been in his class at school. Quiet girl with flour always dusted on her sleeves because she helped her da after school.
He'd heard later that her da had been in the bakery when it burned down. Trapped upstairs when the flames spread too fast. Mary stopped coming to school after that. Her ma moved them away, somewhere down south.
Tommy McKenzie didn't give a fuck if you were a civilian or not. If you didn't pay, you burned. Simple as that.
"But what if it was on Tommy's orders?" Ronan found himself asking, the words coming out quiet but clear in the confined space of the car.
Davey's eyes flicked up to the rearview mirror, catching Ronan's gaze. Held it for a moment. His expression was unreadable—somewhere between annoyed and resigned.
"Then we cross that bridge when we get tae it," he said finally, turning his attention back to the road.
Ronan gave a nod and settled back into his seat, shoulder pressed against Bam's solid bulk. He supposed that was all he could do—wait and see how this played out. Watch which way the wind blew before committing.
One thing Ronan knew without a doubt, though, sitting there with blood still drying under his fingernails from the boy's wrist: he wasn't dying over Davey's uncle. Wasn't catching a blade or a bullet because some shopkeeper got robbed and Davey wanted revenge.
If this went sideways with Tommy McKenzie, if it turned out the big man had ordered the hit on the shop, Ronan would walk. Simple as that.
Loyalty was one thing. Suicide was another.
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