Lockdown Day 23: Tuesday 14th April, 2020

Some raucous rounds later, Thommo flew down the back stairs, halted by a HoneyMonster shaped buffer.

“Time tae hit the road guys, raid coming up. Ah just got chinned in the lane at the back by three bacon delivery wagons. Ah’m in mid-pee an’ they told me tae nip it an’ fuck off. We all know whit that means. Big raid oanna way. Any gear left? Naw? Good. They’ve got the fire exits in the lane covered so it’s the front door fur us. If we’re clean but, it doesnae matter if they huckle us oan the way oot. ‘Cept maybe fur you Trick. But you gotta get out somehow, so let’s leg it then we’re all all clear. BJ, gie us a minute tae get oot then pass the word will ya. Bit ae a crowd rushing they sterrs’ll create a big stramash. We’ll see ya at His Nibs.”

  We were halfway up the stairs when BJ pulled the plug on Helter Skelter and spread the word. We scraped past the sparkled drunks at the door to clear the joint just in time, squeezing out into the fresh night air as a black maria careened into Sauchiehall Street from Douglas Street while a Special Patrol Group transit van screeched round from Rose Street. As we crossed the road, both squealed to a halt outside the Blenheim to discharge plodsquads either side of the road. They milled around the door, funnelled through the two doors, urging each other forward but unable to force into the bar more than one at a time because of the mob inside now trying to get out.

  Thommo admired the unchoreographed melee with glee, “Poetry in motion. If these guys hud brains they’d be dangerous.”

  “Do we stay or do we go?”

  “May as well wait Angela, BJ cannae be far behind.”

  We shuffled over to the entrance to the McLellan galleries and waited, feigning interest in things artistic.

  And waited.

  And waited.

  Finally Thommo decided to check out the situation and wandered back across the road where the police were searching everyone, lining them up, checking id, examining the bikes, mining pockets and handbags, sifting through the motherlode for nuggets of illegality, loading protesting bodies into the vans. He peered through the crowded window then skipped hurriedly back. “They’ve lifted BJ. They’re jist aboot tae bring him oot.”

  The HoneyMonster was livid, “Whit the fuck for? He’s no goat any gear. He’s no tooled up. Gotta be a fit-up therr gaun for. Bastards. Buncha fuckin cunts.”

  “Drug Squad could have been in tonight, H. Might have a new guy nobody knows yet saw what was going down. When they find out he’s got no gear left on him they’ll have to let him go.”

  Thommo growled at me, “Grow up Trick! It’s no like that. They know whit we’re doing. We know they know. They know we know they know. So if they cannae git us legit, they’ll git us any fuckin’ way they fuckin’ can.”

  He scanned the street, “Angie, time tae be out o’ here. H keep the edge, Trick, gie us a haun wi’ this bin.”

  With everyone’s attention fixed firmly on the furious fandango across the road, we puled two bins from the heavy wrought-iron garbage bin stand then lugged it into the road just in front of the old Black Maria.

  “OK Trick, get Angie outta here. Oan ya go. We’ll catch ye later. Or ah’ll find ye through the week.”

  Adrenaline pumping, Angela and I stepped back into the shadows of the gallery entrance. As the police manhandled Jas out the pub and across the road, Thommo passed a full garbage bin to the HoneyMonster then grabbed the second himself.

  “Honey. Time tae go tae work. Before BJ’s in. If they lock they doors he’s fucked.”

  Ignored in the shadows by Treron’s windows they waited for the van to be loaded. As the driver climbed in to fire it up, HoneyMonster hefted the bin two-handed above his head then stepped out the shadows. As the door shut behind Jas, the Honeymonster launched the bin at the bunched police. As they skittled to the ground, he turned and grabbed the van doors, closed but still not secured, stamped his left foot on the rear bumper and wrenched. Hard. The door flew open, dragging out with it the hapless PC. As H picked him up and threw him full force back into the cage Thommo heaved the second bin at the stunned police picking themselves up off the road.

  The Honeymonster dragged Jas back into the street. BJ was fuming, “Whit the fuck ur ye daein’? You guys ur fuckin’ mental. Whit was that fur? They’d huv let me go doon the station. They hud nae reason tae keep me. The polis wir jist daein a hold ‘n’ scold. Wurr gaunnae git intae so much fuckin shit fer this.”

  Thommo yelled, “Stay here, thin. You face that mad skwad, but ah’m aff.” And legged it into the night.  Laughing wildly, the Honey Monster winked over at us then tore after him. BJ took one look at the SPG bruisers streaming back out the bar then sprinted as fast as he could after the others.

  For a big guy he really could move fast. Practice makes perfect, I imagined. As we hushed in the shadows of the doorway, the rusty Black Maria stuttered into life. Clunking into first gear the van jerked forward after them. Almost immediately, the sound of the ancient engine straining to accelerate gave way to a banshee wail of grinding, screeching metal as the decrepit van mounted the unseen bin-stand and rode it roughly down the road, sparks flying as it gouged along the street before rasping to a halt.

The last we saw of Thommo, Big Jas and the HoneyMonster was three whooping maniacs legging it down Sauchiehall St towards Townhead pursued by a lynchmob posse of very angry lawmen.