The Art Guy (18+) COMPLETE, FREE to READ

Advice from Unexpected Places

Glasgow, April 1993

John was used to the wee neds. They made up a decent amount of his clientele, the ones who needed legal aid in the main.

This wee man in front of him was typical. Dressed in a purple and blue shell suit that rustled every time he moved, the guy looked as if he hadn't seen daylight in a long time. His skin was mortuary pale, the blue veins prominent, and his teeth stained thanks to too many cigarettes and a bad diet.

Nevertheless, there was something kind of appealing about him. His face automatically lit up when John came into the room, in a 'Hiya, ye've come tae rescue me!' cheeriness John found endearing.

He introduced himself and shook the guy's hand. His arrest records said his name was Billy McGuire, he was 18 years old, and he'd spent the bulk of his teenage years in care homes.

He'd been arrested on a possession with intent to supply. So far, so usual, but Billy McGuire was so far down the chain of command, John felt the familiar surge of optimism the legal system was yet to beat out of him.

"I'll persuade him to cough up his bosses, get him a deal with the Crown Office and I might yet be able to change Billy McGuire's life."

The boy was grinning at him for a start. Did that mean he'd worked out for himself that there could be a way out? Currently, he was looking at a ten year stretch for that amount of heroin. And Billy wouldn't survive in Barlinnie, the notorious Glasgow jail that was often thought of as the finishing school for hard men.

No, Billy would be picked on. He might have taught himself some tricks while in care, but that gummy smile and the gormless look of him said 'victim'.

John had given up cigarettes a couple of years ago, taking up running and gym going instead as running and smoking made for unhappy bedfellows. Still, he always kept a packet on him for these situations. He took it out now, and wee Billy's eyes lit up even more.

"Can I hae one, mate?" he asked, a politeness that was again touching.

"Sure," John said, and pushed the packet forward, along with his old Zippo lighter, the smell of Butane flooding the small space instantly as Billy flicked it on and sucked on the cigarette to light it.

"Aye, I know your name," he added. "Fae ma cousin. You helped him oot last year."

Undoubtedly. Billy had that look to him, institutionalised crime that moved from generation to generation, across siblings and down through their offspring. John didn't know who he was talking about. It could have three or four different wee guys, all identikit in their appearances, speech and the pattern their lives had followed so far.

John explained his role and went through the statement Billy McGuire had already given the police. In it, he refused to say where he got the drugs from. Just someone on a street corner. Didnae know his name.

No-one believed that, but Billy kept saying it.

The heroin had a different chemical make-up than the stuff mostly found on Glasgow's streets these days, cut with something else. Its impurities included morphine, codeine and thebaine, a nasty, dangerous mix. Everyone knew Billy was the tiny cog. But for who, new players on the drugs scene?

Bad enough that those there already were well-known to the cops (and untouchable in some places). Who were the new guys, and did this signal a turf war?

Unfortunately, Bill's schooling hadn't been thorough or finished, but the one lesson he did know was you didn't grass. That's where the police had come unstuck. They had asked, demanded, even cajoled, and young Mr McGuire wasn't for telling them.

An unknown guy on a corner. The drugs were just for his ane use. Aye, well, mebbe he was gonnae sell them to a few of his pals. Not to make money, like.

John tried another approach. His own accent was what his ex had mockingly called 'posh Glasgow'. He could, and had as a boy, been able to move it up and down to reflect who he was with. But in this case, Billy needed posh.

"Billy, have you got kids? A girlfriend?"

John knew the answer but asked anyway.

"Nuh. There's this wee lassie, though..."

Oh, the longing behind that voice. Again, he found it touching.

"Me too, mate," he said now, surprising himself. He'd decided on one approach, and now it was taking on a life of its own. "I'm single, but I'd love to settle down. Find a nice partner. Have some children."

There, it was out there. A longing for kids confession he'd never made to anyone else, said to a wee Glasgow ned. He thought again of his ex and the way it had ended, the bitterness and the overwhelming hurt. And since then, the closest he'd come to finding someone who meant something to him was...

Young. Just out. Not yet wholly at ease with his sexuality and his gay identity, and as liable to smash John's only just patched-up heart back into tiny smithereens once more. That dinner had been a mistake. He shouldn't have gone, and he certainly shouldn't have dropped his guard down enough to invite the guy out for pakora (and the rest) afterwards.

John gave in and reached for the cigarette packet, leaning over as Billy flicked the lighter into life once more.

Billy had nodded along furiously to John's confession. He began to tell him about the wee lassie. Lived near him. Had been at school with her. But she didnae like crims, and she didnae want to be like her ma, reduced to prison visiting times, and having to do three jobs to pay for everything.

The wee lassie (Bethany) had standards.

Did Billy really want to be with her?

Billy stared hard at him when he said that. Hadnae he just said so? She was the love o' his life.

John began to outline what precisely Billy needed to do to be with Bethany, how these actions would change his life completely, and how the change of identity and a witness protection programme might work.

It will save you. It sounds like Bethany might like a change of scene too?

He wasn't going to say yes immediately, Billy McGuire, but John knew he'd planted the seeds of something that was laying down powerful roots. An escape, a life with far bigger horizons than Billy had ever seen before. Say bye-bye to Glasgow grey skies.

He mumbled a name. "Bloke's fae Newcastle. The one ah deal with. Called Jordan."

It was a start. Billy wasn't telling him everything he knew, but there was a little something that gave them bargaining power, and the police the lead they needed to move on and up that chain.

John stood up. He wanted to leave Billy with his thoughts, hopefully trying them out for size in his imagination and creating a future for himself, Bethany and their two point four children.

Billy called out to him as he reached for the door handle. "Ah know what you are, big man."

John turned.

"Aye, ma cousin telt me. You're a bum basher, aren't ye?" He put a hand in front of his mouth and widened his eyes, flushing.

"Naw, naw, nae offence, mate. I dinnae mind them, mysel'. Ye should be free to fuck, eh... I mean, love, whoever ye want. I hope ye find a nice man. Youse can join up wi' some lezzies to have kids, can't ye?"

John let himself out, unsure whether he wanted to laugh or cry. Homosexual relationship advice from a Glasgow ned. Now, there was a first.

The name Jordan, though. He remembered it from somewhere.

Where?