14th of August, 1976
It had been several months since his da died in a gutter and he had been watching the rent notices pile up on the mantelpiece—white envelopes with red stamps, the paper getting thinner each time, the words getting sharper.
Without his da's income, his ma had to try and pick up the slack, working longer hours, coming home with her feet bleeding and her voice gone hoarse from shouting orders over drunk men.
His ma was Irish—born in Derry, came over when she was sixteen. He didn't know how his ma and da met but they had apparently married to mend an old grudge between the Gallagher clan and his ma's family, the Dohertys, something about a fight that went back before Ronan was born, before his ma even knew his da's name. She was a tough woman who worked as a barmaid at a few different bars close to their house—The Crown, The Parkhead, sometimes down at The Louden if they needed extra hands on match days. She was known for two things: she let no man touch her, not even the ones who thought buying a round gave them the right, and she sang beautiful songs, old Irish ballads that made grown men cry into their pints when she was in the right mood.
But a barmaid didn't pay well. The rent on their tenement flat was £8 a week—not much, but more than his ma could cover on her own. She pulled maybe £15 a week between all three bars if she worked every shift going, six days straight with no breaks, and that was before she bought food or paid the gas or kept Callum in shoes that fit. His da had been bringing in another £25 between the warehouse work and whatever cash came from the side jobs with Tommy McKenzie's crew. Now that was gone, and the numbers didn't add up no matter how hard his ma tried to make them work.
So he decided, sitting at the kitchen table with those white envelopes spread in front of him while his ma was out at The Crown and Callum was asleep in the next room, it didn't matter if he was twelve or thirty. He was the man of the house now. Had been since his da bled out on Crown Street. It was time he did his part, brought something in before the landlord came knocking and they ended up on the street.
His first thought was to go ask Tommy McKenzie for work—anything the man needed, running messages, watching doors, whatever paid. But he didn't know where to find him, wouldn't even know where to start looking. Tommy didn't have an office or a shop. He was just a name men said quietly, a face that showed up when there was trouble that needed handling.
So instead, he placed his cap on his head—his da's old flat cap, too big, sitting low over his eyes—and he left the family flat. The close was dark, smelled like piss and damp. He headed to the block of flats a street over, the ones that backed onto the railway line. He knew of a group of older boys from school—knew of them, never spoke to them proper. They rarely came to school, maybe once a week if the truancy officer was sniffing around, but they were known to be getting up to mischief. Nicking from shops, running bets, breaking into the warehouses down by the Clyde. The kind of work that paid.
He stepped out into the street. August evening, still light but fading fast, the sky going grey over the tenements. The pavement was cracked, weeds pushing through the gaps. A dog barked somewhere. Mrs. Morgan was hanging washing on a line strung across her window, sheets snapping in the wind. Two men stood outside the bookies on the corner, smoking, voices low. A lorry rumbled past on Crown Street, exhaust thick and black. The streetlamps were coming on, one by one, yellow light pooling on the wet stones. Smelled like coal smoke and the brewery down by the river. Kids were playing in the street—smaller ones, six or seven, kicking a ball made of rolled-up newspaper and string. They scattered when Ronan walked past, went quiet, watching.
He turned down the side street, past the boarded-up shop that used to sell sweets before the owner died. Past the close where Old Jimmy lived, the one who shouted at everyone. The railway line ran behind the flats here, separated by a rusted fence with gaps big enough to slip through. You could hear the trains at night, rattling the windows.
When he finally saw the flat he was looking for, he could hear the boys he was looking for down the side, in between the flats where the bins were kept and no one could see from the street.
There were four of them. The oldest looked sixteen, maybe seventeen—tall and rangy, dark hair slicked back with Brylcreem, wearing a black Harrington jacket that looked new, or close to it. Good boots, polished. Dark trousers without holes. A cigarette tucked behind his ear. Next to him stood a shorter lad, stocky, red hair, freckles, bomber jacket zipped up, jeans rolled at the ankles showing white socks and brogues. The third was thin, pale, acne scars across his cheeks, wearing a Ben Sherman shirt—blue checks, collar sharp—and sta-prest trousers. The fourth was younger, maybe fourteen, but big for his age, thick neck, hands shoved in the pockets of his donkey jacket, scuffed Docs on his feet. They all looked too clean for the Gorbals. Too put-together. Money in their pockets showed.
The leader—the one in the Harrington—saw him approaching. Straightened up, flicked ash from his cigarette.
"Whit dae we have here, lads?" His voice carried, amused. "Wee man's lost his mammy, aye?"
The others laughed—sharp, cruel sounds that echoed off the brick walls.
He swallowed and drowned what fear was in his belly, pushed it down deep where it couldn't show on his face. He knew they wouldn't take him seriously. How could they? He was a small boy with a cap too big for his head, skinny arms sticking out of a jumper with holes in the elbows. But he wouldn't turn away. Couldn't. He needed to help his ma earn some money. So they could pay rent. So that Callum could go to sleep at night and not wake up shivering because they'd run out of coins for the gas meter and the flat was freezing.
"No. I huvnae lost me ma." His voice came out steady, quiet. "She's workin herself intae an early grave an ma da got himself killed. I need tae earn some money. I heard aboot ye lot. I was hopin ye'd gie me a chance."
The laughter stopped. The leader took a drag from his cigarette, eyes narrowing through the smoke. Looked Ronan up and down—the too-big cap, the thin shoulders, the hands hanging at his sides.
"Yer da," he said slowly. "That Paddy Gallagher? The one got his throat opened outside Grapes few months back?"
"Aye."
The leader nodded, flicked ash. "Heard aboot that. Stupid bastard couldnae keep his gob shut." He paused. "How auld are ye?"
"Twelve."
"Fuck me." The stocky redhead laughed, but it wasn't cruel this time. Just surprised. "Wee man's got stones, I'll gie him that."
The leader studied Ronan for another long moment. Then he stepped forward, close enough that Ronan had to tilt his head back to meet his eyes.
"Awright, wee man. Ye want tae earn? I'll gie ye a shot. But ye fuck it up, ye dinnae come back. Understood?"
"Aye."
"Name's Davey Quinn. That's my crew." He jerked his thumb at the others. "Ye dae whit I tell ye, when I tell ye. Nae questions. Nae greetin. Nae runnin tae yer ma when it gets hard. Aye?"
"Aye."
Davey Quinn grinned. "Right then. Let's see whit ye're made of." He took one last drag of his cigarette before dropping it and treading on it, grinding it into the dirt with the heel of his boot. "We've been casin a warehouse alang the Clyde. Whoever owns it is tryin tae keep it hidden frae the movers an shakers—nae signs, nae company name, just a padlocked door an blacked-oot windaes. Frae whit we can tell, they're smugglin somethin in. Trucks come late at night, unload, then fuck off before dawn. We huvnae been able tae get a peek inside yet." He looked down at Ronan, eyes sharp. "But there's a nice wee hole in the back wall, doon near the ground where the bricks have crumbled. Would fit someone of yer wee size, though. Ye get in, have a look aboot, tell us whit's inside. Then ye squeeze back oot an we're away. Simple."
The stocky redhead—one of the crew—snorted. "If it's so simple, how come we huvnae done it yet?"
"Because yer fat arse wouldnae fit through the gap, Shuggie," Davey said without looking at him. "An Tam here"—he nodded at the tall thin one in the Ben Sherman—"got stuck last time an nearly couldnae get back oot. So we need someone small." His eyes stayed on Ronan. "Ye up for it, wee man?"
Ronan's stomach twisted. Breaking into a warehouse—proper breaking in, not just nicking sweets from the corner shop or jumping the fence at the scrapyard. The kind of thing that could get you lifted by the coppers. The kind of thing his da used to do.
But his da was dead. And the rent was due.
"Aye," Ronan said. "I'm up for it."
Davey flashed him a grin. "Good. Come on wee man. We'll take ye there."
They moved to the street and Davey moved over to a car on the side of the road—a battered Ford Cortina, maybe ten years old, pale blue paint faded and chipped, rust eating through the wheel arches. The back bumper was held on with wire. One of the wing mirrors was missing. The kind of car you saw everywhere in the Gorbals, worth maybe fifty quid if you could find someone daft enough to buy it, but it ran and that was all that mattered. Could've been nicked, could've been bought off someone's uncle for cash—nobody asked questions about cars like this.
They piled in. Davey took the driver's seat, Tam in the passenger side. Ronan squeezed into the back between Shuggie and the younger big lad—nobody had told Ronan his name yet. The seats smelled like cigarette smoke and damp. Springs poked through the fabric. The floor was littered with crushed cans and old newspapers.
The engine turned over twice before it caught, coughing thick black smoke.
The redhead—Shuggie—pulled out a packet of cigarettes as they pulled away from the curb. Regal King Size, the blue and gold pack crumpled. He put one to his lips, struck a match, then held the pack out toward Ronan. "Want one?"
Ronan looked at the cigarettes. His da had smoked. His ma smoked. Everyone in the Gorbals smoked.
He figured why not. He took one.
Shuggie grinned and lit it for him. "There ye go, wee man. Welcome tae the crew."
Ronan took a drag. The smoke burned his throat, made his eyes water. He didn't cough. Wouldn't let himself.
Shuggie gave a nod of approval before leaning back into the uncomfortable seat, springs creaking under his weight.
Davey's eyes flicked to the rearview mirror, catching Ronan's face. "Where's ma manners. I huvnae introduced ye tae the rest of the boys proper." He nodded toward the passenger seat. "That's Tadhg up front, but we call him Tam."
Tam gave him a nod, didn't turn around, just lifted two fingers from where they rested on the door.
"The big redheaded bastard next tae ye is Shuggie," Davey continued, taking a corner. "His full name's a mouthful—Hugh Alexander somethin or other."
Shuggie gave him a wiry grin and tipped an imaginary cap.
"An the quiet one on yer other side is Bam." Davey's eyes went back to the road. "He's as thick as two short planks, but he's strong an loyal. No much more ye can ask, really."
Bam gave a nod, still didn't look at Ronan. Just stared straight ahead, hands folded in his lap like he was on the bus to school.
"Good tae meet ye all," Ronan said after having another drag of his cigarette.
Davey's eyes flicked to the rearview mirror again. "We never got yer name, wee man."
"Ronan. Ronan Gallagher."
"Ronan." Davey nodded slowly, like he was filing it away. "Right. Well, Ronan Gallagher, for now ye're just 'wee man' until ye dae somethin worth callin ye by yer name proper. Fair?"
Ronan met his eyes in the mirror. "Fair."
"Good lad."
The rest of the drive moved in relative silence except for the radio—some tinny pop song Ronan didn't know, crackling through blown speakers that rattled in the door panel every time the bass hit. The Cortina's engine coughed and sputtered as Davey took them through the streets, past rows of tenements that all looked the same, past closed shops with metal shutters pulled down, past the chippy on the corner where men stood outside eating from newspaper, grease staining their fingers. The streetlights cast everything in orange and shadow. Ronan watched it all through the window, cigarette burning down between his fingers, ash falling onto his trousers. Nobody spoke. Shuggie hummed along to the radio. Bam stared at nothing. Tam lit another cigarette.
It took about five minutes before Davey pulled the car up onto the side of a road, tires crunching on broken glass and gravel. The engine died with a shudder. Davey yanked the handbrake up—it made a grinding sound that said it didn't have much life left in it.
They all got out the car. Doors creaked open, slammed shut one after another. The cold hit Ronan immediately—sharper here than back in the Gorbals, coming off the river. He pulled his cap down tighter and shoved his hands in his pockets.
The air smelled different here—river water, oil, rotting wood. They were further down the Clyde, away from the big Kingston Docks and the cranes. South side, industrial. Warehouses and old factories lined both sides of the water, most of them dark, half of them abandoned. The river ran black and slow between them, reflecting the yellow streetlights in broken streaks. Through the gaps between buildings, Ronan could just see Glasgow Green across the water—the dark mass of trees, the outline of the People's Palace against the sky. Closer, there were chain-link fences topped with barbed wire, rusted railway tracks that didn't go anywhere anymore, piles of rubble where something had been demolished and left. No people. No cars moving. Just the sound of water lapping against stone and somewhere far off, a dog barking.
They stopped near a brick building that had a barrel with a burning flame sitting outside—a rusted oil drum with holes punched in the sides, fire crackling inside, throwing orange light across the cracked pavement. The boys moved to place their hands around the fire, breath fogging in the cold September air. Davey stood closest, face half-lit by the flames.
"Across the road there is the warehouse." He nodded with his head in the direction—a squat concrete building maybe fifty yards away, no windows on this side, just blank grey walls. No signs. No lights. "The hole is around back." He reached into his pocket and pulled out a small torch—metal, heavy, paint chipped. Handed it to Ronan. "Here. Ye'll need this."
Ronan took it. Clicked it on. The beam was thin but bright enough.
"Ye go in, have a quick look aboot. See whit they've got stored. Then ye come right back oot. Nae fuckin aboot, nae takin anythin. Just look an report. Understand?"
"Aye."
"Good lad." Davey glanced at the others. "Tam, ye go with him. Make sure he disnae get lost."
Tam gave a nod and waved Ronan to follow as he pushed off from the barrel, hands shoved back in his pockets.
They crossed the street, boots quiet on the cracked pavement. Passed an old rusted car that sat on blocks with no wheels, no doors, bonnet gone—just a shell of what it used to be, stripped for parts and left to rot. Tam stopped at a chain-link fence that ran along the side of the warehouse. He grabbed a corner of it near the ground and lifted it up, showing that the bottom half wasn't attached to anything—fence posts loose, wire bent back. He nodded for Ronan to go first.
Ronan dropped to his knees, held his cap so it wouldn't fall off, and squeezed under. Gravel scraped his back through his jumper. Then he was through, standing on the other side. Tam followed a moment later, moving easier despite being taller—he'd done this before.
They moved around the back of the warehouse, staying close to the wall. The ground was uneven, broken concrete and weeds pushing through. Somewhere nearby, water dripped—a broken gutter maybe, or a burst pipe. The hole was exactly where Davey said it would be: low on the wall, near the corner, where the bricks had crumbled away. Big enough for a dog to get through. Big enough for a small boy.
Tam crouched down beside it, voice dropping to a whisper. His accent was different from the others—softer around the edges, vowels rounder. Irish, Ronan realized. Like his Ma's.
"Alright, lad. Ye heard what the boss said. Have a look around, then come straight back. Don't be messin about. I'll give a great big bang on the bin there if someone comes." He tapped the metal rubbish bin sitting a few feet away with his knuckles—it rang hollow. "Ye hear that, ye get yer arse back through this hole fast as ye can. Understood?"
"Aye."
"Good lad." Tam stepped back, lit another cigarette. "In ye go, then."
Ronan dropped to his hands and knees, the torch clutched in one hand, cap pulled down tight so it wouldn't catch on the jagged bricks. The hole was narrow—he had to turn his shoulders, push through with his chest scraping against broken concrete. Sharp edges caught his jumper, pulled threads loose. Then he was through, stumbling forward into darkness.
He stood up and turned the torch on, the beam cutting through the black. He shined it around slowly, getting his bearings. It looked like he was in some sort of cleaning closet—small, maybe six feet by six feet, walls lined with metal shelving. There were brooms leaning in the corner, mops in a bucket, bottles of cleaning solution covered in dust like no one had touched them in months. The air smelled stale, chemical. No windows. Just the one door ahead of him.
He moved toward the door, boots quiet on the concrete floor, and tested the handle. It turned. Unlocked.
He eased it open, just a crack, and listened. Nothing. No voices. No footsteps. Just the hum of something electrical—maybe a generator or a fridge running somewhere deeper in the building.
Ronan pushed the door open wider and stepped into the warehouse proper.
The torch beam swept across a massive open space—had to be a hundred feet long, maybe more, with a high ceiling crisscrossed by metal beams and old fluorescent lights that weren't turned on. The floor was bare concrete, oil-stained, cracked in places. To his left, a loading bay with the big roller door pulled down and padlocked from the inside. To his right, stacks of wooden crates, dozens of them, piled three and four high against the wall.
That's what they were here for. Had to be.
Ronan moved toward the crates, keeping the torch low so the beam wouldn't show through any cracks in the blacked-out windows. His heart was beating fast now, loud in his ears. He stopped in front of the nearest stack, ran his hand over the wood. No markings. No labels. Just plain crates with lids nailed shut.
Except one. Near the bottom of a stack, one crate had its lid pried off, leaning against the side. Ronan crouched down, shined the torch inside.
Plastic-wrapped bricks. Dozens of them. Each one maybe the size of a book, wrapped tight in clear plastic and tape, packed in rows. White powder visible through the wrapping, pressed dense.
Ronan stared at them. He didn't know what he was looking at. Drugs, maybe? Had to be something valuable if it was wrapped up like this, hidden away. But what kind? He'd seen his ma's sleeping pills, seen blokes smoking hash in the closes, but this was different.
He stood up, shined the torch around the rest of the warehouse. More crates, all the same. Had to be twenty, maybe thirty of them. If they were all full like the open one...
Whatever it was, there was a lot of it.
He moved across toward the other side of the warehouse, boots quiet on the concrete. Better to check the rest of the warehouse just in case. Davey would want to know everything, not just what was closest to the door.
The torch beam swept left and right as he walked. More crates near the far wall, these ones smaller, stacked on wooden pallets. A workbench against the wall with tools scattered across it—crowbars, hammers, a scale sitting in the middle. Not like the ones in the shops for weighing vegetables. This one looked fancier, more delicate, with little weights lined up beside it. Plastic bags in a cardboard box underneath the bench, clear ones, different sizes. A tin sitting open with white powder inside, a spoon next to it.
Ronan filed it away. Remember it all. Tell Davey exactly what he saw.
Past that, a small office area—just a desk and chair behind a chain-link fence, papers spread across the desk. Ronan moved closer, shined the torch through the gaps. Couldn't read most of it from this distance, but he could see numbers written in columns, dates at the tops of pages. Looked like the kind of paperwork his ma brought home from the pub sometimes, tracking tips and hours.
He turned, kept moving. Near the loading bay, he found a stack of cardboard boxes, tops folded open. He pulled one flap back, looked inside. More plastic bags, smaller than the bricks in the crates, already filled with powder and tied shut. Dozens of them in each box.
The hum he'd heard earlier was coming from the corner—a big refrigerator, the kind they had in shops, tall as a man. Door closed. Ronan hesitated, then pulled the handle.
Empty. Just metal shelves and cold air blowing. But it was running, humming away, plugged into the wall.
Ronan closed it, stepped back. He didn't know what half of this stuff meant, but he'd remember it. The crates full of wrapped bricks. The scale and the bags. The boxes ready to go. The papers on the desk. The fridge running for no reason he could see.
Davey would know what it all meant.
Time to go.
He moved back to the cleaning cabinet, making sure to close the door behind him and leave it how he found it—didn't want anyone knowing someone had been inside. He crouched back down, switched off the torch so the light wouldn't show through the hole, and crawled back through. The bricks scraped his back again, caught his jumper in the same places. Then hands grabbed his arms.
Tam pulled him the rest of the way through and then up onto his feet in one smooth motion, surprisingly strong for how thin he was.
"How'd ye go, lad? Find anythin?"
Ronan nodded, brushing dust and brick fragments off his jumper. "Aye, not sure what it all is but I remember what it all looked like. I've got a good memory."
Tam gave him a pat on his shoulder, cigarette dangling from his lips as he grinned. "Good lad. Come on then, let's get back tae Davey and them."
They moved back around the warehouse, staying low and quiet. Squeezed under the chain-link fence one after the other. Crossed the street back toward the burning barrel where the others were waiting.
Davey straightened up when he saw them coming, eyes sharp. Shuggie and Bam turned too, watching.
"Well?" Davey said. "Whit'd ye see?"
Ronan stepped closer to the fire, warming his hands. His heart was still beating fast but his voice came out steady.
"Crates. Loads of them. Maybe twenty, thirty, stacked up against the wall. Wooden ones, nae labels. One was opened—had these plastic-wrapped bricks inside, white powder pressed tight. All the same size, wrapped proper."
Davey's eyes narrowed. "How many bricks in the crate?"
"Dozen, maybe more. Packed in rows."
"An the rest of the crates?"
"All looked the same. Same size, same wood."
Davey exchanged a glance with Shuggie. Something passed between them, quick and sharp.
"Whit else?" Davey said.
"Workbench on the far side. Had tools—crowbars, hammers. A scale, the fancy kind with wee weights. Tin of white powder sittin open with a spoon. Box of plastic bags underneath, clear ones, different sizes." Ronan paused, making sure he got it all. "Office area with a desk—papers with numbers on them, columns an dates. Then cardboard boxes near the loadin bay, already filled with smaller bags of the powder, tied shut an ready tae go. An a big fridge in the corner, runnin but empty."
"A fridge?" Tam said, his Irish accent softer around the edges.
"Aye. Plugged in, hummin away. Nothin inside though."
Davey was quiet for a moment, staring at the fire. His jaw worked like he was chewing on something.
"The bricks," he said slowly. "White powder, ye said? Pressed tight, wrapped in plastic?"
"Aye."
"The scale an the bags—they were oot, like someone was usin them?"
"Aye. Tin was open, spoon right next tae it."
Davey let out a breath, ran a hand through his hair. "Fuck me. I think... I think it's heroin."
Shuggie's eyes went wide. "Heroin? How d'ye know?"
"Ma cousin in New York—he's been writin letters, tellin me aboot whit's happenin over there. Says heroin's takin over, everyone's either slinging it or usin it. He described it—white powder, comes in bricks wrapped tight, gets cut an bagged up for street sales. Uses scales tae measure it proper." Davey looked back at Ronan. "That sound like whit ye saw?"
"Aye. Exactly like that."
"Jesus Christ." Davey shook his head. "Thirty crates of it?"
"Aroond that. Maybe a few less."
"That's..." Davey trailed off, staring at nothing. "That's no a wee stash. That's serious weight. Someone's tryin tae set up shop proper."
Tam took a drag of his cigarette. "And we know where it all is."
"Aye." Davey's grin came back slow, hungry. "We do."
He stepped forward and gave Ronan a clap on the shoulder—hard enough that Ronan rocked forward on his feet, but it felt good. Felt like approval.
"Good work, wee man. More than earned yerself a place with us."
Davey reached into his pocket and pulled out a roll of notes, peeled a few off, and handed them to Ronan. Two fivers, crisp and clean, more money than Ronan had held in his life.
"Here. Said ye wanted tae earn? There's a tenner. An with whit ye found in there..." Davey jerked his head toward the warehouse across the street, grin widening. "We'll be rollin in it soon enough."
Ronan looked down at the notes in his hand. Ten pounds. Enough to pay more than a week's rent. Enough to buy food for Callum, put coins in the gas meter, maybe get his ma to stop working doubles for a few days.
He folded the notes carefully, shoved them deep in his pocket where they wouldn't fall out.
"Welcome tae the Crown Street Boys, Gallagher," Davey said.
Not "wee man" anymore. Gallagher.
Ronan looked up, met Davey's eyes, and nodded once.
He'd earned his name.
<=========>