Television Shevlane’s was known as the kind of pub where the angle of your arm as it held your pint of heavy could signify the threat of a fight. To say that it was a hard man’s pub was splitting hairs: you had to be a bit hard to show your face in the door. The smell of beer and working men surrounded the place like some animal scent, a warning to the stranger to might stray into the den. Marky did not like it much, but business was business. "It’s brand new, just about." He patted the walnut top of the Pye 21 inch colour television as it sat on the bat stool like a mate of his. "And the best of it is, the screen has been personally signed by the Big Yin himself." Scobie looked sceptical. "It looks a bit manky. Look at the scratches on the woodwork." "Ach, a wee wipe over with some Mr. Sheen. And I only want £25 for it. Look, it’s a collector’s piece, Billy Connolly has marked it." "Was it his telly then?" Scobie’s wee pal, Shivs, looked more interested in the set than Scobie did. But Marky had met Shivs before, and he knew from bitter experience that he was always skint. "Eh... aye, it was his telly. Are you wanting it then, Shivs?" "Me? Naw! I’m brassic, but I like Connolly... where’s his name then?" Marky looked uncomfortable. "Well, he never exactly signed it as such." The two unlikely customers looked at each other. "What I mean to say is… Big McLatchie told me they were watching the telly one night, and Billy Connolly was there. And they were getting pished and all that. And then when Hughie Green came on the box, Billy got a black marker pen and drew specs and a moustache on him." Scobie laughed. "You mean this telly has felt-tip pen all over it? Big Yin or no, the wife wants a telly we can watch, no a piece of piss-artist grafitti." "Come on, man!" Marky senses he was losing the sale. "It’s brand new, a collector’s item. It’ll be worth a packet some day, they say Billy Connolly will play London soon." "Anyway, I don’t want to touch anything that McLatchie’s had his hands on. He’s a nutter." Scobie got up to buy a round and squeezed past the television, which tipped off the stool. "Watch your fat arse!" Marky screamed as he caught the edge before it hit the floor. Silence descended over the whole pub. The place seemed to sense a fight in the offing, and was ready for a good old- fashioned saloon brawl. Marky hefted the television up and scuttled out of the door. Marky hated to to do this, but he took the telly back up to McLatchie’s flat on Vulcan Street. "I just want to check it still works. Some eejit in Shevlane’s nearly kicked it to buggery." McLatchie shrugged. "You shouldn’t have taken it in there to flog it. There’s some real mental bams in there." "One of them said much the same about you. Anyway, the pubs are the best places to find punters. And they’re all hard, better the devil I know, but." "Switch it on then, see if it’s knackered." Marky plugged it in, ands switched it on. The tube began to hum, and soon a picture began to form. Some fella looking through the arched window. Except that this arched window had a moustache and wee round specs. "And that’s permanent marker?" McLatchie grinned. "Aye, my wee bro sniffs them for a buzz. Some nights he looks like Adolf Hitler, and oor Ma scrubs his face until it’s bleeding. It’s permanent alright." "You should stop him doing that. It can’t be good for him." "He’s a wee tube. If it wasn’t pens, he’d be back on the U-HU." McLatchie twisted the knob and the screen faded. "Better let it cool for a bit before shifting it. Where you going to try after this?" "I’ll let Shavlane’s cool for a bit, I think. The bears looked as if they were going to eat me. There’s that wee shop beside Woolies that flog second hand tellies, you know it?" "Aye. I know the bloke who runs it. He has two birds on the go up they Balgrayhill flats." "Oh aye?", Marky grinned. "That information might come in pretty bloody handy." He humped the television up again and made his way down the uneven steps of McLatchie’s close. Springburn Road was busy, but somehow a man carrying a large wooden television did not raise an eyebrow. It was that kind of town. The shop was set back from the other shop facades. Across the street, singing was coming from Quin’s Bar, and the green white and gold buses paused as they came out of Elmvale Street. The shop was a bit scabby, but the gear in thw window looked pretty good, and the prices were no bad. For a wild moment, Marky was tempted to buy one of the colour tellies in the window… As he went in, a grey-headed guy came out from the back shop, his shopkeeper’s smile fading when he saw that Marky was selling rather than buying. Marky wondered how a wee nyaff like this guy managed to keep two birds on the go at once. But he was always amazed by the generosity of women, and they were probably a couple of pure hounds anyway. "How much do you pay for a special edition telly, like this fellow?" The shopkeeper looked at the Pye. "Doesn’t look very special to me. I’ve got one of them in the window already." "Ah, but does that one have a personalised touch from our premier comic talent?" Marky was in full sales pitch, and the upturned eyes of the exasperated shopkeeper would not deter him from giving it his Sunday best sales patter. "Look son. I’ve got a shop full of tellies, there’s a glut of second-hand sets in the city at the moment. I’m having to cut my prices just to shift the buggers. I’ll give you a ten spot for it." "Ten?" Marky was horrified. "But this has a scribble on it done by Billy Connolly." He pointed to the black marker pen marks. "That’s got to make it worth more?" "Not to me, son. Makes bugger all difference to me, I don’t’ even like that big C." Marky leaned on the television and beckoned the older man over with a conspiratorial wave. "C’mere pal." The shopkeeper patted the outline of a Luger automatic pistol, which he kept under his pinnie, a souvenir from his North African campaign. He huddled close to Marky. "Look, it has come to my attention that you have two birds up they Balgrayhill flats. Now, if someone was to introduce one to the other, as it were… it wouldn’t go too well for you, I would imagine. See what I’m driving it?" The shopkeeper smiled, ruefully. Obviously a beaten man, Marky thought. "So what you’re saying is, if I don’t come up with the cally dosh for this telly, then you’re going to go up the flats and introduce my birds to one another?" "That’s about the size of it, faither." "Very interesting. Now piss off out of my shop before I shoot you." "I will, I’ll tell them, don’t think I don’t know who they are." In fact he had no idea at all, but he sensed this blackmail attempt was failing when the shopkeeper pulled an old German pistol on him and began waggling it in his direction. "You don’t know a damn thing about them, son. If you did, you’d know my two birds already know each other already, and they’re up in my bed together, and I’m just about to go back up and join them, if you see what I mean… now piss off!" He let off a couple of rounds at Marky, who was backing out of the shop with the telly in front of him like a shield. Marky hoped he was trying to miss, but when one of the bullets splintered the corner of the walnut casing and pinged past his ear, he needed no more persuasion. It seemed to be getting heavier the further down Springburn Road he went. He was going to have almighty biceps after today. Some boys came out of a close at the Co-op and asked him if there was only thing good on the telly. Feeling a bit unprotected without the use of his arms, he laughed it off and tried to push on. But the boys began picking dog turds off the street and pelting the television. "There’s aye shite on the telly, mister!" one of the wee bastards shouted as a smellier Marky crossed over at Angus Street to get away. As he reached the bend round the high road, Marky spied McLatchie heading towards the Cawder, and fell in with him as best he could with the weight of the television pulling his arms out of their sockets. "I’ve had it, McLatchie. Take this thing back off me, I don’t want it any more." McLatchie eyed him up and down and let his nose wrinkle. "You pure smell, by the way." "Aye, it’s shite… and I’m no taking any more the day." By this time they had almost reached the gates of Sighthill Cemetary, and Marky took the chance to rest the television against the railings of the high road as it swept up and away round the bend of Springburn Road. "Can you no see your way to taking this telly back?" "Aye, sure pal." Marky blew a sigh of relief. "Just as soon as you pay me for the carry out you and your cronies drank." Marky lay his sweating forehead on the cool walnut veneer of the television, and groaned. McLatchie was such a fly bastard, so he was. Inviting Marky and Boaby up to his house for one of his legendary parties, then after the drink had been drunk, and after some dirty bastard had spewed over the coats on the bed in the room, McLatchie starts going round the paralytic, collecting the ‘dues’ to cover the cost of the drink. Big C hadn’t mentioned that before they had got wired in at the drinks table. Anybody else and he would have stoated his face off the stairhead, but McLatchie was a big bloke, and he had plas everywhere. Big pals. "Aye alright, man. I’ll sell this telly if it kills me." "And out of your winnings, don’t forget a two oh for your big pal McLatchie, eh?" McLatchie grinned, and the scar, which went from his left ear to his lip, almost became invisible, and Marky could see a bit of how he managed to get all those birds. "And Marky… don’t say I don’t do you any favours: I gave you that telly to sell, and you’ll get a div if you make the right price." Marky sighed. McLatchie sniffed again. "Here, you better wipe it down with a Handy Andy before you try to sell it again." He handed Marky a pack of paper handkerchiefs. "I take it you had no luck up the telly shop?" "Bastard shot a hole in it." He pointed to the bullet damage. "Nearly put a hole in me as well. Do me a favour, don’t give me any more blackmail material, I’ve no luck at that game." "Damage the merchandise, did he, the wee toerag. Don’t you worry, he’s marked." McLatchie looked as if he was making a mental note with an HB pencil. "So where are you off to now?" "I thought I’d try up the town. I’ve had no luck in Springburn, too many shysters and toerags. If I stay around this drum much longer the telly will be nothing more than matchsticks and broken bottles." McLatchie laughed. "But these are your people, man. Salt of the earth Springburn. But here, it’s a fair walk to the Cross from here." He spotted some dirty-faced lassies playing with an old pram by the graveyard gates. He almost caught the irony. "You can use that old pram, by the way." He went over and argued with the girls for a bit, wrestled the pram with them for a minute, him pulling the tatty hood end, and the four urchins in their mothers’ slingbacks pulling on the handle. Marky couldn’t help but laugh at the farce of McLatchie, big hard man, settling the debate in the way he settled most things: with cash. "And I had to bung them two bob each." He bounced the pram over to Marky, and it squealed in response. "So that’ll come out of expenses as well." He zipped up his jerkin. "I’m away up the Cawder for a pint, I’ll see you in there later to settle up the divs." "Aye, alright." McLatchie was already walking away: he was like that. The pram certainly helped as Marky wheeled his pride and joy past the Cale, and under the Carlsberg railway bridge. Before long he was passing the Royal Infirmary with the jakies languishing outside, waiting for their drinking buddies to be discharged after an edifying stomach pump. So they could go back up the Necropolis and get jaked on Red Biddy and Lanny again. But soon he was on the final straight down the High Street and Glasgow Cross. Marky was feeling almost optimistic by the time he reached the Trongate. There were dozens of bars within easy perambulation. He could go left and try the Sarry Heid first, or he could turn right and head into town. It was a nice evening, and he fancied some window shopping in C&A and Dee Fashion. He might even be able to afford a new jacket if he made a deal on the television. This one was still a bit shitey smelling. The town pubs were a different class from the ones in Springburn. The landlord of the Scotia Bar would not let him in with the tatty old pram under any circumstances. "We don’t serve bairns in here, son" was his final word. So Marky had to dump it, and lug the telly inside on tired arms. It was hoaching inside, some folkies were at it in the corner, giving it laldy with banjos and accordions. Nobody famous that Marky could see. He dumped the television in a corner seat and ordered a pint of heavy. He would sit and eye up the customers before making a pitch. It didn’t take long to divide the pub’s clientele into three main groups. The ones there to listen to the act, the ones there to drink themselves into their nightly oblivion, and a bunch of about twenty long-haired folk laughing around a table in the other corner. Throwing his jacket over the television, to mark it as his property to any tea- leafs who might wander off with it by accident, he had a casual dauner over to the laughing group of people. He sipped his heavy as he merged with the standing crowd around the table. It took him a few moments to tune into the conversation and a few seconds more to recognise the raconteur telling it. It was Billy Connolly himself, holding forth with a story about a jaggy bunnet. Free entertainment, Marky thought, and a remarkable piece of luck: maybe the Big Yin would be interested in buying the telly himself? He waited, and sipped, and laughed in all the right places. Billy Connolly finished the story to a round of laughter and applause. It was not hard to join in. Billy stood up and asked if anybody wanted another drink. A dozen offers to buy him one were refused graciously. "This round’s mine. Hamish, the same?" The Big Yin moved to the bar and Marky took the chance to shuffle along at his elbow. "Nice story, Big Yin, can I get you a pint, and that?" "Cheers pal, but this one’s mine. What are you having yourself, pal? You never said your name?" "Mark. Cheers, big man, I’m alright just now. You could do me another favour though…" Billy looked sour. "Sorry pal, I don’t lend folk money on principle. The principle being that I never see any of it back." Marky smiled. "No, no. I don’t want a tap off you, big man." He pointed to the television in the corner. "Take a look at that telly, will you? I can let you have it at a one-time low price." "If it’s all the same to you, pal, I won’t. We just bought a new telly recently, it’s up in the flat. For the weans to watch, you know? I really don’t need another one." "But you’ve seen this one before. You scribbled a moustache on this one." "Me? No me pal." The barman was handing the Big Yin change from a fiver, the pints of beer arranged like skittles on a round tin tray. "Anyway, as I said, we’ve already got a brand new one, because some swine nicked the old one…" He put the drinks tray on the bar again. "Wait a minute…" Billy went over to the television hiding snugly under the jacket in the corner, and cleared a space so he could look at it. "What in hell’s name…" He rubbed the wood down and checked it for marks. "This is my old telly! You thieving bugger!" "No me, big man!" Marky protested. "I got it off big McLatchie, honest!" "That big tube? I’ll be seeing him later. Look pal, you’re trying to sell this here stolen television, aren’t you?" "Sure am, Big Yin. Twenty quid and she’s yours. Again." "One thing first." Billy lifted the television and shook it up and down a bit. Something inside seemed to break loose and thump ominously. He grinned. "I’ll take it." "Brill man, pure tops." Four blues changed hands, and some of the crowd had moved over to see what was going down. The Big Yin lifted the battle-scarred television onto the bar. The barman was quickly spreading beer- soaked Export towels. "Mind my woodwork!" Marky was ecstatic. Sure, he’d only made enough to cover big McLatchie’s drinks bill, but at least he could be clear with the big thug, and rid of that bloody telly at last. He wondered why the Big Yin had bought it, though. "Hey Billy, I hope it still works and that, it sounded a bit broke up inside. It’s been through the wars a bit, you know?" Billy asked the barman to get him a screwdriver, and no jokes about poncy cocktails. "I don’t care if it works or not… this will be in the midden in ten minutes." He took the screwdriver and slotted it between the walnut veneer and the black plastic casing, and a few manful twists had the back off, all of the screw threads shot beyond repair. Billy began digging in between the wires. "You see, pal, this did used to be my telly after all. And before some thieving bastard stole if from my house while we all lay paralytic, I used to use it as a sort of… safety deposit box." He ripped out some wires and mysterious bits of metal. "Ah, here it is." He pulled out a small hardback book with no paper cover. It was dusty and beaten up, and had a couple of elastic bands tightly round it. But the gilded lettering could still be made out: Fry The Little Fishes, by Matt McGinn. Marky was still shocked at the wholesale and wanton destruction of the very television set he’d been protecting from the elements all day long. "It’s a… book?" "Aye, and not just any book. You could call it my bank book." He opened the book, the elastics twanging away and one landing in some old sot’s beer. Inside was a bundle of brown notes, there must have been over £200 in tenners. "Jeez! I mean… you mean? I’ve been lugging that bastard about all day to sell it for a £20 debt and all the time there’s been all that money inside it? I don’t fucking believe it!" "Here pal, you can keep this as a souvenir." Billy handed Marky the book, which was signed by Matt himself on the cover. "Maybe that’ll be worth something one day." Marky sat down, and could do nothing but stare at the book and the twenty pounds he’d been so glad to hold a moment before. Any other night and it would have brought him down. But he realised that there was one pleasurable thing left for him that no amount of money could buy. He just couldn’t wait to see McLatchie’s face when he told him. Now that would be a thing to see, and for that alone, all of that day had been worth all the effort. Grinning, he saw Billy Connolly wave his wad of money at the crowd and shout for drinks all round the bar. The Big Yin was paying, and this time, his was a malt whisky.