Guide to writing a story: 1. An original idea? Man who comes home to find a friend of the previous occupant who is mad and wants to kill him. 2. What am I trying to say? Glasgow is full of characters, some of them dangerous, most of them extremely interesting, unless you are in close proximity. Even through the closeness of violence, humour shines through and wins the day 3. Beginning? Set scene, introduce characters, pose problem. Man arrives home to find strange guy in the house who wants to kill him, and who refuses to believe he is not the previous tenant. 4. Middle? Develop action. Protagonist tries to escape, but is stopped, tries to attack the guy, but is stopped. Forced to sit and listen to his babbling, starts to feel sorry for him. Sob story? 5. End? Resolve problem. Pretends to be Barry, apologizes. The intruder is so overcome with this that he jumps out the window. He lands on top of a soft-top jeep belogingn to guy downstairs. Runs off down the road screaming and being mad. 6. Believable Characters? Barry, the previous tenant, a mystery, something of a cad it seems. Boaby, the protagonist, a normal bloke, a failure, a skivver, a coward. Beans, the intruder, completely mad. 7. Convincing Background? Glasgow, 1970s, Springburn, Mollinsburn Street, close beside garage across from Hyde Park School. 8. Good opening? 9. Conflict? 10. Suspense? 11. Satisfying ending? Boaby kicked the doubts and crisp pokes away from the front of the close. For the hundredth time, he wondered why those boys always hung around his close, smoking Woodbine and eating hundreds of packets of Golden Wonder. Obviously, for the same reason the stray dogs from the street decided that this was the dog’s heaven of lavatories – just to wind him up. He scraped a neat dog turd with his new shoes as he did so. “Ach…. Shite!” He’d sew their arses up, if he had a chance… and the boys as well… The close was dark, and Boaby had his shitey black brogues in one hand, and the Skol bag with the carry out in the other. Some bastard had been pissing in the close, and Boaby stood right in it as he passed the ground floor doors. “Pish noo… bloody hell!” If a man canny come back from his work at night without standing in a fucking toilet, what kind of world was it? Looking for some human being to take out his frustrations on, he thumped at the scraped formica door of the ground floor flat. “..and why don’t you change the bloody close bulbs once in a while… ya bams….” Nobody answered, it was that kind of close. The party seven can held seven pints of Export to be consumed by him over the weekend. It banged on the lead railings with their million coats of thick dusty paint as Boaby charted his way up the dark tenement close by counting the nipples on the wooden bannister, put there as some long forgotten deterrent to suicidal bannister sliders. Lose yer toy dolls on those beauties, his father had warned him, along with a hundred other dire warnings of mutilation and hurt. The poor auld sod who struggled at the Caley for fifty years, only to die of colon cancer the day he was retired off. His poor auld Da, Boaby hardly ever thought of him these days… He reached his landing and identified his keyhole by the circle of his doorbell glowing in the stour like a magic talisman. Nearly a year he had lived in this flat. It was just a room and kitchen in a crappy tenement close, no as posh as Auchintoshan, no as scabby as Atlas Street. It was too near the school for a man with no anklebiters himself, too close to the Mollinsburn Street garage for a man with no motor. But close to Dot’s Dairy, which was as well for a man with a liking for an Albert slab and a pint of milk in the mornings. The factor of the close was non-existent, the bams downstairs never washed the stairs, or even wiped the gang graffiti off the sandstone façade. But, despite all that, it was a decent enough street, compared with some. Working in the chemist was boring, but it paid the rent and left him a few shillings for a bevy on a Friday night such as this. The key turned, and the blue glow from the room took him by surprise. “I must have left the telly on this morning, it’s a wonder the meter hasnae conked out….” The large brown Pye black and white television murmured away in the corner, some fight at the Crossroads Motel or something. Boaby reached up and put two bob in the electricity meter, and flicked the light switch. Somebody was sitting on top of the sideboard. The scene was so odd and unexpected that he goggled for a minute before reacting. The somebody was grinning at him. Somebody spoke. “Hello Barry. Remember me? I’m just here to collect my dues.” Boaby went into the main living room, slowly, looking around as if just to make sure he had come into the right flat. But the furniture was his, mostly bought from the fleapit on Springburn Road which specialised in scabby looking sticks of furniture, and rusty domestic appliances. So if this was the right flat, who the hell was… “You owe me, big man, and I expect to be reimbursed. OK, Barry?” “Who the hell is Barry, and who the hell are you?” “Fuxake Baz, don’t come the ignorant wi me.” Boaby had recovered somewhat. How the hell had this eejit got into the house? And who is this Barry bloke he is on about? He was surehe didn’t know anybody called Barry. “What’s it to be Barry? Still kidding on you don’t know who I am?” “Look…. man… eh… I really don’t have a scooby doo what you are talking about. My name’s no Barry, it’s Boaby. I think you’ve got the wrang guy.” The somebody jumped off the sideboard and landed on his two heavy army boots. He was tall, stocky, and looked as if he’d been living rough for weeks. He was a good six inches taller than Boaby, who stood there crapping himself. “Barry man, it’s yer old mate Beans” Two large arms wrapped around Boaby as the ogre embraced him like a brother. After a minute or so, it became uncomfortable. Boaby was just starting to think that maybe the big fellow was harmless after all. Beans held him at arm’s length and smartly slapped him backhanded across the face. The blow was unexpected, and Boaby found himself falling across his living room like a bad guy in a movie. Boaby rolled, as he usually did after being walloped across a room. What the fuck was going on? Assaulted by some dosser in his own living room? And where was the carry-oot? No, never mind. That is typical of him, thinking of his bucket before his injuries. The poke with the party seven stood where it had been dropped, beside the door, along with the shitey shoes, which seemed such a minor problem, when compared with the current predicament. Beans stood over the wriggling body of Boaby on the threadbare carpet. “I’m sorry, Barry. You know my temper man. I hate to have to hit a mate, and that, know? But you owe me an explanation, and I’ll take it in words or broken bones, whatever ye prefer… My knuckles are itchy, and your face is as good as anywhere to scratch them.” “Wait a goddamn minute, ya bam….” Boaby got up “I’m no Barry, do ye get it? I’m no yer mate, I’ve never clapped eyes on ye before.” He rubbed his face. “Do you understand? There’s no Barry here, this is my hoose.” Beans rubbed his chin for a moment, digesting the new scenario. “Come on Barry, gie it a break!” “Look, here I know….” Boaby went to the sideboard and fished out the dog-eared rentbook. “Look, that’s my name on the rent book. No Barry.” The name before his was Barthomolew Cadell, that was the Barry this bear was after. “Look mate. Barry doesn’t live here any more, he moved over a year ago, I rent the hoose noo, look, it’s in my name Robert Corr. He showed the book to Beans, who shrugged it away. “Ye know fine I cannae read.” “I wonder if ye can bliddy well see at all… can ye know see my face, I’m no yer pal, pal.” Boaby moved under the 40 watt bulb with it’s chinese paper shade. “Look at me!” Beans looked, but dismissed the bare facts of his eyes. “I know it’s you Barry, I’ve been in this drum with ye many a time. Don’t try to kid yer auld mate just to get oot of explaining yerself.” Boaby clenched his eyes shut. A bloody madman in the house, on a Friday night, when he should be slouching on the beanbag filling a half pint glass out of an oversized beer can and scratching his baws in front of the telly, like every other… “That’s it, I’m away oot tae get the cops, man. I don’t want ye in my hoose, I don’t need this shite…” He left the shoes and went straight for the door. “No way Bazzo.” Beans was more than a match for him. “Yer no leaving until I get satisfaction. You know I’ve been away for a while, in hospital. Don’t be bad tae yer old matey, Baz. Some hospitality, or I might just do ye in anyway.” His grip was strong, and Boaby felt unable to argue.