The Adventure of the Black Fingernails

Tom Devine took a lengthy pull at his pint of port, burped then vomited a little on his shirt. ‘So Maurice Johnston is Spring Heeled Jack?’ he asked.
‘Yes.’
‘And he rescued you and Jorg Albertz from St. Mirin’s Cathedral?’
‘Yes.’
‘Slaughtering the Pacific Quay CSC in the process?’
‘Yes.’
‘Who it transpires are vampires?’
‘Yes.’
‘And Bishop Tartaglia thought they were angels?’
‘Yes.’
‘But they’re not, they’re vampires?’
‘Look, I see where you’re going with this but…’
‘No you don’t. So, Maurice Johnston killed them all?’
‘Yes.’
‘And you witnessed this?’
‘Yes.’
‘You saw it happen?’
‘Well no, Albertz told me to keep my eyes shut, but I heard it!’
‘I see. Albertz, infamous demon hunter, magician, conman…. He told you to close your eyes while ahem, Maurice Johnston laid waste the gathered hordes of the vampires of BBC Scotland?’
‘I know it sounds crazy, but I saw it, well I heard it – I did open my eyes at the end and saw Johnston floating, holding a golden sword and then the crickets swarmed through the place and everything disappeared and I woke up in my bed at home. Believe me Tom, I know it sounds ridiculous but is it any more preposterous than some of the other things we’ve witnessed the past few seasons? Any more ludicrous than underwater headquarters or mountain top lairs, pirates, werewolves, Peter Lawwell running the SFA?’
‘Excuse me Spiers…’ whispered Devine as he stood up and put away his cock, Colette Douglas Home appearing from under the table.
‘Ow was that then guvnor?’ she cackled and danced off to the other side of the pub to pull up her petticoats and flash her suspenders at some other poor chap.

‘Now, where were we?’ asked Devine, finishing his drink and holding up the goblet for the barman to see and replenish. I took a deep breath and let it all blurt out, ‘we were discussing my replacement! Now, just because no one reads me anymore doesn’t mean that I’m not getting the message out there – haven’t you heard of Twitter? Don’t you ever tune in to Radio Clyde?’
‘Twit what? Radio Clyde? Don’t be stupid. I’m afraid there’s nothing else for it, Spiers; you’re yesterday’s news. Even David Leggat’s getting bored exposing your inadequacies such is the amount of ammunition you’re giving him. No, it’s over, you’re just going to have to get used to it. Gerry here is on the up and up, never misses an opportunity to lay into the huns and he has a blog! Do you have a blog?’
‘Well I do actually but I don’t write it, at least I don’t recall writing it but it appears every now and then so someone’s writing it…’
‘More piffle. Hassan, make sure the barman gets my drink in and pay the slut for me, there’s a good boy.’

Gerry Hassan. He’d hardly been on my radar, hardly on anyone’s radar but now here he was, taking my place in the Organisation. He had been sitting with us, taking notes as I explained what happened in Paisley and I didn’t like him one bit. His face looked like a plastecine Mr Potato Head toy put together by a blind child and then hit on the back of the head with a frying pan, a pair of pretentious glasses stuck on the front so we could work out where his eyes should be. He smelled off, like he’d spent all day scratching his arse without washing his hands and his clothing sense was awful; shabby, threadbare, stained with spilled Guinness from Heraghtys. No, I wouldn’t allow it, this imposter couldn’t just appear and take my place!
‘He’s friends with Phil McGillivan you know,’ murmered Devine so that Hassan couldn’t hear.
‘Impossible! I saw him dead on the shore near Dunure. Last I saw of him, Mad Joe O’Rourke was gnawing at his shins.’
‘So who’s writing his blog and stirring up all sorts of trouble for Rangers then? A ghost?’
‘I wouldn’t put it past him!’ I cried and having had enough, I got up and left, leaving Devine and Hassan laughing behind me and as I reached the door I could hear Devine retching and the splash of vomit on the floor. I didn’t turn back and stepped out into the fog, determined to find out how McGillivan had come back from the dead and whether or not Jorg Albertz had pulled the wool over my eyes with the Mo Johnston thing. As I wandered down Byres Road, mist swirling at my feet, I thought I could hear a giggle from a doorway, like Donald Findlay’s chuckle but when I looked round there was nothing there.