The Cerebus Syndrome

The past few days I’d spent with Keith Jackson were a real eye opener: five days of wine, women and cowboy hats as we loafed around the pubs and clubs of Byres Road, discussing how best to make mischief to add to the woes currently surrounding Rangers.  We sneaked around Ashton Lane, eavesdropping to pick up a scent here, find a lead there before lurking in Oran Mhor to meet some roughs Jackson knew would tell us some tall tales we could report as fact – yes, Keith is a journalist of the old school, the truth not mattering a damn to him and I admired him for it and was beginning to enjoy my walk on the wild side.

Until we were walking along Dumbarton Road in Partick one night and realised we were being followed by a gang of youths.  “Don’t look back,” said Jackson, pulling me by the sleeve and taking us on a detour up Gardner Street.  We were a third of the way along when we looked behind us and they were still there, tailing us, silent and menacing.  “Fuck it, Spiers, there’s no shame in running when you know someone’s after you, let’s go” shouted Keith and we took off along White Street but as soon as we did we wished we hadn’t because there at the end of it was another gang walking towards us, the same purposeful stride, the same evil intentions.  We stopped and stood helpless in the middle of the street and to my horror the two gangs reached us and formed a circle.  “What do you want?  I have money” I whimpered.

“They’re not interested in your money, Spiers” complained Jackson.  “They want blood, don’t you know who this lot are?”  But before I had time to answer, the circle parted at one side and a man walked through the gap towards us carrying a Samurai sword.  I recognised him immediately, he was bald with a bright red scar running down the middle of his crown making him look like he had a huge cock for a head – it was our man from the pub brawl the other night in the Gallowgate!

The circle closed behind him and without a word of explanation he approached us and lifted the sword quickly behind his head with both hands and then brought it down on us as Keith and I held each other for dear life and shrieked.  Nothing happened.  I looked at Keith and he at me and we were both still intact.  We looked at dick-head and he was staring puzzled at the sword handle in his hands which no longer had a blade then everyone in the circle started to disperse and disappear around corners and up closes.  We soon realised why.  Lying behind our bald foe was one of his own gang, the blade sticking out of his eye, blood pooling behind his head – the blade had come flying out of the handle when baldy had gone to bring it down on us and the unlucky chump behind him had taken the full force of it in the face.  Before I knew what I was doing, I found myself laughing at our good fortune.

“You’ll no’ be laughin’ in a minute,” growled baldy and he reached into his pocket and produced a knife but before he could do anything with it a car screeched up, it’s door opening and someone shouted for us to get in which we did in a twinkling.

“Bloody hell, you don’t expect to see that kind of thing in the leafy west end, even this close to Partick,” said our rescuer as he drove us to his flat to call the police.  He took us in and made us some tea for our nerves which were shot and as he did I noticed that Jackson was noseying around the man’s laptop which lay open on a desk by the bay windows.  “What the hell are you doing, Keith?  This man just saved our skins and you’re intruding on his private communications?  That’s his email account for Pete’s sake!”

“I know, and lookey here, this guy must have something to do with Rangers – what luck!  Would you look at what it says here...” and he started taking pictures of the screen with his phone camera before closing the laptop and leaving.  “Oh don’t look so shocked, my Puritan friend.  You’re playing with the big boys now” and he slammed the door behind him.  Then our friendly hero came through from his kitchen carrying two mugs of tea and asked where Jackson had gone.  I told him he had to dash.  “Did he read what was on my laptop?” he asked.

“Erm, yes.  He did.  Look I’m awfully sorry especially after how you were our salvation out there in the street and...”

“It’s okay, it really is.  I wanted him to see it, Spiers.”

“What?”  I exclaimed, panicking, feeling that recognisable feeling of dread creeping up my spine as my stomach objected and the bile rose in my throat.

“It never fails, hypnosis.  Mind you, the subjects have to be bloody shallow and gullible,” and as he said it, I had a sudden realisation as his face appeared to blur and when the mists had cleared from my astonished eyes, standing before me was Jorg Albertz, Demon Hunter.