Chapter 1: Meet our 'hero'

On the face of it, it was a 'normal' Thursday afternoon in May on the Southside of Glasgow.

Parts of Pollokshaws were considered dangerous for the unsuspecting. Something of a high-rise concrete jungle, it was certainly well off the beaten track for tourists although not too far from the cultural oasis that housed the extensive Burrell art collection - Pollok Park.

There was nothing out of the ordinary either in the look of the hunched figure that walked at a steady pace along Shawbridge Street, nearing the Portcullis.

The Portcullis pub was pretty seedy, run down. It stood on a corner and although it might have had windows the roof to pavement heavy metal roller-shutters that formed most of its façade hid them away. The paint on the sign was old, stained and flaking. There was nothing welcoming about it at all; even the late spring sunshine did nothing to brighten its appeal.

The Portcullis was one of a number of bases used by members of Glasgow's Cullen 'clan'. Headed up by Rab 'the tram' Cullen, the clan was perhaps the strongest criminal gang in the city although they were by no means the only players in town.

Inside Stevie 'the joker' Miller was collecting loan payments for the clan. The origins of his nickname were obvious to anyone who had the misfortune to meet him. A rival had at one time taken a blade to Stevie's mouth, slashing upwards from each corner to leave a macabre permanent smile. The irony of his name, nickname and their coincidence with the album by a well-known rock star was lost on the thug however.

Loan sharking was just one of the illegal activities of the Cullen clan, but it had a niche in their overall scheme of things. They loaned money, mostly to very poor pensioners and families down on their luck, and charged three hundred percent interest. The outrageous profit made helped fund the trafficking of the drugs the clan peddled to Glasgow's youth - heroin, cannabis, e, smuggled cigarettes - all age ranges were covered by the clan. They were truly an equal opportunities outfit.

Stevie sat at a table inside the bar, listening to another 'customer' plead for more time to pay as she complained about the amount of the outstanding debt. He had no idea that fate had decided his time was up.

The woman was one of life's real unfortunates. She was overweight, her hair bottle blonde and stringy. The ravages of living a hand-to-mouth existence in Glasgow's poverty stricken schemes had taken their toll and her complexion was almost grey, her eyes sunken, bags pronounced under them.

"It canny be as much as that! I only borrowed fifty quid. How can the interest be twenty quid a week? I've already paid you back more than a hundred in the last month," she whined.

Outside, the figure reached the door of the Portcullis. Pausing for a heartbeat at the entrance, he rolled the black skullcap down his face - exposing the fact that it was in fact a ski mask with carefully shaped holes for the eyes and mouth. Having watched the place every day for the last week, he knew the only other ways in or out were the fire exit and the delivery entrance at the rear.

Satisfied his face was now fully concealed; he pushed the bar door open and walked inside. He moved forward purposefully, his steely blue eyes adjusting quickly to the gloom. Despite the national smoking ban in Scotland, the single room was wreathed in the pall of cigarette smoke. The bar itself ran along the entire wall which faced the entrance.

To his left he saw his target sitting at a table, another man stood behind the table and slightly to the right.

Continuing forward, the masked figure's right hand slipped inside his jacket, along the right hip and pulled the gun from the waistband of his trousers at the small of his back. The Browning HP semi-automatic came level just as the 'Joker' glanced over the woman's shoulder, noticed the ski mask and realised something was horribly wrong.

Even as the gun was rising, the eyes in the ski mask flitted round the room, assessing possible dangers. It took only a fraction of a second to register the half a dozen other people waiting to pay the loan shark their weekly interest payments. Besides the 'enforcer' who stood behind the table, the only other occupant of the bar was the man behind counter. He was singled out as a threat and his position mentally logged.

"What the fuck..."

was all that the 'Joker' managed to get out as he tried to stand. The Browning barked loudly in the confined space, the muzzle flash bright in the gloom. The single slug was deadly accurate despite the target being in motion. A surprisingly small hole appeared in the 'Joker's' forehead while a large clump of hair, bone, gristle and brain tissue exploded from the back of his head. Blood splattered the wall and the 'Joker's' accomplice who was standing behind him. In a panic now, the enforcer, Willie MacMinn, screamed and ran for the fire exit.

The masked figure moved impossibly quickly now, bursting into controlled motion. Going forward two paces to close the distance and clear the remaining pensioners, he took in the sight of MacMinn pushing desperately against the bar of the fire exit. He pulled the trigger of the Browning once more. Pausing only long enough to confirm his target was down and then to fire another round into the back of the prone figure's head, he swung towards the bar.

The bartender was trying to swing a stubby, sawn-off, double-barrelled shotgun towards the masked man. He should have had enough time to manage it, but he was frightened beyond belief and his nerves made him clumsy and uncoordinated. His eyes widened with fear and the realisation that he was not going to be quick enough. The whole world seemed to shrink until all he could see was the impossibly large round hole at the end of the Browning's barrel. His eyes rolled upwards in their sockets, his bowels voided themselves and a wet stain of urine suddenly marked the front of his trousers. Mercifully, he was already in a dead faint when the 9mm slugs slammed into his chest.

The Browning barked twice in quick succession and the barman was kicked backwards. His body smashed ruinously into the gantry bringing spirit bottles and glasses tumbling down to shatter. They created a sharp bed of shards for the dead body to fall onto. The shotgun dropped from lifeless fingers and clattered to the floor.

Still calm, the masked figure moved to the table, ignoring the shrieks from the bottled blonde. He stooped and quickly retrieved a handgun from the 'Joker's' spent body and also hefted a sports bag that had been under the table.

Opening the bag, he withdrew several bundles of banknotes and thrust them inside his jacket. He walked down the tables occupied by the petrified pensioners, tipping wads of notes out in front of them as he went before dropping the now empty bag on the floor of the pub.

Only three minutes had passed since the masked figure had entered the Portcullis to dispense his own form of summary justice and he now walked back out of the door.

Onto Shawbridge Street, he immediately ducked down the alley that ran along the side of the pub. He swept up the plastic bag he had stashed, removed the two rubber wedges that had effectively jammed the fire exit and dropped them into the bag. It only took seconds for him to strip off the dark over-trousers to reveal a pair of faded blue jeans and then he reversed his jacket so that it was now a dark burgundy instead of the black it had been moments before. The ski mask went into the bag and the Browning was returned to his waistband. In mere seconds the vigilante walked at an easy pace from the opposite end of the alleyway.

The walk along Pleasance Street and Coustonholm Road took minutes and he slipped up the lane that led to Pollokshaws East railway station. His timing was perfect and for once the Strathclyde Passenger Transport train was running to schedule. His ticket had been purchased in advance and he simply had to climb aboard and find a vacant seat.

Staring out of the train's window, he watched the dense housing of Shawlands and Pollokshields pass in a blur. Less than fifteen minutes later the train slowed as it crossed the spaghetti of merging railtracks just outside the Victorian Glasgow Central station.

Climbing down from the train, he used his ticket to pass through the platform barriers and lost himself in the afternoon crowds inside the station. He was just another face in the crowd, nothing out of the ordinary.

Half an hour later the vigilante closed the door of the one car garage and sat on an old chair as he carefully cleaned and oiled the Browning. He reloaded it and removed the panel from the wall to hide the weapon and the ski mask away. The 'Joker's' weapon and the cash joined them.

He climbed the stairs, entered his room and sat on the single bed. Seventeen-year old Gavin MacSween held his arms out in front of him and stared at his hands. They were rock steady, not even a slight tremor.

He was somewhat surprised at just how calm he was. His life for the last nine years had somehow been leading up to this day and even at the moment he paused outside of the pub he had been unsure if he had the nerve to do what he had thought about constantly over those years.

Gavin examined his own reactions, his emotions, and his conscience after having just gunned down three men in a premeditated, planned execution. He didn't feel at all like he thought he would.

The overriding feeling was one of satisfaction. No guilt, no remorse, no fear. The minutes inside the Portcullis were etched into his mind with photographic clarity. Ironically he had never felt more alive than he had in the moments when he was the architect of death. The rush of adrenaline had somehow been converted into icy efficiency. And what a rush! Yes, he felt satisfied.

Gavin lay back on his bed and let his memories flood his consciousness.

1998

Eight-year old Gavin heard the raised voices in the sitting room and then the sharp slap followed by his mother's scream. Fearfully he crept along the hall and peeked in through the slightly open door. He was shocked to witness three men wrestling his mother to the floor, ripping her clothing off violently in the process.

His mother whimpered as the men took it in turns to climb onto her naked body, thrusting brutally into her. The last man had been the most brutal however. Gavin gasped aloud when he caught sight of the man's face. The features were scarred by a grotesque parody of a smile, with scars running up both cheeks to artificially elongate his mouth. Scarface flipped Gavin's mother over and spit on her ass, rubbing his saliva around her butthole before spearing his hard cock into her in one thrust. Another pitiful scream came from his mother then and Gavin watched transfixed, as the man on her back circled her throat with his rough hands and slowly choked the scream off. Still young he didn't fully comprehend what was happening, but he knew it wasn't good.