The Glasgow Ghoul by JS Apsley

In 1990 Scotland, a murder at a carnival signals the return of the Glasgow Ghoul.

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Any kid who grew up in Glasgow always knew the Christmas carnival as "The Shows". Every year, down at the Clydeside, the winter holidays carnival would come to town. For the kids, this was a hot-and-sticky, dangerous sort of freedom. You could go wild with your pals, spend as much money as your folks had been prepared to give you, eat and drink so much rubbish you instantly regretted it after getting on the Waltzers, and just maybe, get past your crushing self-embarrassment and hook up with someone.

Perhaps the best shows to ever hit Glasgow was in the winter of 1990. We'd had the Garden Festival in '88, which had enlivened the river-front at the Clyde after years of neglect and decay. Then, in 1990, the city claimed the title of the European Capital of Culture. The winter shows had to live up to the billing, and boy, did they. Until, that is, they found the body of Craig Cairney, lying under tarpaulin with his neck slit ear to ear. Murdered, by the Glasgow Ghoul.

I'd known Craig since we were wee boys. He was a couple of years older than me, which meant he was head-and-shoulders the coolest of our little gang; he seemed to have easy access to slingshots and penknives and other amazing things. Back then, I figured this was solely down to him being such a cool guy. I realised later that it was because both of his parents were drunks and didn't give a shit about him.

Perhaps I should have been more aware of the signs. A year earlier my father had barrelled home in the wee hours shouting and swearing, drunk as a skunk. My mother had tried to placate and hush him, so as not to wake me. I remember how my little body trembled as I tip-toed down the hall and I saw him with both hands in his pockets, jangling his keys and flexing his fists. Then he lunged at her, hands around her neck, holding her against the wall. She was so... defeated. Cowering.

I had called the police. Sometimes, even now, I think I can hear that little boy shouting down the receiver. "Daddy's hitting mum! Daddy's hitting mum!"

"You wee shit!" he'd spat at me. "I'm the boss of this house. I'm the boss of you, and I'm the boss of that stupid little bitch over there," he'd glowered, pointing at my mother.

The social had become involved, as did the school. My father had to go live with a friend for a few weeks. When he came back, he was changed. But also, in my confused mind... less of a man. Perhaps if I had known Craig Cairney had been going through something similar, things may have been different.

The shows of 1990 were going to be the best ever. It had all been agreed that we'd be ferried to-and-fro by Mackie's Uncle Chic in his white van. Jesus, can you imagine that now? A group of young kids being taken away by a guy looking like a half-shut knife in a Ford Transit? Changed days. Mackie - Stewart McAllister - stayed in the flat above me in our close. Mackie was my age, fifteen with sixteen bearing down hard.

I remember his Uncle Chic so well. What a laugh he gave us that first night, that first night before his world was turned upside down and half of Glasgow blamed him for not keeping a proper eye on the kids. Uncle Chic collected Craig, Mackie and I from the bottom of Dumbarton Road and we fell over each other into the back of his van.

What an adventure it was; made all the better by the discovery that he had brought his greyhound with him. Toes the greyhound had been acquired through some deal in a pub. Chic had come home one night with the dog, and told his family to say hello to Toes. Toes the greyhound took on instant legendary status with the kids, and we were all delighted to play with him as we were thrown about the back of that van, as Uncle Chic careered around the west end, heading down to the exhibition centre and the shows.

The rain was awful that day, but in the back of the van we were hyper, and didn't care one jot about the weather. Most of the big rides were outside of course, but the shows were massive, and took up the whole of the exhibition centre, inside and out. Uncle Chic parked up at the Exhibition Centre train station and we tumbled out ready to rock and roll. And then, Uncle Chic became a true hero, giving us each a fiver to spend. This was the stuff of dreams. With Toes smiling like a court jester beside him, he waved us off.

Soon enough we were amongst the throngs, heading through the covered walkway above the Expressway, the Smartie Tube, as it was called. I remember wondering if my pals were feeling the sort of mild terror as I, making me think of Gene Wilder's mad eyes on the boat sailing through a tunnel on the chocolate river. The noise inside the walkway was incredible, raised voices and screams bouncing around like we were all in some horrendous cocktail shaker. A bigger lad ran past us, pushing Mackie out of the way. "Watch out for the Glasgow Ghoul - he likes eatin' wee kids!" he snorted. The Ghoul had done his share of terrorising most young kids in Glasgow, as most playground folk-devils do. We were never really sure if he was real or not, at least, not until this night.

The walkway was full of performance and danger, with buskers and magicians whose faces looked haunted and awful. One grabbed my shoulder as I passed, asking for fifty pence to do his magic tricks. I pulled away, and without thinking gave him the same look my father had given my mother when he held her against the wall. It was a look of utter contempt.

The man leered at me, and as I saw shock in his face I flicked him the finger, before catching up with Mackie and Craig. At the curve of the walkway, I saw a tall, thin man making balloon animals. He wore a crooked top hat which almost reached the orange see-through plastic of the walkway ceiling. In front of him was a group of girls, and to my embarrassment I saw that Natalie Black was one of them. Natalie was in my class at school; in my class, and in my dreams. She was my first big crush and I had fallen for her hard, as teenage boys with unrequited love tend to do.

As we walked past, she caught my eye, smiled, and waved. I remember being so self-conscious about my clothes. Next to me, Craig Cairney was wearing his older brother's leather jacket. It was no crumpled pass-me-down. That jacket had a life of it's own, a discreet personality. I wished I had been wearing something like that when Natalie saw me. "Hey Iain," she purred. I'm not sure I even responded, I was so torn up with my own awkwardness.

She looked at my wingmen with confusion. These were my street friends, not school friends, and at least one of us was proper cool. "Hey Iain," she said again, but her focus was now on Craig and his leather jacket. She was with a couple of other girls from our class, Heather and Anna. There was an uneasy silence between the two groups, silence pricked by the oddly sinister squeaks of balloon twisting by the tall man in the old top hat, watching us all from his lofty position. He handed Natalie a pink unicorn which she was able to tie to one of the loops in her jeans waistband.

Natalie broke the impasse. "You boys heard about the Wheel of Death?"

Of course we had. This was perhaps the most infamous of all the rides at the shows. It was a cylindrical tube in which kids would line up against the curved wall. It would rotate at such high speeds that the force would stop you from leaning forward. But then, the best part, the floor fell away, and you'd be left "sticking" to the wall.

"We should go on it together, see who lasts the longest," Natalie said. I'm not sure I even spoke any form of response, but we agreed to meet them there later. We ran off, leaving the other girls to get their own balloon animals before following on.

As Mackie and Craig asked me about the girls, I realised I had to act cool and knowledgeable. As I reached inside to find a part of myself that would impress my friends, it was my father's voice that spoke. "They're stupid wee bitches, that's all. If they're lucky, we'll meet them later."

Inside, we were having a ball, but it wasn't long before a rumour spread round the kids that like wildfire. The Glasgow Ghoul had been seen. A lot of the kids were petrified. The Ghoul had been spotted at last year's shows, and someone said he had kidnapped and killed a boy. Now here he was, back for more.

We all knew the Ghoul was a tall, dark figure who snatched children, and some said he had metal teeth and red, bulbous eyes. Before that night we mostly thought of him as a playground myth, perhaps like the killer clowns who went around making neckties from tongues. But that night, in the heat and lights and smells of the shows, the Ghoul suddenly felt real, real enough to touch. Every jump and scare was intensified and every pack of kids was trying to out-scare the other.

A group of older boys had jumped us, and I'd been separated from Craig and Mackie. I walked around the rides and stalls for what seemed like an age, terrified. Then I began to wonder if I might bump into Natalie, and I realised I would have to look cool, to impress her. To do that, I had to be powerful, to be in command. She'd see a different side of me to the boy in her class.

I was outside now, and I heard sniggering from behind a row of stalls, and though my heart was pumping, I could have sworn it was Natalie. I swallowed, and stepped behind the tents at the back of the stalls to see what was going on.

And there she was, arms around Craig, their faces scrunched together. I'm not sure anyone can really comprehend the swell of anger a teenage boy feels in that sort of moment. I'm not sure how long I watched them, leering at them, as they kissed and groped at each other. It was as if I relished the anger burgeoning within. Eventually, she pulled herself off him like Velcro. "Best get back to my pals," she slurred. A final kiss, and she was away.

Craig was so full of himself, fixing that leather jacket around his shoulders, I couldn't stand it anymore.

I stepped from the shadows.  

"She was for me," I spat.

"She wouldn't be seen dead with you," he sneered. I was shocked by how quickly Craig had spurned our friendship for a girl. Our friendship was irretrievably broken in that instant. I raised my fist to punch him straight on the face but he managed to push me away, and I stumbled and fell.

As I got to my feet to face him, I saw a flash of metal in his hand. It was his switchblade. The sight of it made me even more furious. How could he pull a blade on his friend? My anger swelled again, and I barged at him, howling like an animal.

In the tussle I somehow took control of the knife, prising it from his fist, and I felt myself growing taller somehow, with my back arched. It was a strange experience, as if my father had taken possession of my body. This had happened once before. Stacey Tomlison had been making fun of me in class. I had put my hands in my pockets and jangled my keys, just like my father. I had called her a stupid little bitch and made her cry. Now, instead of keys in my hand, I had the switchblade.

It found it was quite easy for me to slash it across him, across his neck.

Craig's flesh gave way with little fuss.

He raised his hands, as if to motioning to quell the shower of his lifeblood, but he was so confused he must have forgotten how to work his body. He simply held his hands out, as if in prayer, as his t-shirt bloomed beetroot red. He looked at me like a little boy about to have a tantrum. I sneered, savouring his pain, soaking it up like his t-shirt was soaking up the blood gushing from his throat. He fell to his knees, then lay on the ground. I leant over him, knowing I wanted to make his last moments as awful as possible. "You stupid little bitch," I whispered.

His eyes rolled up, his life drained, and soon he was just a pitiful husk.

I stumbled around through the darker recesses behind the shows for a while, and found myself alone at the Clyde. I threw the switchblade. The waters swallowed it in a single hungry gulp.

A little later, I found Mackie eating candy floss, and we had a go on the rifle range, shooting at the tiny sheets of paper with the red stars as if nothing had ever happened. It was remarkable how little I felt, remarkable - and powerful. I can't quite explain how easy it all was. Mackie asked if I'd seen Craig, and I just shrugged. "We'll find him at the end."

Then, we heard the screaming. At first, a solitary girl. Then, more screams. Two teenage girls came fleeing through the crowds. "It's the Ghoul! The Ghoul! A boy's been murdered!" they cried. As some of the kids backed away from the source of the commotion, the hardier ones were attracted towards it. Soon enough there was a crowd of gawkers. Mackie and I joined them. We all stared, joshing and jostling, at the corpse of Craig Cairney.

Some lanky big sod burst through the stalls, to evacuate the contents of his stomach. But his pace set off such a scare that within moments the kids were again shouting about the Ghoul. Chaos ensued as the adults tried to take control and get folk away from the body. I saw Natalie with her friends, inconsolable with grief and terror. I saw something in her face, something I had seen in my mother's face when on the end of my father's temper. It was subjugation.

I realised then that I had a power over Natalie, a power over all the other kids standing around me. As they jostled and squealed I knew I had a chilling command, over them and over myself. I realised that this was true power, and I understood my father at last. Killing Craig Cairney had opened my eyes, just as I had opened his neck.

I had become the Ghoul. In but a few months I had mastered Glasgow. It was now my city, a city in thrall to my dark reign. The seasons passed, and I killed again, and again. For who would suspect me, a kid still at school?

The winds are turning cold now, and it will soon be winter. The shows will be coming to town. The Glasgow Ghoul will be there to meet them.