The Enforcer: Demons of my drunk father

Oct 12 2008

THE scourge of Scotland's gangsters was an unlikely police recruit. Graeme Pearson had a tough upbringing in Glasgow's Partick and even had a shot at pop stardom with his band The Bowmen.

But in the second part of our serialisation of his book, The Enforcer, Pearson reveals it was a violent clash between his drunken dad Jim and his mum that sowed a seed in the schoolboy's mind about joining the force many years later.

FRIDAY nights had become tense at home as my mother waited to see if my father would turn up at teatime and what kind of state he'd be in.

One Friday my father had failed to appear and, as we waited for him and his wages, it was evident that my mother was becoming desperate.

The local shopkeeper was sympathetic. I was given some basics.

I remember wee Jimmy the owner marking up the debt in his journal before I left the shop.

It was evident that we were up against it and that the family was in danger of disintegrating.

At 10pm father turned up drunk. He arrived at the door plainly keen for a friendly welcome and a quiet reception from my mother. I remember feeling sorry for him.

Both my mother and I were tired. The strain of the long wait and the anxiety of the situation had taken its toll on both of us as my smiling father, his eyes deadened by the effects of alcohol, staggered through the lobby still wearing his work overalls.

My mother suddenly unleashed her anger in a way I had not seen before.

She screamed about his lack of care for his family and demanded to know where he had been, who with and how much money he had left.

My father misread the position completely and tried to make light of the situation by telling her not to worry.

It was the worst response he could have made. Without warning my mother went for my father's face and neck. Drunk or not, he easily knocked her aside.

I stepped into the exchange to distract my father's attention, at which point my mother caught him full in the face with her fist and knocked him through the lobby into the doorway of the bedroom and straight into the wardrobe door, smashing it to bits.

The violence of those few seconds was shocking, though it owed as much to my father losing his balance and falling as it did to my mother's right hook.

The most frightening part of it all came as I saw my father begin to gather himself from inside the wardrobe and try to get to his feet again. There was a lot of shouting and I don't know if I was told or decided it for myself but I was soon on my way to the local police office.

I ran the two blocks to Gullane Street, the Marine police office, and burst through the swing doors to tell who ever was present that my mother needed the police.

I remember the strange mixture of emotions I felt at the police office. The office seemed so calm and under control.

The man behind the desk appeared utterly unfazed by my arrival and my rush of excitement, fear and worry about what was about to happen tomy family.

Two uniform constables soon appeared from behind the desk and ledme home.

Since my departure, more furniture had been broken and there was blood all over the bedroom.

Both my parents looked the worse for their exchanges and my mother was distraught. The policemen took control.

Half an hour later I was taken back home. My father was no longer there and my mother was sitting alone in the kitchen, crying her eyes out.

My father had been taken by the police and was to be locked up.

My mother was worried about what would become of us all. How could we pay any fine that might be imposed and how could we survive at all if my father was jailed?

My mother and I gathered ourselves together and tidied up as best we could before going to bed.

I felt a sense of shame that I had been involved in getting my father locked up.

Whatever the rights and wrongs of what had happened, I still loved my father and I didn't want him to suffer.

Nevertheless, I was struck by the ability of the police officers to take control of the situation. When I arrived home from school the next day, dad was sitting in the kitchen. The atmosphere was sombre and there was very little talk.

I felt a great relief that he was home but loyalty to my mother meant I could not display my feelings.

My father for his part looked a sorry soul. Usually bright, smart and ever ready to smile, he now looked old, depressed and subdued.

It was an hour before I realised he could not get up from his seat. His legs were unable to carry him.

Finally he took off his socks and I saw that both his feet were so swollen he could not put his boots on.

He had appeared at court shoeless and, having received the usual lecture from the magistrate, had been fined.

He had then walked home from the police office carrying his boots. There were cuts and bruises everywhere.

His behaviour had embarrassed the family, left us almost penniless and put our future at risk.

His feet were a terrible mess though. I was too angry with him to care much about how he came by his injuries.

I wanted a stable home and loving parents. I had a family at war.

My dad never touched another drop. In 2004, he confirmed he had a cancer which had first shown its symptoms at our Christmas lunch in 2003.

He hadn't seemed himself then and couldn't eat his usual fill of turkey and trimmings.

Having retired 12 years earlier, my parents had spent the previous 10 years living in a small house with a garden on the outskirts of Glasgow.

My father ended his working life looking after horses with the Mounted Section of Strathclyde Police.

I marvelled at how close my parents became during retirement.

Throughout all my adult years, I never heard a rough word from my father. He put his chaotic lifestyle behind him completely.

I wanted to take my father to see one of the police horses he had looked after with such love and attention.

As fate would have it, that weekend I read an article about a Glasgow police horse, Fergus, who was enjoying his retirement in the Stirlingshire hills.

By this time, my father was in a very sad state. Sometimes he seemed only half alive. One minute he could be alert and vivid, the next he was in a semi-comatose state.

Dad was thrilled when I told him that Fergus was still alive and I had arranged a visit.

My father dressed in his familiar suit and tie, every bit the good and respectable man he had been throughout his life.

As he struggled to get into the car, this once strong, muscular man looked shrunken - but all the way to the farm he behaved just like a child on a day out. He was so excited.

The horse came out of its stall and instantly recognised an old friend.

Fergus's ears pricked up to show his obvious pleasure and my father was more animated and happy than he had been for years.

We stayed an hour and my father had brought cut apples for his old friend. When it was time to go, I could see my father was tired but content.

Within the week, dad was dead. It was as if he had stayed alive just for that one day on the range and afterwards the power had gone out of him.

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