The Silence

by Linda Tweedie

  The Silence

  Linda Tweedie

  Kate McGregor

  © Linda Tweedie & Kate McGregor 2015

  The author asserts the moral right to be identified

  as the author of the work in accordance with the

  Copyright, Designs and Patents Act, 1988.

  All characters appearing in this work are fictitious.

  Any resemblance to real persons, living or dead,

  is purely coincidental.

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior permission of:

  Fledgling Press Ltd,

  7 Lennox St., Edinburgh,

  EH4 1QB

  Published by Fledgling Press 2015

  www.fledglingpress.co.uk

  Print ISBN 9781905916993

  eBook ISBN 9781905916030

  Acknowledgements

  This book was written in collaboration with Kate McGregor, without whose input it would have been an entirely different publication (a leaflet maybe!) Because if she couldn’t cross her i’s and dot her t’s, this book would still be languishing somewhere as an untitled Word document, never to be read.

  Next it has to be Clare from Fledgling Press, who not only believed in us, but had to put up with two loud, overbearing women, who always know best, even when they don’t, and who send her schedule into the stratosphere.

  Thanks to Graeme who always knows what we want, especially as we never know ourselves – now that’s smart.

  Finally to my husband, David, who has the nous to keep out of the way, not to ask stupid questions and has learned after all these years how to work the dishwasher and washing machine. Shame he doesn’t know which is which . . .

  Well done and thanks.

  Linda and Kate

  CATHIE MCGREGOR 1938 – 2014

  This one’s for you.

  The little girl in the white dress was crying. She

  was crying for her da and the white dress was

  turning red, blood red.

  The Party

  The music could be heard three streets away; no-one could remember there ever being a street party like this. You had to hand it to Big Paddy. By God, he did things in style. Enough booze to sink the Titanic and table upon table of magnificent food, all probably supplied free gratis to the Big Man. Very few shopkeepers would fail to take the opportunity of impressing Big Paddy Coyle and getting into his good books. What was a bit of food or a few bottles, compared to being in favour or showing respect? No, you wouldn’t want to be out of favour with the Coyles. Let’s face it, the recipients of his generosity couldn’t give a shit whether it was paid for or not, as long as it was free to them.

  Paddy’s mother Lizzie was dressed to the nines and not from the Barra’s either − straight from Marks and Spencer in Argyle Street no less. She was over the moon that he and Bridget had decided to hold the celebration here in the family home, and not over at that posh gaff, as she called their beautiful villa on the outskirts of the city. She was in her element, holding court on the strip of grass she lovingly called her garden; home to a few scrawny geraniums and an old, chipped, garishly-painted gnome. She was queen of all she surveyed thanks to her boys, especially her eldest, Patrick Joseph Coyle, but it hadn’t always been that way.

  “Great party, Paddy,” called one of the guests as Paddy passed by.

  “Aye, grand, lad,” his neighbour agreed. They were like the two old codgers off the Muppets, thought Paddy, smiling.

  Where was she? He scanned the party area, searching for his wife, Bridget. Spying her alongside his ma he made his way across the green, through the crowds of well-wishers, towards them.

  They weren’t going to take what he had to tell them well, but he had no choice. The world didn’t stop because Paddy Coyle was throwing a party.

  “My God, I’m stuffed,” laughed Teresa, his mother’s neighbour and confidant. “Jesus, you outdid yourself this time, Paddy me boy, it’ll take a large dose of castor oil to shift this lot,” as she patted her distended abdomen and gave rip to an extremely loud fart.

  “My God, Teresa, have a bit of decorum,” scolded Lizzie. “Jesus, the priests are just over there.”

  “Och, they wouldn’t hear it from way over there,” smirked the culprit.

  “No, but they’ll feckin’ well smell it, you rank old biddy,” laughed the matriarch.

  “You never change,” said Paddy, “make sure you take a bit of grub away with you, and a drink for himself.” Teresa’s husband, Peter, had been bed-ridden for years after an accident at work. Everyone knew it was for the ‘comp’ and there was sod all wrong with him, he was just a lazy bastard, but Teresa wouldn’t have a word said against him, despite the fact he was the most miserable, cantankerous old git Paddy had ever met. But Teresa was his mother’s best mate and many times over the years the Coyles had been ‘helped out’ and Paddy would never forget that.

  “Can I have a word? Excuse us a minute, Teresa. Glad you’re enjoying yourself.”

  He led his mother and wife back into the terraced house. The house Lizzie had lived in for the past thirty years. The one in which she’d given birth to her three sons and that she-devil of a daughter, Marie. Who, incidentally, was the only member of the family missing from the celebrations. No doubt the prodigal daughter would come rolling home in last night’s clothes, stinking of last night’s booze and last night’s man.

  There was no reasoning with the girl. She went her own way, doing her own thing, regardless of how much shame she brought on her mother and her brothers, and there was plenty of shame at that. The latest being snugly wrapped and fast asleep in the stylish Silver Cross pram, bought, of course, by Paddy, there being no husband or father to stump up. Only the colour of the wee mite gave a clue as to his parentage and neither of those gentlemen were likely to step up to the plate. Coincidentally, they had both been reported missing. Despite that, the house was always a haven for her family, no matter what trouble they might be in.

  Oh, she had no illusions about her sons. Under the façade of ‘successful businessmen’ Lizzie knew well what her Patrick and his brothers got up to, and whether she approved or not, they were her boys and she would always stand by them. It was that ‘business’ that kept her in the style she had now become accustomed to. Her sons were good to their mother, nothing but the best, and Lizzie knew that. Marie, too, had a lot to be thankful for, but needless to say she wasn’t.

  The first thing that struck a visitor upon entering 28 Lomond Gardens was the sparkle. The place shone like a new pin and always smelled of polish and bleach. Paddy was sure his mother used Pledge as an air freshener, and it wasn’t the first time he’d walked into a cloud of polish and almost choked.

  “Okay, what’s up?” queried Lizzie. “Surely whatever it is can wait till tomorrow, lad. Can we not have this day without any shenanigans?”

  “I’m sorry, Ma, but I have to leave. There’s a problem at the warehouse and the polis are all over the place. We have to go.”

  Although disappointed, Lizzie sighed in agreement, business was business and he had to go. But not so Bridget, she wasn’t having any of it. It was seldom she argued back with Paddy, always giving him his place and honestly, in her heart she knew that he wouldn’t leave Erin’s party unless it was absolutely necessary. But she certainly wasn’t going to make it easy for him

  “We have to go?” queried his wife. “And who are this we? Surely, if the boys are going they can handle it without you holding their hands?”

  “For fuck’s sake, Bridget, you know the score,” said her exasperated husband. “I’ve no time for this.”

 
; “Make bloody time,” snapped Bridget. “And I know the score alright, but no, Paddy, send the others. This is your only daughter’s first holy communion and nothing, I mean nothing, should interfere with today.”

  “I have to, Bridget. You know I wouldn’t go if I could help it, but I must.” Paddy had that steel glint in his eye which brooked no arguments and Bridget, angry though she was, knew not to push her luck. “Now, be a good girl and make sure everyone is enjoying themselves and I’ll be as quick as I can. You won’t even notice I’ve gone.”

  Bridget was furious. Since the day they were married, at every party, wedding and funeral they had ever attended Paddy had left her on her own at some point, to go and attend to ‘business’. Well, it would be a long time before she let him off with this one.

  In fairness to her man, he worked relentlessly for his family and Bridget was well aware that she and Erin came first in Paddy’s life and he would willingly die for them. The only real disappointment in their lives was that there were no brothers or sisters for their precious little girl. For the first few years she had been frantic and the disappointment every month was hard to bear, but as time went on she resigned herself to the situation and channelled all her love and affection on the two most important beings in her life. She kept the magnificent home perfect, tended to her daughter’s and husband’s needs and was on call to any member of the family who needed help. She was a diamond and everybody loved Bridget, none more so than her husband even when she was being a stubborn mare.

  The party was in full swing; there were pony rides, courtesy of a couple of traveller boys who Paddy had helped out recently. The kids’ magician, with the expensive coke habit, was busy churning out balloon animals, each one with its own little white moustache, just like the man making them. The DJ was blasting out the latest Madonna hit and the green was awash with little mini brides, all prancing about in their finest, and dozens of not-so-white-clad little lads having a whale of a time. The makeshift bar was three deep and the two volunteers were doing a roaring trade. Free booze was a luxury few, if any, had enjoyed before and there would be a few sair heids in the morning, including the two Fathers.

  Father Jack was Craigloch’s parish priest. It was once a thriving community, but like many big housing estates, most of its inhabitants were living way below the poverty line. As the more fortunate families were rehoused and moved away, the empty houses soon became squats and the scheme was riddled with junkies and crackheads.

  As far as Father Jack was concerned the Coyles were a good Catholic family and could do no wrong. No matter what rumours or stories circulated, the donations from Paddy and the brothers far outweighed any gossip.

  The Coyles were all regular churchgoers, apart from Marie of course, but Lizzie was up and out to first mass most mornings, often accompanied by Patrick. Whether he was on his way to work or coming home was not for Father Jack to speculate, especially as there was always a fifty pound note in the collection plate.

  Canon O’Farrell, on the other hand, didn’t share Father Jack’s views on the Coyle family. Lizzie was a good woman, but the others were scum of the earth, devil’s spawn and a few other adjectives to boot. He especially loathed Patrick with a passion. Oh, he would accept his hospitality and all the benefits that came with having such a powerful family in the parish, but it was his God-given mission to destroy the man and destroy him he would. And that day was nigh.

  The cut ran deep within the canon and went back many years, to a time when, as a young priest, he first landed in Glasgow. Way before the present turf wars started. The ‘Ice Cream Wars’. He laughed at the absurdity. Only a place like this could come up with such an idiotic name, and he knew, as God would be his judge, that Paddy Coyle was at the centre of the feud and that the ‘Big Man’ would stop at nothing until he controlled the east of the city.

  The two priests hated a drink or two − between the pair of them the Fathers had demolished a bottle of single malt whisky, washed down with more than a few pints of the black stuff.

  It was perhaps time to make a move back to the parish house before the early evening mass. Not that he expected many of their parishioners to attend, they were all too busy enjoying themselves, courtesy of the Coyles.

  “Shite,” muttered Father Jack, knowing full well he would be the one who volunteered to do his duty.

  The fly auld bugger did little or no parish work nowadays and conducted even fewer masses. He spent most of his time with the young trainees who had been assigned to St. Jude’s and of late, a less Christian or devout bunch of scoundrels he had yet to meet.

  Father Jack had his own views on what was going on in his parish, but better to keep his own counsel, for the moment anyway. So there was no chance, given the amount of booze he’d consumed, that Canon O’Farrell would officiate tonight.

  Zig-zagging across the green on their way home, being stopped every couple of yards by either the recipient of the holy sacrament or the parents of such, they eventually reached the end of the avenue just as one of Big Paddy’s ice cream vans came trundling into view, the chimes blaring above the cacophony of the DJ. The ears of every kid in the vicinity pricked up.

  There’s nothing a kid loves more than ice cream, mused Father Jack. The only thing to top that was free ice cream. Heaven had just arrived, playing Popeye the Sailor Man, and even before the van had stopped there was a healthy queue.

  Clinging on to her mother’s skirt, “Please, Mum, please just ask him,” pleaded Erin. “Please. My da would let me, and it’s his van anyway. Go on, Mum, ask him.”

  To be fair, Erin Coyle seldom asked for privileges and she was right, her da would have given in immediately. The van was, after all, one of his fleet.

  “Okay, since you’ve been such a good girl I’ll ask. Mind, he might say no, health and safety and all that.”

  Bridget walked up to the open window and motioned to Jamesie that she wanted a word.

  “Jamesie, I won’t be annoyed if you say no, but Erin’s desperate to have a wee go at serving. Would you let her? It’s not as if you’re selling the stuff and Paddy will be good for anything she messes, what do you say?”

  Hey! There was no way he would ever be likely to refuse a request from Bridget Coyle. If the girl blew the van up he would still take the blame. Jamesie Flynn had only recently fallen heir to his own van, the previous incumbent having disappeared after the third attempt on his life had proved one attempt too many.

  The vans were notorious throughout the country. They were used as cover to sell drugs, carry stolen goods, a depository for weapons. In fact, the vans sold everything except ice cream, or very little. It was a dangerous occupation and the average lifespan of a van man was not long. Not only were they constantly targeted by other outfits, but the filth raided them with such regularity they were known locally as the ‘Serious Chime Squad’. But Jamesie had no such fears − having ridden shotgun on nearly every van in the Coyle fleet he knew the score and what to look out for, or so he thought.

  Okay, maybe his wasn’t the most lucrative round on the patch, but it was a start and Jamesie had plans. He was an ambitious young lad and meant to go places, not like most of the other drivers. No way would he shove the profits up his nose. No, as far as he was concerned drugs were for the punters, not him.

  He couldn’t believe his luck when the Big Man himself had approached him about taking over the round. He had worked his way up the ranks, quietly and efficiently, getting whatever job done with no fuss and, more to the point, no come-back. So he wouldn’t ever qualify as one of the heavies, but he took shit from no-one and could more than hold his own, he would do alright.

  Certainly, bringing free ice cream to Erin Coyle’s party was a stroke of genius and the big man wouldn’t forget such a gesture. More brownie points.

  “Of course she can. Come away in, poppet, but mind your dress, this is messy work.”

  “Look, ten minutes and I’ll come back for her. That should be long enough for boredom to set i
n,” smiled Bridget. “Erin, you be a good girl and listen to what Jamesie says. I’ll be over with nanny.”

  “Oh Lord, look at what the cat’s dragged in,” Bridget muttered to herself, spying her young sister-in-law, Marie, staggering into the street.

  Even in such a state Marie Coyle was a stunner. She had long, dark titian hair, green eyes and the almost translucent skin of the pure Celt, a figure to die for and a mouth like an Irish navvy. Marie, waving furiously to Bridget, turned, pulled her ridiculously short skirt even higher and wiggled her bare arse for all to see.

  Bridget almost collapsed with laughter. She loved the mad devil, but she was so thankful that the brothers had gone off on their mission or there would have been murder. Lizzie, on the other hand, looked like a bulldog chewing a wasp, and even in her befuddled state Marie knew to avoid her mother for the moment.

  “Hey, kiddo, what are you doing in there? Is your da so skint he’s got you out working to pay for this lot?” she joked with her niece. Marie was great with everyone else’s kids, just not her own.

  “Have a cornet, Auntie Marie. Go on, pick any flavour, I can do them all, honest. Sprinkles, flakes, any topping.”

  “Surprise me, darling, surprise me.”

  Erin was in her element and working the whipped ice machine was just so cool. Of course, her Auntie Marie got the works − toppings and sauces.

  As she turned back to the serving window, holding an absolute masterpiece, the youngster was puzzled. Where was her auntie? In Marie’s place there was a man, a man wearing a mask. Was somebody playing a trick? The man had a gun.