The Silence

by Linda Tweedie

  “This matter can be settled quickly and painlessly or not; the decision, Mr Mitchell, is entirely yours. But I should tell you that I will be leaving with either the five thousand, your testicles, or both.”

  Mad Billy Mitchell was more than mad; he was fucking livid. A fucking boy scout standing in his gaff demanding a piddling five thousand quid. What the fuck was Glasgow coming to? Okay he should have coughed up to Mitchell a couple of weeks back. But the miserable cunt knew he was good for the money. In fact, why he’d borrowed the wedge in the first place completely escaped him. He must have been out of his face to even speak to the cunt, never mind tap him for some dosh. Heaven help Kelly and this two bit cowboy when he got out of this mess.

  The kid was prattling on about fuck knows what, Billy had only cottoned on to a couple of sentences about testicles and safes. His head was thumping and he was still half coked from last night, actually it was from this morning. But guys like Mad Billy didn’t stay on top without having a few tricks up their sleeves; one of Billy’s party pieces was being able to get out of almost any bondage, to the dismay of many would be assailants. Paddy wouldn’t be the first to be astounded at Billy’s Houdini act.

  Not too discreetly, the captive was busily trying to free himself, all the time screaming and cursing at the top of his voice and promising to fuckin’ maul this upstart. Twisting and turning to no avail, the mad man had to give up; he was well and truly immobilized. Paddy had long ago heard of Mitchell’s famous escapades and made bloody sure he wouldn’t be springing any surprises on him.

  Over an hour of systematic beatings and no result, Paddy withdrew to rethink his strategy. This was certainly not what he’d signed up for. Mad Billy Mitchell looked like something out of a fucking horror movie. His face, unrecognisable and almost twice its normal size, a suppurating mess of raw flesh, his left eye looked damaged beyond repair. Still the captive was taunting and cursing the amateur collector. Billy Mitchell knew that Paddy was new to the game.

  Paddy had presumed that it was a case of in, demand money with some menacing and then out. Not fucking hammering somebody half to death and they still wouldn’t give out. Paddy was no nearer to getting the safe combination than he was when he arrived. He had no idea what to do next and Mitchell knew that.

  Moaning from the next room alerted him to the other occupant of the house. Carrying the screaming clawing banshee into the room Paddy was sure this would sort Mitchell out. If he wouldn’t give in, then the wife would get hurt. Mitchell, despite the state of him, roared with laughter.

  “Go on son, do your worst. I fucking hate the fat old bastard. Hey, in fact, do her and I’ll double what Kelly was paying. Look at it, would you save that? No fucking chance. You’ll save me fucking thousands in the divorce courts.”

  Paddy was flummoxed, he really didn’t know what to do next, the body on the bed was screeching and bellowing; he could see what Mitchell meant, she really was an ugly old fucker. But if he couldn’t pull this job off he was in the shit.

  The wife and her beloved husband were taking the piss big time, neither would save the other. She hated him as much as he hated her, maybe even more.

  This was getting ridiculous, what the fuck was he going to do?

  “If that dog doesn’t stop fucking yapping, I’m gonna break its neck.”

  “No! No, not Poochy,” wailed the wife. “Don’t hurt her, whatever you want to know I’ll tell you. Just don’t harm my baby.”

  Paddy looked gormlessly at the wailing, pleading woman. Poochy? Who the fuck was Poochy? Paddy was baffled. Christ, it was the fucking mutt, “Thank you, God.”

  “Give me the combination now or Poochy gets it,” shouted Paddy. “Now, or it’s curtains,” grabbing the little dog by the scruff of the neck.

  He was out of the house and legging it five minutes later to his getaway vehicle, the number 42 bus to Glasgow Cross.

  He arrived home just after nine, as his mother, back from mass, was cooking breakfast. Paddy was exhausted but delirious. What a result. He was on an adrenalin rush like he’d never experienced before. Christ, he was up and down like a bloody fiddler’s elbow and couldn’t sit still, dying to get his mother out of the way to see what he’d got away with.

  “What the hell is up with you?” asked his ma. “You’re like a bloody cat on a hot tin roof and look at the state of you. What the devil is that you’re covered in?”

  “It’s nothing, Ma, for God’s sake, give it a rest.”

  “Oh Mary, Mother of God, it’s blood. Oh, my God, what have you been up to? For heaven’s sake, boy you’re just out. Don’t go getting yourself back into trouble, son. I couldn’t go through that again.”

  “I’m not going anywhere. Let me get changed and we’ll talk,” he assured his mother.

  Ten minutes later, freshly dressed, shaved and devouring the heaped plate of food put down in front of him, the morning’s activities had certainly not diminished his appetite.

  “Right, my lad, what exactly have you been up to and whose blood was that?”

  “Jesus, Ma, it’s like the Spanish Inquisition. I was earning, that’s all you need to know,” He threw a couple of twenty pound notes across the table at her. “Will that ease your conscience any?”

  “How dare you, how bloody dare you?” Lizzie yelled, slapping him hard round the ear. “Don’t you ever speak to me like that or treat me like one of your stupid mates. Do you think forty quid is going to make me condone your beating someone up for money? Would you come and beat up me and baby Marie if we got behind with Mr Big Shot Kelly? Because that nearly happened, didn’t it?”

  “Aye, Ma, that nearly did happen, but thank fuck for you lot, I can fight our way out of trouble.”

  Another clout round the ear and Paddy was up and towering over his mother.

  “Don’t you ever lift your hand to me again, or so help me, I’ll forget you’re my mother,” he snarled.

  There was no way Lizzie Coyle would ever back down to anyone and especially not this gormless big lump of shite she called her son.

  She gave him another belt round the ear. Paddy was incensed and God knows what would have happened but for the arrival of Sean carrying baby Marie. “What’s going on? You wakened the wee one, we could hear you two going at it good style,” said Sean.

  “Paddy, Paddy.” Marie had her arms outstretched for Paddy to take her. But her beloved brother stormed past and out of the room.

  “What’s up, Ma?” Sean questioned her. “And don’t say nothing, I’ve not seen him like that for a long time.”

  “It really is nothing, son. He just forgot who he was talking to and I gave him a sharp reminder,” smiled Lizzie. By God, she’d forgot what a stubborn bugger that son of hers could be, but he’d forgot who had fought for them all these past years. Lizzie Coyle would stand up to Auld Nick himself to keep her kids safe and Patrick Joseph Coyle had just been reminded of that fact.

  He had to calm himself down. Christ he’d nearly hit his mother, he could hardly believe it. He wouldn’t ever harm a hair on her head and dear God; he’d never forgive himself if he had hurt her, but what an aggravating fucker she could be. Paddy knew his mother would stand by him no matter what, but he wouldn’t tolerate anyone laying hands on him, not even her.

  What a fucking day it had turned out. He’d half-killed a man, taken the wife and dog prisoner, legged it with more money than he’d ever seen in his entire life, almost mullered his ma, brought his breakfast up and Jesus, it was only 10 o’clock on a Sunday morning. Paddy Coyle was buzzing.

  He was gobsmacked at how much he’d got away with: a good few grand’s worth of jewellery and almost twenty thousand in cash − four times the five thousand pounds debt. He’d got a fucking good haul and there was no way he was handing all this lot over to Mickey Kelly. He’d certainly need to give the loan shark what he was owed, but as for the rest? Who could prove what was in the safe? It was his word against Billy’s and as long as Paddy wasn’t too greedy, Kelly would be satisfie
d.

  Carrying coal or delivering milk was way behind him now, he was heading for the big time. He knew he’d been lucky this morning; he needed a partner or partners and who better than his brothers, if they were up to it?

  Lizzie

  Thank God her boy was home. He’d got that bugger Kelly off her back and within weeks, she’d managed to clear most of her debts with the local shopkeepers but, more importantly, with her neighbours. Oh, she knew they had all been in her situation at one time or another and she had always been the first to help out. But it was a different kettle of fish when it was she who owed. Thanks to Paddy she could hold her head up, knowing she was debt-free and the comfort of having a few extra pounds in her purse was something she’d seldom known.

  The downside of her newfound wealth was Paddy’s involvement with the Kelly mob. It was obvious he was working off the debt and for that she would be eternally grateful, but he was a changed boy. For a start he was no longer a boy. From the day he started working with this outfit something had gone from Paddy, mainly his youth and what innocence he had left.

  The bugger had always got into scrapes, they all did, but in the past she’d never known Paddy to start a fight. He might always finish it and there were a few sorry devils who regretted throwing the first punch but it was different now, he was different. She hated that he was being paid to hurt people, mostly people like them who’d got into difficulties and she didn’t like it. She wanted her boy back, but that was never going to happen; the die was cast.

  “Do me a shirt, Ma, I’m going out in half an hour” said Paddy grabbing his wee mother and twirling her round the kitchen to the great amusement of his baby sister sitting on a rug by the blazing fire.

  “Me, me, ‘addy,” she squealed, arms akimbo. “Me peese.”

  None of the boys could refuse Marie anything. She was such a cutie and at the tender age of two could wrap her brothers, or any man for that matter, round her sticky little fingers. A lesson she would use to her advantage for the rest of her life.

  Swinging the little girl round and round, squealing at the top of her voice, their mother looked on lovingly. If it could only stay like this, Lizzie thought. She had one of her ‘feelings’ something was going to happen and she was seldom wrong.

  The boys all laughed at their ma’s predictions, never taking them seriously, but Lizzie did, and there was something coming, she could feel it in her bones.

  “Take the night off, Paddy, stay at home with us. We’ll get a video and some beers and . . .”

  “You been on the old communion wine, Ma?” laughed the big lad. “It’s Saturday night. Why the devil would I be staying in with my old mother and a bottle of Vimto?”

  “Keep me company, son, I’ve got one of my feelings.”

  “Oh, Ma, the last time you had a feeling and were all doom and gloom, old Jimmy along the way got a first division on the coupon.”

  “Aye, so he did, but remember, he forgot to post it. Stay in with Marie and me just this once.”

  “You’re not doing my street cred much good. Hey the hardest man in Glasgow watching the Von Trapp family and eating popcorn. No, it doesn’t quite hit the spot Ma, but thanks anyway.”

  Half an hour later the three brothers, all suited and booted, were out to cause mayhem on a regular Saturday night in Glasgow, leaving their mother and baby sister on their own. She hoped she was wrong.

  Rise to Fame

  Despite their ma’s request for them to stay home, the three lads hit the town running that Saturday night. First port of call was the Gunners, a favourite pub of the Kelly firm. A couple of drinks then they intended going on to the infamous Barrowlands dance hall.

  None of the brothers were big drinkers, thanks to their da. His example had been enough. The bar was packed to the rafters but you could cut the atmosphere with a knife. There was a palpable tension in the air, something was about to go down.

  Paddy walked up to the bar and ordered their drinks just as a shot rang out and the place erupted. Twenty or so interlopers from the north side of the city had ventured into foreign territory, led by his old mucker Pete McClelland, and it looked like they meant business.

  What the fuck was McClelland doing on his turf? thought Paddy as he waded into the melee, scattering bodies right and left. Making for his ex-mate, he was caught by a blow on the side of his temple which floored him. Just enough time for McClelland to fire one more shot.

  Tables, chairs and mirrors were smashed in the affray and there were casualties on both sides, but thanks to Paddy most of his mob escaped serious injury, all except two. Rushing to his brother he saw the damage. Some bastard with a Stanley knife had sliced Sean’s face. From eye to chin, his face was wide open. Eighteen stitches later, no-one would ever have any trouble telling the twins apart again.

  It was almost an hour later that Mickey Kelly was found slumped behind the heavy blackout curtains. The infamous loan shark had bled to death. That last shot had done for him.

  By the time the police arrived, the bar was back to normal and apart from a dead body behind the curtains, nothing seemed amiss. Of course no-one had heard or seen anything. There was nothing to identify Kelly, his pockets having been emptied long before Mr Plod rolled up and Paddy Coyle had the key to his future securely tucked away.

  Love at First Sight

  Paddy approached a smart, end-terraced house on the outskirts of Glasgow, with well-kept gardens and a couple of cars in the drive. What the hell was he doing here? Why in God’s name had he taken it upon himself to break the news to the family? He should be at the hospital with Sean and Michael, or at home with his ma and Marie. Christ, there would be ructions over this and there would be no living with her, now that one of her predictions had actually come true.

  Hundreds of questions were racing around in his head. But the most important was, what the fuck was McClelland playing at? This was way out of his league. What could the arsehole gain by taking Micky out? Unless it was to gain control of his money-lending business, but that didn’t make sense. He was in the wrong territory and every time one of his men stepped foot in the East End they would be shot. No, it just didn’t make sense.

  He hoped there was no-one home as he rang the bell, but the hall light came on and a young woman answered the door. Jesus, where did she fall from? She was fucking gorgeous, and for a minute he forgot why he was there. Stuttering and mumbling, Paddy was lost for words. How the fuck do you tell someone their da or husband has just been murdered, especially a creature like this? Fuck, what was he doing here?

  “Can I help you?” she asked.

  “Erm, I’m sorry to bother you, but I need to speak with Mrs Kelly, please,” he managed to get out.

  “You’ll have a hard job,” smiled the girl. “She left about twelve years ago, got a better offer so I heard. I’m Bridget Kelly. Why do you want my mother?”

  “Oh, God, is there anyone else with you? A brother or sister, anyone?” He was way out of his depth.

  “And why would you want to know who is at home? If you’re a burglar or something, I’ll set the dogs on you.” At this point, a huge ginger cat waddled past on its way to the fireside.

  “Mm, it must be Rover’s night off,” she laughed.

  “I’m sorry, really I am, but it’s your da,” Paddy all but choked on the words.

  “What about my father? What’s the matter?”

  “Look, can I come in? I’m not on the rob or anything. Is there a neighbour that could come?” he asked, hoping he could get this over quickly and be on his way.

  “For God’s sake, come in. You’re starting to scare me.” She led him into a warm, comfortable lounge.

  Christ, crime certainly does pay, he thought, as he compared his shithole of a house to this place and Mad Billy Mitchell’s.

  “I think you should sit down, Miss Kelly, I’ve got bad news I’m afraid.”

  “Bad news? What’s happened? Is it my father?”

  “Look, I’m sorry, there is no good
way of telling you, but Mickey passed away earlier tonight.”

  “Passed away? What, like a heart attack or was it an accident?”

  “He was shot,” replied Paddy, who was struggling to keep his mind on the reason he’d come and desperately trying not stare at this stunning female.

  The young woman turned deathly pale. “Shot? You’re telling me he was shot? I don’t believe it. There’s been some mistake. Who are you, anyway?”

  “Miss Kelly, Bridget, I assure you there is no mistake. I work for your da. Sorry, worked for him, and I was there when it happened. The police will be here soon, you’ll have to identify the body. Surely there’s someone you could call on?”

  “No, no-one. I’m fine, you can go. Thank you for your trouble, I’ll be fine.”

  She looked like she was about to throw up at any second. Crossing the room to the drinks cabinet, Paddy poured the distraught young woman a large measure of brandy.

  “Here, drink this,” He handed her the glass and again quizzed her on her lack of family. “Have you definitely no relatives nearby?”

  “No, they’re all in Ireland and honestly, I haven’t seen them in years. Dad kept himself to himself.”

  Paddy couldn’t imagine having no-one. Mad as he got with his lot, they were close, and no matter what turned up, there would always be a shoulder to cry on. Not so for this gorgeous creature. He couldn’t go and leave her, there had to be somebody.

  “A boyfriend, mates, surely?”

  Interrupted by the sudden ringing of the phone, Paddy poured another brandy for Bridget and one for himself, and by God he could do with it. He listened to the conversation which seemed to be from one of Kelly’s collectors and certainly not the most sympathetic of mourners.

  The caller, having confirmed the devastating news, was kindly offering to take care of her late father’s business, as well as, of course, sending his condolences to the grieving family. The vultures were circling, even this quickly.