London
Though Malky had booked flights back to Scotland, Zander Finn wasn’t keen. He hated flying, for a start, but Glasgow airport was basically on Paisley’s doorstep – and his reputation went before him. If he was going to return home, he would do so as quietly as possible. So Malky hired a car.
They’d spent the previous evening enjoying a bottle of whisky, doing as friends do, remembering the good old days. Now in the cold light of a grim Brixton morning those rosy tales of the past seemed somehow diminished. Finn wondered just why anyone had seen fit to build the ugly block of flats opposite. Gone, the headiness of the spirit that came in a glass, replaced by what existed in the space between the ears.
Nursing his second mug of tea, he looked across the grey rooftops as his old friend snored loudly on the sofa. There was so much to be considered, not least his life.
In a way, he felt ashamed. He closed his eyes tightly to banish the tears as he remembered the sleek black hearse that contained his son’s coffin. The wreaths that spelled out ‘Danny Boy’, not quite obscuring the dark cocoon within which his child would lie for eternity, made him recoil in a way he’d never done before at death.
He should have taken revenge; he should have buried his son and taken a life for a life. But Finn was sick of death and destruction. He liked money, of that there was no doubt, but the murder of the heir he was grooming to take over the family ‘business’ cost his soul more than any fortune could replace.
As soon as the funeral cortege entered the gates of Paisley’s Woodside Crematorium, he’d made up his mind to wash it all away, to leave, never to return.
Having a normal job had been strange. He hadn’t worked since his days managing one of his father’s pubs in the town’s west end. Even then, he’d been the boss, so being told what to do was a new and at first somewhat unnerving experience.
But as power brought responsibility, the opposite was also true. Eventually, he enjoyed getting out of bed without a mental list of things to do. He even revelled in helping others. Basically, he drove the elderly and infirm to day centres, hospital appointments, doctors’ surgeries and a long list of other destinations. With his natural bonhomie and the quick-fire banter he’d acquired on the streets of his home town, he soon found himself the most popular of all the drivers, the majority of whom found the whole thing deathly dull and did it only for the pittance of a wage that was their reward.
Yes, he had found it strange to live on so little, but he’d always enjoyed the security of the big bag of laundered cash he’d brought with him in case of a rainy day. Anyway, he had all he needed: somewhere to lay his head, enough to eat and the odd dram or two to enjoy. He didn’t need a car in London; that was nothing but a hindrance. He went most places by bus, or occasionally the tube.
Of course, there were those who tried to mark their territory – even in the world of patient transport. For a short while Finn had ignored the barbs of the fat man with the shaven head and the National Front tattoos hidden under his uniform. But inevitably the man had gone too far. The joke had been about a dead black kid. It wasn’t directed at him – unlike the undermining references to ‘Hey, Jocko’, or ‘What have you got under that kilt, you Scotch bastard?’ – but the tastelessness of it all had galvanised him to action.
Finn waited for the man outside the boozer his colleague frequented and took his eye out with a broken bottle.
As he left his erstwhile tormentor screaming in a side street the old rush had returned, but he soon managed to force the genie back into the bottle. One brief memory of the ruined body of his son disappearing into the crematoria flames was more than enough to banish the feeling.
‘Hey, where’s my tea, Zander?’ said Malky Maloney, his voice still slurred by a mixture of sleep and residual alcohol.
‘In the fucking teabag! What do you think this is, room service?’
‘Nice to see you’re back to your old self.’
‘You think?’
Maloney shrugged. ‘You’ll need to be.’
Finn drained his mug of tea. ‘Listen, I’ve had a change of mind, Malky.’
‘Come on, Zander. You telling me you’re going to abandon your family, friends – everybody?’
‘Why shouldn’t I? What have any of you done for me, apart from pocket the large sums of money I’ve deposited in your banks?’
Maloney looked suddenly hurt. ‘Thanks,’ he said with a sigh.
‘I don’t mean you.’
‘So you mean Gillian, Robbie, Senga – Sandra? Aye, she does still exist, by the way.’
Finn looked at the man in his underpants on the sofa. ‘We don’t talk about that, remember?’
‘Ach, catch a hold of yourself, man! She’s your daughter. Is losing one son not enough?’
For a few moments Finn balled his fists, his face reddening with anger. But soon it passed. ‘You’re the only man that ever told me the truth, Malky.’
‘Somebody has to.’
‘I know.’ He walked across the room to a small sink beside which sat a kettle. Finn filled it and clicked the switch. ‘I never asked you about Dusky, Big Tam and the rest. I suppose they take their orders from my wife now, do they?’
‘Aye, but they’re not happy about it. I’m sure you can picture the scene.’
‘I can. They won’t respect me any more.’
‘They will, Zander.’ Maloney produced a stiletto knife from his sock, flicking the vicious-looking polished blade out. ‘They’ll respect you or they’ll get this. In any case, they’re all shit scared. You’ve no idea.’
‘How can things change so quickly?’
‘First off, we were all too busy fighting amongst ourselves.’
‘Secondly?’
‘There was nobody steering the ship.’
‘I thought Senga had the wheel.’
‘She has the cash . . .’ Maloney gestured dismissively.
‘Okay, I’ll do it. But it’s not a long-term arrangement. We see off these Albanians, and I get a settlement.’
‘Whatever you say, boss.’
‘And another thing.’
‘What?’
‘I want to go and see Robbie on the way up. Get your tea and get dressed. Time to go.’
As Malky Maloney padded across the floor towards the boiling kettle in his vest and pants, Zander Finn looked back out the window at the grey buildings and the greyer sky.
‘Fuck this,’ he said to himself.
4
Stanford Hall
There was the inevitable security check as they approached the entrance to the grand-looking building where Robbie was recuperating. Maggie Finn searched through her handbag for the driving licence she always carried these days. You could barely buy a cup of coffee now without some kind of photo ID. Soon, they were escorted to the car park and given passes on blue lanyards that read ‘Visitor’ in broad, bold letters.
Maggie hated hospitals. She’d watched her parents waste away with cancer in the old Beatson hospital in Glasgow, then endured the final moments of her brother Bobby’s life in the Royal Alexandra in Paisley. As medical staff had tried to resuscitate him, she’d known it was over – his second heart attack in as many days.
He’d had enough time in-between to point out a nurse who had chastised him for letting his piss bottle overflow, soiling the sheets. Maggie had almost cried herself when her brother – a man who had terrified those who’d had the nerve to stand in his path – burst into tears and told her that the nurse had made him stand while she took her time to find new sheets and make his bed, making no secret of what had happened.
Most grieving siblings would have spent the moments after their brother’s death in inconsolable misery, or at least quiet reflection on lives shared. Maggie, on the other hand, exacted natural justice by locating the nurse and breaking her nose with a head-butt.
Maggie Finn wasn’t like most grieving siblings.
This time round, walking down the long corridors to see Robbie, a man nam
ed after his grandfather, she felt nothing but misery and bitter regret. The family – even his useless mother – had tried so hard to dissuade Robbie from joining the army. Quietly, she had admired her grandson’s determination to do something good, but she reckoned she knew the reality of what he was about to face. At least he was still alive. She knew there were many others who’d stood proudly at passing-out parades but weren’t so lucky.
‘Good morning, ladies. I’m Captain Fairfield. I’m looking after Sergeant Finn.’
Maggie eyed up the impossibly young-looking man, as her granddaughter gushed over him. ‘Would he not be better in the care of a doctor rather than a captain?’ she said, waspishly.
Fairfield laughed nervously. ‘Of course I am a doctor, too.’
‘Well, why not just say that? If I need my boat steering, I’ll find a captain. If my leg falls off, I’ll need a doctor.’
‘Gran!’ exclaimed Gillian, looking embarrassed.
‘I’m not that kind of captain, Mrs, erm—’
‘Mrs Finn, captain – doctor, whatever you are. I’m Robbie’s grandmother. This is his sister Gillian and her friend Chrissie.’
‘Kirsty,’ corrected Gillian.
Ignoring this, Maggie carried on. ‘Well, ahoy then, or whatever it is we do. I want to see my boy.’
‘Yes, of course – this way, please.’ He led them down a corridor, the doors of some of the rooms closed, others open. ‘This section is where most of our leg amputees are billeted.’
‘Billited? Would “treated” no’ be a better word?’ said Maggie.
‘Ha! You have the right of it there, Mrs Finn. Old habits, and all that.’
Gillian glared at her grandmother balefully.
‘Here we are, two hundred and thirteen – Sergeant Finn’s room.’ He knocked gently at the door. A weak response sounded from within.
London
Once on the motorway, it didn’t take Zander Finn and Malky Maloney long to leave the suburbs of London behind. Finn stared out at the scenery, happy to let Maloney drive, despite his sore head. His own mouth was dry, not prompted by the alcohol of the previous evening but the thought of visiting his remaining son.
They passed a large blue sign that simply read, ‘The North’. It was as though ahead lay some strange foreign land. From what he’d experienced of London, that might be appropriate, he thought. There was little doubt that Paisley and London were further apart culturally and socially than they were in terms of mere miles.
But Paisley wasn’t the first stop. The satnav blared out another instruction, sending them in the general direction of Loughborough.
‘You okay, Zan?’ said Maloney.
‘Aye, I suppose I am.’
‘There’s services in about five miles. I could fair go a coffee – we’ve got loads of time, big man.’
‘Okay, I’m parched myself, Malky.’
Maloney stared across at his old friend. He looked grey in the face – older somehow. He remembered their youth: football, pubs, girls – in his opinion it had been an easier life back then. Nowadays kids were surrounded with shit they didn’t need and served them only to lead more and more isolated lives. The world was a strange place. But he’d always known that.
‘Got a hold of some great knock-off smartphones from a guy in Aberdeen, Zander.’
‘Oh aye.’ The reply distinctly lacked interest.
Maloney persevered. ‘Come from Korea. They just look like real iPhones, but we get them for a tenner a whip and sell them for three hundred.’
‘What happens when your unhappy customers return?’
‘I’m not stupid. We punt them at car boot sales, markets. By the time they realise they’ve bought a load of shite our boys are back on the road. We use a real one to demonstrate, tell them the rest have to be charged up.’
‘So you don’t sell in Paisley?’
‘You think I’m daft. Remember they tellies?’
For the first time Finn smiled. ‘The ones we shrink-wrapped?’
‘Aye, they’d nothing inside but a bit of concrete block wedged in at the bottom to give them some heft – classic.’
‘Remember the guy from Well Street?’
‘Aye! He brought his back round the pub and hit big Dusky over the head with it. Man, that was funny.’
‘Just as well he’d taken the concrete out.’
‘That head of Dusky’s could stop a plane, Zander. Anyway, I doubt he ever returned any faulty goods again.’
Finn remembered the aftermath. Dusky had dragged the man the length of the street and pitched him into the White Cart. ‘That was just before the curfew, mind?’
‘Aye, I mind. If you were in a pub after nine you had to stay there or go home. You couldn’t enter another licensed premises. We always locked the door at Jiggy’s at eight, remember?’
‘That was a good law.’
Maloney steered into the slow lane before the cut-off for the services.
Zander Finn felt buoyed by the memories. It hadn’t all been bad: broken bones, slashed faces, gunshot wounds – and worse. But, he reflected, most people got what they deserved. If you don’t like the game, don’t play it, his father had always said. He’d been right. But people always wanted more, and some got more than they bargained for.
*
‘Gran, how are you?’ said Robbie Finn, trying to force himself up the bed with the aid of Doctor Fairfield.
‘In the name of fuck, what have you done to my grandson?’ Maggie looked at the wasted, pale figure lying in the specially adapted bed. Gone was the big lump of a boy she’d known, replaced by a shadow. His cheeks were hollowed, eyes sunken, seemingly lacking any hope.
‘He’s doing well, Mrs Finn. We’re very proud of him,’ said Fairfield, using a hand-held control to adjust the bed.
‘What do the ones that’s not doing so good look like, eh? Do you get fed, Robbie?’
‘Aye, Gran, the scran’s not too bad. Just I’ve not got much of an appetite right now. You know, what with everything and that.’
‘Why’s your eye twitching?’
‘Gran, will you just shut up!’ shouted Gillian. ‘Robbie, it’s great to see you.’ She leaned across her brother and hugged him awkwardly. As she drew back, she realised she’d patted flat the place where his right leg should have been and apologised quietly.
‘There’s nearly bugger all to see! Here, captain, I want a word with you, my friend.’ Maggie grabbed the doctor by the arm and ushered him back into the doorway. ‘Why didn’t you tell us Robbie was dying?’ she whispered angrily.
‘He isn’t, Mrs Finn.’ Fairfield paused. ‘But he’s still suffering from shock – that’s why his eye is twitching. I’m sorry to say this, but you’ll have to be gentler with him. He’s going through a very important transition phase right now. Physically, he’s well, but . . .’ His voice tailed off.
‘What are you saying – he’s lost it?’
‘No, not at all. He’s just a bit fragile, that’s all. What happened to him, well, it’s a shock to the whole system, you must understand.’
‘Aye, I understand fine. One minute you’re standing on two legs, the next you can see one thirty feet away. I’m not bloody stupid!’
‘Do your grandson a favour, Mrs Finn. Be good to him, yes?’
Something about his stern look gave Maggie Finn pause for thought. ‘Aye, aye, captain – but you better not be steering for the rocks, you hear me?’
5
The Iron Horse, Glasgow
The bar in Glasgow’s East End was busy for a Tuesday afternoon, but it was half price drinks day, so every Tuesday was the same. A bald man sat at a badly out-of-tune piano, murdering his version of ‘Sweet Caroline’, while another pair of elderly men squared up to each other over a game of cards.
At a table near the less-than-fragrant toilets sat three women of a certain age. Their glasses were full, not half empty, the opposite of their heads. They sang along merrily to the song as a man in a flat cap capered at thei
r side, a half bottle of whisky sticking out of the pocket of his threadbare jacket. The barman looked bored as he rang the till then went back to watching the horse racing, the rolling news channel of choice in the Iron Horse.
‘Here, Jenny,’ said one of the old women to her companion sitting nearest the toilet door. ‘You’ve had a wee accident, so you have. Aye, and your wig’s at a fair cant.’
‘What are you calling me, Ina, you old bitch?’
Ina raised her voice. ‘I’m saying your wig’s at a cant and, well – take a look under the table.’
Jenny attempted to straighten her wig, but went too far. Now it was skewed to the other side. She then peered blinkingly at the faded red linoleum that served as the pub’s floor covering. ‘Fuck me, I’ve pished myself!’ she announced, much to the amusement of her friends.
The capering man knelt forward, swaying, hands on knees, to have a look at the floor underneath their table.
‘You’re a clatty old bugger, right enough, eh?’ However, happy hour had taken its toll and, having leaned too far forward, he lost his balance, pitched forward, his head narrowly missing the bottom of the table but sliding right into the pool of warm urine on the lino. ‘Oh, you bastard!’ he exclaimed, as he tried to get back to his feet.
‘Who’s the clatty bastard now, Willie Pollock?’ said Ina. ‘If you were a woman of our age, we’d be swimming in piss. You can’t laugh or blow your nose but you’re in trouble, let me tell you.’
‘You can say that again,’ said Jenny.
‘Here, Pavel, Jenny’s had a wee accident, can you bring over the mop and bucket?’
‘I should have stayed in Poland,’ muttered Pavel to himself as he reached under the bar for a bucket.
‘S-w-e-et C-a-r-o-l-i-n-e!’ The man at the piano ended the song with an extended flourish. He looked round, but all he saw was Jenny McKay, a damp stain on her light skirt, being helped into the toilet by her friend, while Pavel the barman mopped under the table unenthusiastically. To his left, Tam Wheelan sent his mate Andy Clark flying off his chair with a neat right hook, cards and a cribbage board toppling onto the floor. ‘Thon fucking Elton John doesn’t suffer this shite – aye, and we’re the same age,’ he said to Pavel as he passed by with the bucket and mop. ‘I might as well just play a tune and give my gums a rest.’ He reached into his mouth and pulled out his bottom set of false teeth with a sigh of satisfaction.
Terms of Restitution Page 3
