Terms of Restitution

by Denzil Meyrick

  ‘And there he is!’ Maloney walked out from behind the bar and put his big arm around Finn’s shoulders. ‘Back from the dead – well, at least a shite flat in Brixton. Worse than being dead, if you ask me.’ He laughed.

  Finn studied them one by one, these men: his inner circle. It felt as though the world had slowed to the speed of a penalty kick replay: Big Dusky was lounging on a broad sofa, a large glass of something in his hand. His features belied his name, for he was neither swarthy nor dark-haired. He’d been christened ‘Dusky’ by Finn’s mother because of his propensity not to get out of bed until the afternoon. In a Scottish winter, this meant he would be rising just as it was getting dark. He was tall, painfully thin, with a sparse thatch of what had once been auburn curls, now slicked back off his forehead. He looked at Finn with no sign of emotion on his pale face, just a questioning look.

  Big Tam Skillen was six feet tall but because he was so broad he looked shorter. He had a solid presence, something substantial – like a wall. His ruddy, square face was crowned by spiked peroxide hair, a style he’d sported since the eighties, alongside a tan that once upon a time came from a sunbed but was now more likely the product of a tanning spray booth. It was said that he’d once punched a guy clean through a door. But these and other apocryphal tales abounded in the murky depths of Paisley’s underbelly; though everyone who met him was more than convinced at first meeting they didn’t want to be on the wrong end of one of his huge fists. He was beaming at Finn; they’d always been close.

  Across the table from him was a small, rat-like figure. Davie ‘Pockets’ Kelly knew the streets like the back of his hand. He was quicker with a knife than a pen but had the mind of an accountant. He didn’t need a notebook to know what a dealer owed. He ran the drugs operation with ruthless efficiency; in another life he’d have made a brilliant CEO of a blue-chip multinational. But the men in this room had been handed no opportunity to use their natural talents in the accepted sense. They grew up on the street and now lived off it. It was the way things were.

  Donald Paton squinted at Finn over a pair of half-moon specs. He was a relic of Finn’s father’s time. Solid, dependable, he ran all the legitimate businesses, including the metalworks in which they now met. He was wearing a green cardigan over a checked shirt. His face was wrinkled, brow furrowed below a balding pate. Wearing a pair of roomy red corduroy trousers to match the rest of his attire, he would not have been out of place heading for a game of ‘doms’ at the local community centre, but of all the men in this room Finn trusted his counsel most. Paton nodded at the son of the man with whom he’d been so close; indeed, he was Finn’s godfather.

  They were all well dressed, save for Peter McKinlay. He looked as though he’d just jumped out of bed. There was fat, then there was Peter. The blue jogging bottoms he wore were bursting at the seams, his belly pendulous through a white jumper. His mousey hair stuck up in salt and pepper tufts, his pallid complexion broken up by untidy stubble. ‘The king of the castle,’ he said, as he clapped his bloated hands together. Finn couldn’t help remembering the fabulous footballer he’d been twenty-five years and twelve stones ago. But the chain of bookmakers he ran on Finn’s behalf brought in plenty.

  There was only one young man in the room: Lonesome Dove. Sandy Hamilton had been called that since his parents died in a helicopter crash when he was sixteen. Of middle height, he was lean and strong. His father had come from Jamaica in the Fifties, making Paisley his home. Sandy spent a lot of time in the gym he owned; Finn was pleased to note he hadn’t let this slip. His mother had been Zander’s second cousin and, like a real family, despite the wind-ups and banter, they’d taken Sandy to their hearts when he lost his parents. He had a team of young men under him that Finn knew he could use to sort out just about any problem. Though he’d failed in his task of steering Finn’s dead son Danny in the right direction, despite his best efforts. ‘How’s it going, Zander?’ he said, meekly.

  ‘We need a change round here,’ said Finn. They looked at him questioningly. ‘No women!’

  ‘What do you mean?’ replied Dusky. ‘I know you’ve been away, Zan. But remember, the boss is a woman, so she is.’ He stared at Finn with barely disguised irritation.

  ‘I’m the boss. You know that, Dusky.’

  ‘Not for the last two years, you’ve not been.’

  ‘Come on,’ interjected Malky Maloney. ‘The man’s just back in the fucking door. Can’t you give him a break?’

  ‘Listen – and I’m saying this to you all,’ said Finn, raising his voice. ‘Senga is out and I’m back, okay?’ He looked around the men in the room. He knew they could tell him where to go, but he was still working on the assumption they needed him. Plus, judging by Dusky’s reaction, Senga’s rule had been as unpopular as he’d imagined.

  ‘And what about Mannion?’ asked Big Tam.

  Finn thought for a moment before answering. ‘You all know what I think of Joe Mannion. That will never change. This ridiculous alliance my wife has entered into ends now!’

  Dusky snorted a laugh. ‘Which alliance are you on about? What we do, or her jumping into bed with him in that shite hotel in Glasgow at every opportunity.’

  Finn turned to Maloney. ‘What hotel?’

  ‘I’ll fill you in later.’

  He knew he’d have to do something, but Finn had no idea how he was going to be received. He walked across to the sofa on which Dusky was spread out. ‘Get up,’ said Finn.

  ‘What for?’

  ‘I said get fucking up!’ Finn grabbed the thin man by the collar of his jacket and pulled him to his feet. Nobody else in the room moved. There was absolute silence.

  ‘Hey, watch my jacket,’ shouted Dusky.

  Finn was tall, but he still had to angle his head up to stare in the face. Finn’s green eyes met the pale blue of Dusky’s. ‘You listen to me. Everything that makes you money is mine, right!’

  Dusky nodded, as much as he could in Finn’s grip.

  ‘If you want to take this outside, I’m happy to do that. I’ll kick the fuck out of you, then feed you your own withered cock. Never speak to me like I’m a piece of shite again!’ He thrust his knee into Dusky’s groin, making him yelp and double over in pain. Finn caught Dusky with a jab to the chin, sending him flying backward, a sofa breaking his fall. ‘Anybody else?’ said Finn, looking round the room.

  There were no takers.

  Paton sighed. ‘Right. We don’t need to do things this way. We shouldn’t be knocking lumps out of each other.’

  ‘Who then – the Albanians?’ Finn asked.

  Paton shrugged. ‘That’s up to you to decide.’

  ‘So you don’t trust this “pact” my wife entered into?’

  The older man shrugged. ‘Do you?’

  Before Finn could reply, Big Tam spoke. ‘I’ve had a message. From Mannion, I mean.’

  ‘Saying what? Welcome home?’

  ‘Naw. He had information. At least, Sammy Sloane had.’

  ‘About what?’ said Finn.

  Tam lowered his head. ‘About Danny.’

  ‘Tell me!’ Finn’s face was red, his eyes suddenly wild.

  ‘An Albanian boy – knocks about the Southside. He’s been saying he was one of the guys who did Danny.’

  ‘And we’re just hearing this?’

  ‘Sloane says they’ve just found out themselves.’

  Finn looked around. Dusky was still sulking on the couch, one hand covering his face, as though shading his eyes from the sun. The rest of them either failed to meet his gaze or shook their heads.

  ‘Could be a gesture. You know, with you back, Zan,’ said Maloney.

  ‘That bastard Sloane killed my father,’ said Sandy.

  Finn flicked his eyes towards the bar. ‘Somebody get me a drink, eh?’

  Maloney was quick with a large glass of whisky. He handed it to his old friend, who sat down heavily on a leather recliner, accepting it gratefully. Finn looked round the room. After a few moments, he could
see them getting restless.

  ‘If you’re going to say something, you should say it, Zan,’ said Maloney.

  ‘This Albanian. We go with Mannion’s tip-off. I want to know all he knows, okay? I don’t care how you do it, just make sure it gets done. Organise this yourselves. No doubt I’ll be the centre of attention of our wonderful Scottish Constabulary for the next few weeks.’

  ‘They’ve missed you, big man,’ said Davie Kelly, his yellowed teeth showing rodent-like over his bottom lip as he smiled.

  ‘I’m sure they have.’ Finn took a gulp of his whisky.

  13

  Maggie Finn stared at the mobile phone on her kitchen table. She desperately wanted to reach out and make the call to her eldest granddaughter. But something was stopping her. She knew it was pride, the unseen force that kept her loyal to Danny, the grandson who had been the apple of her eye.

  Her son’s return from the dead was as much of a curse as it was a blessing. Trouble followed him wherever he went – it always had. Somehow – most of the time, at least – he seemed to profit, to get stronger through all the turmoil. She reasoned that Danny’s murder had been the first true setback he’d experienced; at least, the first one that had hurt him. She worried about the consequences, now he was back.

  She didn’t know if Zander knew about the baby his eldest daughter was about to have with Mannion’s youngest son. Would it create a bond between the two families? She doubted it. But she wasn’t in the thrall of her newly returned son. It was up to her to mend as many bridges as she could.

  But now thoughts of Danny crossed her mind. It was the same black cloud she’d been fighting for so long. She closed her eyes tight and tried to think it away, but his face haunted her in dreams of the night and day.

  She picked up the phone. Maggie prided herself on her ability to use new technology. When the mill had closed, she’d ended up working in her husband’s business. Maggie had taught herself to type, to send telexes, to read balance sheets – the list went on. So mobile telephones and computers, regardless of their ‘user friendly’ complexity, presented no problem. Not that she’d been in receipt of much gratitude for her trouble.

  She scrolled down her contact list and found Sandra. Her finger wavered over the name, but she clicked on it, then the number.

  The phone rang in her ear and she nearly ended the call and switched off her phone. But Maggie bit her lip; she would do what should be done. After all, nobody else would.

  ‘Gran?’ It was so long since she’d talked to Sandra her voice sounded strange. Like looking at the face of somebody you’d known well, aged after a break of a few years.

  ‘Aye, it’s me.’

  The tone of her granddaughter’s voice changed. ‘If you’ve phoned just to give me a hard time, you can piss off.’

  ‘Charming!’

  ‘Well, it’s not as though I’ve heard much from you in the last two years.’

  ‘You’re pregnant.’

  ‘Gillian.’ The reply sounded weary.

  ‘Aye, Gillian, and don’t bother giving her a hard time because of it. She’s just being a good sister.’

  ‘Huh, what’s left of her.’

  ‘She’s lost a wee bit weight, aye.’

  ‘Gran, you don’t know the half of it.’

  ‘Why don’t you enlighten me?’

  ‘Why don’t you come and see me?’ Maggie could sense hesitation on the other end of the line. She shook her head as she reached for her cigarettes. ‘Do you think we’re going to pitch you out the window?’

  ‘I don’t know. Everything’s quiet, now this.’

  ‘Your father’s back, you know that, don’t you?’

  ‘What?’ Sandra sounded genuinely surprised.

  ‘Didn’t Big Joe tell you? Because he knows.’

  ‘Gran, we don’t see Kevin’s dad. How many times!’

  ‘Well, when are you coming up to see me?’

  ‘I don’t know. I should tell Kevin.’

  ‘He better come, too – no show without Punch. Anyway, it’s me, your gran. I’ll make egg, chips and beans? I’ve started using thon sunflower oil.’

  ‘I’ll think about it. Listen, I’ll call you tomorrow.’

  Maggie was left listening to the dialling tone. She shrugged. It didn’t seem as though egg, chips and beans were as popular with her family as they’d once been.

  *

  The young man was stocky, with a pale, round face. He was wearing a black leather jacket and a roll-neck jumper. He whistled as he crossed the car park from the bakery to his elderly Mercedes, salivating at the thought of the coffee and the steak bake. He jumped into the driver’s seat, closed the door and, removing the lid from the coffee, took a sip of the hot beverage. He was addicted to a growing list of drugs, but coffee still shouted loud when he’d gone a couple of hours without one.

  Distantly, he heard the screech of tyres but thought nothing of it. This was the Southside, probably some young guy showing off to his girlfriend in a pimped-up old banger. He heard it every day. He laughed at the thought.

  But as he took another sip, the sound grew louder.

  In a flash, a car pulled up so close to the passenger side that it knocked off the wing mirror with a thud.

  ‘You bastard!’ he swore, locating the mug holder and reaching for the door handle. But before he could leave his car, another vehicle crashed into the other side, scraping to a halt. A van drew up behind. He was trapped.

  He watched, eyes wide in terror, as men streamed from the cars either side of him. He turned round, as the back window of the saloon was smashed in by a sledgehammer.

  The scene was chaos: shouting, a man kneeling on the bonnet of his car, a gun pointed at him. Though his English was reasonably good, so many voices alongside the panic that gripped him made what they were saying unintelligible. He’d spilled the hot coffee on his trousers, where it mixed with urine as he pissed himself in fear.

  Then a gunshot. The man on the bonnet of the car fired in the air, then directed the weapon back at him. Though his ears were ringing, there was now only one voice to contend with, so he understood what was being said.

  ‘Tell me what the fuck you know about what happened to Danny Finn!’ The man’s face was distorted, bitter hatred beneath a balding head, his teeth bared as he pushed the barrel of the gun against the windscreen.

  Suddenly he felt his world collapse. He remembered trying to chat up the pretty girl behind a bar. He knew how some of his countrymen had become notorious gangsters in the city, and he was only trying to impress her with some borrowed cachet. ‘I’m a plumber, you have wrong man!’ he said, knowing that the sentence wasn’t right but desperate to relate what he had to say to his tormentors.

  ‘Okay, one last time, arsehole. Tell me what you know about what happened to Danny Finn!’

  ‘I know nothing. I was speaking shit. You have to believe me.’

  For a moment, he thought he’d got away with it. The bald man slid from the bonnet of the car and walked away, stashing the handgun in the back of his jeans. But then he remembered the others at the back of his car.

  In the rear-view mirror he saw a flash of flame, then the crump of an explosion filled his head as a fireball ripped through the car. His last memory was of trying desperately to open the passenger door and escape this hell. But there was no escape.

  As quickly as the flames spread through the Mercedes and the two cars and the old van wedged against it, men fled the scene in all directions.

  A young woman who had served the foreigner in the leather jacket only minutes before emerged from the bakery doorway, a mobile phone to her ear. Only wild, agonised screams could be heard above the noise of the flames. All she could see was a writhing figure, black behind the wheel, disappearing amidst a crackling inferno. As flames consumed the dark shadow of the man’s body, the screaming stopped.

  Just as the call to the emergency services connected, she was knocked off her feet as the petrol tanks of all three cars exp
loded. Ears ringing, she felt the sting as tiny pieces of flying glass embedded themselves in her back. When a flying hot mutton pie hit her squarely in the face, she dropped her phone and screamed.

  14

  Father Giordano had three great pleasures left in his life: good books, better wine and the wireless. Though officially retired, he spent three days every week visiting members of his old flock, now mainly in hospitals or retirement homes. From time to time he filled in for the priest who had taken his place, though he felt that this final service to the Lord would soon come to an end. Old age, creaking knees and an apathetic congregation would see to that.

  In his time, the Roman Catholic Church had seen so much pain, so many changes. In truth, even though he still wore a dog collar and his faith in God was as strong as it had ever been, he had little hope left for his church. Though he knew Pope Francis was fighting for reform, he wondered how one man could effect sufficient change in order to stop the whole ship from sinking. Maybe it would be like previous times, with alternative pontiffs springing up in other parts of the world to save the Holy Church. Maybe in South America, Africa perhaps – places where people, untainted by the tin gods of technology and greed, still believed.

  As he leaned over to the table at his side, he shook his head at the perilous state of the world. The planet being destroyed: wars and rumours of wars; the young rising up, not against their parents but to try and rescue some kind of future. Is this how it would all end?

  If Christ was to return to save the world, now would be a good time. But would Christ want anything to do with the hearts and minds of so many people lost to sin? But, of course, no one was without sin. He knew that. Maybe that was the point of it all.

  His mind was still wrestling with these vexing subjects when the old radio crackled into life. He knew he should buy a new one, but this wireless had been his companion for so many years he felt it would be like turning his back on an old friend if he were to replace it.