Terms of Restitution

by Denzil Meyrick

  A rumpus at the bar caught his attention. The barmaid had refused to serve the young men and they weren’t happy.

  ‘Fuck you, you old whore. I’m phoning Bradley. He’ll fucking sort this, that’s for sure.’ He spat the words across the bar at her, his face twisted with anger.

  ‘You can phone who you like. You’re drunk, and I’m not serving you any more. I’d be grateful if you left the bar, please – both of you.’

  Finn admired her pluck. The barmaid was by no means a big woman, and both of her truculent customers were well over six feet tall, their aggression spurred on by alcohol.

  ‘Just do what the woman asks, eh?’ said Finn, his voice raised, though he was still looking blankly out of the window.

  ‘Oi, stripey heid, mind your own fucking business.’ The pair laughed at the Mallen streak in Finn’s hair.

  Finn snorted a dismissive laugh. ‘Just get to fuck, you spotty bastard. Don’t you know lager is bad for your complexion? Take my advice and away and find some Germolene and a glass of water.’

  In a split second, they were at his table. The more aggressive of the two had blond hair and a gold ring through his nose. ‘We’ll give you two minutes to get to fuck, stripey.’ He pushed the table into Finn’s midriff.

  ‘Okay, keep the head,’ said Finn. He stood up, his hands in the air in mock surrender. ‘I’m out of here.’ He winked at the barmaid, as he walked from behind the table.

  The blond stuck his face into Finn’s. They were around the same height. ‘Aye, fuck off, you fucking oddity, man.’ Flecks of his saliva showered the gangster’s face.

  In one quick movement, Finn hooked his right index finger through the nose ring and pulled hard, sending the youth screaming to the floor, blood pouring down his face. His friend produced a knife from his pocket but was too slow. Finn cracked his whisky glass off the table, then jabbed it into the boy’s cheek, where it left a large gash. The youth staggered back and fell over a table.

  Finn leaned over him, his foot on the younger man’s throat. ‘You should listen to people who know better than you, arsehole.’ He continued pressing down with his boot on the wide-eyed youth’s throat as the groans from his companion filled the room. ‘And that means just about everybody.’ Finn pulled back and walked away, leaving his erstwhile tormentor gasping for breath.

  He threw a few large denomination notes onto the bar. ‘For the damage, and your trouble. I apologise.’

  ‘No need to say sorry. I enjoyed every minute of that,’ said the barmaid, with a smile.

  Leaving the young men writhing on the floor, Finn walked back into the bustle and noise of the city street. A few yards away, the old woman in the tattered raincoat was trying her luck in another bin, passers-by looking on with distaste as she fumbled through the detritus of others in search of something – anything – to eat.

  ‘Here, take this.’ Finn handed her a wad of twenty-pound notes. ‘Go and get some clothes and something to eat, love.’

  The old tramp mashed her toothless mouth. ‘God blesh you, son.’

  As Finn walked away, he heard the words of Father Giordano in his head.

  Money won’t buy you a place in heaven, my son.

  Finn was sure that nothing would buy him a place in heaven, never mind money. He continued down the road, noticing its name on the side of a building. ‘Hope Street’. How ironic, he thought.

  42

  Gramoz Makur ended the call. At least Jotir was still safe, and on his way. His right-hand man knew exactly what to do in such circumstances. So did he. For Makur, planning was all, and he rarely left anything to chance. Of course, in his line of work, risks had to be taken, but they were normally calculated.

  Though he’d lost the bulk of his men – good men – there was no shortage of eager and willing replacements back in Albania. They may not know the lie of the land, but they would soon learn. They would also kill. It was now very clear that Makur was in a war with Zander Finn. The thought of this wasn’t particularly troubling. He regretted the loss of the men in a purely strategic sense. He knew, or cared, little for their lives. Though he would be sure to be generous to their families back home. He had a benevolent image to maintain. Few men would travel to a foreign land to fight for a man who would abandon their families if things went wrong. In Albania, family came first, money second.

  As for his own safety, he had little concern. He’d made sure his wife and children were safely ensconced in a remote cottage on his Aberdeen estate. But this felt ultra-cautious. Almost nobody knew he was from Albania, never mind the boss of a crime family. He was hiding in plain sight and doing it well.

  Nonetheless, his sense of caution, which he’d brought from his time in the army, and the study of the great generals of history, told him to be on the move.

  Despite the size of the house, Makur made sure he could travel light, and at a moment’s notice. The fact that he wasn’t already on the road spoke volumes as to how safe he felt.

  He was the man from somewhere who did something with green energy. He’d been friendly and generous to his neighbours. He’d hosted parties for his children and their schoolmates. He’d sung songs, played the fool. He’d loaned money to Gavin, his closest neighbour, to enable him to fix his antiquated and leaking roof. He’d even given generously to the church, despite his reservations as to the merits of Presbyterianism.

  The fact that Gramoz Makur was a ruthless, brutal criminal mastermind, responsible for the murder and misery of so many, was a taint only visible to God.

  But it was time to go to ground, to make sure, to be safe. To plan retaliation from which his enemies could never recover.

  Everything he needed would fit into two bags, a laptop case and backpack. Makur took the flash drive from his laptop and slid it into a pocket in his jacket. Carefully, he placed the computer into his the bag, which also contained some paper documents, two chargers and his iPad.

  In the backpack, he had some clothes, medication for various ailments he’d picked up over the years, bank cards and a large wad of cash. You could trust cash, and he’d made sure the notes were issued by the Bank of England. If you stayed in Scotland, it was fine. Most Scottish banks issued their own, but he’d noticed how sniffy some traders south of the border were when presented with a ‘Scotch’ note.

  There were only two items left on his desk: his burner phone, and a Glock 19. He’d always liked the weapon. It was compact and powerful, and he had extra ammunition already in the backpack. After all, you couldn’t be too careful.

  He made sure the phone was off and put it into his pocket. The Glock, he slid into the discreet shoulder holster, more than disguised by the bulky down climbing jacket he was wearing.

  Makur heard a call from downstairs. ‘Jotir, I’m just coming down.’ He noted the familiar voice reply, made one last check of his desk and headed for the old oak staircase. Even from here, he could hear the reassuring tick of the old clock.

  As he made his way down the stairs, he could see Jotir standing in the large hall, near the front door, for which he had a key. His trusty lieutenant looked pale, even at this distance. No wonder, reasoned Makur. The man had lost many good friends in the attack by the Paisley mob. And though vengeance burned in his soul, he was better able to hide his true feelings than the lieutenant he had mentored since their army days. However, there was nobody he trusted more.

  ‘Let me wind the clock before we go.’ Jotir was framed in the grey light of the open doorway. Gramoz saw him nod in reply and walked down the hall to where the grandfather clock stood.

  ‘Listen, I know how you must feel. I feel it too, don’t ever think otherwise. But the good thing is that we are alive. We will mourn those we lost; we will toast their memory. But we must go on, you know that. We will have revenge.’

  It was with pleasure that he opened the casement of the old clock once more and reached for the big key. He ran his hand down the walnut veneer. ‘For now, old friend, it is goodbye.’

  Before he
inserted the key into the winding mechanism, he slipped the backpack from his shoulder and left it on the floor beside the computer case. As he began to wind, he heard footsteps approach. ‘The car key fob is on the table behind me, Jotir. You drive. I had too much to drink last night, thinking of our fallen comrades.’

  The solid click as he wound up the clock was as satisfactory as usual. It was a ritual he enjoyed. But this winding would only last a couple of days at best. Then the clock would fall silent. For some reason, this made him feel unutterably sad. It was like saying goodbye to an old friend.

  The first shot hit Makur in the back of the head, propelling him into the clock he loved so much. The next three thudded into his back, making great black holes in his light blue jacket. A single goose feather rose up and then fell slowly to the floor. Soon, like a little boat, it was carried on a gathering pool of dark blood, as the stricken man lay dead, half on the floor, half in the clock. The last swing of the pendulum he so admired hit him in the side of the head. But for Gramoz Makur, time had already stopped.

  Three men stood over Jotir now. He was on his knees in the plush hallway, the blood of his master slowly seeping like a pool towards him on the black-and-white tile floor.

  ‘Fuck you!’ he shouted. The same words in Tosk, his native tongue, were forming in his head, but before he could give them life, his was gone with two sharp shots to the head and one to the heart.

  Jotir’s body slumped forward, and soon, as it had for centuries in the far-away Albanian village, his blood mixed with that of Gramoz Makur.

  43

  Senga Finn pulled herself off Joe Mannion. She could feel her heart pounding in her chest. A film of cooling sweat covered her following her exertions.

  They were in a nondescript chain motel in Edinburgh, far from the prying eyes of Paisley and Glasgow. The room was clean and modern, and she preferred it to the squalid hotel that had, hitherto, been the venue for their secret liaisons. But it, thanks to her husband, was gone.

  She slumped by Mannion’s side, but as she tried to place her head on his heaving chest he pushed her away.

  ‘What’s wrong?’ she asked, propping herself up on one elbow.

  ‘I can’t breathe, that’s what. You’ll need to give me some space, woman.’

  ‘Oh, I am sorry. I should have remembered I’m fucking an old man.’ She rolled to the other side of the bed and grabbed a pack of cigarettes and a lighter.

  ‘You can’t smoke in here,’ said Mannion.

  ‘Says who?’

  ‘Says me and Premier Inns, that’s who.’ He grabbed the cigarette packet from her and crushed it in his big hand.

  ‘Why did you do that, you miserable old bastard?’

  ‘Because we came all the way over here so we wouldn’t attract attention to ourselves, remember? When you set the fire alarms off, the whole of Edinburgh will be clocking us.’

  ‘Oh, the drama.’

  ‘It’s not drama.’ He paused. ‘Anyway, I need to talk to you about something.’

  ‘Don’t tell me you’ve got crabs.’

  ‘Fuck off! How is it you’ve such a twisted mind?’

  ‘Spending too much time with arseholes from the East End of Glasgow, likely.’

  He grabbed her wrist. ‘I’m being serious. We have to talk.’

  ‘Let go, you old bastard.’ She struggled from his grip. ‘Say what you want to say, but don’t grab me like that again!’

  ‘Listen, sorry. But I need to get your attention.’

  ‘Here we go.’

  ‘I can’t do this any more.’

  ‘What, fuck me?’

  ‘Exactly.’

  ‘Frightened of your wee wizened wife? I know your balls aren’t very big, but I thought they were bigger than that.’

  Mannion thought for a moment. ‘What do you mean, my balls aren’t very big?’

  She shrugged. ‘I’ve seen bigger, that’s all.’

  ‘No doubt gained from your wide experience of bollock sizes, eh? When you’ve shagged half the men from here to Paisley, you’ll be an expert, I’m sure.’

  ‘Fuck you! If you think I’m going to get all teary-eyed that you and me aren’t going to walk off into the sunset, well, think again. I’ll soon find some young buck that can go all night, not some broken down old codger.’

  ‘You see, that’s just why this has to stop. I don’t want to keep you back from enjoying the company of someone your own age.’ He pushed himself up in the bed. ‘Mind you, don’t you think you’re being a wee bit optimistic about picking up some “young buck”? I might not be old, but you’re no spring chicken either, darling.’

  Senga Finn didn’t reply. She just lay back in the bed and looked at the ceiling, a blank expression on her face. ‘You know what, just you get to fuck. I’m going to stay here another night, go out on the town, pick up some guy, bring him back here and fuck his brains out in this bed.’

  ‘Aye, good luck with that, Senga. Take it from me, you don’t look at your best when you’ve had a drink. So if I was you, I’d stick to orange juice before you try and pick up some guy.’ He slid his feet onto the floor. ‘Fuck this, I’m having a shower, then I’m going back to Glasgow.’

  ‘Aye, you do that, you withered old cunt.’ She bit her lip as she watched him pad across the room to the shower. From behind, he looked like a partially deflated balloon from a children’s party – all wrinkled and misshapen. ‘By the way, I was faking it – aye, every time!’

  ‘Who cares. I wasn’t.’ Mannion closed the bathroom door and soon she heard the patter of water from the shower.

  Senga shook her head. ‘Bastard,’ she said under her breath, as she scanned the floor for her clothes.

  She noticed the mobile phone sitting on the nightstand on his side of the bed. As the steady drip of water still sounded from the shower, she stretched over and picked it up. Her first thought was to take a picture of herself and send it from Mannion’s phone to his wife. She smiled wickedly at this prospect. Senga knew he hadn’t set a password on the phone because he’d told her he could never remember it. And, being an older model, she didn’t have to worry about Face ID or fingerprint scanners. She knew it wasn’t the burner phone he used for ‘business’, but still, it would be a tool for her revenge. Sure enough, it opened like a dream. The home screen was a picture of his granddaughter.

  He was humming in the shower now, so instead of taking the photograph she decided to look through his emails. There seemed to be nothing interesting: the usual come-ons from online companies, and trash, along with the odd anodyne email from his wife. She was about to flick off the emails when one caught her attention.

  When Senga opened it, it took her breath away. She dropped the phone on the bed like a hot coal, just as she heard the shower turn off. Quickly, she switched Mannion’s phone off and returned it to the nightstand.

  Seconds later, the elderly gangster reappeared, wrapped in a large bath towel.

  ‘Just get changed and get to fuck,’ said Senga, trying her best to sound casual.

  ‘My pleasure.’

  She looked on as he dressed.

  As he slipped on his jacket he caught her eye. ‘All good things come to an end, Senga. Like you say, you’ll soon find somebody else.’

  ‘Oh, I’m heartbroken – not!’

  He shrugged. ‘It wasn’t all bad, eh?’

  Senga looked away.

  Mannion threw a few items into a holdall, picked up his phone from the nightstand, snapped on his gold watch and left the room. Nothing else passed between them.

  As soon as he left, Senga rushed to the toilet and was copiously sick. When she’d emptied the contents of her stomach, she rinsed her mouth. Her hand was trembling so much that some of the water fell onto her bare feet.

  Senga leaned on the sink and took deep breaths. Then the tears began to flow.

  *

  Mannion was halfway along the M8 towards Glasgow when his phone rang. His son had set it up to automatically connect to t
he car’s Bluetooth, so all he had to do was press a button on the steering wheel. It was his wife.

  ‘Hello, dear.’

  ‘Where are you, Joe?’

  ‘Just on the motorway. I had some business in Edinburgh. Glad to be heading back home, to be honest. What’s up? You sound tense.’

  ‘Sammy, he’s driving me mad with phone calls. He’s been trying to get you.’

  Mannion realised that he’d left the phone he used for business switched off in the glove box. He knew Sammy Sloane well enough to reckon that, more than likely, something insignificant had happened. Sammy was known to panic at the least thing when his boss wasn’t around. ‘No worries, I’ll drop into the Iron Horse on the way back. Likely the Guinness is off or something. You know what he’s like.’

  ‘It sounded urgent, Joey.’

  ‘Ach, I’m sure. I’ll see you at about six, okay?’

  ‘Yeah, bye, love. Hope you had a good meeting.’

  He clicked off the phone without a reply. Gangster and serial philanderer he may be, but Mannion wasn’t immune to bouts of guilt when he’d been unfaithful to his wife. After all, she came as a package with his children and grandchildren, and that was important to him.

  He thought back to Senga Finn, spitting fury in the motel room. Well rid, he considered. Sure, she was attractive to look at, but coming events would render what relationship they had impossible. In any case, she had a deeply unattractive side to her personality, and Mannion had more than his fair share of unattractive personalities to deal with.

  He looked at the time on the dashboard. With any luck he’d miss the start of the rush hour and be at the Iron horse in just over thirty minutes. He turned on the stereo and cruised in the middle lane to the soothing tones of Frank Sinatra.

  *

  Senga was dressed now. With still trembling hands, she was dialling on her phone.

  First she tried her husband, but his mobile was switched off. Her next thought was to try Chancellor Fabrications, but nobody of consequence was around. She called Donnie Paton’s mobile number: at last, an answer.