No-one had paid any attention to the car that had pulled up behind the van, not until the three men emerged, all with shotguns, all wearing balaclavas. First there was a shot through the windscreen. Next the back door was blown off its hinges and finally the interior took the remainder of the shots. Only the chimes survived.
Her dress, oh, look at her lovely dress. Had she spilled something on it? The red stain was getting bigger. People were screaming. Where was Auntie Marie? What was wrong with Jamesie? Father Jack had fallen down; everything was strange. She wanted her da. Where was her da?
Canon O’Farrell was the only person not taken by surprise.
The Raid
Although loathe to leave the party, Paddy made off with his twin brothers, Sean and Michael, in one car and wee Davie and Mark in another. The rest of the boys, most of whom had enjoyed the free bar, were scrabbling about looking for lifts.
The Coyles, being a close-knit family, always had each other’s backs. But physically and temperamentally they were as different as chalk and cheese.
Patrick, the eldest, stood at 6’2” and was as broad as he was tall. He was a handsome devil who exuded dominance and no-one ever disputed his authority. He was well named ‘The Big Man’.
‘The Twins’, as they were always referred to, had the stocky build of the typical Glaswegian. At 5’10”, whilst certainly not small, they were dwarfed by their older brother. Like most identical twins they seemed to be joined at the hip.
Michael was the quieter of the two, the thinker. He was a wizard with figures and was the number man of the firm. He could calculate to the nearest pound what any business should be taking, and heaven help the man who said otherwise.
Sean was the party animal; he knew where everything was happening, the latest ‘in-places’ and who was selling what in every club. It seemed like he spent his time chasing skirt and having a good time, but he missed nothing and whatever situations he did get into with irate husbands or boyfriends, he simply blamed them on his brother. Only their mother, sister and Paddy could actually tell them apart. Together, the family ran the East End of Glasgow − pubs, clubs, saunas and vans. They were a force to be reckoned with.
The Coyle boys, like most of their contemporaries, had had a hard upbringing and learned the rules of the street before they could walk. Their father, Seamus, was a handsome genial seaman, often absent for months on end. Money was sporadic and haphazard which meant Lizzie and the boys continually lived on the edge. Eventually, lo and behold, the wanderer would return and it would be the land of milk and honey, but only for a while.
Every night was party night for Seamus; the house was full of food, drink and hangers-on. He would hold court with tales of his adventures which almost always involved being drunk and stuck in foreign prisons. Everyone loved the bones of him. He was great company and would give a body his last penny. But it was hard for Lizzie to watch the stupid arse buy his popularity. The money being squandered could keep her and his sons for months.
The man was generous to a fault, but when Seamus had drunk and gambled what little there was, the wanderlust would once again grab him. Full of promises to send money every week and to sign on for shorter trips, the family waved him off, hearing the same old promises and knowing he had no real thought for his family or how they would cope until his next leave.
On his last trip to the Far East he had simply failed to report for duty and had never been seen or heard of since. The consensus of opinion was that he’d been drunk and fallen overboard or, like one of the
tales he spun, he was being held captive in some far-off jail. Either one, without proof, meant the shipping company would not pay out any compensation
or insurance money, which meant the family found themselves in an even worse financial crisis
than usual and, yet again, left to struggle in the proverbial . . .
Life had been desperate, to say the least. There was no money coming in and a new baby was on the way − a parting gift from Seamus’ last home visit. No food in the house, no coal for a fire and they were reduced to burning what few sticks of furniture they had left. Lizzie had exhausted all channels of help. So, at the tender age of fourteen, it fell to Paddy to feed the family. He took any job he could. He worked from early morning, delivering milk, then on to delivering bags of coal and logs for the local fuel merchant.
Few grown men could carry the hundredweight bags, but these were nothing to the big lad. He would toss them over his shoulder as though they were full of feathers and easily run up four flights of stairs.
To top his week off he acted as a bookie’s runner on a Saturday. It was this job that taught Paddy a valuable lesson, and one he never forgot − gambling was the curse of the working man. In the first few weeks of working for ‘Bent Harry’, the turf accountant, he listened to all the tales of glory. Men who had never had more than a fiver to spare would win hundreds, sometimes thousands, but forgot about the thousands they had lost over the years.
“If Shenanigan’s Lad had come in at 50:1, I’d have 100K.”
“Put your shirt on Pure Dead Cert, he can’t lose.”
“Got it from the horse’s mouth.”
Three weeks on the trot he went home with nothing. Listening to the get-rich-quick promises, and having gambled all of what he earned, Paddy Coyle never placed another bet in his life.
Between his wages and tips, the young lad probably earned nearly as much as the average man twice his age, and while they were not living in the lap of luxury he managed to keep a roof over their heads and put food on the table, but there was nothing left over for extras.
Even at such a tender age Paddy promised himself that life wouldn’t always be like this. One day he’d make his mark, one day there would be money to spare. He had no idea how he would do it, but he knew it would be so.
He had virtually given up on schooling. It didn’t seem to be acceptable for him to turn up as black as the Earl of Hell’s waistcoat and continually falling asleep in class was not tolerated. Patrick Coyle was not a popular pupil with the teaching staff of St. Jude’s Secondary School. One nun in particular, Sister Mary-Claire, seemed to have it in for the young lad and took demonic delight in drawing attention to his dirty, ragged clothes and embarrassing him in front of his classmates. Paddy hated her.
Between her and Father O’Farrell they made his school life a misery. Any misdemeanours merited outrageous punishment and on many occasions Paddy’s hands were bleeding and cut through excessive use of the cane.
Such treatment was commonplace in the school, but no-one ever dreamed of complaining. Most parents would take the stance that Junior had more than likely done something to merit the punishment. After all, the perpetrators were reckoned to be devoted to doing good. Patrick Coyle would never admit to being in pain, not even to God.
His reputation was passed on to the twins. Although they were devils and spent most of the day disrupting their class, much to the amusement and delight of their classmates, they were just lads full of mischief and certainly didn’t merit the punishments meted out to them. The sins of the brother (not the father) certainly seemed to be visiting them. The fact that they were identical meant no-one was ever sure who had actually carried out the crimes. The solution to this was simply to punish both. School was not a happy place for any of the Coyle boys and they couldn’t wait to get away.
The final straw for Paddy came towards the end of the summer term. The twins, as usual, had been up to some dodge or other and had been sent to ‘The Office’ to be dealt with. There was nothing unusual in that, they were frequent visitors to the Head’s office. However, it wasn’t the genial Canon O’Brian who was in residence that day, but Father O’Farrell, newly arrived from Galway. Determined to tighten up St Jude’s and maintain discipline, Father O’Farrell was a great believer in corporal punishment.
Paddy heard the yells from the other side of the school yard and knew immediately his brothers were in trouble. He crashed his way into the offic
e and was met with the sight of his two eleven-year-old brothers, bare-arsed, being thrashed by this manic priest.
Paddy grabbed the switch from the priest and exacted his own extreme punishment on the quivering coward. The twins and Sister Mary-Claire had to wrestle the cane from him, fearing that Paddy would do serious damage.
Paddy Coyle had just made his first real enemy, as had Father Francis O’Farrell. Standing over the priest, Paddy bent down and whispered into his battered face. “If you ever touch one of mine again, they’ll not be able to stop me. I will send you to your maker, whoever that might be.”
Paddy instantly became an urban legend and Father O’Farrell was hated by every kid in the neighbourhood.
The Journey
Despite the urgency, Michael drove through the city streets sedately, never exceeding the speed limit. No point in drawing attention to themselves or getting a tug for driving like the Dukes of Hazard. As they neared the quayside, expecting to be swamped by flashing blue lights, there was no-one around, only one old codger walking his dog.
“What the fuck’s going on?” yelled Paddy as the
4 x 4 screeched to a halt. The warehouse and loading bay were deserted. The watchman, George, who’d been with the Coyles for years, jumped to attention.
“Afternoon, boys. Don’t often see you on a Sunday,” said the old chap, hurriedly shoving the Sunday papers under the desk.
“What’s happened, George? Where are they all? What did they take?”
“Sorry, who took what, boss?” puzzled the watchman. “I’ve not seen a soul since I came in at six this morning.”
“The polis,” said an irritated Paddy, now surrounded by the most sober of the partygoers.
“You called me, you senile old bastard. You said the place was fucking teeming with filth and they were demanding entry.”
“No’ me, son. I never phoned you. I never phoned anybody. Why would I? It’s been like a grave here.”
“What the fuck’s going on?” asked Michael.
“This old cunt’s gone senile,” roared Paddy. “He’s saying he never phoned me, and I’ve dragged everyone down here and fallen out with the missus for a joke. I’ll fuckin’ joke him.”
“Hold it, Paddy,” interrupted Michael. “This is George you’re talking about. Tell me what happened.”
“What the fuck do you mean tell you what happened? Do you think it’s me that’s fucking senile, is that what you’re saying?”
“No,” said Michael. “Just tell me the story. Who phoned and what did they say?”
“That stupid old bastard phoned me. He said, Paddy, it’s George. You better get here quick, there’s big trouble. The polis are all over the place and demanding entry to the warehouse.”
“Sorry! Again, what did the person say?”
“Jesus. How many fucking times? Hello,
Paddy . . .”
“Hang on there,” Michael laid his hand on Paddy’s arm. “George never calls you Paddy.”
“What does he call me, fucking Irene?” asked an irate Paddy.
“He calls you Boss, always has. I have never heard George call anyone by their name. He calls me number one twin and Sean baby twin, ever since we were kids.”
“What the fuck does it matter what the stupid old bastard called me? He told me the place was crawling with . . .”
The conversation was interrupted by the roar of a powerful vehicle, speeding up the quayside, blasting the horn and flashing its lights. As it drew abreast of the Coyle clan, a figure rolled down the passenger window and threw out a scrap of bloodstained material before speeding off.
“What the fuck!” Diving to retrieve the article Paddy shouted, “Get back! Get back to the party now!”
Background
“Jump Paddy, jump, it’s safe” called Pete. “C’mon, the polis will be here any minute. Jump, ya big bastard.”
Pete McClelland was doubled in two, laughing at his accomplice’s predicament. Somehow Paddy’s ragged jeans had snagged on a branch and he was caught fast in the tree blocking their escape route. His only chance was to remove the offending articles and go commando.
“Throw me the goods, Paddy,” called Pete, well aware of how close they were to being caught.
“Shit, there’s some fucker coming.” Throwing the bag down to his pal, Paddy turned to face the music. Pete was off, no way was he hanging about, and it was every man for his own.
Two burly Glasgow policemen with a huge, slavering Alsatian had reached Paddy, who had wriggled out of his jeans which were now being savaged by the brute. Paddy was about to crash bare-arsed into the arms of the law.
“I’m not coming down with that thing there,” Paddy shouted, pointing to the dog. “He’ll fuckin’ eat me. Get rid or ah’m staying up here.” Hopefully this diversion would give his mate some breathing space and give him time to rescue his trousers to maybe preserve some of his dignity.
“Oh, we’ve got a right one here,” said the cop holding the dog. “Listen, laddie, if I let this bugger go he’ll be up that tree quicker than a rat up a drainpipe. So you just get yourself down here and no more nonsense.”
“Gerrroooonimo!” shouted Paddy as he launched himself out of the huge chestnut tree to the amusement of the two cops, who thought they’d seen it all.
A less stalwart fifteen-year-old would have been terrified at being detained and questioned overnight and, despite the fact that he was still a minor who should be accompanied by an adult, Paddy spent the night in Maryhill cop shop. No way would he admit to anything and he appeared to be completely unfazed by the whole episode.
Pete McClelland and Paddy had joined forces when Pete had started work in his uncle’s coalyard. They’d hit it off right away when Paddy had come to his rescue while Pete was taking a beating from a local mob. Almost every street in Glasgow was ruled by gangs. Crossing from one street to another was fraught with danger. Young Pete had no alternative but to pass through enemy lines on his way to and from work and on the second day he was captured. Had it not been for Paddy’s intervention it would have been doubtful that the lad would have come out alive.
Pete McClelland was a cunning, devious character and it was he, who first came up with the means to supplement their income. The boys had carried out a dozen or so break-ins over the course of the past six months and it looked like Sergeant Brown and PC Kelly had just struck gold.
For months the series of burglaries had stumped local detectives. Whoever was carrying out the crimes was extremely well informed, knew exactly when to hit and how to gain entry. They had even gone as far as robbing the provost’s gaff which was taken as a personal insult.
The cops had pulled in all of the usual suspects for questioning, but got no results. Discovering the whole constabulary had been duped by a couple of delivery boys was a real redder and the twosome were in for a rough time. There would be no mercy shown by the embarrassed officials.
The lads had an ingenious modus operandi. No-one ever paid much attention to the coalman; customers were more intent on counting the bags to make sure they weren’t being diddled. It was, therefore, highly unlikely a customer would recognise their coal men, especially with clean faces. The two lads simply took note of when the inhabitants were out, or away, and paid them an extra visit.
If the Coyle lad hadn’t lost his keks the twosome would have been on their toes with this haul also and god knows when they would have been apprehended. The police knew there were definitely two of them and as Paddy was caught empty-handed, someone had escaped. It hadn’t taken a Philadelphia lawyer to work out who his side-kick was. His best mate and co-delivery boy was caught red-handed with the stolen goods under his bed!
Paddy couldn’t believe it. How fucking stupid had Pete been?
“Fuck, I’m surprised they didn’t find you hiding under there as well,” he sneered at the other lad. “Hiding from the bogey man?”
Pete had never been the brains of the operation, but even so, Paddy argued, common sense sho
uld have told him to keep everything away from his home.
“Why didn’t you stash them?” prodded Paddy. “Why didn’t you go straight to the graveyard? If they hadn’t caught you with the gear they couldn’t prove anything.”
“Shut up,” sulked Pete. “I just panicked. They were at my house so fast somebody must have grassed me up, I hope it wasn’t you.”
“Don’t talk fucking rubbish. I’m your best mate. Why would I grass you up? I had nothing on me,” said Paddy. “All they could do me for was climbing a fucking tree or flashing my todger at passersby. But they go to visit my best pal and what do they find?”
“I said shut up.”
“Tell me, what did they find? A fucking dolly mixture tin with £300 and over a grand’s worth of jewellery from the house that’s just been done, with my fingerprints over everything? Bang goes the tree theory. It’s not exactly the workings of a pair of international jewel thieves, now is it?”
They were sentenced to eighteen months in Polmont Young Offenders. From day one it was obvious Pete was not going to cope with borstal life. It looked like the big lad was going to have to fight not only his own battles but his mate’s too.
Fortunately they had been assigned to the same hall and neighbouring cells which made their introduction to prison life almost bearable, but the pecking order had to be established. Within the first forty-eight hours the twosome had to fight their way through the hall and as far as Paddy was concerned, enough was enough.
The only way he could see to survive was to attack before being attacked. So on the fourth day of their detention Paddy, armed with a sock and a billiard ball, went looking for the main man.
Robbie Carlyle was a complete nutter, a vicious psychotic fucking mental case who feared no-one. He had been top dog for the past year, terrorising even the bravest of inmates, and he ruled the hall, with the aid of his team of enforcers. Nothing happened without his say so; from drugs to booze, even visits were at his whim.
The Silence Page 2