The Silence

by Linda Tweedie

  For generations the O’Farrells had been staunch anti-royalists, and all but he were active soldiers in the Irish Republican Army.

  His two elder brothers were on the Council and the youngest was languishing in Mount Joy Jail, where he would stay incarcerated for the next fifteen years. The powers that be had decreed that St. Jude’s in Craigloch was the ideal safe haven for those loyal Irish men on the move and Father Francis O’Farrell was the very man to accommodate them.

  Just off the boat, the young priest was thrown right in at the deep end and it was then his hatred for the Coyle family began.

  His superior, Canon Thomas, was a decrepit old soul who had been resident in Craigloch for over fifty years. He was once a vibrant, passionate minister who worked tirelessly for his parishioners, but by the time Father Francis arrived the old man spent most of his time asleep in the confessional, completely oblivious to the comings and goings of his staff or his fellow countrymen.

  To further ensure confidentiality and allay any suspicions concerning the goings on, a widow woman from the same village as Father Francis was co-opted to look after the domestic arrangements. Mrs Gavin had lost two of her sons to the Cause and hated Protestants and the English in equal measures. For years this arrangement worked perfectly. For escapees, and for those who had to move on, St Jude’s was the perfect solution.

  The parish had for many years been a training ground for young men intent on entering the priesthood, so to slip a few cuckoos into the nest didn’t stir up too much curiosity. From time to time a parishioner would question the validity of a ‘guest’ but few would chance Father O’Farrell’s lethal tongue at their curiosity.

  These guests had been of great use to the Father over the years just as they had today.

  He would never jeopardise the operation or draw attention to his house guests, but he had kept more than one pot boiling over the years. He would stir up grievances with occasional forays into forbidden territories. He kept the Glasgow Criminal Fraternity on its toes. A quiet word here, an innocent nudge there, had blameless individuals at the mercy of one gang boss or another. No-one ever suspecting for a moment the deviousness of the good father.

  The old feud between the Coyles and the McClellands would have died out years ago but for the machinations of Paddy Coyle’s oldest enemy. The list of incidents was endless and there existed a virtual tit-for-tat culture between the two families and a deep hatred of one another. The war between them had, thanks to the priest, taken on momentous proportions and today was the proverbial last straw. For the McClellands, unbeknown to them, it was the end of their reign in Glasgow and the Coyles would follow soon. Unfortunately, thanks to Father Jack’s unexpected collapse, the Coyles had received a stay of execution.

  Paddy

  True to their promise, at four o’clock prompt, the front door crashed in. Paddy had already sent his mother and baby Marie through to Teresa next door. The twins, refusing to leave their brother, were each armed with the ubiquitous baseball bat. The three Coyle brothers for the first time stood together waiting, but not for long. As soon as the two goons showed their faces, Paddy flew into action; he was a one man wrecking machine. This lad could fight, really, really fight. Swinging the bat with all his strength, smashing bone, cracking skulls, raining down blows, this was no ordinary skirmish. His opponents couldn’t get near him.

  His brothers stood back in amazement; they had never witnessed anything like it. Sure, they knew Paddy could handle himself, but this? This was phenomenal; brutal, vicious, terrifying and almost primeval. Paddy beat the two debt collectors to a pulp. The fight itself probably lasted no more than five minutes and their mother’s kitchen looked like the inside of an abattoir. Fuck, she’d go mental, thought Paddy, there was blood everywhere. But little or none belonged to a Coyle.

  The neighbours were well aware of what was happening at number 28 but none felt inclined to get involved. Young lads or no young lads, nobody was likely to come to their aid. Lizzie was sick to her stomach at the prospect of her sons being hurt, especially when she knew it was she who had got them into this mess and from the noises emanating from her house, there were murders going on. Unable to stand by any longer, she dumped baby Marie on Teresa, and armed with a fireside poker (the Glasgow woman’s weapon of choice), stormed into her house. She was met by two great lumps of bleeding and battered manhood, but her sons were intact.

  “Look at the state of my feckin’ kitchen,” she bellowed at the threesome. “Get this bloody lot cleared up before I bring the baby back, and as for you two, fuck off back to where you came,” as she stormed back next door, secretly glowing with pride at her boys. Thank God Paddy was home.

  Kicking their would-be assailants out into the street, the brothers, whooping with glee, chased them off. Paddy knew it would be a short-lived celebration. It was only a matter of time before Kelly’s reinforcements would arrive and they would definitely come mob handed. The lads wouldn’t be let off so easily next time and their actions had probably incurred even more debt. He had to sort it and it had to be with Mickey Kelly himself and on Kelly’s territory. Paddy knew there was every chance he might not get out alive.

  Ensconced in the back room of his favourite pub the Tower Inn, a dingy back street watering hole favoured by most of the ‘Faces’ from the surrounding area, Mickey Kelly had just been apprised of the fate of his two main collectors.

  “What the fuck do you mean the boys took a hammering?” Mickey Kelly shouted at the bearer of the news.

  “Don’t shoot the fucking messenger,” Lisa the barmaid shouted back. “And it was a couple of schoolboys who did it,” she smirked.

  “Fuck off, ya cheeky fat bastard,” he growled at Lisa. “No way. Is somebody having a laugh? You couldn’t put that pair down with a steamroller, never mind the whole of sixth year at St. Jude’s. A couple of schoolboys? I don’t fucking think so.”

  “Well, where are they then?” Lisa retaliated. “I don’t see them, do you? Maybe they’re collecting the dinner money off the first years,” she laughed uproariously.

  She was the only one who could get away with speaking to Mickey like this. Rumour had it that they had been married at one time, but neither would confirm or deny the fact. No-one else in the room dared laugh or even speak for that matter. Mickey Kelly was one mean bastard and reputed to be the biggest loan shark in the city. Nobody got away with a farthing from Mickey, his motto being ‘don’t pay, don’t walk’ and there were many, many crutches, courtesy of Mickey Kelly.

  Whatever the story was, Kelly had to get it sorted. In his business it was all about face. If he let these fuckers take the piss, he might as well shut up shop and there was no way he was doing that.

  “Hey, Mickey, a visitor,” shouted Lisa from the other bar. “It’s the milk monitor from St. Jude’s to see you.”

  “Go on through, son. Don’t let him know you’re scared and you’ll be fine. Stand up to the gobshite. Remember, you won, not ‘Dumb and Dumber’.”

  As Paddy entered the room he took a hefty blow to the back of his head and without flinching he turned to face the loan shark.

  “I’ll give you that one Mr Kelly, but I’ll tell you what I told your goons as they were leaving, if you ever lay a finger on me or mine again, I will retaliate.”

  “Fuck, I’m shaking in my boots. You’ll retaliate, will you? What makes you think you’ll leave this room alive, boy?”

  There were at least ten other occupants in the lounge bar, all of whom looked like they could have a dash. Paddy thought he might have bitten off more than he could chew.

  “I know I’m safe because my family owes you money and there is no way, whatever I’ve done, that you are going to jeopardise being paid, not if you’re the astute business man I believe you are. So as long as my family owes you, I’m safe.”

  No-one spoke, in fact few were breathing, the tension was unbearable, but he kept his nerve.

  “You cheeky young cunt,” Mickey roared with laughter. “You’
ve got some neck on you but you’re right, there’s no fucking way I’m putting you out of commission till the debt is paid in full.”

  “I know sir; I also know you’re two men down,” and turning to the assembled crew. “Sorry guys but if they were the best, fuck knows how you have survived this long.”

  “What you saying boy?” asked Kelly. “You saying you could take any of my guys?”

  “Yes sir,” said Paddy promptly. “I take it you won’t have to check my references; you already know what my credentials are, so when do I start?”

  Seldom was Mickey Kelly ever dumbstruck, but this time he was. He’d never met the like. An eighteen year old laddie challenging his crew and telling him that he’d take a job, what a fucking brahma; he’d tell this story for years. The kid was in, no doubt about it. Either that or one of his opposition would snap him up. Mickey would rather Big Paddy Coyle was with him not against him and there were few he’d admit that little gem to.

  The Twins

  The Coyle twins were a pair of little feckers, according to their mother, their brother, their teachers, in fact almost, without exception, the rest of their known world. From the moment they could walk they were up and away, there was no holding them back. If there was mischief afoot you could bet your last halfpenny that those two little buggers had planned, executed, or benefited from whatever act had caused agg to someone. They were, however, the most adorable little buggers in the street and liked by one and all, despite the mayhem they caused on a daily basis.

  Always laughing, always happy and whatever they were up to, it was usually sheer devilment. Between them they had everyone run ragged. You never saw one but the other would be right behind.

  Everyone just called them “The Twins”. Very seldom were they referred to by their first names, Sean and Michael. In fact, few of their neighbours actually knew their first names, it was always ‘Coyle Twin’ to either.

  They were typical little city boys, stocky,

  red-headed, cocky little monsters with quite a swagger and absolutely identical. Only their mother and their older brother Patrick could tell them apart, and even they had difficulty at times. To everyone else connected with them, it was ‘a Twin’ who ‘dunnit’. In school, to assist the teachers, they were made to wear coloured ribbons on their jumpers. Yellow for Sean and red for Michael, but they swapped them with such regularity that the exercise was soon abandoned.

  By the age of five they knew the surrounding streets like the backs of their hands, every nook and cranny and they scavenged them like a pair of professional Tallymen. They never returned home without some prize or another, much to the gratitude of their beleaguered mother. They ‘rescued’ anything from old bicycle frames to live chickens. Everything had a value to the lads and every penny helped their needy family. Recycling came as naturally as breathing to the twins.

  Their mother, Patrick and baby Marie were the total sum of their world and the man called Da was seldom seen by the boys. A fleeting figure who appeared from nowhere, unexpectedly, with treats and presents galore. A man who threw everyone’s lives into chaos. Their ma was a completely different person when he was around. Not the strict disciplinarian who made them eat all their dinner, made them go to bed early, who kept them safe and who spent her days looking out for them. No, this woman was different, she even smelled different. No longer ‘the boss’, she deferred to him; what he said went. She spent less time with her boys and more time on tarting herself up. Then, just when they were used to him being in their lives, off he’d go, disappearing as unexpectedly as he had arrived, leaving a trail of debts and distress. It would take their ma weeks to get back to normal.

  Other boys had fathers who played footie with them, or took them on fishing trips to nearby Loch Lomond or to the banks of the well-polluted River Clyde. Not theirs, he was never sober enough, or around long enough. But so what? They had Paddy and the other boys could keep their fishing trips and footie, Paddy was their hero. No-one in the whole of the East End could fight like their brother. Nobody ever picked on them when they found out they were Paddy Coyle’s brothers. They reckoned their Paddy was going to be heavyweight champion of the world.

  The family would live in a mansion on Dumbarton Road. They would eat ice cream every day, have brand new Chopper bikes and never have to go to school. That bastard Father O’Farrell would be sacked and sent back to Ireland. Ma would have a new coat for every day of the week and baby Marie would be dressed like a Princess.

  Despite their dad’s interference and interruption in the boys’ daily lives, they still trailed and scavenged their territory like fully fledged second-hand dealers, bringing in three or four pounds a week, an amount not to be sniffed at. Unfortunately, not enough for the mansion, and the nearest to Dumbarton Road any of the family were likely to reach was the tree their Paddy had fallen out of when he got nicked for being on the rob.

  How life changed without Paddy. For a start, the twins had to fight their own battles, and every day seemed to be a round of skirmishes. They had not quite inherited their brother’s fighting acumen, but they could certainly hold their own in the playground. But it was a different story in the classroom. The boys were the relentless targets of both Father O’Farrell and Sister Mary-Claire.

  Eighteen months is a long time when things are bad and things had gotten decidedly so in the last few months of Paddy’s sojourn. Their brother had been on to a good thing with McClelland and over the course of the year had amassed a tidy sum in ill-gotten gains. Unlike McClelland, who spent as he earned, Paddy had made a promise to himself, come hell or high water, none of them would ever go short again. Somehow, he would earn big money; he would have a swanky car and live in a big house out in the country. His dream, unlike the twins, had nothing to do with boxing, but it might well have to do with fighting, Paddy’s only real talent. Young as he was, he knew he had to have stake money, so almost everything he earned from being on the rob had been squirreled away, almost untouched.

  It was this foresight that had kept the Coyle family afloat. The twins had managed the finances with the expertise of a city accountant till some bastard stitched them up, and they were damned sure they knew who it was.

  First Job

  For all his bravado, Paddy Coyle was absolutely terrified approaching the imposing house belonging to Mad Billy Mitchell. It was 6.30 on a Sunday morning and Mad Billy’s Mercedes was abandoned in the drive. A couple of Dobermans were snoring gently just in front of it; out for the count thanks to a couple of sirloin steaks liberally doused with Lizzie’s sleeping pills. Paddy reckoned he’d at least an hour before the brutes came to.

  He had spent most of yesterday doing a reccie on the property and decided the easiest route in was straight through one of the ground floor windows. There were several marble statues dotted around the beautifully landscaped gardens and one of these would certainly do the trick. Out of curiosity, as you never know your luck, he turned the huge handle on the front door. To his surprise the door swung open. Paddy couldn’t believe his luck. Presumably the occupants reckoned they were safe with the dogs wandering the grounds. Wrong! Holding back a few minutes, he listened for the beep of an alarm . . . nothing. Why have all these elaborate systems and then not bother to turn the fuckers on, he mused?

  Quietly making his way upstairs, Paddy walked slap bang into a small, blonde middle-aged woman, stark naked holding a glass of water and a white fluffy animal. She screamed and dropped the water; he screamed even louder and smacked her on the chin. His signature punch! She was out cold.

  Oh fuck! Oh Mother of God, help me. He was almost dancing with fright; he had to get rid of her and shut that fucking animal up or it would waken the dead. Slinging her over his shoulder he chucked the unconscious woman, who he presumed was Mad Billy’s wife, onto a bed in an empty bedroom. Fuck, she should be covered up, she certainly wasn’t a natural blonde, not from what he’d seen. Shit, that image would put him off sex for months. Picking up the yapping bundle, he tossed it i
nto the room and closed the door.

  Mad Billy had a number of saunas around the city and from the look of the house and gardens, they obviously paid well. The interior was even more impressive than the outside. So why was the stupid bastard holding out on a measly five thousand to Mickey Kelly? It didn’t make sense and from what Paddy had heard, Mickey was getting beyond just collecting the money on this one. The man was taking the piss. Whatever the reason, Paddy was there to recover the debt and if there was a bit extra, then that would be a bonus.

  The man wasn’t called Mad Billy for nothing. He had a reputation going back years and there were few men who would go against him, so this was Paddy’s deal breaker. He had to recoup the loan, a real baptism of fire. His only chance of success was the element of surprise.

  On a face to face, Paddy stood no chance. Mitchell was always tooled up.

  Mitchell had returned home just after four this morning, surely there was no chance he would be up and about a mere two hours later? The likelihood of his being awake was slim but Paddy was taking no chances, he had to get this over quick.

  Snoring like an express train, lying face down on the king size bed was his quarry. Paddy had him bound, gagged and gaffer-taped to the only chair in the bedroom before Mitchell knew what had hit him. Drenching him with water, Mad Billy came to cursing and swearing as best he could. Whoever the fuck had done this to him had better make a good job, because when he got free, and he would, he would fucking murder the bastard.

  “Good morning Mr Mitchell, I’m so sorry if I’ve disturbed your sleep, but I’m here on Mr Kelly’s orders, a little matter of five thousand owing to the gentleman.” Paddy was so polite and had adopted a real Kelvinside accent. It was comical, although the other party didn’t seem to find the situation the least bit amusing.