Terms of Restitution

by Denzil Meyrick

  ‘I hate this place,’ said Pavel to nobody in particular, as he grabbed for the pine disinfectant.

  Like a stage, all life played out here in the Iron Horse under two flickering strip lights and a dim glow of daylight through the high, frosted windows adorned on the outside by stout iron bars.

  *

  Joe Mannion watched all this on the bank of small screens sitting across from his large desk. He shook his head in his office above the bar. ‘I’m telling you, this place gets fucking worse.’ He was addressing the man opposite, Jock, who was tied to a chair, his face bloodied and beaten, a huge lump erupting under his right eye.

  ‘Aye, you’re right there, Mr Mannion,’ said Jock, through swollen lips.

  ‘Will I give him another wallop, boss?’ Sammy Sloane loomed menacingly behind the trussed-up figure on the chair.

  Mannion took the cigar from his mouth. ‘Hold your horses, Sammy. What’s Jock here going to tell his good lady when he arrives home with his face looking like an accident in the passata factory?’

  Both men looked at him blankly, Jock through one eye.

  ‘Is that the place they make they cars, Joe?’ said Sammy.

  ‘Aye, that’s what I was thinking,’ spluttered Jock. ‘Just couldn’t make the connection, like.’

  ‘It’s Italian tomatoes! They . . . och, never mind.’ Joe gave up on the metaphor. ‘Put it like this. It’s not a pretty sight, Jock – got it?’

  ‘Aye, with you, Big Joe,’ he said, then spat out part of a tooth.

  ‘So, tell me, where did you get the gear?’

  ‘They albinos will kill me if I tell you. Give me a break, eh?’

  ‘They’re Albanians! Aye, and I’ll kill you first if you don’t fucking tell me where they’re dealing from.’

  ‘Shite, this is thon rock-and-a-hard-place stuff that everybody bangs on about, isn’t it?’

  ‘Answer the fucking question, you halfwit,’ said Sammy, administering a sharp slap to Jock’s balding head.

  ‘Okay, then, but I might as well cut my own throat, here. I meet them in the city centre.’

  ‘Where?’ said Joe.

  ‘That wee lane just off Bath Street.’

  ‘Bath Lane, you mean?’

  ‘Aye, that’s it, Joe. Fuck me, you’re like one o’ they London taxi drivers – know every nook and cranny, so you do.’

  ‘It didn’t involve any mental gymnastics, Jock.’

  ‘Eh?’

  ‘Never mind. Untie this arsehole and get him cleaned up, Sammy.’

  ‘Hey, big chap. Any chance of subbing me a twenty spot? I’ll get it back to you next week, I promise.’

  Mannion picked up his cigar from the ashtray and began to laugh heartily. ‘You’re a fucking riot, do you know that?’

  ‘Aye, I guess so,’ he replied, the battered man laughing along with the gangland boss for the sake of it, despite having no idea what he was on about.

  ‘Tell Pavel to give him a half bottle for the road, Sammy. Aye, and get this mess cleaned up when you’re finished.’

  ‘You’re a gent, so you are, Mr Mannion,’ said Jock.

  Mannion relit his cigar as Sammy untied Jock’s bonds and pushed him out of the office. The boss ran his hand across the grey stubble on his head as he looked again at CCTV pictures from the bar downstairs. An old woman emerged from the toilet in a buttoned-up long coat just as her friend hung a large pair of knickers, a skirt and a pair of tights over a radiator. He sighed as he poured a large measure of malt whisky into the crystal glass on his desk.

  The phone rang. Mannion squinted at the number on the screen and clicked the call on with a smile. ‘How are you, Tracy-Anne?’

  ‘I’m not bad, Dad. Here, your wee granddaughter wants to thank you for her birthday present. I’ll put her on.’

  The muffled roar of excited youthful voices sounded for a moment, then a child spoke. ‘Hi, Papa.’

  ‘Chardonnay, how are you, pet? Happy birthday, by the way.’ He flicked a piece of bloodied tooth from his desk as he spoke. ‘Are you having a nice party?’

  ‘Yes, Papa.’

  ‘And you liked your present?’

  ‘Yay!’ she shouted, forcing Mannion to remove the phone from his ear.

  ‘Me and your granny will be over to see you before you go to bed.’

  ‘Okay, thanks Papa.’ His granddaughter put the phone down unceremoniously as Sammy arrived back in the office with a mop and bucket.

  ‘I’ll just get this blood off the floor, chief.’

  ‘Aye, you do that, and make sure you don’t miss any teeth.’ Mannion took a long draw of his cigar. ‘Get some guys over to Bath Lane tonight. I want these motherless bastards to get the message, okay?’

  ‘No bother,’ said Sammy, wiping the floor with the mop. ‘Mind you, it’s just mad teenagers they use – wee fannies from the schemes.’

  ‘I don’t give a fuck. Just make sure they get the message!’

  ‘Aye, I’ve got that, Joe.’

  ‘As long as they do, that’s fine. We’re haemorrhaging dosh, here.’ He curled his nose up. ‘What the fuck is that smell?’

  ‘Must be the cleaning fluid, chief. Got the bucket and that from Pavel down in the bar.’

  ‘Smells like pish.’

  Sammy Sloane shrugged his shoulders.

  6

  Zander Finn looked at the large edifice of the building in which his remaining son was being treated. He hated hospitals of any description, but this one looked more imposing than most, especially given the army guards on the gates.

  ‘How the fuck are we going to get in there, Malky? Folk are showing ID. I’ve no passport or driving licence,’ said Finn. He was sitting on the bonnet of the hire car, blowing clouds of vapour from his e-cigarette.

  Maloney fished into his rucksack. ‘Don’t say I don’t think of everything.’ He handed over a passport.

  Finn stared at it for a few moments. ‘Why did you bring this? You didn’t know we were going to see Robbie.’

  ‘I didn’t know you were going to come back with me, either. But I figured it would be better if you had your passport. You know, if you decided to stay in London or the like. I never go anywhere without mine – just in case I’ve to jump on a plane. I needn’t tell you how it is, Zan.’

  Finn smiled. Malky Maloney looked like a Neanderthal: furrowed brow, heavy boned, slow of speech. But in fact he had a good head on his shoulders, always had. Finn wondered why his friend hadn’t taken the reins when he’d disappeared. Then he realised how difficult the dynamics of such a thing would have become, especially with his wife having a strong hold on ‘business’. This didn’t stem from some prescient genius, merely from the fact she knew where the bodies were buried – literally – and had access to all the accounts, at home and abroad, legitimate and otherwise, that powered their nefarious activities. But he sensed something else.

  ‘So what would have happened if I hadn’t come back, eh?’

  Maloney gave him a look only old friends could understand. ‘Under normal circumstances, what would you have done?’

  ‘Got rid of her.’

  Maloney shrugged. ‘But, as you know fine, these are not normal circumstances.’

  Finn detected a strange look pass across his friend’s face. ‘There’s something you’re not telling me, Malky.’

  ‘Like what?’

  ‘You tell me.’

  ‘You disappeared – what were folk meant to think?’

  ‘That I was dead.’

  ‘Aye, exactly.’ Maloney stroked his chin. ‘I’ve known you a long time. Ever since we were kids. You’ve faced up to everything – jail, broken deals, death. We just assumed somebody had got to you.’

  ‘The Albanians?’

  ‘Aye, of course. Plus you left everything you’d normally have taken – like your passport.’

  ‘I took some money.’

  ‘Senga never let on.’

  ‘Suited her to make it look as though I was dead.’


  Maloney made a noncommittal nod of the head, looking out into the middle distance.

  ‘Tell me!’ The sudden rise in Finn’s voice made Maloney start.

  Glasgow

  The small hotel was in the middle of a semi-circular terrace in Glasgow’s East End. He’d used it for years as a safe house. Officially he had no connection with the business, and made sure that he always arrived out of sight of any CCTV cameras.

  The room was far from palatial: a double bed, chest of drawers, small wardrobe on top of which was balanced an old TV. The only heat came from one radiator and an old electric fire that buzzed and sparked.

  He admired the curve of her back as she arched it with pleasure, letting out a yell of climax at the same time. Her skin was smooth, tanned. Her hair fell in golden trusses down her back.

  She eased herself off him and slumped at his side on the bed, her chest heaving as she caught her breath – a film of sweat making her breasts shine.

  They sat in silence for a few moments as he lit two cigarettes and handed her one. She drew at the tobacco hungrily, like a starving man eating the steak he’d been dreaming about.

  ‘I still can’t understand it,’ he said.

  ‘Why I’m so good in bed?’ She smiled.

  ‘No, why anyone gave you that name.’

  ‘What’s wrong with my name?’

  ‘Eh, you kidding?’

  ‘No, why should I be?’

  ‘Because you’re beautiful, that’s why.’

  ‘It was more common back then.’

  ‘To be beautiful?’ He grinned and took a long draw of the cigarette.

  ‘No, my name, dafty.’ She leaned over and bit his nipple just hard enough to make him yelp. ‘Anyway, what about yours?’

  ‘It’s a good name – what’s wrong with it?’

  ‘It’s common.’

  ‘Good, because so am I!’ He looked at his gold Swiss wristwatch. ‘I’ll need to be off.’

  ‘Wham, bang, thank you, ma’am.’ She folded her arms across her chest and looked away.

  ‘I’ve got something to do – it’s important.’

  ‘More important than me, clearly.’

  ‘Nobody’s more important than you.’ He paused. ‘Well, just about.’

  ‘I know who you mean. You’re so predictable.’

  ‘I know.’ He heaved himself from the bed, found his underpants on the floor and began to dress, but not before revealing his wrinkled backside.

  ‘Where are you parked?’ she asked, looking at his physique. Despite being sixty he looked younger – apart from his arse, that was.

  ‘Outside the chiropractor’s surgery. I always go there, then out the back and in here. The guy’s a friend of mine.’

  ‘You mean he owes you money.’ She watched him as he sat on the bed and pulled up his trousers.

  ‘Can’t I just have friends?’

  ‘You? No.’

  ‘You’re right, of course. The bastard owes me about thirty grand, but he’s good for it.’

  ‘I’d chop off his bollocks, if I was you.’

  ‘Aye, and while he’s recovering in hospital, he’s not fixing any backs. Good idea.’

  ‘He must have other assets you can squeeze?’

  ‘Aye, I daresay he has. But then how would I get in here without being seen. And he’s paying now – with interest. Anyway, if we go with your idea and chop off his bollocks, we’ll have nothing to squeeze.’

  ‘I can’t be bothered with that petty stuff. A pound here, a tenner there.’

  ‘There won’t even be that soon.’

  She shrugged and stubbed out her cigarette.

  ‘Don’t worry, I’ll handle it.’ Now dressed, he bent down and kissed her on the cheek.

  ‘How?’

  ‘In my own way.’

  ‘Good luck with that, then.’

  ‘I have got to go.’

  ‘You’ll miss the jelly.’

  He smiled and left the room. So parted Joe Mannion and Senga Finn.

  Stanford Hall

  Zander Finn walked along the corridors with Maloney at his side. The hospital wasn’t as bad as he’d thought. Mind you, he was used to the Royal Alexandra in Paisley. This place was new, nicely decorated – tasteful, with framed photographs and bright paintings. Had it not been for the bustle of medical staff, the odd machine in the corridor and the inevitable smell, they could have been in a hotel.

  ‘Here we are,’ said the nurse who’d led the way. ‘Sounds like Robbie already has company.’ She knocked gently on the door then opened it.

  There was a pregnant pause while those inside the room took in the scene in the corridor and vice versa.

  ‘Gillian, Robbie!’ said Finn.

  ‘Dad!’ they replied almost in unison.

  ‘How’s it going?’ said Malky Maloney.

  ‘For fuck’s sake,’ said Maggie Finn.

  ‘What’s going on?’ said Kirsty, looking at the nurse, who just shrugged her shoulders.

  7

  Stanford Hall

  Maggie’s expression was hard to read. As Gillian embraced Zander Finn, her head buried in his chest, she regarded the son she thought she’d lost as he stood in the doorway.

  In his bed, Robbie’s eyes filled with tears. ‘Hiya, Dad. I’m sorry about all this. I can’t believe it’s you.’

  ‘You’re sorry? You’ve nothing to apologise for, son.’ He kissed Gillian on the head and led her by the hand to her brother’s bed, where he held both of his children close.

  ‘Well, isn’t this nice, eh?’ said Maggie sarcastically.

  ‘Hello, Mother,’ said Zander. ‘You’re looking well.’

  ‘Is that all you have to say? You’ve put these kids – aye, and me–through hell over the last two years, and you come out with that?’ She shook her head, arms folded firmly across her chest.

  ‘You off to the dancing, Mrs F?’ asked Malky Maloney, eyeing her attire with a grin.

  ‘And I don’t want to hear anything from you, Malcolm Maloney. I suppose you’ve known where this one was all along?’

  ‘No, not all along, no.’

  As Maggie opened her mouth to reply, two nurses pushing a trolley groaning with screens and wires entered the room. The senior of the two – she wore a darker uniform – looked round the room. ‘You’ll have to give us some space, please.’

  ‘How much space do you need?’ said Maggie.

  ‘As in, please vacate the room. We have to test the patient on a regular basis, so if you don’t mind. You can all take a seat in the corridor; we shouldn’t be too long.’

  As they shuffled out, Maggie stopped by the senior nurse. ‘His name is Robbie Finn, not the patient. Got it, darling?’ She tottered out on her high heels to join the rest of the visitors.

  They were sitting on a couple of sofas and some chairs placed in the broad corridor. A thin man with two burly male nurses on either side struggled down the corridor on crutches, the metallic shine from his prosthetic limb at odds with the blue training shoe placed over its artificial foot.

  Maggie watched him go, a look of pity in her eyes. ‘This is it, this is what’s ahead for our Robbie.’

  ‘That’s it, Mother, just you keep things cheery.’

  ‘This is my dad, Kirsty,’ said Gillian, still cuddled into her father’s side.

  ‘Pleased to meet you, Mr Finn.’ She paused. ‘Have you been away?’

  He nodded. ‘I’ve been in London for a couple of years. Nice to meet you, Kirsty.’

  ‘We go to college together,’ said Gillian.

  ‘And how’s that going? You can’t have long to do now?’

  ‘Still another year.’

  ‘Oh.’

  ‘I took some time out when – well, you know when.’

  ‘Fucking happy days,’ said Maggie. ‘Here we all are, a family reunion on the Long John Silver Ward. Aye, just the ticket.’

  ‘You’ve lost none of your charm, then, Mrs F,’ said Malky.

  ‘And yo
u can shut the fuck up,’ she replied.

  *

  Senga Finn drove her Range Rover up the hill that overlooked Semple Loch, about ten miles from Paisley. Her home was large, palatial; maybe even gaudy to some. But she didn’t care. Though the on-going problems with the Albanians worried her, she was sure that Joe could fix it.

  For once in her life she was happy. Despite the loss of a son and an estranged husband, and all the rest of the turmoil that surrounded her family, she felt as though at last her life was going in the right direction. No more was she the unseen baby machine, the stay-at-home mother. These tasks had stolen her life from her late teenage years right through to her thirties. Now she had power of her own. Senga could do as she pleased, in the firm knowledge her new lover would be more than up to the task of fixing their collective difficulties with the men from the East. Then life would be plain sailing.

  Of course she felt a bitter loss in her heart, the way a mother would for any lost child. But life had taken her to a place where mute acceptance seemed much more attractive than wailing grief. In any case, what was the point in her wasting her life? Her dead son wouldn’t thank her for that, of this she was sure.

  She had brokered the alliance, and it had been a clever move. The crime barons in Glasgow, Joe Mannion at their head, united with her Paisley crew. No more petty squabbles, senseless death, lost business. Now – once they were rid of the Albanians – they could all sit and count the money, happy in the knowledge that everyone had their piece of the pie.

  Had Senga been a wiser woman, she would have wondered why her income was reducing on a weekly basis. Had she been in possession of more acute animal instincts she might have doubted Joe Mannion’s explanation as to her son’s murder, seemingly a sickening crime perpetrated by the Albanians to create a turf war between rival families.

  But these doubts evaded her. There was nothing she could do about her dead son. Nothing she could do about her depressed daughter. Nothing she wanted to do about her missing husband. She had two allies, and their lives were inextricably linked.