Terms of Restitution

by Denzil Meyrick

  Then her phone pinged.

  Senga Finn read the message from Gillian and for a moment stopped breathing. When she exhaled, her chest began to heave and she let out a scream and punched the window of the car until her knuckles bled.

  She thought for a moment, then dialled up her contact list on her smartphone.

  *

  Joe Mannion was reading to his granddaughter. The room, lit only by a dim bedside light, was making this process a difficult one, but he could see Chardonnay’s eyes blinking with sleep, so he persevered. ‘And then the bear took the little boy to the cave he lived in and gave him honey . . .’ The buzz from his mobile phone was enough to widen the blue eyes of his granddaughter.

  ‘Your phone’s ringing, Papa,’ she exclaimed.

  ‘Aye, it is, pet lamb. I’ll just need to talk to somebody. I promise I won’t be a minute, then we can carry on with your story.’ He picked the phone from his pocket, noted who the call was from, then cleared his throat. ‘Hi, Jamie, how are you?’

  ‘Aw, are you still in the bosom of your family, Joe? How nice.’ Senga’s tone was mocking, with a distinct hint of jealousy.

  ‘Yes, Jamie, that’s right.’ He smiled at Chardonnay. ‘What can I do for you?’

  ‘You can start worrying, that’s what you can do.’

  ‘Oh, how so?’

  ‘Because my husband – at this very moment – is on his way back to Paisley.’

  Mannion swallowed hard. ‘You’ve made a mistake, Jamie.’

  ‘Fuck off, Joe!’

  Before he could reply the line went dead.

  ‘Is Jamie a girl, Papa?’

  ‘Eh?’ he said distractedly.

  ‘Jamie is a girl, I heard her voice.’

  He regarded the little girl with a sad smile. ‘No, dear. He just has a very high voice.’ He began to read from the picture book again.

  8

  The light rain was like a shimmer under the sodium lights at either end of Bath Lane. The noise of the city was all around: car horns sounded, revellers chatted and laughed as they perused the delights on offer in Glasgow’s city centre on a damp, cold Wednesday night. Their footsteps were hurried, anxious not to linger in the soaking smir.

  The lane itself was darker, lit only dimly by a couple of security lights above fire escape doors that opened out into the lane from two restaurants that backed onto it. One of these doors lay open, a man in chefs’ whites smoking quickly, only the tip of his cigarette truly outside in the elements. He took one last look around then closed the doors shut with a metallic clunk.

  The lane reeked of rotting food left in a large plastic skip, a blocked drain at one end and a point at the other where late night drinkers ducked into the shadows to relieve themselves against a handy wall. Just beside this impromptu toilet, in the gloom, a pair of white shoes swung rhythmically in mid-air, as though of their own volition. A closer inspection would reveal an earnest young man thrusting at a woman whose back was against the wall. Her filthy mock fur coat was open, revealing her breasts as her stage squeals were silently lost in the shoulders of her grunting lover.

  Suddenly, the motion of his bare buttocks slowed as his eyes rolled back in their sockets and he let out a long groan of relief. Over his shoulder the eyes of his partner were dead, lifeless almost. She pushed him away and hurriedly gathered the folds of her coat around her.

  ‘You’re not a bad ride for an old bird,’ he said, as he pulled his trousers from his ankles and buckled them around his skinny waist.

  ‘And you’re a cheeky bastard. Just give me the stuff and cut the shit.’ She eyed him as though he may just be the vilest creature alive, not her erstwhile lover of only moments before.

  He smiled to himself. Cut the shit? he thought. It was already cut with any number of unlikely substances, from talcum powder to chalk, with a hint of rat poison. But what did he care?’

  He handed over the small plastic sachet, then reached into the pocket of his jacket for a pack of cigarettes.

  He watched as she hurried away, huddled into the dirty coat. She emerged into the light and took a mobile phone from her small clasp bag, where it had been nestling alongside a tight roll of money and some hastily pre-prepared joints. She leaned against the plate glass of a shop as she typed a short message into her phone before hurrying off into the night and the fix she’d just earned.

  Back in the lane he smiled to himself, just out of the rain in the recess of the fire escape. He always gave the prostitutes the worst drugs he could find. It had been a cheap form of release – an erotic tea break. Now, it was time to start making more money.

  Peter Anderson saw a shadow move about ten yards away. ‘Ditri, is that you, man?’ The name sounded strange on his Glasgow tongue.

  Silence.

  ‘C’mon, man, don’t mess about, you arsehole.’

  No sooner had the words escaped his lips than he felt a sharp pain in his side. He turned round to see a large man grinning down at him. ‘Fuck!’ He swore loudly before the pain set in and he opened his mouth to scream.

  The tall man clamped his hand over his victim’s mouth, while at the same time twisting the knife in the drug dealer’s side.

  ‘This is from Big Joe, Petesie. He’s not keen on his men going out on free transfers.’ Behind the attacker’s paw of a hand, Peter Anderson’s yell of agony was muffled. He tried to speak, but the gloved hand was now tight against his mouth, forcing him to breathe heavily through his nose as the knife twisted again in his side.

  ‘Aye, and don’t think you’ll just slip away, Petesie. I’ve got you just in the right bit, more pain, more gain. You’ll die eventually, but more like a slow bleed-out than a quick end. We’re into sending a message to your new friends, know what I mean?’

  Anderson felt faint now; only the agony of the knife in his side was keeping him conscious. He went limp in his attacker’s arms. ‘Gus, please,’ he whispered as he fell back against the doors, his strength ebbing away.

  Gus pinned him against the door and pulled the knife from Anderson’s side. ‘Now I can get a wee bit artistic, eh?’ He held the blade just under Anderson’s right eye, his other hand again clamped back over the stricken man’s mouth.

  Despite his pain, Anderson looked wildly at the flash of the bloodied blade now so close to his eye. He tried desperately to shake his head behind his tormentor’s tight grip, his pleas for mercy still muffled.

  Then he felt himself falling backward. All of a sudden there was a bright light and a tumble of bodies. He could feel himself being pulled one way then the other, no longer in Gus’s grip. He hit a smooth cement floor with a gasp that forced the air from his lungs, leaving him to try and struggle to his feet, one hand on his injured side as he desperately tried to make sense of what was happening.

  Then strong arms pulled him from the cold concrete.

  ‘Are you okay?’ The voice was low, slow and heavily accented.

  ‘Ditri! Thank fuck, man.’ Peter Anderson squinted in the bright lights of the bare corridor. The fire doors were now closed. In front of him, two large men were holding the limp figure of Gus Lee, the attacker who had been about to take his eye.

  ‘You take this,’ said Ditri, handing him a long-bladed hunting knife.

  ‘What for, big man?’

  ‘Cut his throat!’

  ‘Wait, I’m not heavy like that. You know me, I’m just a dealer, man.’

  ‘This piece of shit was about to kill you – suddenly you are guilty?’

  ‘Nah . . . but this isn’t my thing.’

  ‘It is now. Do it!’ Ditri pulled a phone from his pocket, clicked on the screen a couple of times and directed a bright light into Gus Lee’s face. ‘Now! Or you go first.’

  There was a look in the Albanian’s eyes that told Anderson he was serious. He walked over to where Gus Lee was pinned between two bulky men in thick leather jackets. Both of them looked as though they had no necks, the larger of the two had pulled back Lee’s head, exposing his white, stub
bly neck.

  ‘Now, your last chance!’ roared Ditri, holding the phone out in front of him.

  Peter Anderson placed the knife at Lee’s exposed throat, shut his eyes tight and pushed. He felt something warm and wet hit him in the face as he backed away from the sounds of the struggle, the muffled screams of Gus Lee and the grunts of his captors.

  Only when it fell silent did he dare open his eyes again.

  He felt a hand on his shoulder. ‘You did well, Peter. Now we must get you treated, no?’

  Ditri’s words were lost on Peter Anderson as he stared down at the crumpled body of Gus Lee, a large pool of dark blood spreading from the gash in his throat like a crimson halo against the cold concrete.

  ‘You – you filmed me, you sick bastard!’

  ‘Nobody can see your face, trust me. Now, we get you to the best Albanian surgeon in Glasgow.’

  ‘What are you going to do with the body?’ asked Anderson.

  ‘It stays here.’ Ditri dialled a number, then held the phone to his ear. ‘Mr Mannion, I have a little film for you to watch. It’s a horror, I hope you’ll enjoy.’

  9

  Zander Finn looked across towards the silhouetted roofs and spires of Paisley as he and Malky Malone drove onto the bypass. On the left, the huge Chivas whisky warehouse stood out in the darkness, bathed in security lights. To their right, views across fields and buildings that all seemed so familiar, even in the velvet gloom.

  Finn tried to remember if he’d ever thought of his home during the time he’d spent in London. The answer came quickly: no. He’d been too keen to banish thoughts of his murdered son from his mind to spend any time on idle nostalgia. Yes, he’d missed the rest of his family, friends – but resurrecting them in his mind always took him back to the cold light of the mortuary where he’d viewed the ruined body.

  ‘You’d be better off in a hotel, Zan,’ said Maloney, a cigarette planted in one fist as he gripped the steering wheel and peered into the darkness.

  ‘It’s my house!’

  ‘Aye, true, but you know how these things work. And given the circumstances . . .’ Maloney’s voice tailed off.

  ‘I’ll deal with that.’

  ‘Don’t you be going Radio Rental, big man.’

  ‘Easy seen it’s a while since you walked down a high street. You’ll be telling me not to buy a pick and mix from Woollies or a pram from Mothercare next.’

  ‘Eh?’

  ‘Never mind.’

  They drove on in silence, past Johnstone. The traffic was surprisingly light, which meant that he’d be reunited with Senga sooner than he’d expected.

  They were in the countryside now, passing the farms and villages that were rapidly turning into small towns as the sprawl of urban creep reached out from the Central Belt.

  ‘Every bastard’s looking for their own little idyll, eh?’ said Finn absently.

  ‘You’re talking in riddles again,’ replied Maloney.

  ‘I mean, everyone wants to be out in the country – you know, out of the town. The way things are going, there won’t be any countryside left.’

  ‘Aye, right.’

  ‘Do you never worry about the environment?’

  ‘Are you kidding? I’ve got more worries than a worry factory on overtime, Zander. And anyhow, what the fuck can I do?’ His face was set. ‘Well, I’ve told Elaine I’ll get off the fags – go onto the vaping, like.’

  ‘That’s fine, then. Our troubles are over. We’ll just tell that wee Swedish lassie to go back to school.’

  ‘Every little helps.’ Maloney thought for a moment. ‘What wee Swedish lassie?’

  Ignoring this, Finn carried on. ‘So when your grandchildren are choking to death with nothing to eat, you can happily turn round and tell them they can’t blame you because you stopped the fags and hit the e-cigarettes.’

  ‘The long hours in your house tonight will just fly by.’ Maloney shook his big head.

  Shortly, they left the road, heading up a single-track lane bordered by trees. The further up the hill they went, the better the roadway became, until they reached a pair of stout gates, behind which was a sprawling house at the end of a long driveway.

  ‘Home sweet home,’ said Maloney.

  ‘You think?’ Finn looked less than delighted at the prospect of seeing his domicile for the first time in more than two years.

  ‘I don’t suppose you have your gate fob thingy?’ asked Maloney. Finn shook his head in response. ‘I’ll go and speak into the box.’

  Finn watched his old friend get stiffly from the car and walk over to a small intercom on the gatepost. He cracked his window open to hear what was being said.

  ‘Hello, Senga darlin’, it’s me.’

  ‘Who’s you?’ Her voice sounded tinny over the intercom, but it was enough to make Finn raise an eyebrow at the absurdity of it all. Here he was outside his own home as his wife pretended not to know who was trying to get past the gate.

  ‘It’s me – Malky.’

  ‘How do I know it’s you? I can’t be too careful these days. You know that, Malky.’

  ‘See, you know it’s me. What’s the problem?’

  ‘Aye, but you could be under duress of some kind.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Some bastard could have you at the end of a gun.’

  ‘Don’t be stupid. Just let me in. I need to see you.’

  Senga hesitated. ‘I’m still not sure.’

  ‘Come on, it’s freezing!’

  Finn recalled the last time he’d seen Malky Maloney argue with an inanimate object. It was at a drive-through McDonald’s near Gallowhill in Paisley. He remembered it had been about the sudden and unexpected rise in the price of a McMuffin.

  Finn got out of the car. Maloney held his hands in the air in a gesture of resigned surrender and stepped away from the intercom.

  ‘Senga, it’s me. Open these fucking gates or I’ll just drive through the bloody things, right?’

  ‘If it’s not the master of the house, back from the dead.’ The sarcasm was palpable even at this remove.

  ‘Just open them!’

  There was a bleeping noise from the gatepost and soon the heavy metal gates swung slowly apart.

  Back in the car, Maloney looked at Finn. ‘Thought we weren’t going to get in there, Zan.’ He hesitated. ‘She didn’t sound that surprised to hear your voice, by the way.’

  ‘Are you kidding? Half of Paisley will know I’m back by now.’

  ‘I can’t see how.’

  ‘First of all, there’s my mother.’

  ‘Oh aye.’

  ‘Not to mention my son, daughter – and what you told me earlier.’

  ‘Understood.’

  ‘Listen, you drive me up to the house and get on your toes, Malky.’

  Maloney eyed him doubtfully.

  ‘It’s my house and it’s where I’m going to stay.’

  Maloney shrugged his broad shoulders. ‘Okay, you’re the boss.’

  ‘No, I’m not.’

  ‘You will be again soon.’

  ‘We’ll see.’

  They parked by the steps that led up to the entrance.

  ‘I’ve always liked they doors, Zander. Like castle gates, so they are.’

  ‘Aye, castle misery.’

  ‘I’m just glad we didn’t have to drive through the gates.’

  ‘Are you getting soft?’

  ‘No! I’ve got to take the hire car back.’

  Zander Finn wished his friend goodnight and took the first steps back into his old life, all the time knowing that no such thing existed.

  *

  She still looked beautiful. That was one thing he could never deny. Her blonde hair was well cut – longer than he remembered. She was smoking a cigarette, enveloped in a large, white fluffy bathrobe.

  ‘Say what you’ve come to say, then fuck off!’ She blew smoke at him dismissively.

  ‘I’ve got lots to say,’ Finn replied. As he looked round the lounge he
noticed that she’d decorated. His favourite paintings had disappeared to be replaced by the arty tat he’d always hated. For him, any semblance of comfort had been sacrificed in favour of a minimalist showroom.

  ‘Well, get on with it.’

  He took a seat on a sofa ‘What happened to the Chesterfield?’

  ‘It went – not long after you, actually.’

  ‘And you replaced it with this?’

  ‘Oh dear, is it not up to your standards, Zander? That mother of yours gave you false airs and graces.’

  ‘She sends her regards, by the way.’

  ‘Aye, coated in rat poison. Or worse still, one of her plates of mince and tatties.’

  Only when he sat down did Finn notice the large photograph of his dead son. He was smiling broadly from the monochrome image – his mother’s smile.

  ‘We’ve got things to discuss, Senga.’

  ‘Like what?’

  ‘These Albanians – the guy’s aren’t happy.’

  ‘Big Malky, you mean?’

  ‘Aye, he’s one of them.’

  ‘He knows the score.’

  ‘He knows the score, all right.’

  ‘Huh! He thought when you disappeared he’d just step into your shoes. I’d get thrown a few scraps – get to keep the house, a nice wee allowance. Well, fuck that! I don’t need a man to run the business. My father taught me all he knew.’

  ‘He tried.’

  ‘You fucking arsehole!’ She stood over him, gesturing with the cigarette. ‘You bloody men think that women can’t live without you. You’re in the dark ages – just like the guys you’re so fond of. Here’s news for you. I’m getting along just fine on my own.’

  ‘But you’re not on your own, are you?’

  Senga stepped back. ‘If you mean the alliance with Glasgow, it had to be done.’

  Finn smiled. ‘And what were the terms?’

  ‘None of your business.’

  ‘They’re not working very well. Malky tells me that money is down across the board. We’ve lost clubs, taxi companies – half the take on the street. We’re not even getting a fraction of the construction work from the councils.’