Terms of Restitution

by Denzil Meyrick

  ‘Can they see us?’ said Samantha, taking the seat beside him on the couch.

  ‘No. That’s the beauty of it. We can fuck in front of the entire place. We can see them, but they can’t see us.’ Kevin unbuttoned his shirt. Suddenly this room was as hot as Samantha. He placed his hand on her knee and slid it up her thigh.

  ‘Are you okay? You looked a bit flushed.’ Samantha pushed his hand away.

  Suddenly, Kevin felt his head start to spin, as his heart began to pound. His struggle for breath led to him tearing at his own shirt, not in passion but desperation.

  Samantha stood and leaned over him. ‘No point struggling, love, you’re dying.’

  He looked at her through wide, desperate eyes. He tried to speak, but couldn’t.

  She leaned further forward and whispered in his ear. ‘It’s your heart. You’re having a coronary. Young for that, but it happens.’ She drew away, then leaned back into him. ‘By the way, greetings from Paisley.’

  Calmly, she left the room.

  In moments, Kevin Mannion’s frenzied writhing stopped and his eyes stared lifelessly through the window over the dancers.

  One man dead in a dead man’s club.

  Epilogue

  Police Scotland, OCU HQ

  Langley examined the manila envelope. There was no doubt it was for her: ‘PRIVATE’ was written above the address in bold capital letters.

  She took the paper knife from the mug that held scissors, pens – all manner of things.

  At first, when she’d seen the collection of bank statements, she’d sighed. Her first thought was that yet another nutter had sent information of no use to clog up her day. But then something caught her eye.

  On closer examination, this was no mere set of bank statements; it was a paper trail, one – judging by its exacting, professional look – prepared by a forensic accountant.

  There were two distinct recipients of the totals at the end of each statement. One was nearly sixty thousand pounds, the other larger, over two hundred thousand.

  The last page was a summary. As she read on, her mouth gaped open, and her heart began to thud in her chest.

  Through a maze of offshore and shell companies, the generosity of the man who had paid these sums into both accounts became obvious: Joe Mannion. In itself, this was no real surprise.

  But what rocked her world was the identity of the beneficiaries.

  She stared from the window of her office out into the busy general office beyond. Neil Dickie was laughing while chatting to another detective, a mug of tea in his hand. Above, as always, she could feel the looming presence of ACC Mary Green.

  But neither of them would be police officers for long.

  Langley leaned back in her chair, her breathing rapid, heart still beating fast. Though there was nothing to suggest the identity of the anonymous sender, one name formed on her lips.

  ‘Zander.’

  *

  I’m back in the room again. The smell is the same, so is the furniture and the company. But, in reality, everything has changed. The old man before me is no longer my priest, my confessor – he is my father.

  I watch him as he pours me his wonderful Italian grappa. It’s expensive, sweet on the lips, strong on the spirit. He knows I still need fortification. It’s been a strange time. I’ve lost my wife; my children have lost their mother.

  But I’ve gained a father – a whole new family, in fact. The truth is, my whole perception of who I am makes sense now. The way I feel, the truth in my heart, all of the things I’ve done, the person I’ve become; it has become clear in its entirety. For we all need to know who we are. We can never really know ourselves until we know the true nature of those with whom we share our lives. Of this I’m sure.

  ‘We will make a better world. At least our little part of it,’ he says. He smiles at me, as he has done for all these years.

  But how can we make something good come from so much hurt, pain and death?

  The two of us: the priest and the gangster; the father, the son, and too many ghosts.