Short stories: On the Edge: A Happy Anniversary: A Parting Gift; No Such Thing As A Free Hand

As soon as the sign flashed on the 737 that seatbelts could be unbuckled, Drew McSweeney let out a massive breath of air in a huge swirl of relief that caught the attention of the passenger beside him. He felt no inclination to speak to anyone, least of all a stranger, for the next few hours and, after loosening his belt, stared fixedly out of the small porthole window at the grey bank of cloud below and the gently vibrating wing of the aircraft up ahead. This seemed to deter the man sitting beside him from engaging in conversation, which is exactly what he wanted. 

The stewards started doing their rounds dispensing food and drink. Drew didn’t feel hungry and politely accepted only a small glass of tonic water. He enjoyed a drink but while tempted to get wrecked, decided he wanted to remain sober when he arrived in the US.

His mind raced back to the events of the last few hours. It had been a standard day in the business of drug couriering. He’d picked up three weekly cash consignments worth over £32,000. First up was Sammy Casey in Yoker in the west of Glasgow. Sammy and his ilk were the biggest of the low. That is, they were the last step in the chain between dealers supplying drugs to other suppliers and those dealing directly with the drug users. Sammy, for instance, dealt with 15 street-dealers. He off-loaded gear or kit that had been cut or ‘stamped’ further up the chain to his dealers, in return for a cut of the cash they’d made from each of their buyers. This amounted to 50%, so in an average week, Drew would collect from Sammy between £7,000 to £11,000. 

He’d met Sammy, a small, tattooed muscular man in a white Quashqai outside a community hub. It was a brief transaction with the minimum of chat while Sammy handed over an Aldi carrier bar with a variety of shopping in it. All the while both men constantly looked around them at passing and parked cars, pedestrians, visitors to the centre and so on. From the minute they’d set out to meet each other, they were both on constant alert for cars following them. Anything that struck them as unusual was enough for either man to quickly text on a burner phone the three letters GAB before discarding the phone. GAB stood for “games a bogie” and meant abort, something’s up. They would arrange to meet later.

Although not fool proof, these precautionary measures had kept them ahead of the game of law enforcement or any rivals so far. After leaving Sammy, and taking a circuitous route, watching for any tails, Drew drove up to Drumchapel to outside a Health Centre. He waited there for three minutes before a dark grey private cab drew alongside him. The cab driver positioned the taxi so that the rear left side passenger window was level with Drew. The passenger, whose window was already open, passed a folded large brown envelope across to Drew in a movement that took seconds before the cab pulled away. Drew again stashed the envelope at the bottom of the Aldi shopping bag, before driving off. The passenger in the cab was Danny McWilliams, another of the biggest of the low or dealer/collectors, whose patch was most of South Drumchapel. 

For his own last collection of the day, Drew drove up to Milton to the brownfield site of a former school next to some works vans. Once more, after a couple of minutes a battered blue van drew up and a tall guy with a five-day growth emerged and walked up to Drew’s side. Bending over as if to ask directions, the guy took a white envelope, this time from his inside pocket, handed it over to Drew, before standing up, tapping the roof of Drew’s Volvo, and re-entering the van. Drew duly put the envelope in the shopping bag before driving away. This third biggest of the low dealer was Sandy Carmichael, one of several dealer/collectors who covered the Milton area. 

All three dealer/collectors were hard as nails, ruthless enforcers. Any failure to pay up or cash shortfalls were met with merciless beatings which left highly visible marks on the victim. And that was the intention; to impart a very vivid image to everyone around you of the consequences of not paying what you owed to the dealer/collectors. 

On the way out of Milton, Drew had seen the small shambling, dishevelled figure of Gerry Mullen, wearing an eyepatch which he’d only recently acquired. Mullen was a street dealer. He used himself, usually heroin and street benzos, and his collector was Carmichael. Mullen had made the mistake of trying to short-change Carmichael on a deal. He’d compounded this by bragging about his intention to his cronies, one of who immediately dobbed him into Carmichael. Mullen had bulked out his cash from selling £10 and £20 bags of smack to users, with fake notes which he’d scattered among the genuine notes. 

For security reasons, a street collection was normally over in seconds but, forewarned, Carmichael methodically proceeded to look through the notes. Sensing he’d been rumbled, Mullen tried to scarper but was stopped immediately by one of Carmichael’s associates further up the street. He was bundled in broad daylight into the back of Carmichael’s van and taken to a safe house where the associate and Carmichael beat him to a pulp before, in a final flourish, the associate gouged his eye out before wrapping it gently in cotton wool and placing it in Mullen’s jacket pocket, almost as a perverse keepsake. Mullen somehow got himself to A & E where he vigorously protested that he had had an accident to the sceptical medics. Nobody reported the abduction. Thus, the eyepatch. 

The sight of Mullen sent a cold shockwave through Drew as he drove towards his final stop that afternoon. But it didn’t deter him. He was determined to go through with what he intended to do. This was his most dangerous time, driving three bundles of illicit drugs cash across the city. He wanted rid of this as quickly as he could. He drove to a row of lockups beside a railway line in Hyndland. After driving the car into one of the lockups, he closed the shutter, put the light on and placed the shopping bag on a wooden bench next to the parked car. He withdrew the two envelopes and the third package that Sammy Casey had placed at the bottom of the shopping bag. 

From each, he extracted wads of notes in various denominations. Putting on a pair of plastic gloves he proceeded to count the notes. For this was where Drew McSweeney came into his own, his own unique selling point to his bosses. Disdaining money counting machines as they could be unreliable and easily traced, with remarkable precision Drew could professionally count vast sums of cash quickly, efficiently and with unerring accuracy. This was a vital clog in the whole apparatus, getting that money in grubby notes off the streets and counting it down to the last note. There were no bank transfers or digital transactions at this stage: That would come later.

Drew had honed this skillset initially from working as a cashier at one of the large bookies and then as a cash boss in a casino. Punters wanted their winning chips cashed quickly and the money had to be counted fast with no errors and Drew performed very well. He was reasonably paid but started to live a fast life, including an increasing cocaine habit, and began accumulating a pile of debt. Things spiralled out of control fast. Siobhan, his wife, left him after four years, his car was about to be repossessed and the bank threatened to call in his mortgage. 

In his cups at a staff night out, Drew confided his situation to one of the croupiers. Back at work a couple of days later, his colleague reminded him of what he’d revealed to him. Drew was embarrassed, but the colleague assured him it would go no further. He also said he might be able to help. He’d noticed Drew’s note counting agility and there was a way he could make way more money than at the casino. In an increasingly desperate financial situation, Drew was interested. 

His colleague introduced him to a series of shady characters who, Drew was under no illusion, were straight professionals. Over a series of meetings, he was made aware of an ‘interesting’ and lucrative opportunity: namely to meet with dealer/collectors – the biggest of the low in the drug trade, collect their cash earnings from the street dealers, count it with precision, then deliver it on. 

They didn’t need muscle for this task. The dealer/collectors were the muscle. And if they stepped out of line or cash was missing from their collections, other enforcement would be called in. As a bonus, he would never have to carry any drugs. This was part of the firm’s strict compartmentalisation; cash collectors never handled the stuff. As soon as the dealer/collectors handed it over, the cash was squirrelled away rapidly. 

Drew, not a violent man, who’d rarely been in a fight, was relieved at this. All he had to do was keep his wits about him, above all, be alert during the collection runs, count the money, and deposit it onwards. In return, his debt problems would evaporate, he would be paid generously, and he could sustain his fast life. If something did go wrong and, if it had nothing to do with him, the firm would have his back. Drew didn’t have to ask what the consequences would be if he played fast and loose with their cash.

He took the ‘opportunity.’ For the first couple of runs he was minded. Within a few weeks he was trusted and on his own. The firm came through with their side. He was able to pay off his debts and reduce his mortgage payments. 

On an average week he could collect up to £70,000 from a clutch of dealer/collectors and was paid a weekly sum of £2,000, an annual income of over £96,000 tax free. Of course, as cover, he continued to work at the casino, but reduced to a few hours a week. 

He’d been doing this for two years now without a glitch and spent lavishly on clothes, women, holidays, cars, gadgets, extensions to his flat and so on. But he was under no illusions who he was working for. Though he’d never met him and nobody around Drew ever said his name, he knew he was working for an outfit led by a guy called Davie Walsh based up in Springburn in North Glasgow. Walsh had carved out a drugs fiefdom covering most of the north side of the city. Drew kept his head down, though, and didn’t ask any questions about the firm or its ‘CEO.’

But he was increasingly aware of the precariousness of his position. He was couriering vast sums of illicitly gained cash through the city several times a week and no matter what protection the firm could afford him, he didn’t fancy spending many years in the grim confines of a Scottish prison; he was only in his late twenties. And though he didn’t witness it first hand, he was aware of the brutality and paranoia of the people he was working with; witness the awful spectre of Gerry Mullan and his gouged eye for the misdemeanour of a few dodgy notes. 

So, between constantly looking out for the law and trying not to make any mistakes that would earn the wrath of his psychotic associates, Drew was living on his nerves despite all the superficial trappings of a comfortable life. Drew wanted out. Then, six months ago, his cousin Billy had paid a visit from the States.

He was the same age as Billy; they’d grown up together and went to the same school. When he was twenty, Billy had moved to Boston. He’d done well in America. After a couple of labouring jobs, he’d started working in bars and worked his way up to owning a successful Irish pub in downtown Boston. He’d caught up with Drew and they’d went on the town a few times. He mentioned he was opening a second bar and was looking for someone ‘reliable’ to mind it as well as keeping an eye on the cash flow. Drew saw a chance here and put himself forward as that guy. Billy was non-committal at first, but then back in the US, phoned him and said he’d thought about it and ‘why not, come over and give it a try.’ Since then, Drew had been making his preparations. 

He finished counting the notes. There was a total of just under £33,000 from the three collectors. He placed the money in a black metal portable safe locker which he then put amidst cardboard packaging in a box advertising a toaster. 

He checked his watch. It was just after three. All had gone smoothly; no delays. Between now and four he was expected to make the drop-off with the “toaster.” Reopening the shutter, he reversed the car, closed the lock-up and drove up Clarence Drive and stopped at the lights on Broomhill Cross. 

When the lights changed, he was meant to turn left, drive down Crow Road to Partick, park outside a firm of solicitors and hand over the bag with the “toaster” to a guy who worked as a messenger for the solicitors, who would transport the bag to an accountant in Jordanhill. From there it would start its laundered journey through a labyrinth of on and offshore accounts until it ended up as legitimate money somewhere and eventually find its way back into the hands of Walsh and his top people.

Instead, when the lights turned green, he drove right, down Broomhill Drive, to the Thornwood roundabout, through the Clyde Tunnel and onto the M8 motorway to Glasgow Airport. He’d planned it thoroughly. He knew he had two hours at most. By four, if he’d not shown up outside the solicitors, that would be reported. The search would begin then and one of the most likely places a fleeing collector would head to would be the airport and Walsh had people who worked there.

He bombed up the motorway, arriving at the airport with an hour to go before his flight. He abandoned the car but not before opening the locker and transferring the cash envelopes to the bottom of a holdall where he’d placed enough clothes to last him a few days. At check-in he apologised profusely for being late, but he was fortunate as there was a whole gaggle of late travellers for his flight, so the harassed staff were only concerned with processing him onwards. 

He braced himself for security as he had only hand luggage which might attract suspicion as he was violating the age-old rule of smugglers: travel heavy long-haul, light short haul, but he and the holdall passed through the scanner with no problem, and he boarded the aircraft safely.

Now at 35,000 feet, sipping on his tonic water, he reflected on what he’d just done. Back home, by now, all hell would have broken loose. Walsh’s hoods would be scouring the city for him. Fortunately, he’d no children and there’d been no reconciliation with Siobhan who he’d hadn’t seen for two years. His brother Mark had nothing to do with drugs and lived in the suburb of Bishopbriggs outside Glasgow. His sister had moved down south to Darlington many years earlier. They were all, including his mother, safely under the radar as far as Walsh was concerned.

But he knew he could never go back, and this pained him, especially the thought of not seeing his mother. As the youngest of the family, he was the “baby” and was regarded as such by her. He would miss her, particularly as she was in her early 70s now and not keeping well.

However, that was the price he had to pay, for keeping himself and them safe. He again shuddered at the thought of Gerry Mullan. If they could gouge an eye out of him for what…£30, £50, what the fuck would they do to him for £33,000? He leaned further into his seat. The clouds had gone, and he could see the blue of the Atlantic below. He focused his thoughts on the new life. ahead of him.

*

That had been five years ago. Since then, greatly helped by the near £33,000 he’d clandestinely brought into the country and other money he’d bank transferred in dribs and drabs to Billy beforehand, he’d set himself up well and was now thriving in Boston. He had a nice flat, a steady girlfriend and, above all a well-paid job as effectively Billy’s finance manager. Billy now had three bars in Boston, and all were doing well. Drew was legit and loving it, not forgetting regular vacations to Florida, the Bahamas and Mexico.

The only drawback was not seeing his mom, whose health was getting worse. He phoned her frequently, promising to fly over, but always with an excuse as to why it couldn’t be just now. This saddened him but couldn’t be resolved. He was a dead man in Glasgow and the manner of his passing would not be quick. Apart from this, life in the States was good. And then came the bombshell phone call.

It was his brother Mark who he hadn’t spoken to since fleeing to Boston. 

‘How did you get this number,’ he asked hyper-alert and suspicious. 

‘Your mother gave it to me, who else? Christ, you sound rattled!’ Mark was in no mood for soft talk and went on before Drew could say another word: ‘Listen you’ll need to come back. Mum’s health has deteriorated, it’s really bad.’

‘What do you mean?’ Drew asked, concern and worry replacing suspicion in his voice.

‘Well, you know she’s had COPD for years, and pleurisy recently. Well,’ Mark paused, ‘brace yourself but she’s got cancer.’

‘Whit?’ 

‘You heard. There’s no other way to break it to you.’

‘How bad is it?’ 

Mark sighed deeply. ‘I met with the doctor yesterday. She’s been in the Queen Elizabeth for the last week. They say it’s terminal. It’s in her lungs and her lymph glands. Basically, its incurable.’

‘Aw naw, mum, surely no.’ Drew was really upset. ‘How long are we talking about?’

Mark again paused before replying: ‘Maybe a few weeks, a month.’

‘You’re joking!’

‘Aye, I wish I was. She’s getting moved to a hospice today. Look I need to go, I’ve got loads to do with the move. Anyway, you need to get back now! She’s asking for you, she’s missed you terribly the way you just scarpered suddenly like that. I don’t want to know what that was about, nor does mum, but please get back as soon as you can.’

Drew hesitated, before saying: ‘I canny.’

‘What do you mean you canny. Fuck sake mum’s dying! Get your arse on a plane. You’ve got the money. Jesus, she was only telling me the other day there you and your girlfriend were in the Bahamas recently! Come on, get real man. I need to move.’

‘I can’t,’ Drew repeated. 

Mark was exasperated. ‘What do you mean you can’t. What’s going on Drew?’ 

‘Look, I’ll phone you tonight on this number, about nine, that’s four your time. I better let you go to make those arrangements for mum.’

‘Aye, you better. Think on this, the first thing’s she gonny ask me is, “have you phoned Drew yet, when he’s coming over?” I can flannel her today, but I don’t want to be looking into her eyes soon and telling her: “naw, mum, your beloved youngest son isn’t coming over”.’ Mark hung up.

Drew felt emotionally bludgeoned. He was distraught and he knew he would have to tell Mark everything. That night, he phoned Mark back and confessed all. After a moment’s stunned silence, his brother came back:

‘I had you down as a bit of a space cadet, but this is off the scale. Jesus, is there no way you can approach these people?’

Drew was adamant. ‘Mark, they’re complete psychos, utter nut jobs. If you were to look up the definition of sadist in the dictionary, it would say “see under Davie Walsh and his henchmen”.’ 

Mark sighed. ‘What am I supposed to tell your mum? She’s in the hospice now and she was asking for you today yet again.’

‘Aw, don’t rub it in man! It’s the way it is. Tell her I’m trying to get away from work, I’m really busy, but I’ll get across as soon as I can.’

‘Aye, that’ll really comfort her.’

‘There’s nothing else I can do.’

A thought occurred to Mark.

‘How much do you owe them?’

‘About £33,000.’

‘Can you pay them back?’

‘That’s a lot of money, Mark.’

‘You selfish bastard! Its your mother, for fuck’s sake she’s dying!’

Drew was struck by Mark’s directness, but also glimpsed a sliver of hope and opportunity.

‘I never thought of that.’ Then dismissed the idea. ‘No, they’d never accept that. They’ll want me dead.’

‘How do you know that?’ Mark came back. ‘They’re money people after all. Look, if you don’t ask, you don’t get. Where’s the harm in trying? We can appeal to any human emotion that character Walsh might still possess. He must have a mother himself! Look, if you come back, all remorseful, pay them their money, and if you have to, get the fuck back out the city. Come on, what’s the harm in trying?’

Drew’s mind was racing. This might, just might, work. ‘You’d need to approach them, though,’ he said to Mark. ‘If I just turn up, they’d tear me to pieces, no questions asked!’

Mark hadn’t thought of that. ‘So, I’ve got to go to these psychos! Thanks bro, that’s great! What’s to stop them going: “well we canny get him, we’ll take the brother”?’

The brief optimism evaporated from Drew. ‘Aye, you’re right, they could well do that. Sorry.’

There was a strained silence, before Mark came back: ‘Is there somebody we could approach to get to this guy Walsh? You know, someone who could pass a message on, point out your ma’s dying and see what the response is?’

‘Aye,’ Drew thought instantly of his colleague at the casino who’d basically been the conduit through which he’d got himself ensnared into the murky world of the Walsh’s. ‘Tom Carty. He’s a croupier at the casino I used to work in. I don’t know if he still works there, but it’d be worth a try contacting him.’

‘All right, give me his details.’

*

Mark parked his white Volvo about fifty years from the pub. He took a deep breath, cursed his brother for the umpteenth time and walked towards the pub. It was a bleak, modernist single storey building that looked more akin to the entrance to a nuclear bunker than a hospitality venue. At the entrance, stood two guys, probably in their forties, smoking cigarettes. One had a scar. Both looked rough and menacing. He nodded to them as he barely squeezed past them. They didn’t respond.

Inside was a riot of noise as about over forty people, none under thirty, all male, some sitting at tables others standing around the long bar fronting one wall, were talking and gesticulating loudly over each other. All were extremely casually dressed, most with red faces, quite a few scarred. The noise was deafening, almost like a bar just before New Year’s Eve rather than a Friday afternoon in late October. Mark made his way apprehensively to the bar, aware of a lot of eyes on him. There were several barmen furiously serving customers. One of them finished serving, came up to him and said curtly:

‘Can I help you?’

‘I’m here to see Mr Connelly. I’ve arranged to see him.’ Connelly was the name Tom Carty had told him to use when asking for Walsh.

‘What’s the name?’ 

‘Mark McSweeney.’

Without a word the barman disappeared through a door behind the bar. He reappeared a minute later, opened a hatch at the side of the bar and gestured for Mark to follow him. They walked through a long, bare corridor with some empty kegs of beer lying against the walls, until they came to a wooden door. The barman knocked briefly, opened the door, and signalled for Mark to go into the room. Taking a deep breath, he entered.

Like the rest of the pub, the room was austere and windowless, with only a wooden table behind which sat a grey-haired man wearing a faded grey suit. What struck Mark was the man’s piercing blue eyes which carried an air of what Mark could only think of as jovial menace. He presumed this was Davie Walsh, eponymous head of one of Glasgow’s main crime families, as a headline in a local newspaper had reported recently. Beside him sat a younger man, heavyset with a blank but tough face. The muscle or minder Mark presumed.

‘Mr Carty tells me you wanted to see me. How can I help you, Mr McSweeney?’ Walsh asked, once Mark had sat on a wooden, uncomfortable chair. Mark noticed that when Walsh spoke, there was no other movement of his face; it was almost as if his mouth was independent of the rest of him, most disconcerting. Mark and Drew had agreed in advance to be upfront, no flannel, just make the “pitch” as Drew had called it.

‘Thank you for seeing me today, Mr Walsh,’ Mark began on an obsequious note. ‘I’m here on my behalf of my brother, Drew, who stole some money from you. I’m here to offer to pay that money back to you with sincere apologies.’ Summoning up all his courage, Mark looked straight at Walsh. ‘Mr Walsh, our mother’s dying. She has a few weeks at most. She’s in a hospice. Drew is abroad and he’s asking that, if he pays the money back, he be allowed to come back to see his mum before she dies. He’ll leave Glasgow immediately afterwards if that’s required. That’s really it.’

There was a long intimidating silence before Walsh reached for a cigarette from a twenty-packet in front of him, lit it with a gold lighter and said:

‘You run a joinery business out in Bishopbriggs, Mr McSweeney?’ 

Mark replied ‘yes.’ Obviously, Walsh had done his homework on him. He started to feel concern for his family. Walsh continued:

‘So, if one of your customers didn’t pay, then you’d go after them. That right?’ Mark nodded. ‘Because if you didn’t word would get around, you’re a soft touch, others would stop paying you as well and you’d soon be bankrupt. Get my drift?’ Mark nodded again.

‘I’m in the same boat. If word gets around that you can fanny about not paying your dues my credibility disappears. Only difference is, you’ll understand Mr McSweeney…’

‘...Mark, please,’ he interjected.’

…Mark, the difference is I canny take them to the courts to get my money. I need to use other means to enforce and get what’s mine.’

‘I totally understand Mr McSweeney,’ Walsh did not behove Mark to call him “Davie”, ‘but Drew will pay you back and you can let everyone know that. Drew will be happy to tell whoever he needs to that he’s paid his dues. He just wants to see his mother one last time before she passes.’

There was another long intimidating silence. Mark could discern no hint of empathy or pity from Walsh or the henchman beside him. Finally, Walsh stubbed his cigarette out and said:

‘I lost my father to cancer. Ok, your brother gets a pass to Glasgow for one visit. He’s got one week after he sees your mother to get out and he never comes back. Ever. Understand?’

‘Yes, Mr Walsh.’ 

‘In return and before he’s allowed back, he has to pay £40,000, that’s for the money owed plus some interest.’ For the first time there was some movement from the henchmen who reached into his jacket, brought out a white envelope and pushed it towards Mark.

Walsh explained:

‘Inside that envelope are four bank account numbers. Ten thousand pounds needs to be paid into each of those accounts before your brother’s feet touches the ground here. If that’s not paid and he turns up here, dying mother or no dying mother, he’ll be joining your mother. And,’ Walsh leaned forward and almost whispered in a malevolent, sinister tone, ‘I’ll hold you to account for that.’ Mark curdled inside.

‘Don’t worry Mr Walsh,’ Mark said nervously, ‘that money will be paid to your accounts before Drew lands.’ This was met with a glare from both men behind the desk. For the first time, the henchman asked Mark curtly: ‘Is there anything else you want to ask Mr Walsh?’

‘No thank you.’ Mark rose. The henchman instructed: ‘Turn right and use the fire exit.’ Walsh was now studying his phone. Time to go. Mark said ‘thanks,’ one more time, picked up the envelope, left the room and exited by the fire door which was lying slightly ajar. He made his way to the Volvo in the fresh bright daylight after the gloomy darkness of Walsh’s ‘office’. It was some time before he could start the car and drive, his hands were shaking. ‘Oh please,’ he thought, ‘Drew, pay that money and let’s never, ever have anything to do with these people again.’ He’d never met anyone as frightening as Walsh, he considered as he finally managed to drive away. 

*

Drew woke with a hangover in his city-centre hotel room. It was past ten, so he’d missed breakfast. He rose, showered, and dressed before housekeeping started knocking on his door. His hotel was right in the city centre, a stone’s throw from Central Station, and he decided he would catch a late breakfast at a café but before that he would take a short walk to clear his head and sharpen his appetite. 

Walking underneath the expanse of the Central Railway bridge, known locally as the “hielaman’s umbrella” which was like a virtual subterranean village on its own, he came into the open air again and turned right down Jamacia Street towards the river Clyde. 

It was great to be back in Glasgow again after five years, though for all the wrong reasons as he reflected on his mothers’ funeral yesterday. What made it all worthwhile was the look on his mother’s eyes when she saw him in the hospice eight days ago. She could hardly move, pumped full of morphine, but she lit up and cried ‘ah my wean!’ when she saw him. She’d passed a day later. Through Tom Carty again, Mark asked Walsh if Drew could stay until after the funeral. The curt reply had been ’48 hours and no more.’ Drew had worked to that schedule, booking the flight back for two days after the funeral. He had a day left in the city.

He'd stayed at a hotel as his sister, up from Darlington, was staying at Mark’s. After the service they’d been the purvey which for many of the mourners, including Drew, had morphed into a pub crawl. It was great to catch up with family and acquaintances again, even at the expense of a sore head the next morning.

He reflected that it had all gone smoothly, albeit at the expense of £40,000 which almost destroyed his savings; there’d be no vacationing to the Bahamas or Florida again for quite a while. But it had bought him the freedom, however briefly, to see his mother and pay his respects before she died. That was worth it. 

As he moved onto the walkway at the north bank of the Clyde, he thought of how shabby and rundown the city looked compared to downtown Boston. There was a narrow pavement beside a set of traffic lights that gave access to the wider embankment. He was just passing the lights when a car pulled sharply up beside him with the passenger, a young male, sticking his head out, asking:

‘Mate, is this the best way to the Clyde Tunnel?’ 

Drew stopped to speak to the guy when he registered the car’s rear doors opening, a guy getting out, a strong pair of hands grabbing hold of him and dragging him into the car. It was over in seconds, and he was placed securely between the guy who’d grabbed him and another man in the back. Both were large, burly guys. The car sped off. Drew tried to speak: 

‘What the fuck’s go…’ But the guy to his right gave him a vicious elbow jab which winded him and said: ‘Shut the fuck up.’ 

The pain in his jaw was severe and he stayed silent for the rest of the short journey. He realised he was heading to the north of the city and his captors made no attempt to blindfold him or disguise where they were taking him. He knew this must be a crew working for Walsh, but he rationalised that a terrible mistake had been made because he had paid the money back. Maybe they had their wires crossed and it would all be sorted out. Then a dreadful thought struck him that the payments had gone to the wrong place. But he’d been in Glasgow ten days now and they’d said nothing when Mark had asked if it was ok for to stay for the funeral. Whatever, he reasoned, it would be sorted out. He’d paid his dues for God’s sake!

They arrived outside a grim looking pub. Drew was escorted the short distance through a fire door, along a dank corridor into a gloomy, windowless room with a desk in the middle, a wooden chair in front of it which he was manhandled into, his four captors standing beside him.

Two minutes later Walsh strode in accompanied by a younger man. They sat on two chairs behind the desk. Drew had never met Walsh, but he knew what he looked like and that he always wore a trademark grey suit which he was wearing today, and which actually looked quite worn, even shiny. He was a heavy smoker and on cue fetched a twenty packet from his pocket and lit a cigarette with a gold lighter before saying:

‘Never did get the pleasure of meeting you Drew, before you fucked off with our money.’ 

He looked old and worn. Drew knew that he’d been the criminal overlord of this part of Glasgow for some thirty years, quite a marathon in the underworld. There was much speculation that when he and a few other long-standing city bosses went, the city would be a bloodbath. But for now, Walsh’s authority in his domain and in that room was absolute.

‘Mr Walsh,’ Drew said desperately, ‘I paid you your money. I mean you did get the money, didn’t you?’

‘Oh aye, it came through before your maw died. So why do you think you’re here?’

Drew genuinely didn’t know. Walsh had just confirmed the money had gone through. He was terrified and baffled. He shook his head. ‘I don’t know.’ 

Walsh took a draw of his cigarette before asking him: ‘What did you pay the money for?’

‘To pay off the money I owed you…’

‘…You mean fucking stole from me and the other guys,’ Walsh interrupted.

‘Yes, sorry, aye.’ 

‘What else did you pay for?’

‘To get to see my mother and go to her funeral.’

‘Anything else?’

Drew shook his head. ‘Naw, that’s it.’

‘That’s correct,’ Walsh agreed. ‘You paid the money back that you owed us to allow you to come back to Glasgow for a few days for your wee ma. Now that’s what you’ve paid. But what you’ve no paid is the price for ripping off me and the boys who were collecting that day. And that is no a money payment. You see I canny have you walking about the city, all right only for a few days and for a family bereavement, I get that, but I canny allow you to leave the city unmarked. Word gets around fast, Drew. It’s fucking worse than the steamie out there. Next thing I know every cunt will get gallus and I’ll have loads of problems keeping folk in line. Know what I mean?’

‘But I thought when I paid the money that was it all cleared,’ Drew pleaded earnestly.

‘Naw son, you paid to come back to Glasgow unmolested to see your dear mother, God bless her, and go to her funeral. Ok, that’s over. Now you’ve got to pay for your actions.’

There was a knock at the door which then opened. Three men came into the room. Drew gasped. It was the three biggest of the low, the dealer/collectors he’d ripped off that fateful day: Sammy Casey from Yoker, Danny McWilliams from Drumchapel and Sandy Carmichael from Milton. 

Sheer panic consumed him. He knew the three of him would have earned the wrath of Walsh, even though it was Drew who had done the runner. What in the name of God would they do to him? Were they going to torture him? He was starkly reminded again of Gerry Mullan and his eyepatch. His attention was suddenly diverted by the appearance of a deck of cards placed in the middle of the table by Walsh’s henchman beside him. 

‘All right boys,’ Walsh said. ‘Ace high.’ 

Drew watched in stupefied terror as Sammy Casey cut the deck revealing a four of clubs. Danny McWilliams made the second cut with a nine of spades followed by Sandy Carmichael with a two of diamonds. 

‘Ok, it’s Sammy and Danny,’ Walsh said. The henchman reshuffled the cards. This time McWilliams made the first cut, it was nine of diamonds. Casey went next and revealed the king of hearts. Walsh gestured towards Casey. 

Suddenly, one of the guys next to Drew placed his right arm and hand, palm upwards, on the table while another guy took firm hold of his left arm. A third guy behind him gripped his upper body; he was held firmly by the three. Casey moved out of his line-of-vision. Drew started screaming, pleading: ‘I’ll pay you more Mr Walsh! Please, my mother’s just died! Honestly anything…’ But his words dried up when he saw Casey return in front of him with a large wooden mallet. Casey looked straight at him with sheer hatred, declaring:

‘Dirty, wee thieving cunt!’ And then smashed the mallet down on Drew’s open hand. He screamed and struggled but made little headway against the firm embrace of his captors. Casey smashed the mallet down on his hand a second time. This time his captors let go and Drew fell to the floor screaming again and clutching his numbed, bloody but broken hand. His hand was lifeless, the bones shattered and seemed to flop about.

He was lifted back onto his seat while an older man, he hadn’t seen before, appeared, and proceeded to bandage up his arm. Drew could distinctly smell alcohol from the man, but he seemed to do a good job on his hand. He moved away when he’d finished. The captors pulled him up. Walsh spoke again:

‘Ok, son, that’s you paid now. It could have been a fucking lot worse, believe you me. Now you’ll be taken for a wee walk just for a couple of minutes and then we’ll gie you a lift to A & E. Not a word to anyone, understand? Cos if you do then we’ll come for you, but we also know where your brother lives, not forgetting your sister down south. And don’t forget to get on that flight tomorrow. Now fuck off.’

He was taken out the room, along the corridor and out the pub back to the car. His right hand was beginning to throb, but he knew the pain had barely begun. They drove him up to Saracen Street, the heart of Possil, where they brought him out of the car and paraded him in front of some concrete benches where a collection of people, mostly looking pretty scruffy and unkempt, looked on. This was deliberate. Word would get around that the guy who’d scarpered years ago with over thirty grand of Davie Walsh’s money had just had his punishment. It didn’t matter where you fled to or how long, Walsh and his people will get you. 

After five minutes of this, a black cab pulled up. He was bundled into the cab with the curt instruction from one of the captors: ‘Take him to the Royal,’ a reference to the Glasgow Royal Infirmary Hospital, which had an A & E department.

The cab pulled away with Drew on his own. He noticed the meter wasn’t on. The cabbie was obviously a Walsh associate. They sat in silence until at Townhead, just before the hospital and stopped at traffic lights, the driver asked:

‘You in a lot of pain?’

‘It’s nipping like fuck and its guanny get worse,’ Drew replied.

‘Nae worries,’ the driver remarked, ‘you’ll be getting painkillers soon.’

Anger and bile at the pain and humiliation inflicted fleetingly took over from fear as Drew bitterly exclaimed: ‘I fucking paid the money owed. I thought I had a free hand in Glasgow!’

The lights changed. The driver shot the cab forward, saying:

‘Listen pal, in this game there’s no such thing as a free hand.’