Lonie37

The fatman parked his Ford Escort on the downslope of Apsley Street, for a quick getaway. He swung his feet side-saddle out onto the road. A muted groan escaped his mouth as he heaved his bulk out of the car, using the frame of the open door as a handle. His black double-breasted mohair jacket snagged on his body like a pair of nylon tights. He smoothed it out as he pulled out a piece of paper with Lonie’s address written on it and looked about to get his bearings. The salt and vinegar smell of the chip shop across the road drifted across drawing his gaze to the condensation on the lighted shop window and making him lick his lips. He ignored it, staying on the side of the road as his car and walked up the street, consulting the piece of paper, as if it was a map, before finding the number of the close he was looking for. He gasped his way up each stair, his heart pounding itself to bits and taking a rest at each landing. He sniggered when he saw the clean brass inscription of the nameplate and just hoped Lonnigan was in and he hadn’t made the journey in vain. He chapped on the door.

Lonie had a blue- checker dishtowel in his hand, cleaning up the Sunday dishes, when he flung the door open. He was surprised to see the fatman, but it didn’t show in his face.

‘I brought you a little peace offering.’ The fatman edged the gold top of a half- bottle of Bell’s whisky out of his side pocket. ‘What have you got so many stairs for? I didn’t think you lived on top of a fucking mountain.’

‘You better come in then.’ Lonie waited for the fatman. He followed him through the hallway and into the living room. Lonie flung the dishtowel over the back of his chair near the fire and he let the fatman squeeze into the chair across from him.

The fatman’s head turned like a grinding stone as he looked around him, taking everything in. Sweat from the heat of the banked fire lay in folds on the the back of his neck and ran down his back and pooled in the discolouration marks of his white shirt. ‘Nice.’ That was his verdict of the room.

Lonie took his time answering. ‘Glad you like it.’ He looked across at the fatman. ‘Ah’ll swap my little house, for yours in Bearsden.’

The fatman eased the whisky bottle out of his pocket. ‘Deal.’ He sat the gold top on the arm of his chair. ‘As long as you take the wife with it.’

‘Yeh, deal. But Ah thought you were gettin’ divorced.’

‘Who told you that?’ The bottle in his hand shook up liquid gold in his tight grasp. He brought it in closer to his body as if sheltering it. ‘You got any glasses?’

‘Yeh.’ Lonie went through to the kitchen and came back with two cleanish mugs.

The fatman gave the living room a lived in feel of a relative visiting. He’d kicked off his shoes and was sitting smoking. He smiled and cracked open the half-bottle of whisky. Lonie handed him the two cups and watched him pouring.

‘Water?’ Lonie cocked his fingers into a C-shape to show the measure the fatman had poured into a glazed-green mug was enough.

The fatman passed the mug across, poured whisky into a white cup and took a quick nip. ‘Why bother?’ He settled into the seat across from Lonie. ‘So. How you been?’

Lonie took a slug of whisky and let its amber flame run down his throat, settle in his stomach; the heat slowly working its way through his body and unknotting his muscles. ‘Ah don’t know why everybody is suddenly concerned with my health.’ He finished his mug and wiped at his mouth, passing it back for a refill. ‘Cut the bullshit. What are you here for?’ He reached down for his fags.

The fatman sloshed some whisky into the green mug. ‘A little bird told me Audrey was pregnant.’

Lonie choaked on his fag. ‘Who the fuck told you that?’

‘Ways and means. Ways and means.’ The fatman passed the mug across. Cold air entered the flue of the chimney and the fire in the grate sprung into live and in the flickering flame his shadow grew a grotesque on the back walls. ‘As I said a real man always pays his debts.’ He reached into the inside pocket of his jacket and pulled out a dark brown leather wallet. The compartments were filled with fifty, ten, five and pound notes. His thick fingers separated them out and balanced them loose-leaf on the arm of the chair. He weighed them down with ten bob and two shillings. ‘That’s it.’ He poured himself another drink and held up his mug to toast his achievement. ‘Cheers.’

‘Ah don’t want your fuckin’ money.’ Lonie angrily flung what whisky he had back in one gulp. ‘Stick it where the sun don’t shine.’ There was more money sitting across from him than he’d ever seen.

The fatman shrugged and gurned some malicious grin of agreement. He held out his hand for Lonie to pass his mug back across so that he could refill it and poured himself a half whilst doing so. ‘Seems an awful waste though.’ He passed the mug back to Lonie and picked up a pound note and flung it in the fire.

‘Hi!’ The mug was in Lonie’s hand, but just as quickly he’d put it on the grate and in a fluid movement, without thinking about it, had the poker in his hand and was batting the pound note to the side of the fire. He scooped it up with thumb and forefinger and blew out the flames. Half of it was scorched and burnt. ‘Are you mad? Whit are you doin’?’

‘Well, I had a word with the boys and they all seemed keen to pay their debts.’ The fatman swilled some whisky round in the bottom his cup. He made a smartening sound as he flung it back. The bottle was almost empty. He poured a little into his cup and grunted as he leaned across emptying what was left in Lonie’s mug. ‘You know Mr Taylor gives me a lot of leeway about how I run the Glasownian. I make mistakes. I admit it. That’s not my money. It’s Mr Taylor’s. The boys can pay it back two pounds a week.’ He held his glass up in salute, picked up another pound note and flung it into the fire.

Lonie was ready for him this time. His hand swooped down and plucked it out of the flame before it had time to burn. Two fifty- pound notes. Three tens then another rained down on him. Then a fiver. He grabbed them too before they caught fire and jumped up, his hands plucking at the money, bunching it on his lap and looking across at the fatman. ‘Whit the fuck you doin’?’

The fatman laughed. ‘Just making sure you take your money.’ He swallowed the last of the whisky. ‘I enjoyed that.’

Lonie wasn’t sure if he was talking about the whisky, or his scrambling for money like a wain outside a wedding for the groom to throw his loose change. He clutched at the wad of money and looked at the flames of the fire. His hand tightened as if to throw it in, but then relaxed, letting it spread out like a burnt bouquet on his lap.

‘You were right about Tilby.’ The fatman nodded as if Lonie had spoken. ‘I’ll probably need to find a reason to let him go.’ His shoulders heaved as he shrugged. ‘Bit of a recession on, but he’ll do alright. His type always do.’

Lonie took a swig of his whisky and pushed the money off his lap and into the side of the chair. ‘Whit’s that got to do with me?’ He put his fag in his mouth and squinted at the fatman through the smoke.

The fatman let the whisky bottle clunk and settle onto the carpet. ‘Don’t be daft and play funny-buggers.’ He shifted in his chair, but his eyes didn’t leave Lonie’s. ‘You got anything else to drink?’ He looked up at the light fittings as if it was going to drop down like manna.

‘Ah've got a couple of cans of Pale Ale. But you don’t drink that.’

‘A man drinks anything when there’s a drought.’

Lonie went through to the kitchen. He came back with four Pale Ales and a tin opener to punch holes in the cans. He licked at the froth as it bubbled up and out of the tin, before coughing and handing the fatman the tin he’d opened. There was less fizz in the can he opened. In the gloom the fatman sat drinking and seemed to suck all of the oxygen out of the living room.

‘So what's the deal?’ Lonie broke the silence.

‘The deal is you come back and work for me.’ The fatman finished his can and crumpled it up, burping and letting it fall with a clank onto the stone grate. He waved impatiently for the other can Lonie had placed standing by his chair. He pushed forward with his flabby hand out. His lips smacked against the hole and he burped again. ‘That’s good stuff.’ His chubby cheeks relaxed into a smile.

‘Why are you goin’ to all this bother?’

The fatman banged on his chest, discomfort floating across his chest, before he burped again loudly. ‘I needed that.’ He sniffed and adopted a serious tone. ‘The truth is you’ve got friends in low places. Cardinals and the type.’

Lonie’s eyes narrowed and he took a swig out of his can. ‘Aye, Ah might well have, but what’s in it for you?’

‘Well it’s quite simple Goldenwell Hospital is going to close. There’s been a tight squeeze on Government budgets. They’re looking to cut costs. All this religious shite is finished. There’s been a massive duplication of services. They’re going to start with the hospitals and work their way down to the schools. No more Catholics. No more Protestants. Just regional and national services. It should have been done years ago.’

‘You seem remarkably well informed.’

‘I’ve got friends in low places too.’

‘So whit’s that got to dae with me?’ Lonie shook his head, a fag stuck to his lip. It took him time to get used to the idea.

‘Simple domino effect. We start at the top.’ The fatman clawed at the pit of psoriasis on his elbow, his face contorting into a need his fingers couldn’t satisfy. ‘That Father Campbell’s been faking it for years. I want him found out and the unit closed.’ He clawed down his shirt, flinging his hand up and under his oxter in a public display of flesh Lonie had never seen the fatman make before. ‘And as for that Larry Murray…his trial was never finished. The judge allowed him to be declared insane half way through the trial.’ The fatman stopped clawing, his agony lessened. He took a deep drink of his can. ‘He’s just evil. That man should hang.’

A bubble of laughter streamed out of Lonie’s nose and mouth with the froth of the can. ‘He might well be an evil bastard. I don’t think anybody would dispute that, but the hanging law was repealed years ago. Even the Americans don’t execute anybody now.’

The fatman tapped the side of his nose with his index finger. A sign to keep it quiet between the two of them. ‘You know how much it costs to keep someone in those places?’ He didn’t wait for Lonie to answer. ‘You know how much we would save every year if we hung those that had committed capital crimes? Money talks my friend. Money talks.’ He looked at the notes stuffed safely down the side of Lonie’s chair. ‘As I said I’ve got friends in low places. We’ve got a list. For the public good laws can be repealed. Most folk favour capital punishment.’ He grunted as he pushed up from his seat. ‘I’ll see you tomorrow then?’

Lonie went to stand up too, but the fatman waved him down. ‘Ah might be there, but Ah think Ah’d need a pay rise.’

The fatman’s hand rose in salute. ‘The management would need to think about it, but the answer would be no.’ The building shook as he banged Lonie’s front door shut.