Faces (39 page)

Carole had been even more thrilled to see Michael Miles, her old neighbour and school friend and her girlhood idol. Carole was a big girl, heavy-hipped, with lush breasts that were the object of many a man’s desire. She was very pretty, but in a quiet way, not like Mary who knew how to make herself noticeable. Carole had wonderful bone structure, with high cheekbones and deep-set blue eyes that were framed by long, dark eyelashes. She had honey-blond hair that was as natural as the rest of her. It was long and it curled slightly at the edges giving her the look of an old-time movie star. She wore little in the way of make-up, but she didn’t really need any. Her kindness shone out of her like a beacon. In reality, the two women were like chalk and cheese, but they were already as close as they had been as children and Carole had guessed, though she would never say it out loud, that Mary wasn’t as happy as she should be. She put it down to the loss of the baby, but in her heart she knew it went much deeper than that. As they sipped at their tea, she saw Mary stiffen in fright at the sound of the front door opening, a few seconds later the huge frame of Danny Boy Cadogan filled the kitchen. He looked at Carole and his face split into a wide grin.

‘Fuck me! Look who it is! Hello, Carole, love.’

He was genuinely pleased to see her, and Mary watched as Carole stood up and he hugged her close to him. His huge arms dwarfed the girl who was now chattering away to him in a way that she couldn’t even imagine any more.

‘What a lovely place you’ve got here, it’s out of this world, Danny Boy.’

Mary saw him swell with pride at the words, knew that he, like her, didn’t really see it any more, didn’t value it like he should, but still appreciated the way Carole was so impressed by it. She reminded him of just how well he was doing, how far he had come.

Danny Boy let Carole go reluctantly; she felt good, her voluptuous figure was pleasing to him, felt good in his embrace. He stared down at her, seeing the plump cheeks that were smooth and devoid of any foundation, her full lips always ready to smile. He saw the soulful eyes that had captivated him as a boy. A boy who had not felt good enough for a nice girl like her. A boy who had never had the opportunity to even play at courting like his contemporaries. He’d been too busy sorting out his father’s fuck-ups and his siblings’ lives. Looking at Carole now, he realised just what he had missed and also, thanks to her honesty and excitement at his home, how far he had actually come since those days. It was amazing really, Carole Rourke was the only person to make him feel happy inside himself for a long time. Her open face and her thick blond hair, untouched by any kind of dye, was refreshing. As he looked at his wife, at her carefully applied make-up and her thin frame, he was reminded of the travesty his marriage had turned into, the sham of a life that they lived through on a daily basis.

Carole smelled of Vosene shampoo and Knights Castile soap. She was real, she felt real, and he suddenly wished that he was coming home to her, coming home to her with her truthfulness and her honesty. She smelled of the things a good woman should smell of; even her perfume, Topaz, was from an Avon catalogue, an aroma his wife would not be caught wearing if her life depended on it was, to him, perfection. She was bright, she was natural, and she was a virgin: he would stake his life on that much. Beside her, poor Mary was like an also-ran and he was aware that she knew that as well as he did.

‘You sit down, Danny, I’ll make the tea, mate.’

And he did just that, happy to be in his own home for the first time since he had purchased it.

 

‘He is a bastard, Ange, and you know it.’

As she laid the table for their tea, Ange was silently praying. Her husband was determined to make the loss of the child Danny Boy’s fault and she wasn’t about to join in. She knew that poor Mary had suffered an unfortunate event, as her own mother would have described it. And she also knew there was plenty of time for them to produce a child. Her husband though, wouldn’t let it rest, and this from a man who had beaten his own children from her body without a backward glance.

‘The vicious ponce. I wish I was in me full health because, I swear to you, I’d swing for that bastard . . .’

Jonjo was listening to his parents’ conversation as he had many times over the years. The flat was so small that it was impossible not to hear what was being said. In fact, like his sister, he had made a point of
not
listening to it all over the years. Of turning up the radio, or the TV, putting on a record, so that whatever was being said was kept private. Now though, he was actively on the listen. Now he worked for his big bruv, earned a decent wedge at last, and had, at the same time, discovered the power that respect could bring to a body, he felt the loyalty for Danny Boy welling up inside him. Stepping into the kitchen he said maliciously, ‘Who the fuck are you to talk about our Danny Boy like that, eh?’

Ange was mortified, as was her husband, and she recovered the power of speech first. ‘You shut your trap, and sit down. I’ll not have you talking to your father like that . . .’

Jonjo, a big lad now, and a lad who had a long memory of his father’s fists and feet, said abruptly, ‘Keep out of this, Mum, and remember who you’re talking about. We’d have been hard-pushed for a fucking bit of scram if it had been left to this cunt to provide for us. He dumped us with a regularity that even
you
must have noticed.’

Big Dan Cadogan knew the boy wanted to fight him, knew it had been on the cards for many a long year, and he also knew that he didn’t want any part of it any more. Once he would have welcomed his younger son’s words, would have taken great pleasure in beating them out of him. Now though, he knew he wasn’t capable of doing that, wasn’t even inclined towards it. Instead he kept his own counsel and didn’t answer the young lad who was a menacing force, who was now dangerous to him.

‘I am on the earn thanks to Danny Boy, and I pay me fucking way. Don’t ever badmouth him in front of me, right. You don’t even whisper his name in my presence, you old bastard. You fucking useless old ponce.’

Jonjo watched his mother and father as they exchanged glances, glances that told him they were working together against him. That they thought he was still a kid who could be silenced with a harsh word or a cross look. Whose own mother was willing to overlook his humiliation, would encourage it even. She would back her husband up, even though she knew he was in the wrong. Jonjo was not going to let that happen ever again, and he wanted this confrontation, needed it.

‘Sit down, son, and stop all this nonsense.’

It was his father’s voice that did it, the way he tried to act as if they were bosom buddies, as if they had some kind of rapport. As his sister watched from the hallway he launched himself at his father and, as he felt his fists pummelling the ancient flesh, he felt, for the first time in his life, as if he was in control of his own destiny. Felt the pent-up anger and hatred spewing out of him even as his mother tried desperately to stop the beating. Knowing that she was still sticking up for the man who had terrorised them all at some time or another made his anger grow stronger and he pushed her away roughly. He knocked her into the table, saw her try to keep her balance, and knew he should care about what he had done to her. That he should try and make amends, somehow. But he couldn’t.

He was aware of the kitchen, of the new cooker, the decorating that had been done at his brother’s expense. But he was seeing it as it had looked when he was a child, scratched and scuffed, nothing in the fridge, and the Christmases without even a bit of grub, let alone presents. The birthdays that were bleak reminders of this man’s selfishness and his determination to drink and gamble away any money that came his way. His determination to forget the family who had depended on him, had expected him to look after them, look out for them, like other men did for their families, for the children they had brought into the world. The children who he had conveniently forgotten about. It was as if all this hatred was overpowering him, making this moment, this event, so important he daren’t let it go.

When his mother finally dragged him away from his father’s prostrate form, Jonjo stood in the middle of the kitchen, his knuckles bruised and bleeding, the sweat pouring off him and he saw Annie white-faced and crying, and he knew then that it had all gone too far. That, like Danny Boy, he had left it too late, that the man he hated wasn’t a man any more, not in the true sense of the word anyway. Seeing his father bloodied and bruised didn’t give him the peace he craved, it just exacerbated his own loneliness. The knowledge that the man who had sired him had no real time for him, and never would have, just amplified the hatred he felt for himself.

He saw his mother helping her husband up from the floor, saw her seat him tenderly on a chair and knew that her actions were wrong: that it was him, her child, she should have been looking out for. But then, she had always put their father over them, over all of them. No matter what stroke he pulled, or what danger he placed them in. She had always sacrificed them for him, for the man who had treated her like shit. She only really wanted them when he had gone from her, was absent without leave, had abandoned them all, his mother included. Well, he was a man now, and he was not going to let anyone make him feel less than he was, ever again. Danny Boy had given him a role to play, had provided him with a niche, with a life that he was actually enjoying. Overnight, thanks to Danny Boy, he had the kudos and the respect he had always craved. His new job had given him the pride in himself he had always dreamed of.

He even stood differently, his shoulders were back and his head held high. For the first time ever, Jonjo
liked
himself and, if it had been left to the man who had sired him, that would never have happened; he would have made sure of that.

But he had made his point, had showed his hand. He had won the day, had shamefully beaten up a cripple, a man who was incapable of really defending himself. Now, hopefully, he could let it go.

Chapter Eighteen

Mary looked beautiful, and she knew it. Even though she was troubled, she knew that she was still a beautiful woman. A head-turner. It wasn’t vanity, it was just common sense. She saw herself in the mirror and she knew that, even when her life was impossible, when her heart was heavy, and her husband’s hatefulness was weighing on her mind, somehow or another she still looked lovely. She knew it annoyed Danny Boy; even when she had hardly slept a wink, she still looked good. Now though, as she watched her brother courting Carole Rourke, she felt the first stirrings of envy inside her breast.

Michael was enamoured of Carole, of that there was no doubt, as was her own husband. Danny Boy loved her, she was one of the only people he had any real time for. It was magnificent to watch; she couldn’t believe that it was her husband, her Danny Boy. He chatted to Carole with an ease that was as effortless as it was astonishing. She loved her friend, but she couldn’t help but envy the way she managed to calm Danny Boy down with a few choice words. She could talk to him about anything, and he actually listened to what she was saying, he even laughed with her. A real laugh, not his usual sarcastic or premeditated laughter. He actually seemed relaxed with her, and enjoyed himself. Once Michael married her, and she knew he would, she would have her friend on tap every day. She was glad in one way, but terrified in another. This Danny Boy could be more scary than she realised.

Danny was observing his wife and Carole Rourke as they sat together. They were like chalk and cheese. Carole was the antithesis of Mary, she wasn’t plastered in make-up, necking drinks like there was no tomorrow. He knew Michael was onto a winner with her, and he was pleased for him, even as he envied him his good fortune. Carole wasn’t going to need watching, Carole was a good girl in all ways. It came naturally to her, she was a nice person with a good heart and she would be a wonderful mother. Unlike the women around them, she didn’t feel it necessary to flash her thrupenny bits to all and sundry; she was what years before was called a decent girl.

The pub was getting packed now, and Danny was also eyeing up the local talent on the quiet. He knew Mary was aware of his roving eye and he was glad about that. She was pregnant again. He hoped she managed to hang onto this one but he wasn’t getting his hopes up. Once she produced a child he would celebrate, until then, he had no interest in any of it.

His eye strayed to the bar area, three men were there, all Faces, all waiting patiently for him to approach them. He loved that, loved the fear he created in everyone around him, especially the older criminals. The men who had once ruled their little empires and who were now sensible enough to know they were outclassed. The people he needed the most were the ones who had once held his position in the world, seeing them defeated was a buzz he knew he couldn’t do without. He was at the top of his game and he knew it; he was also determined to stay there. He wasn’t going to get complacent, sit on his arse and wait for a young gun like him to come along and scrump his apples. He was going to make sure that he kept his position in the world. He would only relinquish it on his death, and not before. He would do whatever it took to stay where he was and keep his crown firmly on his loaf of bread. These men had made the mistake of believing they were invincible, and now they had to swallow their knobs in his company, and tug their forelocks to keep on the earn. He loved it.

A young girl with long, black, heavily gelled hair and scrawny legs was smiling at him saucily. He knew the look and he winked back at her, his handsome face softened by the girl’s promise.

Standing up, he walked over to the bar; everyone was aware of him and he knew that, made sure of that, in fact. He was big, but then so were a lot of men. But he had the menace and the presence to carry it off. He smiled at the three men who had travelled from south London to meet with him. They were all nervous and that fact pleased him. The main player was a man called Frank Cotton, he was a big man, but age had softened his physique and he was running to fat. At forty-nine he was established enough to create a stir wherever he went, but he was also guilty of loosening his grip on the reins. He had his poke and the thought of doing any real stir kept him from making any rash decisions. He had greying blond hair, deep-blue eyes, and his wrinkles were all laughter lines. He fancied himself as a bit of a card, and loved a good joke. He was capable of great friendships and he was also capable of murder. Like Danny Boy, he had been accused of it many times, but no one had ever accused him to his face, Old Bill included. What they guessed, and what they could prove, were two very different things. Frank was pleased that Danny Boy had finally deigned to approach them; he had worried they were being mugged off by him. His two compatriots, Lenny Dunn and Douglas Fairfax, were getting restless. It always amazed him that the lower down the food chain people were, the quicker they seemed to take offence at any so-called slights. He understood the nature of patience, and the sense in waiting to see what occurred before taking the appropriate action necessary. Considering that, in their line of work, that could entail a gun and a stern lecture, it was the only sensible course of action for anyone with even a modicum of intelligence.