Family

by Owen Mullen

  My brother stopped coming but Nina didn’t, bringing gossip – a currency most inmates traded in – to distract me from my situation. Danny featured in a lot of stories inside. One rumour would have him ruling the South Side with an iron hand, in the next, he was dying of cancer and only had weeks to live.

  My sister confirmed most of it was crap and anyway, if she was wrong, it would be waiting for me when I got out.

  ‘Nina’s told me she’s working for you.’

  Danny grunted. ‘Not true, she’s working for herself. She’s…’ laughter from the direction of the bar interrupted him and he scowled angrily at the intrusion ‘… part of the family. That means she’s due a third – of everything. Only right she pulls her weight.’

  ‘And does she?’

  He thought about his reply. ‘Her work isn’t the problem. Matter of fact, she’s done well. Added more than a few tasty properties to the portfolio. Got in at the right price, too.’ He allowed himself a half-smile. ‘Didn’t know we had a portfolio, did you, little brother?’

  ‘So, what’s the issue?’

  ‘Her attitude. Your sister isn’t a team player. As soon as I say something, she’s down my throat.’

  Just like him.

  ‘Why not let her just get on with it?’

  A vein pulsed in Danny’s temple; the suggestion didn’t sit well. ‘I have. I bloody have. Along with the property she deals with the accountant. But, at the end of the day, I’m the head of the family. When I ask a question, I expect an answer. And you’ll remember her taste in men’s never been great.’

  ‘What’s that got to do with it?’

  He didn’t reply and changed the subject. ‘How’re you doing?’

  ‘Okay.’

  ‘Pleased to hear it because I need you.’ He saw my expression and backed off. ‘Not right now. After you’ve had a holiday, somewhere with palm trees. Take a month.’ From inside his coat he pulled a wad of notes tied with an elastic band. ‘Scatter cash. Fun money.’

  I guessed three thousand pounds.

  ‘I’m all right. Got enough.’

  He pushed it towards me. ‘No such thing. Besides, your share comes to a helluva lot more than this. Check your bank account.’

  ‘I didn’t earn it.’

  He snorted. ‘What’re you on about? ’Course you did.’

  I left the money where it was.

  Danny looked me over again. ‘Great to have you where I can keep an eye on you. Last time I wasn’t around it all went a bit Pete Tong. No offence, little brother. Made some moves while you’ve been away. You’ve got new people to meet, new opportunities to get your head round. Take a while to come up to speed. Like I told you, we’re into property now.’

  ‘Sounds good.’

  ‘Yeah, it is and we’re doing okay, all things considered.’ He waved an arm in the air. ‘Why this place?’

  ‘They sell beer.’

  ‘Not so you’d notice.’

  A click of his fingers brought the waitress.

  ‘What’s that?’ He pointed to my pint and answered his own question. ‘Directors?’

  I nodded.

  ‘One of them and two Black Label. Doubles.’ He brought his attention back to me.

  ‘Been in half a dozen pubs before this one. Wish you’d told Nina where you were going.’

  ‘I didn’t know. Sorry.’

  Danny swatted the apology away. ‘Forget it. You go where you want to go, do what you want to do.’ He handed me a mobile phone. ‘Next time you feel like ducking out, give me a call. My birthday’s coming up. See if you can manage to drag yourself along to that.’

  I let the sarcasm fly over my head.

  The waitress bent to lift a crisp packet off the floor, her ample arse stretching the material of her faded jeans.

  Danny said, ‘Crack a few walnuts with that, eh?’

  An old line but it made me laugh; when I was a kid, he’d made me laugh a lot.

  ‘’Course, after seven years you’d probably take it on.’

  ‘When I’m stronger, maybe.’

  The drinks came. He casually tossed a fifty on the tray as if it was nothing.

  ‘The flat’s ready. Had it cleaned – new towels, new sheets and all that. Be good to sleep in your own bed. Might want to think about selling though, the neighbourhood’s down the plughole.’

  ‘Yeah?’

  ‘Yeah. Everybody round there talks Polish or some fucking thing. Can’t understand a word. The Chinese restaurant on the corner? Nice people, remember? You liked them, lived on their sweet and sour pork – ’least, they said it was pork. Don’t know how you could eat that foreign muck. It’s a dry-cleaner now. Lithuanians run it.’

  Suddenly the Chinese were all right; my brother’s selective memory in action. Before I’d gone inside, he’d called them yellow bastards and constantly complained about them buying up London.

  ‘And the women…’ He threw the whisky over in one go and screwed up his face. ‘Jesus Christ… if ugly was contagious they’d be in quarantine. I’d move if I were you. To somewhere they speak English.’

  ‘Like where?’

  ‘In London? No idea. Let me know if you come across it. Up west the Arabs are buying everything they can lay their greasy hands on. Thirty million. Fifty million. For houses they don’t even live in. Honest to God, this country’s finished.’

  I’d been listening to my brother’s views all my life. No matter the problem, ‘Bloody foreigners’ were to blame.

  ‘You know where I’m coming from. Don’t pretend you don’t.’

  Yes, I did – he was being who he’d always been: a xenophobe and a racist. He ended his rant and eyed me up and down.

  ‘Seriously, you don’t look great.’

  ‘Thanks, bro. I need that.’

  The pub was returning to how I’d found it, empty apart from a few diehards, the poser in the blazer one of them. Danny pointed to my glass.

  ‘Fancy another?’

  ‘Think I’ve had enough. I’m not used to it.’

  He overruled me. ‘Go on. Just a splash. Have a break then get back in the game. And stay alert, some people have long memories.’

  Rich coming from him. When he was fourteen, an older boy stuck a knife in the ball he was playing with. On a dark night five years later, somebody dragged the boy into an alley and beat the shit out of him. He’d ended up in hospital with concussion and a mouthful of broken teeth. Danny hadn’t hurried to take his revenge. But he hadn’t forgotten. The account got squared. The account always got squared. Nobody had a longer memory than my brother.

  ‘That a warning?’

  ‘No, an observation. Do it anyway.’

  He leaned over and patted my cheek.

  ‘The Glass brothers ride again, eh?’

  I toyed with the dregs in my glass. There was never going to be a good time.

  ‘Danny. There’s something I need to say.’

  He looked concerned. ‘What? What is it? You ill?’

  ‘Nothing like that.’

  ‘Then… what?’

  At the end of the day I owed him and we both knew it. This was hard.

  ‘Ever since I was a kid you’ve looked out for me and Nina. I’m grateful but…’

  He held up a hand to stop me from carrying on. ‘Luke. Whatever’s on your mind will keep. This is your day. Enjoy it.’

  I realised he knew what I was going to say – he just didn’t want to hear it. I said it anyway, blurted it out, shucking off a weight I’d carried around too long.

  ‘I’m not coming back. I’m finished.’

  Over the years I’d had plenty of opportunities to recognise the signs. He shot his don’t-fuck-with-me look, the lines on his face deepened and the casual acceptance of me doing a runner from the homecoming party fell away. It had been an act. He edged forward and balled his fist. Danny had a temper – I’d seen him lose it many times. For a moment, I thought he was going to hit me. With an effort he pulled himself together and put a
hand on my shoulder.

  ‘Take whatever time you need. See how you feel about it then.’

  3

  Nina hadn’t lied to Luke – she had better things to do than waste an afternoon talking: Eugene Vale was one of them.

  She was naked, her clothes cast on the floor in her haste to be free of them, stretched across the desk, long legs curled behind her lover, binding him to her. The only sounds in the room were the shallow urgency of their breathing and the slap of flesh against flesh. Without words, they changed position; he bent her over the desk and took her from behind. Nina’s manicured fingernails dug into the varnished wood as she climaxed. Vale lifted her up and lowered her to the floor, sucking her rigid nipples while his fingers worked between her thighs, bringing her to the edge before he mounted her a third time.

  When it was over, they rolled away from each other and lay staring at the ceiling.

  Vale said, ‘Where does he think you are right now?’

  ‘I’ve no idea and I couldn’t care less. He’s my brother, not my keeper.’

  ‘Luke’s coming out today.’

  ‘I’ve seen him.’

  ‘But shouldn’t you be at the pub?’

  Nina noticed the concern behind the question, the same unease she’d heard so often whenever Danny Glass was spoken about. She fired back. ‘Shouldn’t you?’

  ‘Danny told me about the party a couple of weeks ago. He isn’t expecting me.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘I said I wouldn’t be able to make it.’

  ‘And he was fine with that?’

  ‘Social events aren’t my thing. Danny understands that.’

  ‘Not even to welcome Luke back into the fold?’

  ‘Not even for that. Why aren’t you there?’

  ‘Because I’d rather be here. Danny’s got more than enough arse-lickers jumping when he says jump. In case you haven’t noticed, I’m not one of them.’

  Nina’s face shone in the afternoon light, the unblemished skin glowing, defiance a dark star in her eyes. Stealing from her brother had been her idea and she’d made it seem so easy, it hadn’t taken much to persuade him. Nina Glass was a handful, no doubt about that, driven by something Vale didn’t try to understand. He didn’t love her – with two marriages and two divorces behind him, the chances of him falling for another woman were nil – but being with her was exciting. Too exciting at times. The kind of exciting that got people killed.

  ‘Damn right, you’re not. Nobody sane would be doing what we’re doing.’

  She turned to face him. ‘Then why’re we doing it?’

  He reached over and kissed her. ‘Because we can. And because you suggested it.’

  She smiled. ‘I’ve bewitched you, is that what you’re saying?’

  He drew her to him. ‘Correct. Now, stop talking before the spell breaks.’

  They dressed in silence, each lost in their own thoughts. Vale hunkered down in front of a wall safe and spun the tumblers forward and back, until the door sprang open. From inside, he took two thick bundles of fifty-pound notes and tossed them onto the desk.

  Nina weighed the notes in the palm of her hand. ‘It feels like a lot.’

  ‘It is a lot, and it’s all yours. Put it with the rest and forget you have it.’

  Concern furrowed Nina’s brow. ‘We aren’t getting greedy, are we, Eugene? Greedy people get found out. Greedy people get caught.’

  ‘Relax, there’s so much cash coming in, Danny can’t keep track. Only thing that bothers me is Luke coming out of prison. Now, we’ve got both your brothers to worry about.’

  ‘Luke wants nothing to do with Danny’s operation. He isn’t hanging around.’

  ‘That’s not how Danny understands it. He talks like he has plans for him.’

  Nina pulled on her coat and searched her bag for her car keys. ‘It won’t be happening.’

  ‘Sure about that?’

  ‘Absolutely sure.’

  4

  Rollie Anderson gave the driver his instructions. ‘Slow down and park further along. Not too far, I want to be able to see.’

  The driver did as he was told and pulled in front of a yellow Vauxhall.

  Rollie said, ‘Keep the engine running,’ and unzipped a pocket of his black leather jacket with one hand, nervously drawing slender fingers through his ponytail with the other. He took out a packet of Gitanes and tapped one into his palm, his fifteenth so far today. Albert Anderson’s son was on edge, chain-smoking to give himself something to do while he waited: he was twenty-six years old, overtly gay, automatically drawn to anything that brought oblivion. This was a big day for him, the biggest of his life and he didn’t intend to miss a second of it. He wished his latest lover were here to share in it; desire made him hard.

  But George Ritchie had taught him to keep business and pleasure separate – apart from the dope and the booze. Rollie lied to himself about those, considering them fuck-you-George rebellions rather than the addictions they so obviously were.

  Outside the King of Mesopotamia, a tall, heavy-set man in a suit paced right and left, grey smoke from an E-cigarette drifting from his lips. Above his head, in contrast to the maroon facade edged in gold, a blue plaque claimed a public house had stood on this spot since 1645, and that Oliver Cromwell once spent the night under its roof.

  Rollie intended to make some history of his own.

  They were going to need a bigger plaque.

  A wall of noise escaped from behind the door into the street caused by a band trying to be The Who making the mistake of thinking it was about how hard you pounded the guitar. Albert hadn’t been a fan of loud music. A yammer, he would’ve called it.

  Rollie pictured the scene inside the King Pot: the place would be heaving; animated faces, rosy-cheeked thanks to the free bar. All pals together so long as the booze kept coming. Glass would have made his speech praising his young brother. Preaching to the choir. Most of the people there depended on Danny Glass for their livelihood: soldiers and pimps and hard-faced women, even the odd hanger-on anxious to break into the circle. Anderson had a similar collection of arse-lickers around him, keen to do whatever he wanted done so long as he stayed a force south of the Thames. The few fortunate enough to be invited expected to be telling each other tomorrow how well Luke Glass looked after seven years, and didn’t Danny know how to throw a party, eh? Except that wasn’t what they’d be saying.

  Some of them wouldn’t be saying anything ever again.

  Though why only one guard? Anderson had anticipated three or four at least. Glass was an arrogant bastard. He knew this was as good a time as any to even the score but perhaps assumed nobody would try it on his home turf. No doubt he had plans for his brother, plans that included using him to help put Rollie out of business.

  Not happening. Definitely not happening.

  Rollie flipped open his phone, pressed speed dial and spoke. ‘Let’s do this thing. And don’t be shy in there. Put it about.’

  A grey-haired old man walking with a cane, dressed in a dark overcoat and a green scarf, came around the corner. He stopped to read the Private Function sign, mouthing the words, then moved towards the door. The guard stepped between him and the entrance.

  ‘On your way.’

  ‘I just want to look.’

  ‘Forget it. There’s nothing for you here.’ He shoved the old geezer. ‘What part of “private function” don’t you understand? Fuck off, Grandad.’

  The pensioner dropped the cane, drew a gun from underneath his coat and shot the minder in the chest. He collapsed on the pavement, a cherry-red stain spreading across his white shirt. The shooter tore off the grey wig, threw it away and stood over the dying man.

  ‘Ought to have more respect for your elders,’ he said, and fired again.

  Four figures in balaclavas appeared from nowhere and burst into the pub, unnoticed by the partygoers until a bullet shattered the mirror behind the bar and got their attention. The music petered out mid-song; conversation
stopped mid-sentence. The leader swept glasses and drinks off the counter and walked to the centre of the room scanning the terrified faces, while his men herded people against the walls. He poked the man nearest him in the ear with the barrel of his gun. ‘Where are they?’

  No answer.

  He opened the question up to the rest of the crowd. ‘Where are they?’

  Silence.

  The nearest person was a redhead in her late forties, nervously gripping her drink. Gracie was one of the pub regulars who sometimes broke into song after she’d had a few. He shot her in the temple and turned away before she hit the floor. The stunned crowd tried to take in what had just happened.

  ‘I’ll ask again,’ he said. ‘Where are Danny, Luke and Nina?’

  A voice from the back shouted, ‘They’re not here.’

  ‘So, where are they?’

  ‘Luke and Nina didn’t show. Danny went to find Luke.’

  Two of the gang raced upstairs.

  The barman shouted after them. ‘Danny’ll do you for this.’

  The bullet hit him in the leg and they left him at the bottom of the stairs screaming, blood pouring from the wound.

  The office was empty. No sign of them. Frustrated and angry, the hooded men toppled the jukebox on its side and pumped three rounds into the image of the Queen. The picture flew into space and landed on the carpet. Down in the bar, the other raiders kept their weapons on the guests crowded together at the end of the room. One of Danny Glass’s men made a dive at the guy nearest him and took a bullet in the heart at close range for his trouble. He died instantly, the third fatality in less than five minutes.

  Felix Corrigan should’ve been at the door. Instead he was ordering a drink when the raiders burst in. Since the attack began, he’d been looking for an opportunity to redeem himself and he’d been given it. Felix drew a gun from underneath his jacket, fired two rounds into the man who’d murdered Gracie and ducked behind an overturned table. In the car, Anderson heard the shots and saw his men burst onto the street and scatter. With surprise on their side Rollie had imagined it would be fast and smooth, and when it ended the Glass family would be dead.