Faces

by Martina Cole

  As Danny Boy laughed and joked with Pakash, he was working out how much he could nick from him without the man feeling insulted. He had already invested in three gyms, as a partner so silent that the taxman would still be trying to work out who he was when they picked up their retirement cheques. It was a doddle. He was also negotiating all his deals with a renewed vigour in light of the fact that he would soon be one of the main players on the stage of villainy. These were exciting times.

  Pakash was grinning, his expensive smile showing the bridgework that his older brother, a dentist, was famous for, and the suit he was wearing telling the world that despite the money he had it couldn’t buy him good taste. He looked cheap, and Danny would always hold that fact against him, even though he knew it would work in Patel’s favour.

  Now though, as he walked him through the casino to his little office, he was amazed to see just how sure of himself he was. Pakash was into him for a small fortune, and it was this that was to be the catalyst for a good working partnership that Danny Boy would ensure was far more beneficial to him than to Pakash. But then, Pakash would expect that, he was, after all, a cockney boy who understood the situation. He would be on an earner, but he would also have the protection of Danny Boy for the foreseeable future, something that was worth far more than cash on the hip. It was something he could use to gather more money with less aggro.

  In fact, Danny Boy was so sure of his premier position that he was caught off guard when Pakash Patel asked him about a whisper he had heard on the pavement concerning him and James Carlton.

  Michael observed that it was the only time in his life that he had ever seen Danny Boy Cadogan lost for words.

  Donald Carlton was sitting in his girlfriend’s flat nursing a large Scotch. The flat was small in comparison to the house he lived in with his wife. The same wife he had stood by for nearly thirty-two years. The woman had slept her way around London, but still thought he was mug enough to believe her when she swore she had been faithful to him. He was a man of the world; he knew that he should have outed her years before, it would have made his life much easier. She was a whore. A woman who had the morals of an alley cat and the face of an angel. She had been the only thing in his whole life that had never made any sense. She had the knack of making him believe what he wanted to believe. Now, though, he just couldn’t do it any more.

  Men he trusted, loved even, who had worked for him since day one felt his total humiliation as if they had lived through it themselves. They had not said a word against her, and had not questioned his reasoning when he had taken her back after yet another of her escapades. But it was over now. He had no feelings left for the woman who had produced a child, who had led him to believe that the child was his, and who had hinted, when thwarted, that any number of men could have been the sperm donor.

  He had met his latest girlfriend at a nightclub in Ilford; he had walked into the Lacy Lady to pick up a few quid owed to him by a local Face. He had seen Deirdre Anderson standing at the bar, and it was as if they had both been pole-axed. She was stunning; a tiny blonde with huge eyes and a tidy body. He knew by the way she dressed and the way she talked, that she had been around the track a few times, but he also knew, without a doubt, that she was as smitten with him as he was by her. For the first time in his life he was content, an emotion he felt wasn’t appreciated as much as it should be.

  In this little apartment of hers he could relax, really relax. Young Deirdre might only be twenty years old but he knew, without a shadow of a doubt, that she loved him. Knew that she was faithful to him, and that she was in for the long haul, age difference aside. They were kindred spirits.

  She had decorated the place with the finesse of a drunken hedgehog, but even the garish wallpaper and mismatched furniture just made him feel even more at home. This was a place that was lived in, really lived in, and a place where the people inside its walls were more important than the price of the fixtures and fittings. It was a place where time stood still and he could just enjoy being a man, without the constant reminder of his wife’s infidelity.

  As Donald heard Deirdre letting in his guest he sighed and swallowed his drink down with one gulp. Pouring himself another large drink, he sat on the Dralon sofa that was far too big for the room it resided in, and wondered at what he was going to be asked. He forced a neutral expression onto his face and made himself smile as Big Danny Cadogan walked into the room. His broken body made him clumsy, and the Murrays’ violent handiwork reminded everyone who saw him of what could happen to people who didn’t think their actions through properly.

  ‘What’s the big deal then, Dan?’

  Big Danny Cadogan lowered himself painfully into an armchair and answered him with the same forced jollity, ‘Get me a drink, and I’ll tell you.’

  The atmosphere was ripe with mutual distrust and unspoken innuendo. Both had suffered at their son’s hands, and both had learned to live with it, but for all that it still didn’t make what had happened to them any easier to bear.

  Deirdre sat in her kitchen sipping a coffee and enjoying the fact that her beau saw her flat as homely enough to do business in. She was happy enough to wait for Donald to conclude his meeting before going in to him. She was a good-natured girl who had been delivered of a child at seventeen that had died shortly after birth, and she was of the opinion that, after such a traumatic experience, life was too short to waste. It was all about making the most of everything positive around you, and not dwelling too much on the negative.

  ‘Pakash was only repeating what he had heard on the street, Danny.’

  Louie Stein had listened to everything that had been said with his usual interest. He nodded at Michael’s words and said sadly, ‘He’s right, Danny Boy. And you have made a right fuck-up, end of.’

  He spoke the words with a crushing finality that he knew was destined to cause the boy before him untold aggravation. He had been caught out, had been well sussed, and now he needed to get it sorted sooner rather than later.

  Danny Boy looked at Louie for his advice now, something he had not done for a long time. But, as he had been in the past, he was once more willing to hear what the old boy had to say on the matter. ‘Am I on the out over this, Louie, tell me the truth.’

  Louie smiled faintly, his age making his skull look like a death’s head, and it occurred to Danny and Michael that he was an old man now. That he was now actually one of the people they were determined to push out of the frame, while at the same time taking from them what they had worked for all their lives.

  Unlike the others in the equation though, Louie knew he was needed by these two young bucks, and would be for a long time to come. His opinion was still being sought, and his advice was accepted by them as valid. He knew that one day, if he wasn’t careful, he could be in the same boat as Kenny, Mangan and Carlton. He also relied on the fact that Danny Boy was loyal to his friends, and that he also expected that same loyalty back. Louie believed he had backed the winning horse all those years ago but, as with all bets, only time would tell if he had been correct in that assumption.

  Louie took a deep drag on his cigar and, blowing the smoke out slowly, he watched it curl around his head. Then he forced himself up straight in his seat, his eyes focused on Danny Boy as he explained the situation they had found themselves in, and offered them a solution that he felt would do the least damage to them all. Poking a finger at him he said earnestly, ‘I fucking despair of you two at times. Jamie Carlton couldn’t keep his trap shut if his life depended on it. He suffers from verbal diarrhoea, brought on by a mistaken belief that everyone around him enjoys hearing his fucking voice as much as he does. He has one thing going for him at this moment in time, and that is the man whose name he happens to share, the same man, mind, who he is so desperate to eliminate. You are now in the frame for anything that might befall Donald Carlton, even by accident. If he gets run over, if he slips in the bath and drowns, or hangs himself with his shoelaces, someone, somewhere, along the line will take g
reat pleasure in linking you to it. Our world thrives on gossip but, as hard men, we don’t call it that, we refer to it as gathering information. Well, it’s gathering all this information that gives us the edge over the rest of the population. Now, you have been seen consorting with young Jamie on more than one occasion, and that has been observed by the powers that be, which has made it the cause of much discussion. The only advice I can give you now is this: you had better shit, or get off the pot, boy. Either way you need to show everyone what your intentions are, and what you expect to gain from your actions. And, after tonight, I would suggest that anything you do decide to undertake had better border on the extreme. Donald is well liked, unlike Mangan. He had the sense to make friends of people who were, in reality, his natural predators. He did this by making sure they all got an earn off him, and that, my boy, is the secret of success in our world.’

  Danny and Michael listened to him with their usual quiet respect; not only did Louie talk sense, there was no doubt about that, but he also knew the lay of the land, being, as he was, a natural gossip. Louie collected information; he had learned that, no matter how trivial the chat might be, how outrageous the story, nine times out of ten it would contain an element of truth. People had died, painfully, over gossip; people had disappeared off the face of the earth over gossip. This was because, in their precarious world, idle gossip could be the cause of a hefty prison sentence, or the reason why your once-thriving business was wiped out overnight.

  For the first time ever, Danny was unsure what to do next. Louie could feel his indecision and his heart went out to the boy. Unlike Michael, who was a natural-born accountant, Danny Boy would always be the one whose reputation would be their passport to any riches they might acquire. It was Danny Boy Cadogan, whose reputation for quick and violent retribution, would ensure they were not challenged by any of the other young hopefuls. It was Danny Boy Cadogan who he continued to believe would see him into his old age, who would make sure he wasn’t ever fucked over by the likes of himself. He had already left the boy a large portion of his assets, and he trusted the boy to take care of things for him, and see his wife and daughters all right when he finally popped his clogs. Danny was a young blood, but he had the old-style morals that would stand him in good stead for many years to come.

  Danny had listened intently to everything his old friend had said, and the words ‘border’ and ‘extreme’ were the only ones that seemed to have sunk into his psyche. If his meetings with Jamie had caused this much talk, then he had to sort out the problem sooner rather than later and, as he had always advocated, there was no time like the present.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Deirdre was lying on her side, quietly snoring, her slim body covered with a fine sheen of sweat and her long blond hair lying over her shoulders like a blanket. She had kicked off the duvet, and Donald sat in a chair watching her as she slept, marvelling at the knowledge that she was totally his.

  Since meeting her, he knew he had become soft in his old age. Unlike the way he had felt about his wife all those years, she didn’t make him feel like he had to prove himself to everyone, didn’t feel that he had to watch her like a hawk. It was a liberating feeling, this love he had for her. It had shown him what a real relationship should consist of, made him aware that his marriage, his relationship with his wife, had been unhealthy. It had made him realise that he had wasted what should have been the best and the most productive years of his life on someone who had no real care for him, no respect for him, or even the position he held in his world, the world that she needed to keep her in one piece.

  And now his son. Rather, the boy he had brought up; he had known, deep down, from the beginning, that the boy was nothing more than a cuckoo in the nest. And a very expensive nest it had been at that. That same boy, it seemed, who was out to get him and who had enlisted other young blood to help him in his quest for greatness.

  Jamie was out to take what he thought was his by rights, and he was also prepared to see his so-called father buried in the process. It hurt; he had been good to the boy, he had never allowed his own anger or frustration at his situation to spill over into the boy’s life. He had seen the boy as, well, as much a victim as he was. Had seen him as the innocent party in the abortion that was his marriage. Now Donald was paying the ultimate price for his easy-going nature; the boy was of an age where he wanted to secure his inheritance even though he had to know by now that he couldn’t father a child without divine intervention. He wondered if Jamie knew who the culprit was; if his mother had told him the truth. He doubted it. In all honesty, he didn’t think even she was aware of that fact herself. She had fucked so many men the boy’s paternity could basically be traced to anyone within a ten-mile radius.

  What he did know, though, was that his relationship with this young woman had been the cause of his son’s deep insecurity. He knew that his son’s biggest fear was another child arriving, a child that would be his in every way. Donald knew that would never happen; with all the women he had fucked over the years, if he had been firing live ammunition there would have been proof of it long before. The truth was, and he couldn’t tell Jamie this now, of course, was that he had long ago resigned himself to having his name live on through him. Through Jamie, through the same treacherous little fucker that he had given that name to so proudly all those years before. After all, he had lived the lie so long, it was stupid not to keep it up after he was dead. Now it seemed he would be dead long before his allotted time if his surrogate son had anything to do with it.

  He heard a faint noise in the hallway and, assuming it was Deirdre’s cat coming through the flap in the front door, he lay back in the chair and feasted his eyes once more on the true love of his life.

  It was only when the door burst open, and he saw Danny Boy and Michael bearing down on him like avenging angels, that he realised he had left it too long to do anything about any of it now. Danny Boy smiled that wide smile of his, the same smile that made him look for all the world like a normal healthy young man. Which just proved that looks could be deceiving all right.

  Deirdre was now awake, and her frightened eyes were wide open, making her look like a demented smurf.

  Donald realised then that he had been expecting this, which was why he had not been able to sleep, and he knew then that he had accepted his fate, welcomed it even in some ways. ‘So, what’s brought you here, Danny Boy? Your father has already been in and asked me to spare you if it all goes off. Begged for your life, he did, unlike my namesake who wants me taken out. I assume you haven’t spoken to your old man yet.’

  Danny looked at the terrified girl and motioned for her to stay put. Then he dragged Donald Carlton out into the hallway by his clothes, the sheer force of his strength making the man’s feet leave deep drag-lines in the shag-pile carpet. And, with the smell of pine disinfectant in his nostrils, and the hysterical weeping of Deirdre in his ears, Danny Boy shot Donald Carlton in the face at point-blank range. The noise was not as loud as he had expected it to be, yet the blood was far more than he had anticipated. It was only when he realised that the man was still bleeding profusely because his heart was still beating, that he shot him once more, this time through the back of his head. Brains and bone were scattered everywhere, especially on Danny Boy’s trousers but, shrugging nonchalantly, he looked at the ashen-faced Michael and grinned happily. Then, licking his finger, he chalked an imaginary ‘one’ in the air before saying happily, ‘One down, and one to go.’

  Michael pulled himself together and, going back into the bedroom, he looked at the weeping girl on the bed but, before he could say anything, Danny Boy was beside him and, dragging her by the hair out into the hallway, threw her onto the lifeless body of her lover and said loudly, ‘Go to your mum’s, or a mate’s, just fucking go. You ever open your fucking trap about tonight and I’ll hunt you down like a dog.’

  He knew he wouldn’t have to repeat the words, there was no way she was ever going to open her mouth about the night’s ev
ents. And, even if she did, she wouldn’t live long enough to testify. He had given her a fucking result and, if she had any brains, she would realise that and act accordingly. She was local, she knew the score: trap shut, and she would be left in peace, a few quid would wing its way to her when the heat died down. She would learn to live with the situation. She wasn’t the first woman to be caught up in a personal vendetta and she certainly wouldn’t be the last. She was gone in minutes.

  Michael and Danny Boy left the flat then, and Danny made a point of locking the front door behind them. Let Old Bill break in if they had to, he was certainly not going to make it easy for them. Now he had decided what he was going to do, he just wanted it all over. The adrenaline was coursing through his veins and he felt alive; extreme violence always gave him a rush, and he knew he enjoyed it far more than he should have done.

  As he walked out of the flats with Michael he saw a group of youths not much younger than them. They were scrutinising him and he looked back at them as if seeing them for the first time. They were scruffy, they were obviously on drugs and, to him, they were the lowest of the low. The fact that any one of them could have been him had he not had the strength of mind to make his mark on the world bothered him. It was a reminder of where he had come from, of what he was fighting against on a daily basis. His early start in life had pretty much guaranteed him a useless existence. He knew that better than anyone. His father had tried to make sure he had not had a chance of making anything of himself. Had made it plain that his life and his younger siblings’ lives were not worth anything to the man who had been the reason they were there in the first place. He had been conceived, like the others, without a thought for the consequences of the sexual act, and without any love whatsoever. He knew that these young men, with their skinheads, their Levis, and their officer boots had been conceived in exactly the same way. It was as if they had been born knowing they were worthless, that their lives were not precious to anybody, least of all themselves. That the futility of their existence was just further proof that they were nothing more than a celestial joke, only they were the recipients of that joke, having never meant to be in a position where they belonged anywhere.