Faces

by Martina Cole

  Mary Cadogan had never heard her mother-in-law talk so much. It was as if the death of her husband had opened her up to the world around her. As if his absence had finally destroyed the shackles that had kept her so close to him, no matter what he might have done to her. And he had pulled some stunts in his time.

  ‘Don’t let that boy drag you into the dirt, and don’t let him control the rest of your life. I know him better than he knows himself. He is not kind to you, I guessed that a long time ago. Listen to me when I say this, don’t give him a reason to hurt you, he doesn’t need one. If you provide him with one, he’ll use it to justify his behaviour. Now, I’m off; I’ve said my piece and the rest is up to you.’

  She stood up and Mary saw a woman who had finally grown into her own skin, a woman who had lost the only thing she had ever really cared about in her life, and who was actually relieved about it. Now her husband was gone, and she could relax because, like the son she had produced, she was pleased that, at least with her husband’s death, no one else could have him now. He couldn’t leave her; he was finally and irrevocably hers. His death had enabled her to finally let go and, for the first time in years, she was doing just that.

  At the door Ange looked back at the girl lying in the starkness of the hospital room and her features softened for a few moments. Then she said quietly, ‘He’ll never let you go, and you will never understand him. What you can do now is make the best of what you’ve got. Like we all did, your mother included.’

  Her words hung on the air long after she had gone, and Mary was still sobbing as if her heart would break when the nurses finally organised an injection so she could get some much-needed sleep.

  Chapter Twenty

  Danny Boy looked around the packed church and, being contrary of nature as always, he decided he was pleased at the turnout his father’s funeral had generated. His ego was thrilled that they were all actually there just for him, for his benefit, not for the useless ponce who had created him, and who he had ultimately seen fit to annihilate. His father’s death affected him not one iota; he had lost any kind of affection many years before, and he had never tried to regain it in any way, shape or form. His father had been a pain in the proverbial arse as far as he was concerned, and his demise had been nothing more than a cowardly act; something he had expected, even welcomed. Why should he have to grieve for someone who had been dead to him for a long time? But the fact that so many people had bothered today assuaged his ego, made him happy because it showed the esteem people held him in. If he hadn’t been the man he was, this ponce would be planted without a fucking bunch of daffodils from the nearest garage. There had been enough flower arrangements delivered that morning to cover twenty graves; Danny’s only consolation being that the sheer weight of them might keep the old fucker down if he had any notions of going out on the haunt. He wouldn’t put that past the old cunt either; he’d probably still go out on the rob in the afterlife. Thieving wanker that he was. His thoughts made him smile and he bowed his head quickly so no one would see the smirk on his lips.

  He had a sudden flash of memory, when the Murrays were at his front door all those years ago. He felt the fear envelop him once more, and the anger at their threats and intimidation. They had expected him to roll over and let them bully him and his family at their leisure. He had dug deep down inside himself to fend them off, and discovered that day that there was a vicious, more violent bully lying dormant inside him, and the Murray brothers had unleashed it. It suddenly occurred to him that he had a lot to thank his father for. If he had not been such a useless cunt he might never have realised his full potential. Without his father’s gambling debt he could have ended his days working like any other fucking Joey, trying to make ends meet and looking forward to voting every five years. He could have ended up a bar-stool philosopher like his old man. He saw then that he had actually had a near-miss, that he had dodged the bullet of mediocrity and embraced his destiny. Without his father’s marathon fuck-ups he could have ended up like any other bloke he had grown up with; a grafter, someone who washed off the sweat that other men, cleverer men, made their fortune from. What an existence that would have been.

  He was responding to the Mass without thinking of the words. He just wanted his communion; lately, he needed it, for some reason. He had even been seen at the six o’clock Mass on a regular basis. He liked the early Mass, liked the quiet of the church; even welcomed the old men and women who frequented it with their disappointed faces and the stench of second-hand shops hanging around them. They were like a lesson to him on what not to be, they reiterated his belief in himself and his perception of the world he inhabited. He would never be them.

  Danny bowed his head and prayed; he meant every word he said and he knew that God understood that, understood him. Like Christ, he had experienced the trials and tribulations of all the great men. Jesus had been tortured, he had been mocked, and he had risen above his humble beginnings and made his mark on the world. People might not still be talking about Danny Boy in two thousand years, but he was confident he wouldn’t be planted and then forgotten about, like so many of his peer group would. He was already a legend, he had iconic status. Christ had been served up by his old man, and he had experienced the same fate himself, except Danny’s father had been protecting his own carcass and had no interest in the fate of his family.

  Danny felt sorry for God at times because, like him, He was lumbered with cunts the majority of the time. He had to sort out their problems and make sense of their stupid lives for them. Had to try and give them something to believe in, to hold on to. For the majority of them, all that meant was making a few quid and being given the opportunity to make something of their stupid and pathetic existences.

  The priest was speaking louder now; his voice always rose when he said the Gospel. Well, there might be many mansions in His father’s house, but he had a feeling the Holy Father wasn’t about to let his old man in to sully the place up. Myra Hindley and Adolf Hitler would be further up the line than his old man. He watched his wife as she held on to his mother’s hand; they had been acting like best mates lately. He could see the shadow of Mary’s eyelashes on her cheekbones, she had great bone structure, reminiscent of the old-style movie stars. She was immaculately dressed, as always, her dark clothes were seriously expensive and her hair had been washed and blow-dried to a glossy sheen. She was a stunner all right, the whore. He felt the anger once more, the hate that seemed to overwhelm him at regular intervals. His wife always looked so fucking calm and so fucking collected. She was like a doll, a parody of a real woman. She seemed the picture of health and vitality, except that he knew that everyone around her was taking bets on how long before her liver gave out. She was drinking like the fish she stank of. No amount of perfume could disguise the stench of treachery that emanated from her. She was like a fucking leech, an albatross hanging round his neck. He tore his eyes away from her before he felled her to the floor with one almighty punch, even the sound of her shallow breathing was enough to antagonise him into a murderous rage. He should never have married her, he should have done what everyone else had, fucked her and left her.

  Danny was gritting his teeth and he consciously relaxed his facial muscles, aware that he was being observed by the majority of people around him. He would not show any emotion at all to these toss-pots; his reputation would be in tatters if he did something that stupid.

  He looked over at his little sister, she was a looker and all, and she was dressed, for once, with a little bit of decorum. Unlike Jonjo, she wasn’t easy to take care of. Jonjo had accepted that Danny knew best from an early age, knew that he had his best interests at heart. He was a good kid but his sister was a fucking nuisance. She was like the old man, thought she was above everyone else. Was under the mistaken apprehension that she was special somehow. Well, she had a fucking shock coming her way in the near future.

  Danny was feeling the heat of his anger again, and he took a few deep breaths to steady himself. In fac
t, he was aware that his anger was actually at the point of boiling over. His hand went instinctively to the envelope that was concealed inside his overcoat pocket. He knew it was still there, but he was unable to stop himself feeling for it every few minutes. The contents were enough to cause him to actually lose his breath, so great was the betrayal he felt inside him. That the man who had written the words had killed himself shortly afterwards was not something he would ever dwell on. After all, he knew the old bastard had never suffered from any kind of loyalty so, in a way, he was surprised at how great his sense of betrayal actually was at his father’s final actions. Although he didn’t know why he felt the betrayal so acutely; it wasn’t as if he had cared for him in any way.

  That his father could have grassed up his own son though, could have written down the words that could have been the cause of his own flesh and blood being locked away until the next millennium and beyond, was absolutely outrageous. In their world that was worse than murdering your own kith and kin. It was a disgrace, but it was also something that left a stain on the family concerned. It was assumed grassing was genetic; it cast a pall over the remaining relatives and left them all as suspect. Untrustworthy.

  That his father had topped himself rather than stick around to witness the result of his disloyalty was typical of the man who had sired him. If he, himself, had not been so well connected, this statement could have been his swan song. It had names and dates, it was almost like an anthology of his criminal pastimes. The old bastard had tried to take him down and, thank fuck, he had not succeeded. His old man was such a coward that even his death had been cowardly. He had probably been lying there planning his own son’s downfall, and even that hadn’t given him the guts to hang around long enough to see the carnage he could have caused. He had topped himself in case his scheming had backfired on him, which it had of course. Spectacularly.

  He hoped the old fucker was watching these proceedings, seeing his life being played out and knowing that his son had weighed out a fortune to ensure he was buried in hallowed ground. That was for his mother’s benefit, not his. She was like the old shawlies from his childhood, the old Irish women who prayed for everyone else, and who spent their miserable lives whispering their purgatorial prayers, who still believed that all souls would be sent there, no matter what they had or had not done, and that it would take hundreds or thousands of masses for them to finally be released and deemed worthy of entrance into the Kingdom of Heaven. The Pope might have outlawed this practice but old habits died hard. It was still a deep-felt belief for a lot of the Catholics in the world. Purgatory was a given, and a lot of people spent a great deal of time praying for loved ones; determined to see them out of the fires that were a forerunner to hell. Personally, he prayed the old bastard burned for eternity and beyond. Like Christ he had been betrayed by those close to him, unlike Christ he had not had to endure prison or a loaded court case. His Pontius Pilate was still out there somewhere, he was convinced of that. He had dodged the bullet this time, and this was never going to happen to him again. He would make sure of that. He believed in the essence of his religion, after all, he had been there when it had been beaten into him by the priests and the nuns. He knew that his life was already mapped out, and that his eventual destiny was just a foregone conclusion. He had been singled out for greatness and his father’s weakness, his gambling, had been the spur he had needed to realise that. His father’s addiction had actually made his destiny. God was good, and God was also adept at making sure you understood the benefits of a good and decent life. He pointed you in the right direction, if you only had the sense to listen out for His voice. His father, Danny Boy accepted, had been the catalyst for him to emerge from obscurity and rise rapidly to the heights. He only wished that decency wasn’t such a big part of his lifestyle; if it was left to him he would have let the fucker rot in the street. This funeral was his last act of contrition as it were; he had paid in many ways for what he had done to his own father. He had quickly gauged the general consensus about his actions, and he had known that it was in his own interests to bring him back into the fold. It had worked, he had become a hero overnight. The generous and forgiving son.

  Now he was burying the man with all the pomp and ceremony his ill-gotten gains could provide, a man who, the rumour mill had it, felt so guilty over his previous actions that he couldn’t live with himself any more. What a crock of shit, but he was willing to give credence to the lie. It suited him, and it made him look magnanimous and civilised.

  The priest had been given proof that the old man was suffering from a depressive illness and two doctors had put their signature to letters stating his father was not in his right mind so they could now plant him with clear consciences. The hypocrisy was not lost on any of them.

  Danny beat his chest gently as the first bell tolled, losing himself in the imagery of his religion. He walked slowly and deliberately up to the altar rail and knelt down humbly; he accepted his communion wafer with a silent passion. This was the buzz that he loved, this was the real reason for living. As the wafer dissolved on his tongue he felt cleansed once more, could feel the power of truth coursing through his body. He could feel the rush of the people who had come to pay court to him this day. He knew without doubt that he was a real Face now; this funeral had brought that fact home to him.

  He was untouchable, and he knew that now.

  Mary was sitting with Annie, and the younger girl was observing the people around her with her usual arrogance. That her father’s death had affected her was obvious, that she was now looking for the angle that could best accommodate her was also noticeable. She was milking this for all it as worth.

  Annie knew that she needed some Brownie points with her brother and she knew that she needed them sooner rather than later. He spoke to her, and he acknowledged her; that much was evident to anyone watching them together. But she felt his indifference, and the coldness that told her she had been relegated to the bottom of his list of priorities. She had slept around once too often. She had mouthed him off and pushed him to the extreme, but she had never believed that he would do this to her. He was, to all intents and purposes, blanking her, and that must never happen. Like her father before her, she had a natural antipathy to a day’s collar. In fact, the thought of working for a living was the worst thing she could think of doing. It really was not an option for her. She was the baby of the family and he should be looking out for her as his little sister; she knew that he gave a good performance in public, he had to, it was expected. But she also knew that she wasn’t worth anything to him, she brought nothing to the table and, in their family, that was of paramount importance. She had to find an angle; somehow change her position in this family. Danny Boy was capable of disowning her, and she knew her rep wouldn’t stand up to scrutiny, so she had to make sure that never happened.

  She could see Arnold Landers chatting with her brother, and the sight of the two men so close together depressed her, she knew that the only thing keeping her in Danny Boy’s eyeline at this moment was her burgeoning relationship with Arnold Landers. Without him on-side Danny would push her away without a second’s thought. She knew her mother was now at her elder son’s mercy, once and for all, and that his wife was terrified of him into the bargain. She saw the way Danny Boy was approached by everyone, watched as Michael batted off the lesser of their minions and allowed access to only those he deemed worthy enough of Danny’s time and energy. And even they were treated with a quiet disdain: men who had made their reputations while Danny Boy was still no more than a drunken twinkle in his father’s eye now vied with each other for his attention, for a few brief words with him, the chance to publicly be seen with him, to be accepted by him as one of his own. Such was Danny Boy Cadogan’s power over them. She hated him. She hated the power he wielded, even as she craved his interest in her and in her life. She loathed him for making her feel like this.

  If keeping Arnold Landers on board was what would guarantee her brother’s respect then
that is what she would have to do. Her father’s death had left them out on a limb in one way or another; they were all dependent on Danny Boy, they had been for years. Now he had buried the last link to his past, to his family’s humiliation, and it had given him the strength he needed to finally show his hand. He was acting like the main man, was looking around him with glee. He was finally where he wanted to be and no one could, or would take it away from him. Danny Boy was pleased at Landers being part of this venture; he had the means at his disposal to sew up the south London connection. He was a real Brixton boy, and he was more than willing to distribute and contribute to his community. For a reasonable stipend, of course.

  Annie smiled gently at Arnold Landers and he smiled back; he knew that he was on the road to untold riches, thanks to a little bird with a big family and even bigger tits.