by Martina Cole
She was feeling nauseous once more and, swallowing the bile down, she rubbed at her throat. Her long, slender fingers were heavy with jewelled rings that befitted the wife of Danny Boy Cadogan and her nails were painted a pretty pink, manicured into perfect ovals. Her slim wrist was adorned with a diamond-encrusted watch, and around her long slender throat was a heavy gold crucifix which she played with unconsciously. With her heavy hair falling around her shoulders and her porcelain skin Mary looked, for all the world, like a woman without a care in the world.
All her life her mother had urged her to get by on her looks, to get herself a Face, someone who could provide for her. Once you landed him, and produced a couple of ankle-biters, you would be settled for life. Money, a nice drum, and the respect that went with any name. Mary had managed the first one; she had married a Face, a fucking serious Face who was classed as the most dangerous man in the country. She had not, however, managed the second part of the plan. The children were either frightened out of her by her husband or beaten from her by him. Don’t end up like me, girl, had been her mother’s mantra and she too had been determined that her mother’s drunken lifestyle would never be hers. Well, she raised her coffee cup to her mother in a silent toast, ‘I am you, Mum, I’m you with money.’
Her laughter rang out loudly in the empty house and she bent over as if in physical pain, and eventually cried like a baby for the woman who had destroyed her daughter’s life before it had even really begun.
Michael and Danny were still arguing about how best to take care of Grey as they pulled up outside a small council house on the Caledonian Road. It was a fine day, bright but cold. Both wore heavy overcoats and leather gloves. Their breath was hanging on the air and Danny Boy was laughing quietly. As they pulled up in their BMW they were greeted by everyone who was going about their daily business. Danny Boy, for all his reputation as a bad bastard, was also seen by the majority as a fair man, as a generous man.
‘Grey is lucky I didn’t fucking rip his nuts off and shove them down his fucking treacherous, deceitful throat. You can’t let Filth get a foot in the door, Michael, especially bent Filth. He will get a serious fucking clump off me at some time in the future, but at the moment he sees you as his saviour. So naturally he’ll come to you in the future. Well, use him up and wear him out, as the song goes. Now, shut the fuck up and let me sort this lot out, eh?’
As they approached the front door it was opened by a tiny woman with a walking stick and a large smile. The obvious affection she felt for Danny Boy was in her eyes and, as he hugged her tightly on her tiny door step, she was chattering away, her voice harsh and husky from a lifetime of cigarettes and hardship.
‘Come in, my darling, I’ve got a bit of grub on. I know what you two are like for feeding your bleeding faces.’
Inside the house the warmth was overwhelming. It was a cloying heat from the new central heating system Danny Boy had installed for her a few weeks earlier. The tiny house was spotless, the decorating new but very dated, and the smell of bacon and eggs drew them both into the kitchen. They left their coats on the sofa in the front room and, rubbing his hands together, Danny Boy said childishly, ‘Don’t let on to me mother how much I love your scran, she’d brain me.’
Nancy Wilson was almost on the point of exploding with pride at his words, as he knew she would be. Her son, Marcus, was eighteen months into a twelve-year stretch in Parkhurst and he was sitting it out without a murmur. He was a good bloke, a decent bloke and Danny repaid that by making sure all was well with his kith and his kin. His mother had never had it so good and she knew it.
Marcus had a son, Joseph, who was nearly eighteen now, and his wife, Joseph’s mother, a beautiful girl from a good family, had died of cancer when the boy was nine. Nancy had brought him up while her only son had earned a bit of wedge. He had been caught on the rob and Danny Boy had been behind his endeavours. Consequently, he was now Danny Boy’s responsibility, as was his immediate family. Hence his regular visits to this house. Danny Boy always made a point of showing his face at times like this; he knew it was noted, commented on, and added to his prestige. The personal touch was his calling card, it gave him kudos and respect, especially from the older generation. He also felt obliged, he knew that Wilson could have sold him up the river and done a deal, these hefty sentences the courts were handing out didn’t augur well where loyalty was concerned. He had a twelve, that meant do two thirds and get out for good behaviour; which put him away for at least eight of those years. Danny Boy actually felt a deep gratitude for that kind of loyalty.
‘You’re looking good, Mrs Wilson, as always. How’s things?’
Nancy placed two mugs of tea on the table and went back to her stove before replying happily, ‘I’m all right, son. Marcus sends his best and wanted me to thank you once more for all your help—’
Michael cut her off mid-sentence, as was expected of him, ‘You tell Marcus we think he is a blinder, Danny Boy was just saying how much we all miss him.’
Nancy Wilson was made-up with those few words, as he knew she would be. Never in her life had she been treated with such respect, had so many people looking out for her and asking after her. She went to Chrisp Street market and everybody made a fuss of her; she knew it was because of these two men sitting in her kitchen.
She loved them for it, and her devotion to them, especially to Danny Boy, was guaranteed. Her son heard how well she was taken care of and it took a load off his mind. He was also in possession of a single cell because of his contacts, and he had the added bonus of a good few quid when he came home, and the knowledge that he was safer than a chief fucking fireman at a bonfire party. In reality, he had never had it so good either.
As the two men tucked into their bacon and eggs, Nancy replenished their mugs of tea and buttered thick wedges of toast, happy that she had company, and such prestigious company at that. She even had an account at the local cab rank, paid for, of course, by these two men in her kitchen. She didn’t have to do the usual bus trip to visit her son, go up the social security and beg them for the fares needed. Didn’t have to sit for hours, waiting to give some young girl her train or bus tickets and get treated like shit as she waited for them to be reimbursed. She went by taxi, and the driver stopped for lunch and kept her company on the ferry ride over to the Isle of Wight. She was also put to the head of the line, no queuing up for her, and no one minded that either. It was heady stuff to a woman who had been trodden on all her life. She told her son how well she was treated and she knew it put his mind at rest.
‘How’s young Joseph doing?’
It was the question Nancy had been waiting for and she pulled up a chair before answering.
Her old wrinkled face was a picture of tragedy as she answered, ‘Danny Boy, I’m almost demented with worry about him.’
Danny Cadogan placed his knife and fork neatly on his plate as he gave her his full attention. ‘Why? What’s he been up to then?’
He was all concern as he gave her the full force of his personality.
Nancy Wilson lit a Benson & Hedges cigarette before answering him, she knew the power of a dramatic pause; she had learned that from her husband. He should have been on the stage, him. Useless ponce he was.
‘He’s on the half a crown, ain’t he? I thought you knew . . .’
Danny and Michael were both stunned for a few seconds. ‘Fuck off! Not young Joe, what on earth would make him go on the brown? He’s not stupid, he’s on the ball.’
Nancy took a deep breath before saying sadly, ‘Jonjo, Danny Boy, he got him on it, I thought you knew. That’s why I wanted to mention it to you today. Jonjo is always round here on the want. Pair of wasters the two of them but, Danny Boy, your brother is the ringleader here, him being older and all, and that’s not me being an overprotective grandmother. I had a word last week about them stashing it in my house. In my fucking home. I found it in the bottom of Joe’s wardrobe when I was cleaning. You’ve got to talk to them. I don’t want Lily Law r
ound here with a warrant, and I don’t want my only grandchild to be found brown bread either. I ain’t mentioned it to his dad because I didn’t want to worry him. Banged up in there, well, you know the score yourself. Least said, soonest mended when you’re going through a big lump. After all, why worry him, it ain’t like he can do anything about it, is it?’
Danny was astounded at her words and, for a few moments, he digested the information, unsure for a few seconds if he was actually hearing her right. Then he picked up his knife and fork and resumed eating.
‘I’m sorry, Danny Boy, but I had to tell you, son. I’m at me wits’ end, and the way he talks to me! Fuck off this, and fuck you that, and that Jonjo is as bad. I mentioned it to your mother at bingo the other week and, do you know, she cuts me dead now. Not a sodding word from her. I was only trying to warn her, you know. A word to the wise and all that.’
Danny Boy grinned at her as if he was totally calm and collected, but Michael could see the way his knuckles had whitened and how his eyes were now filled with malice.
‘Don’t you give it another thought, Mrs Wilson, I’ll have a word, get it sorted. Now, have you got any of your famous bread pudding on the go?’
Nancy smiled happily. She was convinced her problems were finally over, now that Danny Boy was taking control of them. She had every faith that he would have them sorted in no time; he owed them and she knew that and, more to the point, Danny Boy knew that.
‘ ’Course I have, I makes it special for you two, don’t I.’
Michael had suddenly lost his appetite. Carole was right, he was living on his nerves, and his nerves were tighter than a virgin’s arse and getting tighter by the day. He was living a life fraught with the dangers of Danny Boy’s precarious personality, and the worst of it all was, he actually cared for the man. Much more than Danny Boy Cadogan actually warranted.
Jonjo was aggravated, and it showed. He was still waiting to be picked up and taken to his designated place of work. It was made all the more annoying by the fact that he knew this so-called work could have been done by anyone with the brain capacity of a retarded hedgehog. In fact, that would make them over-qualified in many respects, at least a hedgehog would have had the sense to keep out of the fucking freezing cold. With his habit, the approaching winter was not a welcome addition to his life. In fact, he was living a lie of Olympian standards. It was a lie so big, he was already trying to think up excuses for living it in the first place. Danny Boy treated him like the muppet he knew he was. That still hurt though because, like his older brother, he was afflicted with an overabundance of pride. Unlike his older brother, however, he didn’t let that stand in his way if a few quid could be earned with the least amount of collar. That he was a ponce in every sense of the word was a given, that deep inside he resented his idleness, was something he had to come to terms with. But the lure of the brown was so seductive, the annihilation of anything even resembling normality was too good an opportunity to pass up. He liked this life, at least he accepted it, which was a different thing altogether.
He was his father’s son, and that was not something he would ever admit out loud; that Danny Boy was watching over him was not something he dwelled on either. He hated being such a fucking crawler and he hated that everyone around him knew the truth of that. He hated that he was spoken to for no other reason than his last name was Cadogan, and that Danny Boy saw fit to see that he had some kind of employment. That he was a glorified gofer was not something he dwelled on. He did what was requested, and then forgot about it. He knew that was exactly why he was not asked to do anything of importance, was not treated as a vital and important part of the Cadogan empire. He hated that, even while he was secretly pleased about it. If Danny Boy gave him responsibility he couldn’t fuck off and leave it to whoever had been assigned to watch over him on that particular day.
When he finally heard Danny Boy’s key in the door he was truly pleased to finally know what he was likely to be doing that day.
Danny filled the doorway, his huge body was, as always, its usual, intimidating self. ‘Sorry, mate, I had a few things to do. You all right?’
He pushed past his little brother abruptly and, going to his mother, he kissed her gently on the cheek before saying sadly, ‘Me dad’s stone arrived from Italy yesterday. I want you to go with Michael and make sure you’re happy with it, all right. I think it’s the nuts but, at the end of the day, I might be weighing out for it but you know what you want it to say.’
Ange was over the moon at his words, as he knew she would be. He knew her big fear had been that the grave would be left unmarked. He was sorry she didn’t know her elder son well enough to know he would never let that happen.
‘It’s black Italian marble, Mum, cost the national debt and, without trying to make you feel bad, there’s room enough for your details when the time comes. I hope you’re pleased with it.’
Ange was already pulling on her coat, and Danny Boy helped her into it with a gentleness that belied the colossal anger he was holding inside himself.
As she left the house a short while later, he shut the front door behind her gently. Then, turning to his younger brother he stared at him for long moments before saying jovially, ‘You useless little cunt. I want your kit, I want your brown and I want your fucking arse, in that order.’
Annie heard the commotion, but was sensible enough to turn up the radio in her bedroom; there was no way she was going to interfere in this latest of dramas. Not even when she heard Jonjo’s voice begging for mercy, and the muted thumps that accompanied his terrible pleading. Danny Boy was doing what he saw fit to solve the problem of her brother’s life and, for once, she was in total agreement with his actions and his deeds. Jonjo needed a short, sharp shock, and now he was getting one, courtesy of the man who, once word hit the streets that he knew of his brother’s unfortunate habit, would then sanction Jonjo’s retirement from the drug-addicted community. As much as Annie hated Danny Boy at times, she knew his reputation as a Face gave them all a lot of freedom in their community.
Chapter Twenty-Two
Carole looked beautiful. Even though she was not the usual size ten, the dress she had chosen for her wedding was spectacular. She knew she had Mary to thank for that. The dress emphasised her good points and hid what were jokily referred to as her child-bearing hips. And she wanted children, she wanted them desperately. Like Michael, she felt the need to procreate, to build a family network that consisted of her own flesh and blood. Carole looked over at Mary, she looked so lovely that Mary wondered why she wasn’t jealous of her in any way, jealous of her good looks. Her voluptuous figure and tight, taut limbs.
Mary had helped arrange everything. As matron of honour Mary was far more beautiful than the bride, but Carole had consoled herself that as she was her husband’s sister, that didn’t matter. She was grateful for her friend’s input, knowing that she would not have made the right choices if she had been left to her own devices. Carole was not like the usual Faces wives, women and girls schooled into the world they inhabited, and who were conversant with their husbands’ nefarious interests. Like the men they craved, they were almost all amoral, and saw pound signs where other women saw love. They rated a man on his reputation and earning potential, a real Face was their ultimate dream. They were generally familiar with the prison system at a young age, and had no real qualms about a man who was vicious or vindictive. In their world those attributes guaranteed them a good earn. A middle-aged man with a pot belly and acne scars was actually seen as a catch if he had enough zeros in his accounts, the most unusual-looking men could become the object of jealousy and envy. These women went into their romantic relationships in the same way that their men went into business deals, with their eyes wide open and their main interest in what the alliance could bring to the table for them and, ultimately, their families.
Carole though, was genuinely in love with Michael Miles, as he was with her. She also knew that Danny Boy held her in high esteem, and she was t
hankful for that much. He was someone she was in awe of, but who she also actually liked. He was always kind and respectful towards her, and she had accepted that he had his own way of going about things.
As she stood outside the church she wondered if Michael’s stag night might cause him to be late, but she knew she didn’t have to worry about that too much. Michael would never do anything intentionally to hurt her. But when her husband-to-be’s brother told her that he was already inside the church and waiting impatiently for her arrival, she relaxed immediately.
Annie grinned at her. She was a lovely-looking girl, and Carole wondered at how someone blessed with so much beauty could allow herself to be used like she did. In fact, she didn’t understand the girl, period. She slept with anyone and everyone, she suspected even Michael had been tempted by her. Annie used her body as a weapon and it was a very dangerous weapon at that. Her brother’s lifestyle and obvious respect made her into an asset for a lot of them around here. Not that bedding her would be a hardship, of course. Her own rep, however, made her damaged goods no matter what her last name was. Annie was like an accident that had already happened and, instead of waiting around for the ambulance, she just got herself up, brushed herself down, and then waited for the next accident to arrive. She was a deeply unhappy girl and her self-destructive antics were like a lot of her contemporaries’. Women in their world were judged by their sexuality from an early age; schoolgirls were regularly checked out by men who could have fathered them. They were all desperate to be grown-up, to be seen as adult. A child was seen as an identity; they were not teenagers any more, they were mothers. A title they felt made them into adults overnight.
Carole had been brought up as a good Catholic girl and, unlike a lot of her friends, she had taken that role seriously. Not that she had been pursued like the others, she had not advertised her wares or dressed provocatively. If she had done, she wouldn’t be marrying this kind man today.
