by Martina Cole
Unlike her mother, who had just been a plain old common-or-garden alcoholic, she was that rarest of breeds. A functioning one. She could cook a dinner, clean a house, do a shop, bath the kids and, if necessary, fuck her husband. She did it all without any kind of feeling or interest. There were other people like her, who could hold down jobs, run businesses, and even operate on other human beings when, all the time, they were as drunk as a fucking skunk. The thought made her want to smile, so she did. She had so little to smile about that when she felt the urge to, she did.
Mary made her way back upstairs. In her bedroom she slipped off her wrap and, looking in the mirror, she saw the bruises on her arms from her husband’s last visit. They didn’t hurt, which was strange because they looked very sore. It was really hot out and she had to wear long-sleeved tops and trousers.
She sat on the end of her bed, a bed she had made as soon as she had vacated it. It was perfect. She often imagined Danny Boy bouncing a coin on it like the horrible big-mouthed sergeants did in the old war films, making sure that it was tucked in properly and therefore worthy of a man like her husband. Worthy of a man of his calibre. She wanted to smile again but she didn’t, she decided he wasn’t worth a smile.
Mary sat there, on the edge of her bed, terrified of messing it up, and looked around the lovely room she had planned so carefully. She had imagined, in her sober lunacy, that such a lovely environment might make him be nicer to her. She stood up carefully. Even with the bruises that covered a large part of her and after the births of her children, she still had a good body. It might not be as firm as it had once been, but she was still capable of giving a lot of women a run for their money, and she knew that. It wasn’t a big-headed thing, an arrogant belief. It was the truth. She only had to open any newspaper or magazine to see the half-naked bodies of other women, famous women, and compare herself with them. She knew she wasn’t lacking as far as that was concerned. Poor Carole was already covered in stretchmarks, and had a belly that wouldn’t look out of place on Buddha himself, and her husband, her brother Michael, still adored her. Actually, so did her husband. Danny Boy loved Carole with a vengeance, saw her as the perfect woman. Huge thighs and stretchmarks included. It seemed a jelly belly and fat ankles were now the new requisites needed for keeping your man.
Each birth had seen her go straight back to normal, she’d only had a little bit of sagging on her belly and that had soon disappeared once she had come home. The midwife had been worried about that the last time she had given birth, a stupid young girl with no experience of life whatsoever, who had no concept of the real world that was populated by actual women and children, except for what she had garnered from books. Books she would wager a fortune on had been written by men or, even worse, by one of those ugly women who saw child-bearing as an excuse to stop shaving their body hair, and used their womb as an excuse to make their husbands feel guilty for the rest of their days. And who then felt an urge to tell everyone else how they should be feeling. Found the time to write about it with the aid of an Aga and an au pair. Her midwife, the thicko child, as she referred to her in her mind, felt that she was too thin, was too happy and too energetic for a new mum. She had asked her over and over again if she was all right, and Mary had been forced to stifle the urge to smash the girl’s head in with the nearest heavy object. But she had been in full make-up and in full control every time the girl had arrived at her home. The last visit had been wonderful; as she had finally left the house, she had slammed the front door loudly behind her then locked it. Had let the silly little bitch know just how fucking irritating she had found her.
Mary was still looking at her naked body when she realised Leona was watching her from the doorway, and she saw the horrified expression on her daughter’s face at her wounds. Quickly pulling her dressing gown back on she smiled serenely as her daughter walked to her slowly. Hugging her tightly, Leona said brokenly, ‘Oh, Mummy, did you fall over again?’
And Mary knew in those few seconds, in her heart of hearts, that this child knew exactly what had happened to her, probably knew in graphic detail what had occurred, but was already learning the language of lies that was the only way to survive in this household. So she hugged her girl back, there was no feeling inside her any more and she was sorry for that. And she said sweetly, ‘Mummy will be OK, darling. I’m just clumsy, that’s all. Everyone knows that.’
But the girl’s words had destroyed the last vestige of her mother’s pride, and nothing would ever really be the same between them again.
Arnold was nervous, but he was still determined to get his point across. He was sitting with Danny Boy and Michael in the back room of a pub they owned in east London. It was a small room and the elderly flock wallpaper on the walls made it seem even smaller than it was. It had a table, four chairs, and a sideboard that had somehow survived the sixties. But it was a good meeting place because few people knew the back room even existed. The pub was on a main road and very busy so it was easy to slip through to the back without being noticed. Danny Boy looked even bigger than usual in these surroundings and, as he poured them a drink, he seemed subdued. Quiet, as if he knew he was going to hear something he didn’t really want to.
But Arnold consoled himself with the fact that he had his cred; he wasn’t a muppet, he had a good reputation and a decent curriculum vitae. In fact, he could get a job anywhere in the real world, though if he left the employ of Danny Boy he had a feeling that would not be such an easy endeavour. If Danny decided to have him black-balled, he would be finished, and he knew that. But, even knowing that, he was still determined to say his piece. If necessary he would move away, go to another country. But he wasn’t fucking rolling over, no way. He couldn’t do this any more, he had to make a stand for his own self-respect, for his own peace of mind if nothing else.
As Arnold took the glass of brandy from Danny Boy he could feel the fear that was building up inside his chest. Danny Boy smiled at him in a friendly fashion and he knew that the man did genuinely like him. Michael did as well, he knew that, but when he said his piece he knew it was Danny’s reaction that would be the important one; he knew from experience that Michael always waited for Danny’s response to anything that went on before he ever gave his opinion on it. An opinion that was always in accordance with Danny Boy’s. He also knew though, that Michael would often challenge Danny Boy in private about things he didn’t agree with, but never in public. Arnold knew that Michael was the only person in the world that Danny Boy allowed to question his opinions or his actions. He was the lone voice of reason amid the utter chaos that was Danny Boy Cadogan’s mind.
And Michael was actually the stronger of the two in many respects because of that. People tended to approach Michael first about new deals, would sound him out before going to Danny Boy. Though he had a feeling that Michael didn’t realise that fact or, if he did, he was sensible enough to keep that knowledge very much to himself. Knowing Danny Boy like he did, he suspected it was the latter. Danny Boy could go for months without a psychotic episode and, when that finally happened, anyone could be on the receiving end of his paranoia. Afterwards, he would go back to his usual friendly, amiable self, and it would be as if nothing untoward had happened, that his latest ultra-violent outburst had never happened. But his actions would be talked about for months, though his outlandish threats and his seriously disturbing behaviour would be whispered about behind closed doors, in private. This was in case someone mentioned to the man in question that he was being talked about and not in a flattering way. At times his outrageous accusations were so incredible that even his latest victim’s worst enemies were not sure they believed them. Danny Cadogan had a rep, and it was not just for his business acumen and his ability to see a good earner. It was also because, after all these years, he was still classed as an unknown quantity, a nutter who had proved that he was seriously unstable on more than one occasion. And while this was what kept him at the top of his game, it was also why he was not trusted one hundred per c
ent by anyone he dealt with.
Arnold watched as Michael sat back in his seat and, as always, kept a low profile until he heard what everyone had to say. Michael had guessed that there was something personal going down, and he held his drink in both hands, and waited patiently for Arnold to say his piece. Danny Boy was observing Michael, and Arnold got the impression he found his actions almost comical. Turning to the man who was his sister’s other half he said gently, ‘So, what’s the problem, Arnold?’
Danny Boy smiled the disarming smile that made him look so handsome, and so gentle. He was really good-looking, even Arnold had to admit that much. If he didn’t know him so well he might have fallen for this best-friend act.
Sighing heavily, Arnold looked into Danny Boy’s eyes and, taking a deep gulp of his brandy, he spoke clearly and honestly. ‘I ain’t happy, Danny Boy, and I feel I have got to say this to you. I know you might not want to hear it and I respect that. But I have to say me piece.’
Danny nodded silently, gesturing for him to carry on talking, his face giving nothing away.
‘I love what I do, I love me job, and I do it fucking well. You know that. But it’s Jonjo. He treats me like a fucking mug. He takes the money and does nothing, fuck all. He just plays the fucking mafia boy; he’s watched one too many Scorsese films. He even walks around with his overcoat around his shoulders. He is costing us a fucking fortune, and he treats me like a gofer. I can’t go on working like this and keep any kind of self-respect.’ Arnold could hear the whine in his own voice and was angry with himself. But he had to get his point across. He had to say what he felt.
‘Is he really walking round with an overcoat around his shoulders?’ Danny Boy’s voice was low and interested.
Arnold nodded.
‘What, in the middle of August? He must be fucking melting. What a cunt, eh, Mike? Only him. Brain of fucking Britain.’
Michael started laughing, and Arnold couldn’t help joining him. Danny was shaking his head and chuckling with mirth. He could be funny, he knew that.
‘He’s a fucking twat, ain’t he? I gave him an opening, I knew you would be the one running it all. I mean, come on. You have had or, should I say, attempted, a conversation with Jonjo at least once, I take it. You must have guessed he was just the fall guy. The front man. I mean I love him, he’s me brother, but if it ever went pear-shaped I could afford to lose him, but not you. I couldn’t afford to lose you. But you’re right, Arnold. He needs knocking down a few pegs and I’ll see to that personally. From tomorrow, you will be the front man; I know you won’t get us in any fucking shit. You’re too much of a shrewdie and I am sorry, mate, if you ever felt like you were being treated like a cunt. It was nothing personal. To be honest, I had hoped some of your nous might have rubbed off on me little bro. It’s hard when you have to admit publicly that your own brother is about as much use as a fucking chocolate teapot. But there it is, he’s his father’s son all right, a fucking lazy waster with his eye always on the easiest fucking option.’
Arnold was thrilled at the turn of events, and he wanted to hug this man who had just given him the equivalent of the master key to the Bank of England. He was amazed in one way at how easy it had been, and sorry in another way for Jonjo because he didn’t like having to serve him up.
‘Thank you, Danny Boy. It was nothing personal to Jonjo, you know that . . .’
Danny grinned. ‘ ’Course it was fucking personal, but you are right to give me a tug. If you think all this, then the chances are so do other people, and that is not good for business. I will give him an earn, after all he is my little brother, ain’t he? But I knew he wasn’t making a name for himself, at least not the kind of name I was hoping he would. He is a fucking wanker, but there ain’t a lot I can do about that is there? My old mum always said, if brains was gunpowder he couldn’t blow his fucking eyebrows off.’ They all laughed at the old saying.
Then Michael leaned forward in his chair and finally spoke, ‘We’ll give him a club to run, that will satisfy his ego without too much thinking involved. I don’t think he really thrives well under pressure anyway, Danny Boy.’
Arnold listened to the calm way he expressed his opinion and knew that Michael was on his side in all this. He felt a moment’s relief at that knowledge because he knew Michael’s approbation would be the icing on the cake as far as Danny Boy was concerned.
‘Yeah, a club would be ideal for him; he can walk round it in his fucking overcoat playing the big man. Stick him in a fucking strip club, that should keep him busy for a while. In fact, I will send the fucker on an apprenticeship and tell him if he don’t learn the fucking ropes this time he can fuck off and get a job in Ford with all the other losers. He needs a short, sharp shock as the old man used to say. This might be just the thing to bring him to his senses.’
Michael nodded in agreement, and the three men then chatted together amiably for the rest of the night. Arnold was over the moon at how the day had turned out, and felt at last that he was finally making something of his life. He couldn’t wait to tell Annie his news, but felt it prudent to wait until Danny Boy gave him the nod to leave. He didn’t want to offend him at this stage in the game, especially when Danny Boy was asking him a lot of questions about his plans for the future. Not just for him, but for his little sister as well. The sister who he now loved and adored, and for whom he now wanted nothing but the best. Danny Boy Cadogan changed with the weather and it would augur him well to remember that in the future. As it did anyone who was involved with him in any way, shape or form.
Jonjo was in a private drinking club that Danny Boy had acquired many years before as payment for a debt. A very small debt in comparison to what he had demanded as payment for it. He was coked out of his nut, and acting the part of the hard man, all the time knowing that he would not be expected to actually do anything that even resembled a hard man’s usual actions. He just used the power his name held to do whatever he wanted to. He loved the power, loved that he could do what he liked and no one would even dare to challenge him.
Deep inside though, he knew that the very people who he tried so desperately to impress with this behaviour were really laughing at him. They thought he was a fucking muppet, a clown. It was this knowledge that made him so mean and so unpredictable. It was this knowledge that made him hate his brother even more than he did himself.
Snorting cocaine and drinking excessively gave him the capacity for self-delusion that was so important to his daily life. But there wasn’t enough alcohol or drugs in the world to drown out the truth of his situation and he knew that better than anybody. Better than this crowd of cunts did anyway.
As Jonjo ordered yet another round of drinks, drinks that he would pay for or, more to the point, his brother would pay for, he grinned happily at the people surrounding him. They were all third-class Faces, either on a wage, or used as gofers. None of them had any credence whatsoever, a bit like him.
One of the guys, a young fellow with a good physique and a knack for ferreting out a few quid, was laughing with him. But suddenly, Jonjo didn’t like him any more. Suddenly he saw his white, even teeth and heavily lashed blue eyes as being sneaky, saw him as taking the piss out of him. That the boy could take Jonjo out without breaking a sweat was a given, that he would have the sense not to do that given the circumstances and his family connections, was what Jonjo was depending on. The boy’s name was Donald Hart, and, when Jonjo turned the full force of his malevolent personality on him, he was more surprised than anyone else at the boy’s reaction. ‘Are you fucking taking the piss, Donald? I never said you could laugh.’
Donald realised what was going down and he shrugged, tried to keep the peace. He knew that Jonjo was out of bounds in many respects; especially for a smack in the face. But, unlike Jonjo, Donald had too much pride and wasn’t going to take his disrespect or, more to the point, let his fucking disillusionment at his own sorry life interfere with his. If Jonjo wanted a row, he decided, he was going to give him one, regardless
of the consequences. This was about self-respect now. He didn’t have much in life, except his pride and this no-neck was about to remove that from him without a fucking fight.
So Donald shook his head, in denial at the man’s words, and said, quietly, ‘I don’t need your fucking permission to laugh, Jonjo, and if you want a fucking row then let’s have one now, man to man. I’m ready when you are.’ Donald put his drink on the bar and stepped away from the throng, flexing his huge shoulders and waiting for the fight to begin.
Jonjo was nonplussed for a few moments; the fact that no one was trying to stop the event, as usually happened in these cases, was evidence of exactly how he was really thought of by these so-called friends of his. Danny had once said, many years before to their father, ‘For all your so-called mates, Dad. Drop the R and your friends suddenly become fiends.’
Until now Jonjo had not understood what he had meant; now he did. Like his old man, the people around him were not really his friends, they were fiends, people who used him, people who put up with him, and who were now quite happy to watch his destruction by somebody they actually liked, and who they would stand behind, no matter what the score. Danny would hear their side of this story, not his.
Donald was still waiting patiently for him to start the fight he had requested so forcibly and with such a haphazard easiness. He was waiting as if it was a foregone conclusion, as if he was no one of any real consequence; just a tosser who was expected to beg for his life to someone he saw as a complete fucking waster.
