by Martina Cole
Jackie stood back. Unlike her father, who was congratulating his daughter profusely, she felt the usual jealousy and antagonism. As always, Maggie had been given it all on a plate.
The news went round, the congrats were given, and Jimmy was once more proud that Ozzy had seen fit to reward them so generously. It set the seal on a perfect day and he took her back into his arms to the strains of The Temptations and ‘My Girl’.
As they swayed together, Freddie walked through the door. He was in his morning suit and he looked dishevelled and drunk. Sighing, Jimmy watched as he strode purposefully over to his mother.
Maddie stood up and greeted him, but the smile did not reach her eyes.
Then Freddie began walking her out of the room. He shrugged at Jimmy, who, against his better wishes, followed him outside with his new wife in tow. He knew the eyes of the room were on them and wondered if he was going to have to fight him this night, of all nights.
‘What happened to you, then?’ he asked.
Freddie held out his arms in supplication. ‘I am so sorry, Jimmy, but me dad’s topped himself.’
It was Maggie’s, ‘Oh my God,’ that started Maddie off. She was wailing like a banshee, a terrible, lonely sound like a wounded fox, high and filled with such pain it was almost unbearable to listen to. It was this terrible keening that brought everyone outside to hear the terrible news.
But even as he commiserated with him, spoke all the appropriate words, Jimmy was sure that it was not the real reason for his blanking his wedding, and he knew that Freddie was well aware of that.
Book Two
Thou shalt not steal; an empty feat,
When it’s so lucrative to cheat.
- Arthur Hugh Clough ‘The Latest Decalogue’
Proprium humani ingenii est odisse quem laeseris.
It is part of human nature to hate the man you have hurt.
- Tacitus Aricola, 42
Chapter Ten
1993
Jackie watched as her son demolished another Easter egg, stuffing it into his mouth and barely chewing the chocolate before grabbing another one. He would be sick soon and he would cry, then the whole cycle would start all over again.
As usual there were too many eggs, too much chocolate, and she did not have the energy to tell him to wait until he had eaten his dinner. He never ate real food, not in this house, anyway. He ate crap, and she had stopped trying to make him do any different.
His tantrums were legendary, and his sisters had gone ahead to their aunt’s house rather than sit and listen to it all. He had been calling them names since he had awoken at five thirty that morning. He had sat up all night watching videos, and had not deigned to go to bed until gone two.
It was driller killer that kept him quiet at the moment, and the more violent the movie, the more he became engrossed. Jackie knew she should stop him from watching them, but it was the only time they got any peace. He loved the blood, and as Freddie and Jimmy were now the main people involved in video piracy, it was only natural that the boy should want the films that were so easy for them to locate.
Little Freddie thought it was funny when he watched the blood and gore, but it was as if he had no concept of pain because of them. If he had a hammer, he would hit you with it and laugh. She knew this because he had done it countless times. It was like living in a nightmare.
Pouring another glass of vodka, she sat down and wondered if Freddie was going to be back in time to go to Maggie’s for their dinner. It was Easter Sunday and the whole family would be there. Maggie’s was now the place where everyone got together on high days and holidays. Maggie with her dinner service and her tablecloths. Maggie the cook and the golden girl. With her top-of-the-range car and her fucking beauty salon. She really thought she was something special.
Jackie glanced at the clock and knew she would have to get going soon or she’d be late for dinner. One good thing with Maggie: at least there would be plenty of drink and grub at her house.
If Freddie didn’t come quickly then she would go on her own, she was used to it these days. She had stopped expecting him, had learned to just wait and see when he arrived. It was easier for her in the long run because it meant she could have a drink in peace.
He acted as if she had some kind of problem - this from a man who was drunk and drugged every night of his life, and all day as well if he could get away with it. He had even hinted, in their more antagonistic rows, that it was her drinking that had caused their son problems. It couldn’t be the fact that his father never came home and treated them all like dirt when he did, could it. He was blaming her for the way Little Freddie was, when he was a replica of himself, from the temper, to the single-mindedness and the complete and absolute disregard for his safety, or anyone else’s for that matter.
To call her a drunk was one thing, but after the first visit from social services, he’d asked if she thought maybe Little Freddie had foetal alcohol syndrome? Where would he get a term like that from? It was something she had never heard about, had never even known existed. That jibe had hurt her because, deep inside, she had a terrible feeling there just might be a grain of truth in it.
She gulped at the drink. It was her anaesthetic against the world, against her family who pitied her on the one hand, and who blamed her for her problems on the other.
Little Freddie, as he was known, even though at seven he was already wearing the clothes of a ten year old, stood up and walked to his mother. ‘Are we going?’
He was getting irritated. He hated being alone with her. He liked it when he was surrounded by people, when he was the centre of the universe. But even his doting sisters were getting fed up with him and his attitude, and he was finally learning to act lovable now and again to keep them interested.
He kicked his mother on her shin, and she leaped forward and slapped him hard across the side of his head. She caught his ear with her ring and he screamed loudly, ‘You fucking bitch, you fucking whore.’
He started grabbing at her then, trying to pull her hair and punch her face. She put her glass down quickly and, smacking him once more across the head, she threw him away from her. ‘Fuck off, you mad bastard, before I fucking knock you out.’
He lay on the floor then, screaming and swearing at her. She picked her drink up again and took a deep swallow. The tirade would soon reach a crescendo, then he would just lie there and swear at her until she hit him again. Jackie sat back in the chair and closed her eyes. He was like an animal, and she knew it was her fault.
When he had first done it they had all laughed. He had been eighteen months old and he had attacked poor old Kimberley because she had told him off, and his language had been ripe. They had all sat stunned for a few minutes and then started rolling up. The words coming out of his mouth, and his dear little face while he said them, had been so outrageous they had roared. Then the girls had told him to repeat it, because it was so funny, and it had caused them all to crack up again. Little Freddie had soon sussed out that it was an attention-getting device and before they knew it his whole speech was peppered with effing and blinding.
It had set the tone for him and now at nearly eight it was his main vocabulary. He had been ejected from two play-schools because of it. Now the school was refusing to take him back again, but that was also because he attacked anyone in his radius if they did not let him do exactly what he wanted.
It had brought the social workers into their life and she could knock him out because of that alone. If that Mrs Acton mentioned her drinking one more time she would scream. Fucking social workers, if she had that mad little cunt all day and night she would have a bastard drink herself! And Jackie had told her that in those very words, enjoying the woman’s shock at her turn of phrase and feeling as if she had finally scored a point.
But he was out of control, there was no doubt about that, and as the only person he was even remotely civil to was his father, he would stay that way until Freddie came home regularly and took him in hand once and
for all.
Fat chance of that ever happening.
Jackie sighed and then poured the dregs from the bottle of cheap vodka into the glass. He was still swearing and calling her names, but she ignored him as best she could, just saying, ‘Get your coat on, and I’ll call the cab.’
Maggie had been cooking all morning, and the smells coming from her kitchen were driving everyone mad. Lena and Joseph were already there, all spruced up and filled with pride at the lovely home their youngest daughter had created around her.
She and Jimmy had moved into this place a few months earlier. According to Lena, it was a brand-new, large, detached, four-bedroom mock-Tudor mansion, with a huge garden and en-suite bathrooms. Lena never stopped going on about it to anyone who would listen. Her pride in her daughter knew no bounds.
It was a nice place, but for Jimmy and Maggie it was just another stepping stone. Unlike Freddie, Jimmy had taken Ozzy’s advice and he had invested in property. It was the best thing he had ever done in his life. He bought early, waited and then they moved on again, with their tidy little profit ploughed back into a new house that was always a bigger and better place for them to live.
This was their first brand-new home, though, and as much as they loved it, they missed the character of their last place. But they had bought that for a song. A builder friend had owed Jimmy a big favour and this was his way of paying him back. They’d done it up and then sold it because it was too good an opportunity to miss.
They would have the character house once again, only bigger and better next time. This place would do for another couple of years. It had a big garden which wasn’t overlooked, and they had the kitchen and bathrooms of their dreams.
Maggie looked up at Jimmy as he walked into the large kitchen to refill his father-in-law’s glass.
‘All right, babe?’ he said.
She nodded. ‘’Course I am. Are Paul and Liselle here yet? I heard a car pull up.’
Jimmy walked out into the big entrance hall. A few seconds later, he saw them coming through the front door, and waved them into the kitchen.
Liselle looked around in admiration. ‘This place is lovely. I wish you well in it.’
Maggie kissed her on the cheek. ‘Take your coat off, mate. We’re lucky with the weather, anyway.’
Jackie’s girls were all laughing and joking in the front room, putting on music, and Maggie smiled as she heard an old soul tape going on. The girls loved all the old songs, thank God. As Sam and Dave blared out of the sound system, she walked through to the garden and was grateful to finally have a sip of her white wine.
Maddie was sitting quietly on a garden chair. She was always invited, and she always sat by herself, smiling, but rarely joining in. Her husband’s death had hit her hard and Maggie always remembered the awful feeling on her wedding day when the news had been blurted out by Freddie.
His father had lain in the bath and slashed his wrists, and the thought of it still made her blood run cold.
It had been such a traumatic thing for them all to have to deal with on such a happy day. Freddie had found him, and had not wanted to ruin the wedding. He had waited until the body had been taken away and the bathroom cleaned up, so his poor mother had not had to face that on top of everything else.
Maggie knew that Jimmy, like her, felt awful for the way they had assumed Freddie had just blanked them. She pushed the thought from her mind and went over to where poor Maddie sat on a garden chair.
She sat beside her and chatted for a while, but she knew the woman was waiting for her son, and if he arrived it would make her day. If he didn’t then she would go home and sit alone and wait for him there. At least he took care of her. Maggie couldn’t take that away from him.
‘I wish you would just listen to me sometimes, Freddie. I knew they were fucking ice creams.’ Pat’s voice was heavy with annoyance because she knew Freddie was still not listening to her.
The South London warehouse they were standing in was full of snide. Though Jekyll and Hyde was the proper term for all the goods stacked around them, it had been shortened to Jekyll or snide. The warehouse was chock-full of snide booty and swag. A lot of videos, most not yet on general release. Disney videos were where their money really lay. Disney only brought their films out every seven years, so there was always a new market for them. One year it might be Bambi, another year Dumbo, but the main thing was, once the film was released it would not be brought out again for a long while. This worked to their advantage since all they needed were a couple of master tapes and they were off. They could knock them out for a couple of quid and the one-parent families could treat the kids and buy a carton of fags, and still be quids in, as opposed to going to Woolworths and paying what they termed the full bifta.
There was also plenty of hardcore porn, otherwise known as old Bluey. They made fortunes from that too. It was easy to bring it in from Denmark and Sweden, where you could watch what the fuck you liked without having to justify your shagging preferences to anyone but your old woman.
Then there were knocked-off Fila tracksuits, run up in Korea and shipped over for the benefit of the unemployed and anyone who used a local market. The designer stuff was worth a lot of money, and it caused a lot of aggravation because there was so much competition around trying to flog it off.
‘How long did they say they would be?’ Patricia tapped her foot in annoyance, and Freddie checked his gold Rolex. It was definitely not a Jekyll nowadays. Patricia had seen it before and knew it sweeped not ticked, but they had boxes full of snide watches for the discerning punter. From Rolex to Cartier, it was one of the best scams ever. Everyone suddenly wanted to be a film star, wanted to look worth a few quid, and they were tapping into that market.
‘They should have been here by now, Freddie.’ Patricia lit a cigarette, also snide. These were knocked up in China and they had everything from the right boxes to the right import dockets. They were ten pence a pack, and they knocked them out in the two hundreds all over the smoke for fortunes. It was like having a licence to print money.
‘They had better get their arses in gear, right?’ she said.
Freddie heard a van pull up outside and sighed theatrically. He knew how to play the game and Pat was getting on his wick acting like he was her fucking ball boy.
The men he was meeting were two brothers from Liverpool. They were young, ambitious and basically braindead.
They had been taking a lot of the merchandise from them and relocating it up their end of the country. All well and good, except the brothers now owed Freddie a lot of money and after repeated requests for payment, and outrageous and insolent excuses for the lack of moolah travelling back down the M1, they were about to get what was known in their game as a severe warning.
The two brothers were called the Corcorans. Shamus and Eddie were in their twenties and were loud, funny and good company. Now they would have added to their résumé, piss takers.
As they walked into the dimness of the warehouse they were both smoking cigarettes and, as usual, laughing. Seeing Freddie, they both slowed down. He was not supposed to be there, and they had believed they were meeting with his minions, Des and Micky Fleming, and Bobby Blaine.
‘Hello, Freddie, we didn’t expect to see you today.’
Freddie grinned, all white teeth and camaraderie. ‘I know. How are you, boys?’
They shrugged simultaneously. ‘Great, yourself?’
Shamus was the brains of the outfit and he was uneasy. He knew Freddie was going to have to have a word, and he tried to pre-empt him. ‘We’ve got some of your money in the van.’
Pat laughed. ‘That makes a fucking change. We thought we were giving out to a new charity, the Liverpool ponces’ society. You a member, eh?’
Freddie laughed then, a genuine, friendly laugh that relaxed the two men. ‘How much you got for me, then?’
He sounded all right and the brothers relaxed. Freddie smiled. In his tracksuit pocket he held a set of knuckledusters. They were cust
om-made and spiked, and they would do a lot of damage in the minimum of time.
Shamus flicked his hand over his shoulder in a friendly way. ‘We’ve got ten grand out there.’
Shamus was a large lad, but he did not have the presence he needed to intimidate. His brother did have the presence, but he lacked the killer instinct. They would always work for someone and that someone would always leave them to take the flak. It was sad, but it was a fact of life.
‘Go out to the van, Pat, and have a rummage, see if you can locate any poke. I’ll meet you outside in a minute.’
She nodded to Freddie and walked sedately away from the men.
Shamus knew what was coming and braced himself. He had taken the piss, he knew that, but his brother was not the sharpest knife in the drawer and he wanted to protect him.
‘Look, Freddie, let me brother go, mate. I’ll take whatever is coming . . . it was me who pissed the money away, not him.’
Freddie admired him for his loyalty. He understood that the younger brother was obviously not a contender for The Krypton Factor, so he made a snap decision. He brought his hand out of his pocket and attacked Eddie with all the force he could muster. Shamus jumped in but Freddie knocked him to the ground.
Freddie took Eddie’s face off in under two minutes.
Then, once he had dropped to the floor, he turned to Shamus and grinned at him as he kicked the boy’s ribs into mush.
Exploit any weakness to your advantage. Freddie had lived by that rule all his life and it paid off. Shamus’s weakness was this poor boy who would spend the rest of his life with breathing problems, due to a punctured lung, and a face full of Mars Bars, courtesy of his knuckle-duster.
He also knew his money would be there within the week.
Freddie had already taken care of the Liverpool end, so he had not stepped on anyone’s toes. Shamus would find that out soon enough, so he decided not to add to the boy’s burden today by telling him he had nowhere to go for retribution. This was an out-and-out straightener.
