by Martina Cole
Jonny laughed at Bertie but it was a thin laugh. ‘You’re joking! That kind of thing went out in the sixties with all the old Mustache Petes. You can’t touch me without recriminations, you stupid old cunt.’
‘Oooh, hark at her! I can do what the fuck I like, mate, and the sooner you get your fucking thick head around that the better.’
Jonny Parker had forgotten how ferocious Bertie Warner could be. Bertie was a known headcase; he also had a taste for torture, and that had always been his ace card. No one had ever wanted to cross him, because the consequences were dire. He had once burnt a man alive for cutting him up in his motor. Linford was worried, Jonny could tell, and it seemed that history was repeating itself. Young Derek wanted what he had, so he was teaming up with the man that he had originally taken it from. It was like a fucking nightmare, and Jonny knew the chances of him leaving this room alive were minimal at best. But he was not going out without a fight, that was for sure.
He glanced around him at the men in the room; all were heavies, ready for anything, especially young Derek Greene. How could he have been so dense? Linford had smelled a rat and he should have listened to his friend’s instincts. But, in fairness, it had been an eventful few weeks, and he was not exactly at the top of his game because of that.
Bertie grinned, and he looked like a death’s head. ‘Come on then, Jonny, if you think you’re hard enough.’ He looked at the men around him and said almost gleefully, ‘You can see his brain working, can’t you? He’s wondering which one of us to take out first. Then he’s planning how to get out that door, and do a runner. Well, Jonny, me old son, that ain’t going to happen. Sorry for the inconvenience and all that.’ He walked behind the small wooden desk which was used by the secretary three days a week, and picked up a large machete. ‘See this? See the irony of it, do you? Well, this is going to remove your arms, and then you are going into a motor, and you are going to be crushed. I’ve been planning this for fucking years, Jonny Boy, and, now the time has come, I feel quite excited about it.’
Derek Greene’s eyes were glittering with the prospect of serious violence. Like Jonny before him, he believed they would take it all over and there would never be any pretenders to their thrones.
Jonny read what was going on in Derek’s head and laughed. There would always be another young buck like Derek, waiting in the sidelines for what he saw as his golden opportunity. Just as Jonny was finding out. That, unfortunately, was the way of the world they had chosen, and it was a foolish man who didn’t watch out for it, and expect it, even from his closest allies. And foolish he had been.
‘Look, man, it was nothing personal . . .’
Bertie’s voice cut him off. ‘Nothing fucking personal? Is this cunt for real? You murdered my mate, well, not you as such. That little matter was done by a female, a woman who was protecting her sister, that I can swallow. She was doing what anyone would have done, and my Kevin, as much as I loved him, and love him I did, done a wrong ’un going to your house. I hold me hands up to that. I didn’t like it, but I had no choice – he was determined. What I am so irritated about is that you challenged us like we were nothing. You treated us like we were amateurs. Well, I’m back, lads, and you two are over with. You’re finished, you’re fucking done!’
As Jonny looked at Bertie and saw the maniacal look in his eyes, he knew this was it. His life would end in a Portakabin in Bow. Not the most salubrious ending to a life, but an ending all the same.
‘Shove it up your arse, you silly old cunt! Bring it on! I ain’t going without a fucking tear up.’
‘I was hoping you would say that!’
Bertie swung the machete, a machete which had been sharpened into a lethal blade. It landed on Jonny’s shoulder and, as Bertie had promised, it took his arm off.
The blood was spraying everywhere, and Derek Greene felt the thrill that hunters feel when they finally take an animal down.
Linford watched in horror as his friend was butchered before his eyes. One thing in Jonny’s favour though, was he never screamed once, and that was remarked upon by all the men in the room. Even as they carried him, still alive, to the waiting car that was to be his tomb. He was slung into the boot like rubbish, and he was still cursing them loudly as they put the crushing machine in motion.
Linford watched every second with mounting dread; he had known this was not a kosher operation, had felt it in his water. It had all seemed too glib, too structured to be real. He looked into the blood-spattered face of Bertie Warner and accepted the inevitable.
Bertie took Linford’s head off his shoulders with one hefty slice of the machete. As it rolled across the dirty ground of the scrapyard and eventually stopped in a small hole, Bertie shouted gleefully, ‘Look, guys, a fucking hole in one!’
They were all laughing now, stacked up on adrenaline and the knowledge that their main adversaries were out of the picture. All that was left now was for them to take what they felt was rightfully theirs.
Young Vincent had watched it from the sidelines, and he felt the nausea rising up inside him. Of all the things he had expected of the night, this was not one of them. He was party to murder now, and he knew then and there that this kind of skulduggery wasn’t for him. He just wanted to be a blagger, a bank robber, nothing more and nothing less.
Linford’s body, minus its head, was bundled into the boot of Vincent’s car, and Derek Greene climbed in the passenger seat, saying happily, ‘We’re gonna dump this outside their main offices, then we lose the motor and get as far away from the scene as possible, OK?’
Vincent nodded.
‘You are part of a new guard tonight, mate, in on the ground floor.’
And, as Vincent thanked Derek, he wondered at just what he had signed himself up for. This was far too much for him; all he had wanted was to drive a few getaway cars. Now he was a witness to the murders of two of the most dangerous men in London. Life could be such shit at times.
It was only later on, lying in his bed at his mum and dad’s flat, that it occurred to him he had been used; he had told Derek Greene everything he had needed to know about Jonny Parker, but he didn’t know the half of what Derek was planning. It wouldn’t be the first time he was used, and it would not be the last, of that much he was sure. He was in over his head, and he knew that he could not walk away from any of it. This had been far too big a night for him to be able to pretend it had never happened. It would go down in East-End folklore and, in a way, he knew that he would enjoy people knowing he had been a part of it. Derek Greene had hand picked him for the job and that was a compliment, surely? If he used his loaf he could get a fucking decent earn, and be a part of a new regime.
He was aware he was trying to convince himself that everything would be all right. But another thing he had found out this night was that he had no stomach for murder and, no matter what the score, that had been murder at its worst; coldblooded and messy. He was part of it now, and he knew he had to do what was expected of him. But he regretted getting involved in it all. Whatever Jonny Parker was or he wasn’t, it didn’t change the fact that Vincent had been a part of the crew who had outed his Gabby’s uncle.
Chapter Seventy-Four
Celeste didn’t report her husband missing for three days, but she knew, like everyone else, including the police, that he was dead. Linford’s headless torso had been a message, and that message had been received and understood. She had thought the news would destroy her, but instead, for the first time in years, she felt free. The house and most of the other properties were in her name, as were a majority of the bank accounts, so she was a very wealthy woman. Jonny being gone didn’t really affect her that much in the long run.
She also knew intuitively that her father had guessed what was going to happen; he had not seemed surprised by the turn of events. She wondered how Cynthia was feeling and if she mourned Jonny. Celeste hoped so, because she couldn’t mourn him. She was glad he was gone, glad he was away from her, glad she was finally able to walk awa
y from the life he had given them. Her mum was on the mend, and her life was once more her own.
She had loved Jonny Parker once with all her heart, but she had not loved what he had become. What he had tried to be. The violence he had embraced had finally turned back on him. What goes around comes around, how many times had she heard that expression? She knew his body would turn up one day and, until then, she would live her life as quietly and as decently as humanly possible with her mum and dad. She had had enough of the so-called good life; it had never been much good to her.
From that day, Celeste Parker never left her mother’s home, not even for a few hours.
Book Three
As is the mother, so is her daughter
Ezekiel 16:44
It is not what a lawyer tells me I may do; but what
humanity, reason, and justice tell me I ought to do
Edmund Burke (1729–97)
Chapter Seventy-Five
1998
‘What’s the matter with you, child?’ Mary was worried about her granddaughter, she was very quiet these days, as if the light had gone out of her, and had been ever since coming out of care.
‘I’m all right, Nana, I just don’t feel that great lately.’
‘You’re not sickening for anything, are you?’
Gabby laughed at that. It was Irish for ‘Are you pregnant?’
‘Don’t worry, Nana, that’s not what’s wrong with me.’
She saw the palpable relief on her grandmother’s face and sighed inwardly. She wished she was pregnant; it would be lovely to have a baby of her own. Something to love and care for. A little person who loved you back unconditionally. Gabby craved love like other people craved water or food. It was because of her upbringing – God knows, the new social worker had told her that enough times. She grimaced at the thought of Miss Byrne; though she liked the woman, she could be hard work.
But that wasn’t what was bothering her. How could she tell her grandmother that after nearly three years her mother wanted contact again? Of all the things she had expected that had not been one of them. And Miss Byrne was all for it! She said it would give Gabby ‘closure’. What a crock of shit! What it would give her was untold aggravation, which was all her mother had ever brought to anyone in her life.
Still, she couldn’t deny her interest was piqued. She was curious to see how her mother had fared since she had disappeared, and she would love to ask her how she could have dumped her two kids so unceremoniously without a second’s thought. Then why ask the road you know? She knew the answer to that question already. Cynthia had walked away because that is what she did; she made a mess and she ran from it as soon as it got out of hand. Her husband had killed himself and what had she done? Left her children to cope with the fallout.
‘Are you going to answer me, madam?’
Gabby was brought back to the present by her grandmother’s harsh words.
‘Am I talking to myself here or what?’ Mary was clearly irritated.
‘Sorry, Nana, I was miles away.’
Kissing her nana’s cheek, Gabby left the room and went to her bedroom. She sat on her bed and looked around. It was pretty enough; she liked the pale pinks and greens in the curtains and bedspread, the cream walls left unadorned – not a pop star or film star to be seen. She’d made it almost clinical, and she knew that was the result of years of being in her mother’s house where there was never any mess whatsoever. She could still hear her mother’s voice: ‘Do you know how much that wallpaper cost a roll? And you want to put fucking Sellotape on it!’ She had heard it many times, and it had always made her angry inside. Other girls had posters, pictures of ponies, whatever on their walls, but not her.
She pushed the thoughts from her mind; she was only thinking about her mother because the social worker had told her she wanted to see her. That was it. It was a natural reaction but, still, it was stirring up unpleasant memories.
Gabby looked in the small dressing-table mirror at herself, wondering what her mother would think of her now. At sixteen she was a beauty, or so everyone kept telling her. She was also the living image of Cynthia. She stared into her deep-blue eyes, framed by dark lashes, and looked at her mouth, the wide-lipped mouth that was so fashionable at the moment. She was prettier than most girls, and that wasn’t her being big-headed – it was a fact. Anyway, she knew that looks really meant nothing in the grand scheme of things – it was brains and contentment that mattered. And being loved.
She was loved, by her nana and granddad and by Vince, and even her auntie Celeste – though she was getting stranger by the day. She had never left this house since the day she had walked back into it after Jonny was killed. Agoraphobia, the doctors called it though Auntie Celeste said that was shite, she just didn’t like going out and that was her human right. She had a point, albeit in a weird and wonderful way. All she did was eat and watch TV. She was rich as Croesus by all accounts, but even that didn’t have any impact on her; she gave most of her money away to charity or anyone who came and told her a sob story.
Gabby knew it drove her granddad mad, but he was powerless to do anything about it. Celeste was as right as the mail; that was an undisputed fact, even the doctors had told them. She had ‘retired’ from the world, that was how her nana put it, adding that that didn’t mean Celeste was a nut-job. But could she eat! She was half the size of the house nowadays, all chins and chafed thighs, but she had a good heart, and her eyes were alive with love when she looked at her family. In fact, if Gabby was honest, she actually believed that her auntie was one of the happiest people she knew. Go figure that one, Oprah.
But it was still her mother who was occupying Gabby’s thoughts now. She couldn’t rid herself of the terrible urge to meet with her, just to see what she was like now. Maybe she had changed, maybe she was a different kind of person, and if Gabby didn’t go to see her she would never know.
Gabby didn’t actually believe that for a moment, but it was a nice fantasy. Other kids took parental love for granted; some mothers stood by their kids through everything – even a rapist or a murderer often had the support of their parents, though Gabby suspected that was because they didn’t want to believe their child was capable of such heinous crimes. But neither she nor James Junior had ever had their mother’s love, and that hurt. Look at what had happened with poor James. He had got even worse and had ended up being sectioned. Gabby wondered if she had been in touch with him as well.
She sighed heavily again, and lay back on her bed. This had stirred her up inside, and made her think of times gone by that she would rather not remember. She turned her head and looked at the photo of her and her father she kept on her night table. It had been taken the Christmas before he died and he had his arm around her and they were both laughing into the camera. It was a lovely photo and anyone looking at it would never guess at the real Christmas they had endured that year – had endured every year with her mother in control, telling them what Christmas should be like. Cynthia thought Christmas was about having all the trappings. With all the wisdom of her age, Gabby knew that was where her mother always went wrong. Christmas was about people, about family – not things, not well-dressed trees and expensive presents, and a roast turkey that could feed a family of fifteen and still have enough left over for sandwiches. It was about enjoying the day, enjoying your family. Her mother had never known what it was to enjoy being with her family, that had always been the trouble.
Now she wanted to see Gabby, and Gabby didn’t know what to do about it.
She was meeting Vincent later, so she would ask his advice; he might not be the sharpest knife in the drawer but he had a good heart. And he loved her, and she loved him, and that was what really mattered.
Chapter Seventy-Six
Vincent was thrilled. He had a good little earner thanks to Derek Greene, and he had just been recruited as a driver on his first ever bank job. He was almost sick with excitement, though he had been sure not to let that show. He had driven Derek a
nd a few of his cronies over the last few years and he had made a name for himself as a good little runner. He always canvassed where they were going beforehand, making sure he knew the route better than anyone who was born and bred there. They never got lost on their way there, or their way home, and he knew that was valued. Some of the meetings had been in very out-of-the-way locations, that being the nature of the job involved, and he had always done his homework. It had been much appreciated, and he had got himself quite the reputation.
Well, it was paying off now; he was going to do such a fuck-off job he would soon be in demand. That was his goal in life – to be the best driver in London. Good drivers had a very important place in the scheme of things, and they were paid handsomely for their abilities. Another year or two and he could marry his Gabby, and they could start the family they were both looking forward to. They talked about it all the time; how they would decorate their house, what names they would give their kids, what kind of schools they would attend. They were going to have children who would be somebody in the straight world, and they would both work their arses off to achieve that for them.
As he parked his BMW convertible in the scrapyard, the same scrapyard where he had witnessed the demise of Linford and Jonny P, Vincent shuddered. It didn’t matter how many times he came here – and that was frequently since Derek now owned it – he still felt the chill of apprehension as he drove through the large wrought-iron gates. It amazed him that the machinery in here was worth millions – it looked like a load of old tat. But he supposed it cost a fair bit to buy a machine that could gobble up cars – and people – and turn a large vehicle into a small block of metal, two foot by two foot.
