The Faithless

by Martina Cole

  It was Vincent that Cynthia had the main problem with these days. He didn’t like her having too much to do with the child. She knew she had to sort something out there. He needed taking down a peg or two. Since he had been released he thought he was the dog’s gonads – well, what man didn’t?

  She smiled at the thought of bringing him down, and she drove back to her house lighter in spirit, with her little Cherie chattering away beside her.

  Chapter One Hundred and Twenty-Six

  The Golds had been watching the bank in Borough Green for the last few weeks and they knew down to the last detail who went in and who went out, at what times the bank was quiet, and when it was busy. On one specific day in every month, the bank held over one hundred thousand pounds before it was taken away by guards. Today they were sitting in a small coffee bar, watching the handover with interest.

  There were three men outside the vehicle, and two inside – one driving, the other riding shotgun – so they were going to need to get the safety deposit box before they hit the inside of the back doors. It seemed to be a doddle.

  The guards appeared very complacent, joking with the manager, and acting very relaxed. That was the beauty of carrying out robberies in small villages; they looked sleepy, and no one thought anything bad could happen in them. With sawn-off shotguns and the element of surprise to their advantage, this would be over in minutes.

  Pleased with the day’s findings, the Golds got into their nondescript car and drove away sedately, sure that this was going to go without a hitch.

  Chapter One Hundred and Twenty-Seven

  ‘Well, she’s asleep. Surely you don’t expect me to wake her up!’ Cynthia’s voice was low, but full of contempt. Vincent was on the phone asking why she had not brought his daughter back as arranged.

  She had not said when she would be bringing her back for definite, she had just said maybe Sunday night. Anyway, she had rung her daughter earlier and left a message to say that Cherie was a bit under the weather and then she had put her to bed. It wasn’t her fault that Gabriella had not checked her messages and she said as much. But Vincent was not a happy bunny.

  ‘You know she should be here, Cynthia, she’s got school tomorrow.’

  Cynthia snapped right back at him, ‘Not with a cold, she isn’t. Plus, poor Gabby’s just about ready to drop, she can’t be running around after that lively little mare. Unless you’re staying home, of course.’ She knew she had him then and she smiled down the phone imagining how angry he was.

  ‘Well, I want her back tomorrow, all right? She spends far too much time at your drum for my liking.’

  Cynthia didn’t answer him; she had won this battle and if it was left to her she would soon be winning the war.

  When she put the phone down she went back into her kitchen and looked through Cherie’s drawing case. She had found a piece of paper earlier, and on it, written in pencil, were the plans to rob a security van for a bank in a place called Borough Green, which was apparently in Kent.

  Cherie had drawn a picture of a nice house, and she had been admiring it when she had spotted the little diagram on the back. This was how you planned any robbery, Cynthia knew, from her time in Jonny’s circle. You used Ordnance Survey maps and you always used pencil – never pen. Then, once the route was established, the map was destroyed, along with anything else incriminating. Cynthia knew that this would have been destroyed eventually, but Little Miss Trouble had got to it first, unaware that it was her father’s blueprint for his next job. She laughed with glee. That Vincent really should be more careful about what he left in his office at the garage.

  She hugged the paper to her chest. Oh, the old saying was right: God really did pay back debts without money; of that she was now sure. In her hands was the fate of Cherie’s interfering fuck of a father, and she knew exactly what she was going to do with it.

  Chapter One Hundred and Twenty-Eight

  Mary Callahan wasn’t well, and Jack knew it. She was having trouble breathing, and she seemed to spend longer and longer having a ‘bit of a lie down’, as she called it.

  He looked at her now as she slept next to him in their bed. Her face still held some of the beauty that had attracted him all those years ago. In repose, the lines were not so harsh, and she seemed younger somehow, more how he liked to think of her. She had been an eyeful all right, like their Celeste. Hers had been an understated beauty, as opposed to Cynthia’s in-your-face sexuality. Mary had aged prematurely; all the trouble that Cynthia had brought to their door over the years had certainly taken its toll on her as, he supposed, it had on him too. But, for all their trials, he still loved this woman, and he hoped to God that he died first, because he didn’t think he would cope without her.

  He decided to make her an appointment at the doctor’s, but tell her it was for him – she would accompany him then to make sure he went. It was the only way he’d get her there – she spent so much time worrying over everyone else, but not a second did she waste on herself.

  She had never been the same since their Celeste went. He knew that she blamed herself for her daughter’s eventual decline but it wasn’t her fault. Celeste, unlike her sister and indeed her own mother, hadn’t had the strength of mind needed to cope with what life had thrown at her. It had finally worn this wife of his down too; she was losing weight by the day, and she had no appetite.

  He was suddenly assailed by a memory of her having their Cynthia. She had given birth at home and he had been angry because his racing paper had been used to mop up after her waters had broken. It had made him feel slightly sick. Then, after what seemed like ages, he was presented with his little daughter. Even then, as a newborn, Cynthia had been absolutely gorgeous – everyone said so. And he remembered saying to his exhausted wife, ‘She’ll break some hearts, this one!’

  If only he had known then that she would break not only hearts but also whole families apart, he would have drowned the evil cunt there and then. He remembered his Mary, tired but triumphant, looking down at that child as if she was the most precious thing in the world. Where had it all gone so wrong?

  He felt near to tears, and told himself it was just his age creeping up on him. If truth be told, he wouldn’t be too trashed about shaking off this mortal coil, and going for the long sleep. In fact, he would rather enjoy it.

  He laid his wrinkled hand on to his wife’s hair, and it was only then that he realised she was cold. His Mary had died in her sleep. She was past all the hurts that life had thrown at her. For the first time in years, Mary Callahan was really at peace.

  Sitting up in bed, Jack Callahan held his wife’s hand and cried bitter tears. He blamed Cynthia for this; Mary should have had years left to her. They should have had years left together. If Mary had not taken on the burden of her daughter’s children and all their combined problems, they could have lived out their twilight years in peace and companionship. His Mary was but another casualty in the war that was Cynthia Callahan. She had never really stood a chance.

  Chapter One Hundred and Twenty-Nine

  Vincent held Gabby while she cried, and he knew it couldn’t be good for her or the baby. Mary’s passing had hit her badly, very badly. She had been the only real mother she had ever known, and he had a lot to thank her for, he knew. Without Mary and Jack, his Gabs would have been alone in the world with his daughter and completely at the mercy of Cynthia Callahan. Things had been bad enough as it was, and the guilt he felt at leaving her was ever present. As was Cynthia. It felt like she was always round, helping out.

  All he needed was a couple of robberies under his belt and he could get them a decent house of their own, bought and paid for, and then get on with his legit businesses. He would only go out for a drive every year or so. It was a foolproof plan, and he wanted to make sure that this girl of his – and the children, of course – had everything they needed for the rest of their lives. It was important to him that they were all well set up.

  He wanted his Gabby in their own little hous
e, his kids at the best schools available, and a place in the sun. That had been his dream throughout his prison sentence, and now he would make it all come true.

  Fuck Greene and Warner, with their ‘be patient’ and ‘bide your time’ nonsense. He was a fucking shrewdie and he knew what he was doing. He was looking after his family; after all, that was a man’s job.

  Cynthia brought in a tray with tea for her and Vincent and a small brandy for Gabby.

  ‘She can’t have alcohol, she’s pregnant.’

  ‘One little shot won’t hurt her, and it will make her sleep, calm her down. All this crying can’t be good for her or the baby.’

  He could see the sense in what she was saying.

  Cynthia took Gabby from his arms and, holding her close, said gently, ‘Come on, love, drink this up, eh? It’ll make you feel better.’

  Gabby did as she was told, and drank the brandy, coughing at the raw taste.

  ‘There, that will make you feel better, love. Now come on, put your feet on the couch, darling. I’ll make you some hot milk with honey in it, like my mum used to make for me when I was feeling ill. I bet she did it for you too, eh?’

  Gabby smiled brokenly and nodded her head.

  Twenty minutes later the milk had been drunk and she was asleep. Cynthia looked at Vincent and sighed. ‘She’s taken it bad, Vincent, but it’s to be expected – my mum was more of a mother to her than I ever was.’

  Vincent stayed silent; he didn’t know how to answer that statement.

  ‘Do you want me to take Cherie with me? I can take her to school, the usual – it’s best to keep to a routine with kids. There’s going to be a lot of running about with the funeral to arrange and everything. And, well, my dad isn’t going to be much use, is he? My mother did everything – he can’t even boil an egg.’

  It was strange talking to Cynthia like this, she seemed almost normal, caring even. Vincent knew she loved his daughter, of that there could be no doubt. It was just a pity she had never felt like that about either of her own kids.

  As if reading his mind, she said, ‘I was never a good mother. I found the kids got on my nerves a lot of the time. I suppose being lumbered with James didn’t help – he was hard work, Vincent. Not that he meant to be, but he was so weak. I had to sort out everything, from the bills to the washing and the cooking. Everything. I think I just wanted to be free, you know? Free of all the responsibilities. And my mum, well, she wanted the kids there all the time, and I got into the habit of letting her have them.’ She smiled and her whole face was transformed. ‘I suppose that’s where Gabby gets her mothering skills from – she certainly didn’t get them from me!’

  For the first time ever, Vincent felt himself warming to Cynthia, disarmed by her honesty.

  But Cynthia on full charm offensive was hard to resist; many men had found that out to their cost. She saw him softening towards her. Well, when she was finished with him, he would be her best mate, she would see to that. Although he might not be around too long if she had anything to do with it. At least this way it would allay any suspicions he might have about her. She wanted him to believe that she had his Gabby’s best interests at heart, that she had simply found her maternal instinct later than most women, and that she would always be there for his children, as well as Gabby.

  It was so easy. Men were such fucking children – all you had to do was tell them what they wanted to hear, act the little housewife, and Bob really was your uncle and Fanny your aunt.

  Chapter One Hundred and Thirty

  ‘It’s a lovely day – cold but sunny. A fine day to have a baby!’

  The Jamaican midwife was trying to make Gabby laugh and, to be nice, she smiled weakly. But she had only just buried her nana Mary, and now the pains were ripping her to pieces. She knew it would be worth it, that her baby would be born perfect, and she would have a proper little family. She wished her nana was here though; it was hard without her.

  She saw Vincent walk into the room, and she smiled tragically. Then another pain gripped her and she grimaced as the noise of the air leaving her body sounded like a loud fart and she laughed with him, as he said, ‘Fuck me, Gabs, what hole’s this baby coming out of!’

  She bore down, and felt the baby crowning, watching Vincent as the miracle of birth was revealed to him. She hoped he wouldn’t be put off with all the blood. But far from being repulsed, he was entranced. Pleased as punch to be there and, as their second child, and their first son, slid into the world, she saw only pure joy and amazement on his face.

  As he cradled their little boy in his huge arms, she was happier than she had ever been in her life. She finally had what she had always craved. Now she had a real family, and it felt good.

  Chapter One Hundred and Thirty-One

  As Cynthia held Vincent Mark Two, as his father referred to him, she was once again overwhelmed with the feeling of belonging he engendered in her. It was as if he was her child, the same emotion she had experienced when she had first seen little Cherie five years before. That her Gabriella could produce such perfect children with that dolt she had lumbered herself with was, in itself, amazing. But, once again, this child looked like her. It had her eyes and the same shaped face as her, as well as that sovereign-coloured hair – blond with red streaks – which had always made her stand out from the crowd.

  ‘He’s stunning, Gabriella, absolutely beautiful. Well done, you two.’ She aimed her smile at Vincent and she saw the delight on his face at her words. Like his genes alone could have presented her with a grandson like this! It would take her time to stamp out the O’Casey traits, she was sure. This little boy would be someone, a banker, or a doctor; he was like a blank canvas waiting for her to colour him in. One thing was for sure – he wouldn’t be a fucking bank robber like his old man, she would see to that. Her smile widened as she thought of what she had done. She had made sure that his father would not be around to interfere in his little life. It was her secret gift to her new grandson.

  She smiled at Vincent Senior once more, aware that she would have to put up with it until he was captured trying to rob a bank in Borough Green. The police were watching them all, and she knew that the conspiracy to rob charge would keep him out of their lives for at least seven years.

  Gabriella would be heartbroken, which was to be expected; after all, the girl loved him. Cynthia understood that, but she was more concerned that, if left with these two people, her grandchildren would never have anything in their lives, not anything worth having anyway. They would end up labelled blaggers’ kids, and they would go the way of all thieves’ children, embracing that life as all that would be open to them. So she was pleased with herself, pleased at what she had done.

  As Vincent took his son from her, and gazed down into his perfect little face, she did not feel an ounce of shame. She was saving these kids from a fate worse than death.

  ‘He’ll be someone this little lad, Gabby, I can feel it in my bones.’

  Cynthia laughed with her daughter at the words and, looking at Vincent, she winked happily at him.

  He winked back, oblivious that his fate, like that of his little family, was well and truly sealed.

  Chapter One Hundred and Thirty-Two

  ‘What a fucking mug! But would he listen to anyone?’

  Bertie Warner was incensed at the news young Vincent O’Casey had been captured as he and the Gold brothers were about to enter a bank in Kent. They were caught with guns, balaclavas, the works. A whisper had got out, and somehow the Filth had got wind of it. How, he didn’t know, because it was the first he had heard about any of it. In fact, it seemed that no one had any idea about the fucking robbery at all. So either one of the Golds had become loose-lipped, which was very doubtful, or Vincent had mentioned it to someone. Not a chance of that; knowing how Bertie felt about him going back into the game too soon he would have kept it quiet. No, this had to be close to home. Micky Gold had just dumped his wife for a seventeen-year-old blonde, but then would he mention a piec
e of work to his old woman? It was a melon scratcher all right.

  But they were bang to rights now, and they would be looking at a good few years behind the fucking door, before they would be out celebrating Christmas with their families. Stupid, stupid fuckers. Especially that young Vincent. Bertie had had such high hopes for him.

  He thought about that girl of his. She had not long had her second baby – a lovely little boy – and she would be devastated by this news; after all, it was not the first time Vincent had left her literally holding the baby. The poor little whore. Some girls really were unlucky. Still, what was done was done, and life on the outside continued.

  But all day he kept thinking about young Vincent and about what a waste of a life it was. The second stretch was always worse than the first – for a start, you knew what to expect. Bertie would grease a few palms, make it easier for him, pay out and get him his own cell, a bit of snout and a few luxuries. Vincent would be out one day, and Bertie wanted him to remember that they had not forgotten him. He would slip that little bird a few quid too, tide her over till she was sorted out. It was the least he could do.

  Chapter One Hundred and Thirty-Three

  Vincent O’Casey sat in Brixton on remand and listened to the sounds that were once more his background music. Prisons were really noisy at night. Snoring, arguing, laughter, and often the sound of muffled sobs from the men who were desperately missing their families. The sound of the POs walking up and down, hearing the loud sliding noises of the slats opening and closing as they checked to make sure no one had topped themselves or were up to some kind of skulduggery such as digging their way out or making a shiv. This was to be his life again, and it would be his life for years and years.