by Martina Cole
He had heard the rumours about retribution for Barry and he watched his back, but he also accepted it as part and parcel of their choice of career.
Billy’s day was long gone, he had made the mistake all powerful men make; he hadn’t been on the actual street for years. He was told only what he wanted to hear and he couldn’t cap anyone himself, relying on heavies to do his dirty work. He was an embarrassment to all and sundry.
Pat knew the man was waiting to see whether he could keep up this dangerous façade, and if he could, he knew he would have a partner, if not in crime, then at least at the local drinking establishments. He had been willing to use Billy even though he knew the man and his cronies were putting up pound notes to bring about his demise. None of them had liked Barry as such, but none of them wanted to be Barry.
He understood that, except if he had been in Billy’s shoes he would have been dead by now.
‘You jammy little mare!’
Constance White looked at the young girl packing cigarettes expertly into boxes beside her, and her grin was friendly and amiable. ‘Fuck me, girl, you got Pat Brodie! Most of his amours end up calling him Glenn Miller and that’s because he normally goes on the missing list.’
Everyone laughed, and Lily went bright red with embarrassment.
At twenty, Constance was already married and had two children; her husband was a no-neck with acne scars and the conversation of an African elephant. So she envied this little piece even as she admired her. Many women had tried to snag Brodie, herself included, but he had slipped away like an oily chain. Good-looking girl though, and men like Brodie liked the innocent look, in a wife anyway. Like all men he wanted to be sure that any children carrying his name were actually his. No cuckoos in the nest for him. He was thirty if he was a day and she was fifteen; he must think all his Christmases and birthdays had come at once.
But it was the change in Lily that amazed Constance. The girl had grown into herself overnight, had started walking tall, she spoke before she was spoken to and she had the flushed cheeks of a girl ripe for the marriage bed.
Connie, as she was called, knew that this child, and she was a child for all her mature looks, was not going to be one of Brodie’s usual shack-ups. He wanted this one to breed with, and she had a feeling Lily would amaze them all.
Lily smiled happily; thanks to Pat she was set for life, and this factory and all it entailed would be a thing of the past soon. As soon as she hit sixteen she was gone.
Thunderclap Newman came on the radio and she sang along with her workmates; there definitely was something in the air.
Patrick affected her in so many ways, and as she packed her cigarettes she dreamed of his body touching hers, and longed for the kisses she was sure to get once the night drew in and they were alone in his car.
Billy Spot was standing outside his nightclub in Soho with his girlfriend on his arm. A redhead called Velma, she had all his usual prerequisites: big tits, nice teeth and long skinny legs. Billy was wearing his customary attire: black Crombie overcoat, pin-stripe suit and an expensive cigar.
He was amazed to see his girlfriend start walking quickly away from him, extricating herself from his flabby arms even as he saw with his peripheral vision young Patrick Brodie pull a gun from underneath his coat. He was a dead man and he knew it.
He hit the floor with the minimum of fuss and Patrick was gone before anyone thought of calling in the law to make things look above board, look normal. The gun was dispatched into the Thames, and Billy’s associates were aware of his demise within hours. It made no odds to them; he was a nice bloke but as they all remarked in private, business was business.
It was out with the old and in with the new. Pat had decided, on the spur of the moment, to erase the older man and open up the streets properly. Spot had cunted him to a close associate, and that was something he was not about to allow. He was not going to ponce around any more, he had Lil, and he wanted it all.
Pat bought the rest of the London consortium out with little fuss; he was too young and too dangerous for them and they all decided to retire from the game. He had everyone behind him and he had the edge because of that. This new generation were nutcases; they wanted it all and they wanted it as quickly as possible. Drugs had moved the goal posts and the old lot didn’t want any part in it.
Billy should have seen that coming.
Chapter Two
Pat loved the docks at night. Even the stench of the river was something to be enjoyed. As a kid, after his mother had walked out, he had played here while waiting for his father to finish his fighting. A street fighter, he had sporadically made money with magnificent wins. As the drink got him though, he lost more often than not. Then the money had not been as plentiful and that had just made him drink all the more.
One of the reasons he had disappeared as well, Pat decided, was his gradual loss of face and reputation. He understood now how hard that must have been for him, but he still could find no forgiveness in his heart. He had dumped him without a by-your-leave and that alone had hardened him up, and it had also made him determined to always take care of his own, no matter what. Walking away was easy, it was staying around and sorting out your own shit that took guts, that made you a man.
Pat closed his eyes and forced all thoughts of his parents from his mind. They were over with, finished, gone. They were both the shit on his shoes, he had no care for either of them, and he certainly had no intentions of letting them encroach on his life any more than they already had. He had a coldness inside him, it had been there all his life, the fear of depending on another person, the fear of being soft, of being seen as a mark. Now though, with Lil, he felt in control because she needed him, it wasn’t the other way around.
It hurt him to remember how he had been dragged up, how, like any child brought into the world of poverty, his life had been a lottery. He knew his parents wanted him now, shocked that their child had managed something neither of them had even dreamed of; they actually thought he would be cunt enough to take them on board. Like he was mug enough to even entertain any of them. The only time in their life they had ever agreed on anything and it was too late. He would not piss on them if they burst into flames in front of his eyes. He was happy enough as he was. He had not needed anyone until his wife and she was all he needed, he respected her. Simple as that. Unlike his mother, she had not been round the turf more times than a fucking prize-winning greyhound. All his life he had been overlooked, mugged-off, and now he was making his mark, making people understand that he was a force to be reckoned with and he was enjoying every second of it. Not that he would ever admit that of course. Even to himself.
He stared up at the new moon and smiled to himself, enjoying his lonely vigil, enjoying his power over his past.
Under the cover of darkness, Custom House, like all the dock areas, was as alive at night as it was during the day. The difference being that the night-time deals were made by dark-clothed men with subdued voices and menacing reputations. The whores that walked the quays in the small hours were the older women, their best years behind them, the dim glow of the lampposts their only friend. They were used-up, weather-beaten, defeated-looking women. The dock dollies who frequented the wharfs with a determined stealth waited patiently for the punters they were now reduced to; the Chinamen, the Arabs and the Africans. Their bleached-blond hair and heavily made-up blue eyes were like beacons to these men, drawing them into their world with a slow smile, then finishing them off quickly and expertly with either a hand or their thighs.
The sex was quick, furtive, and unsatisfactory, not only for the men but also for their conquests. These hard women who only knew how to use, whose lives were lived in black and white, had no feeling any more for the reality they were unfortunate enough to charge money for. The darkness gave them a reason to ply the trade that had destroyed them; reduced to the lowest of humanity they embraced the night because it paid their rent. There were no pensions or savings for these women, easy money had en
sured they were never off the pavement, and the money they were earning now was a pittance in comparison to their heydays.
This was another world, and it was a world that Pat Brodie hated and loved with equal passion. He had met his mother walking these very docks once, and her plight had not touched him one iota; he had enjoyed her embarrassment, enjoyed her demise. In his eyes she had hit rock-bottom when she had deserted him and he felt no allegiance to her at all. He didn’t even mind if anyone knew about it: she was nothing to him, and he had no intentions of making her think otherwise.
Since his marriage he had found a renewed vigour for making money. Lil was everything to him and he found that his feelings for her seemed to grow on a daily basis. She was as astonished as he was to find that she had a very bad temper, which inflamed them both. She was passionate and she was funny.
Things that had either been hidden or had lain dormant inside her for years while tiptoeing round her mother’s house trying to be invisible, had finally come to the surface. Pat’s face hardened as he thought about the way she had been treated and he wondered for the millionth time why she still entertained her mother.
The fucking leech was never off the doorstep and she seemed to have a real affection for her grandchild, if not for her daughter, though she acted the concerned parent with a zeal that was as astounding as it was unbelievable. Money did that to people, he knew it better than anyone. He also knew Lil needed her, needed to believe that the woman who had birthed her, cared about her. She believed that it was her birth that had been the catalyst for her mother’s unhappy marriage and was the reason for her own bullied and hated existence. Lil was too nice for her own good, and he swallowed it; if it made her happy then he was satisfied. But her mother was like his, a product of poverty and betrayal, the product of a man who had knocked her up and run away leaving her to make the best she could of her new-found circumstances. Lil forgave her for marrying a man who had tortured them both, and in a strange way he understood her forgiveness: at least this way she could pretend her life meant something. For himself, he couldn’t wait until the old bag blotted her copybook, and she would, her type always did, then he would take great pleasure in showing her the door. Until then, he would swallow his knob and smile when required.
Still, she helped out and that was something. Young Pat Junior was a handful, and he loved him with all his heart. He was his father’s son all right; he only hoped that he didn’t have anything of his paternal grandfather inside him. Only time would tell. Pat wanted a horde of children and he was shrewd enough to know that one of them would be likely to inherit not only the laziness, the poncing and lying that his father had been so good at, but also, the unconcerned demeanour of his mother. She would come out in one of them he knew, as would his father.
That man had been able to talk himself out of anything, and he would take the bread out of his child’s mouth for a drink or a bet. It was sod’s law that a large family would throw up a waster but Pat prayed that he would recognise the traits early enough to stamp them out. Beat them out of the child, if that was what it took. Unlike his old man who beat him for no other reason than he wanted to.
And his mother. She had fucked off on a regular basis, left him there with a man who had no idea how to raise a child and no interest in anything except where the next drink was coming from. He had lived on and off with various relatives all his life, so his home with Lil was everything to him, as it was to her.
Although Lil tried to make excuses for her parents, well her mother anyway, he had no such illusions about his beginnings; all he knew was that he wanted to make a good life for his family and he wanted to make his wife feel needed, loved and respected for what she was.
He still took the occasional flier of course, but he was as faithful to her as he was ever going to be. It had been a voyage of discovery for both of them. But the bottom line was that they worked well together and they needed each other.
As he stamped out his cigarette, he looked around the warehouse and wondered at this cannabis that everyone seemed so mad about. He was a Scotch man himself, but if this was what would add to his fortunes, then he was happy enough to supply it. Times were changing and if you had any savvy at all, you changed with them.
He heard the low drone of an expensive car as it pulled up outside and he smiled once more. This was what life was all about, not just the skulduggery, but also the feeling of control skulduggery conferred on the likes of him. Money was everything, and anyone who pretended otherwise was either rich by birth or afflicted by a mental ague. Too stupid to see what was around them.
Dicky Williams walked into the warehouse, as always surrounded by his brothers. They were like clones of one another, all short, stocky and with crew cuts. They all favoured tonic suits, shirts and ties. This was one of the reasons Pat liked doing business with them; they were smart, both in their minds and their appearance.
They were funny as well and this went a long way in their world. A sense of humour could be the deciding factor in many aspects of their business. Especially the debts; a first call with a smiling face and a few quips could garner more money than all the baseball bats and tyre irons in the vicinity. It was more about getting your point across to begin with; if no one took that on board then anything that might happen after the initial warning was just classed as gravy. A warning was, after all, a warning.
Why borrow money if you had no intentions of paying it back? The people who approached them knew they were not the fucking bank. If they had been welcome there in the first place they would not be asking them as an alternative, would they? So, ergo, they had to understand that, unlike dealing with the banks, they would be expected to pay the amount back not only quickly and expensively, but with a cheery smile and a promise to pass on their good fortune to friends and associates.
They were the last resort for the people who borrowed from them and they provided the money when no one else would take the chance. Shame this was what gave them a bad name in society.
Dicky came in, rubbing his hands together like Uriah Heep on Dexedrine. ‘Froze me cods off, Pat. How the fuck do you stand it?’
Pat laughed.
Dicky had been to see the man they were dealing with for some clothes that had mysteriously disappeared from a large storage depot in Whitechapel. The man rummaged from a huge old house, and even if there was six feet of snow on the ground, the place was never heated and the guy never wore a coat. Consequently, he was known as Freezing Freddie Dwyer or Fucking Freezing Freddie Dwyer.
‘He is off his fucking nut. You should have seen him, Pat. He was popping pills like there was no tomorrow.’
The Williams brothers all nodded in unison and this made Pat want to laugh at them now. He had more sense than to give in to the urge though.
‘It’s the purple hearts, see, he can’t get on without them.’
Pat nodded sagely as they lit cigarettes, and then he poured them out large Scotches. This had become a ritual.
The smell of whisky and cigarette smoke still couldn’t cover the stench of dirt and blood that seemed to permeate the place. The warehouses had witnessed many deaths over the years and the bodies thrown into the Thames had either made their way to Tilbury or out to the open sea depending on the tides. Either way, they were gone, and that was all that mattered to these men and their earlier counterparts.
As they sipped their drinks and chatted, money exchanged hands and the bags of green, sweet-smelling herb were put into the boots of cars.
Dicky and Pat went back years and had an easy camaraderie. They were both products of their environment and knew the pavements better than they knew their own families. It was home to them and they were comfortable with it.
Lately, they had entered into a partnership of sorts that had been as enjoyable as it had been lucrative. Between them, they had sewn up most of the main scams and, even though no one had named them outright as the new Faces on the block, people were approaching them and asking their permission befo
re undertaking any kind of skulduggery on their streets.
They found this amusing, as well as indicative of the way they were now being regarded by the main players in their fields. If the average man on the street was giving them their due, it meant Lily Law would not be far behind them. They acknowledged this as part of the price they paid for their lifestyles and both wanted to make sure they stayed this side of the visiting room. They loved the notoriety, but they also had no intention of being five-minute wonders. Here today, going down tomorrow, was not in their plans. They wanted to be around for many years to come and they wanted to maximise their potential. In short, they thought, like many a man before them, that they were too clever to be caught.
‘One thing about that freezing fucker though, he loves a gossip and he hears everything. He told me a little old bloke has been bandying our names about.’
Pat nodded. This was, it seemed, old news to him. He didn’t say a word and eventually the silence was too heavy for the brothers.
‘So what do we do now?’ Dicky sounded stressed, unsure of himself.
Pat shrugged.
It was a statement not a question, and Dicky was more than aware of the underlying menace in Pat’s voice as he snapped, ‘We do what we always do: keep it fucking quiet. That is what gets people’s collars felt, too much fucking rabbit. Remember the old adage, careless talk and all that.’ His eyes were cold, dead. His voice was without any kind of inflection at all.
Dicky grinned. His smile was, like a lot of his contemporaries’, ruined by a combination of bad diet and missing teeth. In Dicky’s case though, it made him look amiable, foolish even. A mistake many men had made over the years. His demeanour hid a vicious and vengeful personality that came to the fore whenever he felt he was not being given his due. This was another thing he had in common with Pat Brodie: neither of them looked the least bit capable of the violence that bubbled away under the surface of their friendly, smiling faces.
