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by Martina Cole

  Dave had also made a lot of bad business decisions over the last year and he had lost a small fortune on dope deals that had not come to fruition. The trouble with the puff was that the money was always paid out upfront and if the merchandise was intercepted before it arrived at the correct destination, everyone lost their initial investment. The police had been waiting at the last three drops, two at airfields and one on the Thames estuary. It had been no one’s fault, even though that fucking Spider and his brother seemed to produce cannabis out of thin air and his brothers had questioned why they never had a fucking capture of any kind. In his heart he knew that the underlying accusations were not only unfair, but complete rubbish.

  Spider had sewn it all up a long time before they had decided to try to get an in themselves. Spider’s stuff came straight out of the docks and it was good gear; the stuff they managed to procure was low-grade and had more seeds in it than a packet of Trill. The reality was that they had been had over, not once but many times, and without going to Patrick Brodie and asking him to step in and sort it out, there was not a lot they could do about it.

  The realisation that they were only regarded as part of his workforce bothered them more than any of them cared to admit. It seemed that the truth did indeed hurt, and Spider’s growing place in Patrick’s heart had not only been observed, but acknowledged, by all the powers that be.

  Basically, they had been shown up for the motley crew they actually were and without any real poke to spread around they were in danger of going broke.

  Dave had lost over two hundred grand in the last ten months, and his brothers had lost a similar amount between them as well. It was a lot of money. Money they didn’t have any more and money they were not in a position to replace any time in the near future. They were all boracic lint and they were starting to panic; they owed money all over the Smoke and they knew it was only a matter of time before the creditors started whispering to Patrick.

  Bank robbery was on the cards; it was the only earner left to them. The bugbear with that though, was that they would need to run it by Patrick first and give him a taste of whatever they managed to get.

  ‘You’ll get your money, Mum, but fucking go easy on it this time, OK?’

  Doris nodded, pleased the conversation was over.

  ‘Bacon sandwich, anyone?’

  ‘Here, Annie, I got you a part-time job, love, haunting fucking houses!’

  Pat Junior and Lance laughed out loud; their laughter tinged with shock, as always, that their father dared to talk to their granny like that. The girls, happily ensconced in their father’s arms, were laughing because everyone else was laughing.

  Annie carried on smiling her martyr smile as her son-in-law bellowed, ‘Get off your cross, woman, we need the fucking wood!’

  Lil smiled too and Pat looked at her for long seconds before saying seriously, ‘You all right, girl, need the quack?’

  Lil shook her head and Pat looked into her eyes. He worshipped her and lately the thought of her going through another pregnancy worried him. She wasn’t right this time and she looked dreadful; even her lovely thick hair looked lank and her face was drawn.

  ‘I’m OK. Fancy a cuppa?’

  Pat looked at the boys as he shouted irreverently, ‘Let Attila the fucking Hun make it!’

  Pat sat beside Lil and pulled her into his arms. ‘You look whacked-out, girl.’

  ‘I am a bit. Look at your gorgeous daughters.’

  Lil always changed the subject if it was about the way she looked or felt; she continued to collect certain rents for her husband and did the prison visits when they were needed. She didn’t want him to see her as weak, even though that was how she felt lately. She wanted him to trust her and rely on her. Lily knew almost as much about the businesses as he did, and although he was only trying to save her energy by giving her a break, she wasn’t happy about it.

  ‘My pair of beauties.’ Pat grinned once more. He was ageing fast but she still felt the pull of him when he looked at her full-on. She grinned too, her perfect white teeth at odds with her white face.

  ‘The girls look at you with such love, Pat.’

  He opened his arms in a gesture of understanding. ’All women look at me like that.’

  This was said arrogantly and, too late, he saw the way she was staring at him. He saw the fear and the loneliness inside her, the sadness his silly words had caused, and he cursed women and their bloody moods.

  ‘I was only joking, darling.’

  But the moment was gone again. This was happening a lot lately and it was starting to get on his nerves; he had enough on his mind without her looking for poxy rows as well.

  ‘Why do you wind yourself up, Lil? It was a joke, that’s all. Look at the kids’ faces.’

  Lil could see the exasperation in his eyes and the children watching their parents with worried expressions, and she saw then that they picked up on everything around them and it wasn’t healthy. She knew it was her, her feeling so rough, her worry that Pat was going to either get nicked or go off with a newer model. The latter was the biggest fear of all; there was an old saying about how if a wandering old man got his collar felt, at least you knew where they were. She now knew how true that was.

  ‘Go and play upstairs, kids. Mummy’s feeling a bit tired.’

  Pat Junior and Lance picked up a sister each and left the warmth of the room without question. Annie, Lil knew, had her ears on red alert as she listened to everything that was being said between them.

  ‘I’m sorry, Pat. I just feel so rough all the time . . .’

  He cuddled her into him again and she could smell cigarettes and the lingering aroma of cheap perfume.

  ‘You’ve got to stop this, Lil. You are me girl, always will be. You’re the mother of me children for fuck’s sake.’ His voice was earnest and she wished with all her heart that she could believe him, but she knew him better than he knew himself. She forced a smile as she answered him.

  ‘I look like a bloody cow. Don’t take no notice, it’s just me hormones talking.’

  ‘More like your fucking mother talking.’ Pat pulled her face up to his and kissed her on the lips.

  ‘You’re my wife and you’re the world to me. I am out collaring every day to provide for you all, OK?’

  Lil nodded again and he felt the strength of his love for her. Why couldn’t she believe that even at her heaviest, with her belly hanging down to her knees, she could never look more beautiful to him than when she was carrying his children. Fuck knows, he had made enough of them with her. Now he had the unenviable task of telling her he was on the out again tonight.

  That little gem was going to go down like a two-ton tart in the back of a Mini.

  Cain and Spider were stoned and as the night drew in, they settled down to watch some TV while they waited for people to collect their gear. They doled out anything over 2.2 lb themselves. It didn’t matter whether it was puff or speed; they wanted to see who was new to the game and find out their connections. It was a point of honour now that the Williams brothers didn’t score from them by any means. They had a good rapport with the people they weighed out to, and any new faces brought in had to be referenced by at least two of their trusted dealers. Especially if they were white.

  Skinheads were smoking puff like there was no tomorrow and so were the middle-class white boys. It was becoming the drug of choice for a whole generation. Together with the new seventies music scene and the opening up of so many clubs all over the Smoke and the Home Counties, speed was also an earner. Pills were still going strong, but the preference was for the white powder.

  1976 was the year of the snort with punks desperate to stay up all night, the rude boys wanting the blues that lasted for days on end and the casuals with their Depeche Mode and asymmetric haircuts. Selling speed was like printing money and that was why they changed flops every few months; no reason to ask for trouble. By five in the morning they would have about eighty grand in the room with them and that was
a temptation to anyone, let alone the people they dealt with on a daily basis.

  This flop was new and they had made a point of making it habitable. Hence the TV and the comfortable sofa. It was a large property in Clapham and it was rented out by the room. The place stank of goat meat and sweat and there were people in and out at all hours of the day and night which was a bonus as far as they were concerned. It was owned through a holding company that had its annual AGM in Jamaica. By the time the tax man finally worked out who actually owned the place they would be retired and living in Montego Bay.

  All in all, it was a good flop and it was also worth a few bob from the rents. It was full of black men and white girls, it always had music blaring and, in that respect, it was no different to any other house in the street.

  They felt safe there and so they only had two guns with them, both ex-army-issue pistols. One was a thirty-eight and the other was a forty-five, which was enough firepower to do real damage, yet small enough to tuck into a waistband and hide from prying eyes. But they weren’t too bothered about security, in fact they were overconfident. Outside, in a Ford Zodiac, sat three Rastas who had not yet embraced the beautiful meaning of their religion. They would shoot their own mothers if they tried to have any of them over.

  They had also clocked Dennis Williams and his little crew when they had driven by not ten minutes before. Dennis had looked them over as if they were so much shit on his shoes and the Rastas had taken it; give the boys a false sense of security, that was their motto. Anyone who listened to music that had words like Ballroom Blitz in it, deserved all they got. The Rastas had guns and machetes and they were ready for anything the white boys had to offer them. In fact, they were looking forward to a real straightener, it would sort out the men from the white boys once and for all.

  Dennis was rocking. He had been drinking steadily all day and he was up for a fight. The Rastas in the car earlier had really given him the taste for a violent confrontation; it was only his baby brother, Ricky, driving them to the pub that had stopped anything from occurring.

  ‘Calm down, for fuck’s sake.’

  Ricky was a little hard nut, not as big as his brothers, but he had a quick wit and an even quicker temper. But he was also sensible enough to know that Dave would have their balls for breakfast if anything happened without his express say-so or knowledge. Dave was still sucking Brodie’s cock and as much as that annoyed him, Dave was still the driving force of the family and Ricky respected that.

  He knew that Dave was trying to stop this going off. But even he was beginning to see why the others were getting the serious ache. The blacks were fucking all over the place and, no matter how much the Williams boys were told they had missed their chance, it was fucking out of order that they were practically paupers in the grand scheme of things.

  Ricky had just got his latest bird in the club and he needed some spondoolies to weigh her out for the new arrival. It was therefore a matter of grave importance to him that he was skinter than a striking miner. By the time he pulled up outside the Beckton speiler they ran, Ricky was already spoiling for the fight he had prevented.

  It took him, Bernie and Dave five minutes to get Dennis inside, on account of the fact that there were three girls outside with schoolie written all over them, wearing skirts shorter than a traffic warden’s attention span.

  ‘Come on darlings, show us your tits.’

  The girls were scandalised and thrilled at the same time but they were also relieved when the other men finally dragged Dennis into the pub.

  The brothers made their way to the back room, acknowledging people as they went. Dave looked around him as he half-carried, half-dragged Dennis to safety. The place was packed as always, and most of the clientele were mates or associates. He knew that not much money would go over the bar; they had made a big fuck up on the Grand Opening night when they had let people have a drink on the house. It was expected now, they could never ask for payment and they were finding it hard to make ends meet. Even robbing the Cash and Carry was out of the question because they were supposed to be above all that petty fucking shit.

  He only hoped that his meeting with Patrick later on in the evening would bring about a solution to their problems. They had spunked money up the wall left, right and centre and now there was hardly any left. They worked for Patrick Brodie and no matter how much his brothers tried to talk him into retaliation, Dave had to remember that Patrick Brodie was a bad man to fuck with. Maybe he should come clean, tell him the truth of their situation; it was no shame to lose your money where the grass was concerned. Lily Law were always in the running to get to it first and it was a chance everyone took: you weighed out knowing you would either make a real profit on your investment or lose the fucking lot. This was not, after all, legitimate business. Still, they had lost more than most and it was embarrassing to have to go to the man they depended on for their daily bread and admit that they had fucked up so phenomenally. Like Spider and his cronies, Pat was coining it in; they were like the Keystone Cops in comparison, and it was this that was causing all the bad feeling.

  They were amateurs and any kudos they possessed was because Patrick Brodie was their ganger. It had been a harsh lesson for them and, as usual, he now had to try to sort it all out without any help from his brothers whatsoever.

  Dennis was sitting slumped in the chair by the doorway, Bernie next to him, and little Ricky had brought them all drinks from the bar. As they sat and chatted, Dennis finally sobered up enough to make relative sense; he was still off his face but the pills he had been given by Ricky seemed to be doing the job. He was now speeding out of his nut, the blue ones he had necked were making him dry-mouthed and paranoid, not a good idea for Dennis at any time. He was a violent man by nature, and with alcohol and narcotics in his system, he was not easily controllable.

  As they waited for the others to arrive, Dennis heard the loud voice of their cousin, Vincent Williams. Vince and Dennis had been rivals since boys; of a similar build and with strikingly similar looks, they had been natural antagonists.

  Now Vince was buying into the doll business with Brodie and Spider, the relationship had soured even more. Dennis saw him as a traitor. He couldn’t see that it suited Vince to make a few quid with guaranteed protection, he just saw his cousin raking it in and, worse than that, spending it wisely. There was a family joke that Vince was so tight even the Queen came to the opening of his wallet, but that was not really the case. Vince wasn’t tight, he was simply a shrewdie. He didn’t countenance hangers-on and he saw no reason to spend money unless it was to make more money. Dave and the others loved him but Dennis had always had a problem with him and the feeling was, unfortunately, mutual.

  If it came to an out-and-out tumble, everyone’s money was on Vince. Vince drank moderately and resisted drugs. He had two lovely kids, a wife with an arse to die for and a nice mock-Tudor house in Essex. Vince had made his fortune on the horses; as a professional gambler he had books all over the place and he offered a point or two more than the legal bookies. He had a big clientele who had money they wanted to spend without too many questions asked about where it had come from.

  Vince also paid for his drinks, never expecting anything for nothing, even from his family. He was hailing everyone with his usual camaraderie when Dennis shot out of the back room and attacked him with a length of metal pipe he always carried with him, for what he jokingly called emergencies.

  As Vince went down, Dave and Ricky grabbed Dennis and dragged him off. The place was suddenly quiet and Dave looked around at the faces of his regulars: ponces and hangers-on, all drinking for free and waiting with bated breath and eyes alight with excitement for the cabaret to start. There wasn’t one real mate in the whole place and even his brother didn’t have enough loyalty to wish one of his own well or toast their success and good fortune.

  Dave had learned nothing from his years with Patrick Brodie but it was as if someone had turned a light on in his brain. He was suddenly seeing himsel
f and what he had achieved with a stunning clarity that was as enlightening as it was terrifying. A room full of no-necks and empty pockets did not augur well for his peace of mind or his brothers’ safety. The tatty furnishings, the over-the-hill barmaids and the fug of cigarette smoke showed him the reality of what he had allowed to happen to what had once been a promising young life.

  Vince was kneeling up on one knee, his head was bleeding profusely and his arm was groping about for the bar so he could hoist himself upright. He was obviously concussed and Dave felt the anger rising up inside him. He picked up the metal pipe from the floor where Dennis had dropped it and laid into his brother with all the strength he possessed. No one attempted to stop him, not even Ricky, and that spoke volumes as far as Dave was concerned.

  Chapter Eight

  ‘You nearly killed your own brother.’ Dave was still covered in his brother’s blood and as he listened to Patrick’s shocked voice, he could smell his own sweat and vomit; it made him start to heave. Patrick stepped away from him quickly, expecting him to spew up again at any moment.

  Patrick looked at the man before him and despaired of what he had been reduced to. In the years he had known Dave, he had watched as the promise he had seen in the beginning had been proved to be nothing more than youthful ambition. He had not cut it in the real world and though it had never been said out loud, it had been there between them for a long time.

  He had had a lot of time for Dave and he cared about him, but he had passed him over many times because he had not had any faith left in him. Patrick had tried to help him, tried to give him advice, but it was like talking to a brick wall. With Dave, all the lights were on but no one actually seemed to live there a lot of the time. He didn’t have the staying power you needed to keep moody businesses on the boil. He was a chancer by nature, like them all. Dave would be better off as a blagger; a quick fix, a good wedge.