by Martina Cole
‘Is the juke box still working?’
Pat knew that Leonard would have taken stock of everything that would need replacing in nanoseconds; he had done it enough times before and when he nodded, he said happily, ‘Stick on “Hotel California” will you? I fucking love that record.’
Leonard did as he was asked and then he set about cleaning up the place as best he could, joining in with the ribald conversation at the bar and explaining to any punters who came knocking that the place would be closed for a few days on account of it being redecorated.
No one questioned that this place was redecorated four or five times a year on average. Thanks to long opening hours, excessive alcohol consumption, betting, women, football and occasionally religion, all these were things that seemed to make men capable of murder.
It was still early evening and so Leonard was hopeful of getting an early night for a change. As he always said, one man’s loss was another man’s gain. He hoped his old woman had partaken of her weekly bath and hair wash, he was in the mood for a quick flash and a bacon sandwich.
Cain was conveniently forgotten. He had been ironed out, straightened and sorted.
Chapter Fifteen
Jasper Jessup was a tall, angular man who hailed from the Caribbean, though where exactly no one seemed to know, least of all him.
He was a user. He used everyone he came into contact with but he did it with such aplomb and such good humour that it was hard to take too much offence. People just dropped away from him and he was very good-natured about it, so people forgot his bad points and hailed him if they saw him around.
However, he was in the know with what was left of the Williams family and this was mainly because he could always be relied on to ferret out half-decent grass or a banger girl, aka someone who was up for it with anybody, anywhere, anytime; for a price of course. More importantly, he could also find out what was happening on the pavements of south London.
He had his phoney Jamaican accent off to a tee and his tall, thin body had a certain elegance that, combined with his dreads, gave him the air of a proud man, of a trustworthy man. This had stood him in good stead for many years, plus, as an added bonus, he had a certain panache about him; a scruffiness that suited his rangy body and put people off their guard. On certain days, he took it upon himself to wear the Rasta colours and, like a walking flag of Ethiopia, he would wander around Brixton market like a king. He would hail everyone he saw while toking on a large twist, his gold teeth glinting in the sunlight. He was well known there; he was part of the local colour. The younger men, especially, were drawn to him with his tales of urban strife and the battle of the black man. Of course, once they realised that he talked bollocks, borrowed money off them too often and smoked their weed faster than they could procure it, he was dropped as they gravitated towards the other males in their community, the proper role models. It was a natural progression, a rite of passage for the teens he attracted, who imagined that being seen with an older man like Jasper would be seen as a measure of their own burgeoning manhood. Until, of course, they saw him for the predator he really was.
They actually learned valuable lessons from him though: that ponces came in all shapes and sizes and, also, that their mothers were usually right in their opinions of the people they suddenly wanted to spend their time with. He had ruffled more than a few maternal feathers over the years and he retreated when the time was right because he was too shrewd to ever push his luck too far. The lads just faded away and when he saw them around, he grinned and laughed with them, always the picture of friendly affability.
And such was Jasper’s easiness that they didn’t hold him using them against him. He was just Jasper and he was all right; good for a story and a laugh in the Beehive on a Friday night. He was a local character and people tolerated him even though he was like a cancer in the community; he wised up the police when he had to and again his easiness, his smoothness, was why no one had ever questioned the fact that he had never once had a tug. He’d never even been held on a Sus, which was remarkable because the Sus law was designed so the police could pull you in just because they thought you looked suspicious. It was a bonus for the filth as they had a perfect excuse to run in anyone they liked, just for the hell of it. A young man could be standing at a bus stop waiting for a bus, and he could legally be arrested, searched, and charged with basically anything that happened to pop into the overactive imaginations of the arresting officers.
A good hiding was often on the cards as well; it was the police equivalent of in for a penny, in for a pound. From the West Midlands Crime Squad to the Met, the police had almost complete autonomy over anyone they took a shine to. As everyone in the know was aware, for every person fitted up for a crime, even if they were a known criminal who had broken the law on numerous occasions and could not be held to account because the police had no evidence, once they were fitted up it meant the real perpetrator of the crime was still at large.
Sus was a law that had been passed with full knowledge of how it could, and most certainly would be abused by a large majority of the police force. People like Jasper actually needed the Sus law to survive. All he had to do was hint at someone’s involvement in a crime and the law guaranteed they were pulled in without any kind of evidence whatsoever. Jasper actually had a razor-sharp brain, which he tried to hide with his foolishness and his stupid talk. But he had been responsible for a lot of arrests and he was a predator of the worst kind, whether it was impressionable young girls or the grown men he used to fill his wallet. People were relaxed around him because he acted far more stoned than he actually was a lot of the time. People were easy around him and talked about things that were best kept private. Jasper listened and he learned a lot about everything; he found this useful in his everyday dealings with the world.
Spider had once pointed out to him that he was a professional Rasta and so the Bob Marley hat and the crooked smile Jasper wore had never fooled him. To Spider, Jasper was the kind of black man that gave the rest of them a bad name. He was a poster boy Rasta and his own authenticity was what had alerted Spider to the fact he was a fake. Spider was the one man Jasper was wary of because he saw him for what he really was and this bothered him.
Jasper had no regular income, legal or otherwise; he lived off his considerable wits and it was his knack of finding opportunities that had led him to the Williams brothers and his latest earner.
Jasper had ingratiated himself with Cain and had introduced him to the finer points of smoking, from a twist to a pipe. He had helped the Williams brothers get involved with Spider’s little brother and he was proud of his part in bringing down the arrogant little shit. The Williams boys were a few coconuts short of a palm tree, as his mother used to say, but they were also emerging from their Brodie-imposed exile better than he would have given them credit for. Now that Cain was onside they were in a unique position because Spider would not let anything drastic happen to his little brother. At least that’s what this crowd of goons believed, anyway. Jasper wasn’t so sure; Spider had seen through him as if he was a pane of glass on their first meeting and not many people were that astute. Shame Spider hadn’t used the same instinct with his little brother but then family had to really piss you off before you outed them.
The Williams family were close, as close as their kind could be anyway, and they were paying him well for his contribution to their cause. Now he was sitting there with them, fooling them all with his smiles, his gold teeth and his thick Jamaican accent, all the while planning how best he could exploit them or utilise the knowledge that he was gathering to his own advantage. They were loose-lipped and he knew everything about them.
He began to build another joint knowing that if Brodie was looking for Cain then their days were numbered. Spider would have to swallow and he had a feeling that once Brodie had heard all he had garnered over the last few weeks he would not be a happy bunny.
The last few weeks had been a revelation to him and, as the boys talked, he list
ened while building his spliff and singing ‘Exodus’ in a low voice, sounding more like Marley than the man himself. The Williams boys were taking the piss out of him periodically, thinking he didn’t realise it, and he took it with good humour as always. Let them think he was a fucking moron. He was only sorry this lot didn’t appreciate how he was playing them. But they would eventually, when it was too late, of course.
As Jasper sipped his rum and smoked his spliff, he was grinning and laughing, while wondering how this shower of shite managed to find their own arseholes without a fucking detailed map, a compass and a torch.
‘Calm down, Lil. Lance what?’
Lil sighed in exasperation as she tried to explain the situation to Patrick, but she knew he was having a lot more trouble than her believing it.
‘He threw a six-year-old girl off a moving bus. She had to have eight stitches in her head and she was terrified out of her life.’
She sighed heavily at the shock on his face, knowing it was mirrored in her own. ‘He has been bullying the family for yonks, the little fucker. I think you had better go and look at him and see what I’ve done to him before we talk any more, OK?’
There was something in her voice that alerted Patrick to the truth of what she was saying yet he didn’t want to believe it.
‘Lil, is this a wind up?’ But he knew it wasn’t. He knew she was serious.
‘What do you think, Pat? That I thought I’d have a joke with you about something this serious? He nearly killed a little girl. Fucking funny, is it? It’s a big joke, is it? Only I ain’t laughing, am I?’
Patrick took the stairs two at a time and went into his son’s room. Lance was asleep. He looked like the victim of a train crash; he was swollen and bruised all over, his cut eyebrow had scabbed over and none of the blood had been wiped away. He knew that Lil had left him there without seeing to him and this bothered him more than the beating the child had taken; it said a lot for her feelings. He felt anger welling up inside him; the boy looked so little, so frail, and with his body curled into a ball and his hands placed under his cheek, he looked like an angel. He put out a hand to touch him but stopped himself. The boy was better off asleep. He was battered like a Friday night cod as it was.
Lance was sleeping deeply, as if he had no cares in the world. Patrick had a feeling this would not be the first time this child of his would be taken to task in his life and it pained him to admit that to himself, but he had always been a realist. Lance was the product of his own two parents, and that, mixed with Lil’s family tree, meant the boy didn’t stand a chance. Selfish and greedy, Lance was everything Patrick despised; he seemed to have all the bad traits of his ancestors and none of the good ones. Lance’s only saving grace was how he was with his little sisters. How protective Lance was of them gave Patrick hope for this boy’s future.
He forced down the urge to give the boy another hiding. He was sorry, not because Lance was battered and bruised, but because he felt no pity for him. Lance’s eyelids were flickering, he was dreaming. Patrick knew that any other child would have been awake, would have been far too upset to sleep. He stared down at his son, wondering what he had bred. He knew that at some time in the future this boy would be an asset in any criminal undertaking but that as a child he was an anomaly. He found his dislike of his child was growing by the second. He wanted to drag him from the bed and make him understand just what he had done, but he knew that if he touched him, he would not be responsible for his actions. He needed to calm down first. The boy had been spoiled by his granny since he had first drawn breath and she had played a big part in all this. He had to blame her for a part of it, otherwise he would go mad. Well, he was going to sort the vindictive old bitch out. He needed to blame someone for his son’s twisted nature and she was the prime suspect as far as he was concerned. Listening to the boy’s soft breathing he knew he had to get away from him, to leave this room and all it entailed.
He crept into the other kids’ rooms; the girls, as always, were asleep in one bed, a mass of plump limbs and baby sweat. Their lovely, long blond hair was damp from their body heat and their rosy cheeks made his heart swell with love for them. They were good-looking children. All his kids were handsome and he was proud of them; at least he had been, until now. Kissing them lightly he went to his eldest boy’s room and, opening the door, he saw he was awake as if waiting for him to come home. He guessed this was exactly what his son had been doing.
’All right, Dad?’ Pat Junior smiled tremulously at his father.
Patrick sat on the edge of his bed and smiled back. ‘What happened, son?’
Patrick knew he would get the truth from him, Pat Junior was as honest as the day was long.
‘Mum was really cross, she went mad.’
Pat nodded. ‘I can see that, mate, but she had reason to be, by the sounds of it.’
The boy reluctantly nodded in agreement; as always he was trying to look out for Lance.
‘But he didn’t mean it, Dad. He does bad things but he don’t really mean to, he just doesn’t think . . .’
Patrick loved this son of his; he knew that he was still trying to defend his brother even though Lance wasn’t worth this loyalty. Lance had no loyalty or respect for anyone but himself.
‘But he did hurt Maureen Callahan, Dad. I heard about it at school and I asked him about it. He denied it.’
Patrick nodded once more, the shame washing over him and leaving him feeling dirty.
‘But you knew it was true, didn’t you?’
Pat Junior nodded again as his eyes searched his father’s for a hint of approval about how he was handling the problems his brother seemed to bring him on a daily basis. He didn’t want to say outright that he had believed it from the off and that nothing his brother did surprised him.
‘You’re a good boy, son. Now relax and I’ll talk to your mother and get it sorted. This is a serious thing that Lance has done, you do understand that, don’t you?’
‘I know. I felt sick when I heard. She could have been killed.’
Patrick shrugged, a nonchalant shrug that took all his willpower because he was going to lie and he knew it was important that his boy believed what he was going to say so he didn’t feel any more guilt over his brother and his actions.
‘This isn’t your fault, mate. You couldn’t have prevented this. Lance has a mind of his own and when I am finished with him he will wish he had never laid eyes on that girl or her family. This is not your problem, OK? You don’t need to worry about this any more.’
Patrick looked into the face so like his own and wished he didn’t have to deal with all this now. He had enough on his plate without a fucking Looney Tunes for a son. His actions seemed so far-fetched that he had thought it would turn out to be exaggerated or a big mistake. Now he knew that Lance was capable of anything. He was the child everyone was frightened of. Lance was a coward and it was that which made Patrick so angry; he had somehow bred a coward who had been able to bully his way through life because he bore the name Brodie.
Now he had to make some kind of sense out of this for Lil’s sake and for this boy here, who he knew would be Lance’s buffer to the world, until even he couldn’t take it any more. He stroked Pat Junior’s hair, feeling the thickness of it. The fact his son hadn’t answered him was enough to make him change the subject and try to bring some normality into this twilight world the boy seemed to have stumbled into. Violence was his game and now it had crept into his home. All the years he had feared it encroaching on his family and he was stunned to find that its arrival had been heralded by one of his own children. This wasn’t a boyish prank, it was a cold-blooded act of hate and as a man who used his strength and intimidation to earn a living, that was a very frightening thought. Controlled violence was one thing, as long as it didn’t involve civilians and it was kept in their world. But the more he thought of his son’s act, the more he knew he needed to be home more often than he was. Lance needed to be watched over and taught right and wrong. He nee
ded a strong hand to guide him into the future.
Patrick forced a smile and said in a cheerful whisper, ‘Looking forward to your party?’
Patrick Junior nodded but the pain and fear were still in his eyes and Patrick knew he couldn’t do this now; he had too much on his mind. Now that Lance’s actions had finally sunk in he needed time to digest and cogitate on what the outcome should be.
‘Come on you, get to sleep. Let me sort this lot out, eh?’
The relief in the boy’s eyes was evident; the problem had been taken away from him. Patrick felt guilt weighing on him heavily for leaving this child to shoulder so much of the burden in the household. He was going to have to get out of the game; delegate more of the day-to-day running of the businesses. He was getting past all the skulduggery that constituted his main graft, his earned wage. If the truth be told, he was finally getting fed up with it all.
The Williams brothers should have been taken out from the off and because of Spider and his low-life brother, he had left the situation for too long, all the while expecting Spider to sort it out. Well he hadn’t, not in time for him anyway. He had let it go on and that had set off alarm bells. Spider had an Achilles heel, as they all did to an extent, but where Patrick would take out a family member if the offence warranted it, Spider couldn’t. Cain was on his last legs and so was Spider if he played up. He had given him ample opportunity to sort the lairy little fucker out. If Cain had been his brother the Williams brothers would have been warned off long ago. Cain would then have had his displeasure at the association pointed out to him with such force that he would have broken off any kind of friendship tout de suite.
Then he came home to another fucking war. Life was a bastard, there was no two ways about it. This son of his, who he loved more than life itself, was already carrying the weight of his siblings on his shoulders and he knew that if anything should happen to him, the boy would be carrying the mantle for this family long before he was due.
