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by Martina Cole

  Pat grinned, the old grin; the conspirator was once more home. ‘We are going on a robbery this afternoon and Johnny is going to be the counter man. We need serious poke and it’s the quickest way to earn a few quid. The post office has money delivered there at four forty-five every Friday; ready for the wages to be paid out to the local firms. There’s only about thirty grand there but it’ll do us nicely split three ways. It’ll help us get the business on the road, see, and we can use it to buy more debts.’

  Lance shrugged but he was nervous inside. Unlike Patrick, he had a worry of getting his collar felt. Pat took everything in his stride but Lance wasn’t like that. He couldn’t stand to be put away, he knew it would send him off his head. He couldn’t bear to leave his family, especially Kathleen; he would die inside, so strong were his feelings towards them all. Even visiting Pat had caused him to hyperventilate. He had never liked being confined but he had never let that secret out to anyone; not even to his brother. Pat would have slaughtered him if he knew something like that. Lance knew the robbery would be a laugh though; everything Pat did was a laugh, that was what he had missed so much while he had been away.

  ‘What post office are we doing?’

  ‘Barking High Street. It’s the perfect place. The old dears leave the money on the floor; they don’t safe it, because they know it will be picked up quickly. They have a cuppa and they don’t even bother to put it out of sight. All we need do is let little Johnny do his party piece and we can be in and out in minutes.’

  Lance laughed. ‘How did you find out about that so quick?’

  ‘Mrs Doyle worked there; her son was banged up with me. I popped round there to give her a drink and she filled me in on the basics. I owed her Kevin a favour and I said I’d weigh her out with a few quid. Fucking Brewster was supposed to see her all right and he didn’t give the poor old bag a fucking groat! He’s doing a nine for that ponce and I can tell you now, he is not a fucking happy bunny.’

  Lance laughed at his brother’s cheery voice even though he knew Pat was annoyed about the situation. ‘The man’s a cunt and a fucking vicious cunt at that.’

  ‘Has he really blanked the old woman?’

  Lance nodded then. He realised Pat knew the score without even asking him anything.

  ‘I’ve been doing a bit for him, like I said. But you know what he’s like, all over you one minute and can’t remember your fucking name the next.’

  Pat crushed his empty lager can and threw it expertly into the bin. ‘Well, I am going to remind him about Colleen and Christy.’

  Pat had an edge to him now and even though he was still young there was the hardness about him that only a segregation wing can hone. He had been put in solitary twice while away and, because of his fighting skills, he had been moved into the prison system earlier than he should have been. He was proud of that, Lance knew. Men who had been away a long time respected Patrick because he could not only have a serious row but he could also do his bird with the minimum of fuss. He also had his father’s creds and had made a point of ferreting out anyone who knew a story about him.

  Pat was a realist; he knew that he had to get his head around his sentence and sit it out because the one thing that was guaranteed in nick was that the time passed, eventually.

  ‘We have to get this gaff sorted for Mother and the kids and make sure she ain’t got to work any more. She has grafted enough over the years and we need to sort her out soon as, don’t you think?’

  Lance nodded.

  Pat watched his brother for long moments and wished he could climb inside his head, because he was a different boy to the one he had waved goodbye to at Chelmsford Crown Court all those years ago. Lance was even more nervous somehow. He seemed worried although he was still vicious. Pat had heard about his ravings even in nick; about when he lost it. Lance was a fucking headcase when he did go; that was their strength these days. Lance was capable of great anger and great violence but only when he was goaded beyond endurance.

  Lance had suffered over his mother’s indifference, Pat knew; she had swallowed it down over the years and had hidden it away but it was still there, lurking around, waiting to surface in the future. Pat could feel it coming off her sometimes and he knew that if he did, Lance had to feel it as well. Pat knew that the bus incident was always near the front of his mother’s mind when she looked at Lance and he still bore the scars from her hiding all those years ago. But he had been a kid then and now he was a man. At least Pat hoped he was; he would soon find out anyway.

  Pat leapt out of the chair, forcing the thoughts away.

  ‘Want another beer, Lance?’

  Pat walked into the kitchen and, opening the fridge, the anger hit him once more. His father had worked his arse off for them and Brewster had walked in and taken it from under their noses.

  He had heard all about it in nick, had heard the stories and the rumours. He’d also found out about Lance’s dealings with Lenny but he had planned to wait a while before he mentioned that to him. He’d been hoping against hope that Lance would mention it first, would confess his involvement in Lenny’s scams. Pat had been as patient as he could with his brother and reminded himself that Lance had been left to shoulder the burden on his own and that he had done what he thought was right. And now he had. Each day Pat was gathering more and more information and the more he learned the more he felt in control of his life. In the meantime, he could feel his excitement about the plans for that afternoon building up inside him.

  When little Johnny finally arrived, Lance was reminded of how small he actually was. He was just over five feet two in height and he had dark skin and deep-green eyes. His thick hair was tied back in a ponytail and he wore the usual blagger’s garb: leather jacket, jeans, officer boots and a baseball hat that would of course be replaced with a black balaclava once they hit the post office.

  Johnny was carrying a dark-blue canvas bag that held three sawn-off shotguns and a German Luger that Pat had ordered as a set-piece. He knew he needed protection and he was determined that he would have it. In fact, he already had a Saturday-night special that had been the property of his father. He had known where it was hidden, even as a kid, and he had kept it in perfect condition ever since. He had also kept its existence very quiet; like his father before him he lived by the old Irish adage, people only know what you tell them.

  Carrying a piece was as inevitable to him now as was his thirst for revenge, not just for his father but for his mother as well. For the struggle her life had been to feed and clothe them and bring them up, especially after Brewster had moved in on them and then dumped them. His mother, who should have been left comfortable, who should have been taken care of with his father’s graft, had been reduced to selling herself to make ends meet. The drink had become her daily sustenance and had even made Annie bearable. His mother had been hardened over the years but he was determined to make her life as easy as it would have been had his father lived to see them all grow.

  Like Spider said, his father had been murdered by the Williams brothers all right but all his graft was gone, his kids had been robbed of what should have been theirs by rights and Brewster was finally being seen for the two-faced, no-neck bastard he really was. He would pay for his fucking treachery and, by making him pay, young Patrick Brodie knew that he might finally get some kind of peace.

  He had had a long time to think, learn and plan. That was the only good thing about stir; it gave you plenty of free time to decide how best to go about your daily business once you were on the out.

  As they all got ready for the off, he glanced at a photo of his father and felt the sting of tears; he had worshipped him and he had seen him brutally killed. But his legacy would always carry on, he would see to that himself.

  ‘Colleen Brewster, you bloody liar!’

  Colleen was laughing her head off and it was such a deep and hearty laugh that it infected all the girls around her. She was a card was Colleen and now her big brother was out of poke she was intel
ligent enough to feel the difference in the way they were treated by everyone around them. The local shopkeeper had given her sweets as gifts; refusing her money as if she had never been asked to pay for anything before. The first time it had happened she had thought it was a wind-up, then the man had smiled craftily and said, ‘Give your brother me regards, won’t you?’

  It was then that she and Christy had understood the esteem her brother was held in. Her father was a Face, she knew, but no one tried to get round them for his benefit because everyone knew he didn’t give a toss about them. All her friends at school were aware of their parents’ gossip and knew that her brother was home. Lance had a reputation as a nutter and Pat was a nut as well. When Lance went, it was so over the top he scared anyone around him. But her big brother Pat was the one people seemed to be more chary of; seemed to find the more sinister of the two. Colleen knew though that Lance, who was good to her, was the madder; she had seen him flip and she never wanted to see it happen again. She had been literally terrified and she had caused it; she had made him lose his temper like that. He had dragged the man out of his house and beaten him in the street until he was unconscious. She had been playing knock-down ginger and the man had told them off. She had cried and then told Lance, who just lost his mind. Colleen had learned a big lesson that day. At seven years old she had understood the strength of her brother’s anger and the trouble that an unwise word could cause.

  As chatty as she was and as much as she loved to laugh, she was wary of what she said now. At nearly nine, she was already a diplomat.

  As she walked home from school with her friends they crossed over the road and, walking together, they passed the bookies in the high street. Her father, Lenny Brewster, was standing outside with a young girl. Colleen looked at him as she always did when she came across him. He looked through her, as he always did when he came across her. It bothered her that he was her old man and he had no interest in her but as she looked at him she was also glad; he had a screwed-up, angry face. His teeth were overly big for his mouth; she knew she had his mouth but she also knew that on her it looked different. The thick lips and slightly over-big teeth gave her a pout that would one day be her best feature. Colleen had been told she had a lovely smile ever since she could remember and she believed it, because she knew her laugh made others laugh along with her.

  She was bold enough to make eye contact with her father and she knew he was as aware of her as she was of him. She was glad that her Patrick was home and that everyone was happy because of that. She was beginning to understand that now her father would have to answer to their Pat and she wondered what the upshot would eventually be.

  She heard her older sisters calling out behind her and she turned to see them walking towards her with their long blond hair and their navy school uniforms. She waved at them happily. She loved the twins, they were like extra mothers to her and Christy. She hugged her sisters as always and then waved her friends goodbye at the bottom of her street. She was holding Kathy’s hand as she always did, though she often felt as if she was looking after Kathy and not the other way round. Even as young as she was, she knew that Kathy was in need of looking after. So Colleen looked up at her older sister and smiled sweetly at her. Kathy smiled back and squeezed her hand gently but the sadness in her eyes made Colleen feel like crying.

  Kathleen stopped and bent over, holding her belly. ‘You all right, mate?’ Eileen’s voice was concerned.

  Kathleen nodded and smiled grimly. ‘I’ve got the shits again.’

  ‘Charming! You’ve had that all week. See the quack or the school nurse.’

  ‘I will, I’ll go tomorrow.’

  Kathy looked down at her little sister and saw her watching her dad and his latest amour and, squeezing her hand gently, she said, ‘Ignore him, darling.’

  Colleen smiled up at her with her bright little smile and said gaily, ‘Sod him, I don’t care about him.’

  But she did sometimes.

  Little Johnny and the Brodie boys stood outside the post office for a few seconds as they pulled on their balaclavas. It was just getting dark and the rain that had been threatening was already coming down. They walked inside casually and gently shut the door behind them. Then, pulling the shotguns out from under their coats, they started the blag. Little Johnny jumped on the counter and slipped easily over the glass partition known in the trade as the bandit screen. His small stature was ideal for that job and he got offered a lot of work because of it. He was small and wiry and he had slipped over more bandit screens than he cared to remember; earning a good wedge into the bargain.

  There was no one in the post office, which was a result, as the last thing they needed was a have-a-go hero. Lance was still watching the door in case someone did decide to come in and buy a stamp. If anyone did come in, they would then be firmly walked away from the window and told in no uncertain terms to lie on the floor and shut the fuck up.

  The two women who ran the place had been taking advantage of the quiet spell and were having a quiet cup of tea. The sight of the men and the guns they were brandishing terrified them and both were rooted to the spot for a few seconds.

  Smiling through his balaclava, Patrick said, ‘Come on, girls; sit yourselves down. We only want the money, nothing else; you can keep your virginity.’

  The two women rushed through to the back of the shop and watched in shock and fascination as Johnny leapt over the counter.

  ‘Go and fucking sit down. You move and I’ll blow your fucking heads off.’

  Little Johnny’s voice was loud and frightening. It was all an act, he had no intention of shooting anyone but it was a requisite action; it stopped people from doing something stupid. He threw the bundles of money over the bandit screen and they were placed into a large leather shopping bag. The money was sealed tightly into neat packages and had the address of the firm it was to be used by printed on it or the bank it had come from. As they were neatly packaged, that made the job so much easier. Robberies like this were often committed for what was called running money. For the boys it was a little bit of bunce, some start-up money to make sure that they could buy up a few more debts and make a few more deals. A few months down the line and they might be tempted to blag the place again. People always thought lightning didn’t strike in the same place twice but it did.

  It was starting to really rain now, perfect robbing weather, and the greyness of the day made it nice and dim inside the old-fashioned shop. Anyone passing would not be able to see what was going on inside.

  It was over in under seven minutes, though the two women involved would believe it had lasted a lot longer than that because of their fear. They were outside, ballys off and guns well hidden without anyone even taking a second glance at them. The car started first time and they were gone before the call had even been put through to the police or the ladies had set off the alarm. Laughing their heads off they spun away from the kerb and went to a friend’s yard to dispose of the guns and then they sat it out for a few hours, chatting and drinking beer until Pat deemed it safe to go home.

  Lance noticed that little Johnny was happy to let Pat be the main man and he knew that a lot of other people were going to feel like that towards him. Pat had a knack of making people do what he wanted; their father had been the same way. He knew Pat was going to shake their world up and make them a force to be reckoned with.

  Annie watched as her daughter poured herself another drink. The drinks were being consumed earlier and getting larger by the month. Since Patrick had come home she had eased off a little bit but Annie knew her daughter well enough to know that something was bothering her, something more than usual.

  She still looked good, she would give her that. Lil was one of those people who, no matter what happened to them, still seemed to look well.

  She wasn’t slim exactly but then, as a woman got older, she looked better with a bit of weight on her. She still had the voluptuous look that attracted men to her and her hair was shiny and thick; we
ll-cut and groomed, like the rest of her. But Lil had the vacant look of the heavy drinker; the empty eyes that seemed unable to see what was going on around her. She wasn’t bloated or pale-looking like most heavy drinkers but she was gradually losing interest in her surroundings. She was only really happy when the kids were around her and yet she was leaving the brunt of the household chores to her mother. Not that Annie minded; she loved being here, being in the thick of them all.

  ‘Come on, Lil, eat something.’

  ‘I ain’t hungry, Mum, how many fucking times, eh?’

  Annie sighed and swallowed down the retort that came quickly to her lips. Lil was capable of telling her to leave and she didn’t want that to happen.

  ‘Keep your hair on. Have you looked in on Kathleen? She is rough, bless her. I took her up a cuppa and she was already asleep.’

  Lil nodded. ‘She’s all right. I saw her earlier and she has a gyppy tummy, that’s all. She went to the doctor tonight; she fit her in like. She took her prescription and crashed out. She’ll be OK, Mum; a couple of days in bed should sort her out.’

  ‘She is a fucker for that kebab house on the high street, no wonder she has the shits.’

  Lil laughed with her mum; the drink was taking over now and giving her the lovely relaxed feeling she craved. It made her happy and it made her forget the abortion her life seemed to have become.

  Annie sat opposite her; she had cooked the dinner for everyone and then washed up and tidied away. She did this because she knew her daughter would put up with her if she was useful. ‘What’s the matter, Lil? You can tell me, love.’

  Lil sat back heavily in the chair. The kids were out of earshot so she decided to confide in her mother; she needed to get it off her chest anyway.

  ‘Lenny turned up at the club last night, all sweetness and light, the ponce. But he was worried about Pat being home, I could feel it. I don’t trust him, Mum. He can make you believe anything and we know that better than anyone, don’t we? And I don’t want my poor Pat being put in a position where he might be used or, even worse, set up.’ Lil shook her head at the foolishness of her words, knowing how they sounded when spoken out loud. But she knew Lenny Brewster better than anyone and she knew what he was capable of.