The Good Life

by Martina Cole

  Cain was like a big kid, always wanting the new toy. But this time it felt different – he was different. Whoever this bitch was, she was a threat. Caroline’s world was crumbling and she didn’t know how to make it right again. She pushed him away from her and walked into the kitchen.

  She had never refused him sex, had never questioned him in any way until now. And for what? To be treated like nothing, like a nobody by the man she loved more than her own life. He genuinely couldn’t see how much she was hurting, and that was the hardest thing to accept.

  She was shaking with anger and upset, but the fact that he didn’t follow her into the kitchen spoke volumes.

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  ‘Honestly, Jimmy, you’ll be next. He wants all the big clubs in the South East under the Cain Moran banner. Fucking outrageous. If he gets what he wants we are fucked. He will control everything.’

  Jimmy Boy Banks was not a big man, but what he lacked in size he made up for in plain and simple lunacy. At fifteen he had been put away for manslaughter when everyone, including the Old Bill, had known it was murder. The man he had stabbed fifty-four times had been a local Face who had taken up with Jimmy Boy’s mum. Jimmy’s mum had been a beauty in her day and she had always attracted men who were not exactly the whole ticket. She thrived on violence and rough sex and she had found it with a man called Reg Pointer. Reg had tortured her son for six months before he had retaliated. It was six months longer than anyone else would ever be given.

  Jimmy had done his time in Borstal and come out hating the world. He had carved himself a good reputation and a good living and there was no way that Cain Moran was going to walk in and take it from him – not without a fight.

  Micky Two Fags had gone to the right man, there was no mistaking that. Jimmy Banks had been so up in arms he even frightened the man who had come to him for help – and that wasn’t an easy thing to do.

  Jimmy Boy looked at Micky and said dangerously, ‘I’ll sort this if it’s the last thing I do.’

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  The first thing that Jimmy Banks did was call a council of war. He knew he was going to need all the help he could get if he was going to bring Cain Moran down.

  There were five men at the meeting in Jimmy’s offices in Barking. Jimmy was there, as was Micky Two Fags, also Richie Jakobs and a huge black guy called Elvis Munro. To complete the line-up was a small dapper man of indeterminate age who went by the name of Denny Gunn. No one knew if that was his real surname or if he’d acquired it because he’d provided guns to whoever wanted them since the 1940s. No one cared any more; he was a quiet man but he could come by anything in the line of firearms or explosives. Also rumoured to be in with the IRA, his reputation was guaranteed.

  Everyone except Richie owned lucrative nightclubs and all of them were determined to hang on to their property. Richie was there because he had kicked the whole thing off and now he needed to extricate himself from his skulduggery by helping the men involved understand exactly what Cain Moran was after and why.

  Richie knew he needed these brownie points badly; he had, after all, been the brains behind the whole thing. Consequently the men were wary of him. As was their right – even he had to concede that much. In effect, he had been the catalyst for this – him and his miraculous brain.

  Now he was at panic stations in case they turned on him like Cain Moran had. It still rankled that he had made him such a wonderful proposition and Cain had taken it, then fucked him over like he was nothing, promising him a good drink for his efforts.

  ‘So you think we’re going to be able to talk him out of it? We all know Cain Moran is like a dog with a bone when he decides he wants something.’ Elvis Munro liked Cain Moran, and he was sensible enough to know that if Cain Moran was determined in this endeavour that nothing – short of death – was going to prevent him achieving it.

  The men in the room nodded at Elvis’s wise words. Elvis was an anomaly in their world. Everyone treated him as an equal, and that was unusual as most races kept as far apart as possible within their own particular haunts in London. Brixton and Tulse Hill were where the Jamaicans hung out and dealt their particular trades.

  Elvis had crossed the barrier because he was such an astute individual, and he always made sure he kept on the good side of everyone he dealt with. Coupled with the fact that there was not a man in London who could take him in a fight – and he was known to bear a grudge – he had carved out a very lucrative and respected career for himself. He had the one thing all good villains needed – the likeability factor. It was a requisite that few people cultivated. You couldn’t dislike Elvis and he would have been mortified if he thought you didn’t like him. He prided himself on being a nice bloke and the voice of reason, unless you upset him, of course, and then his good intentions went out the window, resulting in all-out war.

  He liked Cain Moran because he was a good bloke but also because his best friend, Johnny Mac, was another Jamaican. It was a very unusual combination and yet it worked for them. Probably because of their shared upbringings with brasses for mothers. Birds of a feather, as the old saying went.

  Elvis was the one person here who was not only needed, but also the Achilles heel. Jimmy Banks had known that, but he had taken a chance on appealing to Elvis’s better nature, otherwise known as his earning capacity.

  Micky Two Fags was almost beside himself with excitement; he had been right to go to Jimmy Banks. Jimmy had the creds that he himself lacked in as much as Jimmy could keep a lid on his temper if needs be, whereas Micky was a loose cannon. Plus, Jimmy Boy had the gift of the gab and that was essential in these types of fraught situations.

  Micky said seriously, ‘Look, Elvis, we all know Cain is a fucking charmer, but he is after our livelihood, for fuck’s sake. Everything we built up and strived for he wants on a fucking plate. That’s fucking abominable! Who does that cunt think he is?’

  There was a murmur of general agreement, but no one was saying anything outright. Jimmy knew the score; no one here would utter a word until he had outlined his plans. He didn’t knock them – he would have done exactly the same thing in their position. What he needed to do was bring them around to his way of thinking. That would take something Jimmy Banks was in short supply of: tact. As long as he didn’t lose his temper he was in with a chance.

  Denny Gunn piped up, ‘From what I can gather he’s willing to take over the clubs or accept fifty per cent ownership. We still own a stake and our money goes up – he cuts us in on everything he’s doing. It seems like a win-win to me. We get the poke and he gets the aggravation. There’s nothing to say we can’t open up somewhere else. The way I see it he’s after the established clubs. He’s a fucking earner for sure – no one can take that away from him. Midas touch, if what you hear about him is true.’

  Jimmy Banks was having trouble keeping a lid on his anger, but he swallowed it down knowing he had to be seen in a reasonable light.

  ‘OK then, so what happens when you take his dosh and you reopen and make another fuck-off club? You really think he won’t want that too? It’s long term we need to be looking at. If we capitulate now he will own everything of significance in the South East, from the cabs to the bookies to the clubs. What will be next? He will control the drugs . . .’ he paused dramatically before adding, ‘He will basically own our world.’

  Everyone digested what Jimmy was saying but none of them was willing to show their hand first. Such was the nature of this particular game. It was a very delicate situation. The wrong word either way could literally be the death of you, and that was a chance none of them was willing to take.

  Elvis was the first to respond. ‘So what do you think is the solution then?’

  Jimmy grinned, an unusual occurrence at any time. ‘What do I think, Elvis? I think we should drop the cunt. End of.’

  Richie Jakobs heard the combined intakes of breath and felt the urge to laugh. His nerves were almost jangling; he had more to lose than any of them because C
ain Moran would know he had given them the tip-off.

  Micky Two Fags could not contain his excitement any longer. ‘That’s the most sensible solution. I mean, think about it. He has an army at his disposal – no one has ever had more men on their payroll than that flash cunt. He’s like Hitler; he needs to be cut down now before it’s too late. Coupled with the fact he is in on this with Jamie Jones . . .’

  Jimmy Boy closed his eyes in distress. He had expressly told Micky to leave Jamie’s name out of it. No one quite knew what Jamie Jones was capable of. He was tighter than a nun’s snatch, and he wouldn’t phone the fire brigade if his house blew up. Now Micky had dropped his name out there, that had put a completely different complexion on things. This was three murders they were talking about now; of three very powerful individuals.

  Micky Two Fags missed the signs of trepidation from his partner; he didn’t understand the word subtle and Jimmy Boy realised that he never would. He was a moron.

  Instead Micky said triumphantly, ‘Three down, none to go! Think about it!’

  All of them stared at Micky Two Fags like he had just grown another head in front of their eyes. Elvis was looking on in abject disbelief. Cain Moran and Adolf Hitler were bad enough, for fuck’s sake. Now it was turning into a bloodbath, and that was the last thing any of them wanted. Jamie Jones was true Irish; there was talk that, like Denny Gunn, he had an in with the terrorists. It had been rumoured he negotiated deals for the Irish workforce in London – rumours that were unfounded but made sense. He was a loner, but he was also a dangerous man in his own right. Everyone with an ounce of sense knew that.

  But apparently that was everyone except this thick fuck sitting in front of him beaming like a five year old. Denny Gunn caught Elvis’s eye and shook his head in amazement. It was enough for Elvis – his mind was made up.

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Jenny lay in the big bed with Cain and smiled happily. He was resting on his elbow looking down at her naked body, and she could feel the power that she had over him. It was unusual for her to be this free with him after they had sex – normally she was shy. But tonight, with the help of a few drinks, she felt different. She realised she could reduce this beautiful man to a quivering wreck and she suddenly understood the power of sex – and love. Because he did love her. She could sense it enveloping her – feel it in his touch, in his gentleness. If someone had told her she was capable of such volcanic emotions she would have laughed at them. But that was before she had realised what life and love was about. Even a few stolen hours like this were worth more to her than a lifetime with someone else, someone who was free. When she wasn’t with Cain she thought about him constantly. He was like a drug.

  The phone on the bedside table rang and he picked it up with a sigh, fondling her as he answered, and she closed her eyes, enjoying the feel of his touch, savouring the last few moments before they had to go their separate ways.

  Suddenly he sat bolt upright, his erection deflating in nanoseconds as he screamed, ‘Are you fucking joking, Johnny?’

  Seconds later, he slammed the phone down, saying curtly, ‘Get dressed, darling, I’ve got to go.’

  Then he was out of bed, dressing himself, swearing and making threats under his breath all the while. Turning back to her and slapping her thigh none too gently, he shouted, ‘Come on, get your arse in gear! I ain’t got all fucking night.’

  Sighing, Jenny did as he asked.

  Dropping her off at her house, he grabbed her face in his hands and kissed her deeply, before saying seriously, ‘I am sorry, Jen. I know it doesn’t seem like it, but I do love you, darling.’

  She smiled softly and got out of the car. She was pleased to see that despite his hurry he watched her till she went to her front door; he was a gentleman like that.

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Caroline Moran was somewhat placated by her husband’s re-found commitment. He was like a new man. Her fears were groundless – she understood that now – and she felt that even though it had been a tough few months she had made him realise what was really important. She wasn’t a fool – she was a realist, and she knew that men like her husband had it laid on a plate for them on a daily basis. It was par for the course really, and she was willing to overlook the odd indiscretion. But she would never countenance a fucking regular bird. She had her pride even if he didn’t.

  But, in all fairness, he was making the effort and, knowing him like she did, that was hard. Cain was a man who had always lived by his own rules – she had known that from day one – and that made it more of a triumph. She loved her life, loved her house, the cars, the constant stream of money but, more than anything, she loved being Mrs Cain Moran and the kudos that gave her. Caroline was not going to let that go without a fight.

  The phone rang and she walked across her huge kitchen to answer it.

  Ten seconds later she was like a woman demented, her screams bringing not only her little son to her side, but also her mother-in-law, who was staying for a few days to admire the new house.

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Elvis Munro was a lot of things, but a fool wasn’t one of them. He had thought long and hard about the meeting and had come to the decision that only an out-and-out fucking nut-job would try and take down Cain Moran. He basically had an army on his payroll, and he inspired a loyalty that was unusual in their game. He recruited youngsters who would do anything for him because he was such a role model to them. It was an honour to be a part of his crew.

  Cain Moran understood respect and the enormous advantage it could give him. He had grown up just like these young men and he knew how, more often than not, it was all they had and everything they strived for. Growing up in neighbourhoods where money was tight and schools were barely adequate, where brute strength guaranteed you a place in your society, respect was a completely different animal in this world. For most of these young men there were two choices: the armed forces or a life of villainy. The only other possibility was low-paid work and that just wasn’t good enough. They wanted the clothes, the cars and the money – good money, serious money. They wanted to be seen as people of importance and that was what Cain Moran offered them. If you worked for him, you were not only guaranteed a fucking good wedge, you were also guaranteed the respect that came with it.

  Cain Moran had seen the potential in an army of young people with no jobs, no prospects and limited education, but who were naturally cunning and after the Good Life. It was the seventies and there were no jobs, there was no hope and no one cared. Cain Moran gave them money, prestige and his loyalty and they gave themselves back one hundredfold; they basically worshipped him. Cain Moran had provided them with hope, and that was something these lads had never dreamed possible.

  Plus, Cain Moran had guaranteed peace; there were no more shootings in public or over the top bank jobs. He made sure everything ran smoothly and, for that, the Filth were overjoyed. It was a shame the newspapers didn’t realise that the black economy was always going to be there and it was better for everyone if it was overseen by a man of Cain Moran’s calibre. Until Cain’s emergence into the upper echelons of their world, it had been like the Wild West – only in London there weren’t any fucking sheriffs with the balls to sort it out. Shootings had been rife, knife fights, extortionate loan sharking – you name it and Cain Moran had modified it and made it almost respectable. People listened to him, and his ideas had made for a better working environment for all concerned.

  Now that he had been challenged, Elvis knew that all Cain’s hard work to garner his reputation had been worth it. Even combined, there weren’t enough men to take him on and win. If they killed him they would have to kill Johnny too, and that again would be no easy feat. Drop Jamie Jones in this mix and you had a recipe for disaster. Well, Elvis knew whose side he would be coming down on and it wasn’t that two-faced, treacherous fucker Jimmy Boy Banks’s. He was like Micky Two Fags, a fucking parasite that used everyone around him; if he ever got to prominence there would b
e murders – literally. If he took out Cain Moran and Johnny Mac, he would crow about it from the rooftops.

  One thing had amazed Elvis, though. Sitting through that meeting it occurred to him as he listened that not one of the men there was willing to work out the problem on his own – and that alone told Elvis all he needed to know.

  Chapter Thirty

  Jane Harding, Caroline’s mother, lost control of her car on the A13 just outside Basildon. Cut from the car by a fire crew, she died at the scene.

  If Caroline Moran loved anyone it was her mother – she was everything to her. More like a sister and the voice of reason in her daughter’s chaotic life. She was the only person who could tell her what to do, and she made sure her daughter listened to her.

  Jane Harding knew that Cain Moran was the best thing that had ever happened to her Caroline. She also recognised that without a firm hand Caroline would push and push and push until her husband walked away from her.

  Jane loved her daughter, but Caroline could be a serious pain in the arse. She loved drama especially when she was at the centre of it. Jane used to joke that her daughter was the star of her own life story, and it was true. Even as a child Caroline had been subject to tantrums, fits of pique and had displayed almost murderous rages. When she lost it, she really went for it. Caroline created scenarios and she acted them out. She had grown into an argumentative woman, with a very elevated opinion of herself. Jane knew that if she wasn’t curtailed, Cain would eventually walk because he wasn’t a man who enjoyed the aggravation of having a wife who needed continual reassurance and validation.