Born Bad

by Marnie Riches

  ‘I’m sorry. I swear on my baby’s life, it’s all for him. Everything I’m doing is to get the money for his op.’

  ‘Bullshit,’ she shouted above her son’s intermittent wailing, settling back on her pillow and looking studiously at her heart monitor. Anywhere, but at Lev or Jay. ‘This is all about you. It always was. But nobody gives a shit about me, having to cope with that noise all day long.’

  Lev stood, feeling a dull ache in his gut as she referred to his precious, vulnerable son’s crying as ‘that noise’. What a lousy mother she was and what a lousy father he was for having chosen her.

  Buckling under the weight of the guilt, he embraced his son tightly and prepared to strap him back into the pushchair. He didn’t want to leave him but felt certain this was the safest place. The nurses would help Tiff to take care of him. It was only for a couple of days.

  The shuffling figure peering through the glass window of the ward door didn’t really register with Lev, so racked was he with anguish and fear. All fingers and thumbs, fiddling with the pram straps. Neither did he notice when that figure entered the ward behind a porter, wheeling a cage full of clean bedding. It didn’t occur to him that there was something odd about a man, wearing pyjamas, a dressing gown and red carpet slippers, advancing down a women’s ward, his head bandaged up with a large pad strapped to his cheekbone. And by the time the unwanted visitor entered Tiffany’s side room, drawing a scalpel from his dressing gown pocket, it was too late.

  ‘Now it’s your turn, you bastard!’ Degsy said, slashing at Lev with the blade.

  Chapter 23

  Sheila

  ‘What do you mean, stop packing?’ Standing in her underwear with rollers pinned uncomfortably in her hair, Sheila placed Paddy’s neatly folded T-shirts into the third largest suitcase. The other two were already full; their open lids propped against the sofa at the foot of their bed. She’d tripped over them twice that morning already, laddering her favourite tights. ‘We’re going to Thailand next week, Paddy. Bloody Thailand. For good! It’s not round the corner and we’re going to need something to wear.’

  Grabbing her painfully by the wrist, Paddy swung her around so that she had no option but to stop and look at him. He was naked but for the towel around his waist. Sweat from the hot shower was still glistening on his florid bald scalp and the fluffy tops of his shoulders.

  ‘It’s Jack’s funeral today,’ he said. ‘Your nephew. For God’s sake, show some respect, woman.’

  Sheila shook her wrist free, willing the tears that threatened at the backs of her already made-up eyes to stay put. Defensively, she took a step backwards, rubbing the place where he’d grabbed her.

  ‘Like I don’t know. Do you think I’m not hurting?’

  Paddy glared at her. Pulled off his towel to reveal his flaccid manhood and a paunch that spoke of decadence – rich dinners and too much booze. Sheila prayed he wasn’t going to start demanding sex when the girls were in their rooms, getting ready. She turned away. Started to brush down the little black dress hanging on one of the mirrored doors of the fitted wardrobes.

  ‘Today’s not about your feelings, you selfish cow,’ he said, following her across the room. ‘Just remember that. Today’s about our Frank and the family’s loss.’ He slapped a hot hand on her shoulder. Made her flinch; her body tensing for what might come. Dug his nails in, then seemed to think better of it. His voice softened. ‘We’re on show today, She. The whole of Manchester will be watching. I want you to look right. I want you to act right. Do you think you can do that much? Do you think you can shove your selfish, empty-headed shit on a back burner long enough to make people think there’s more to you than clothes and a spray tan?’

  Not wanting to turn around lest he see the hurt etched into her face, Sheila carried on brushing down the dress.

  ‘Do I ever let you down, Paddy?’

  Silently, she prayed the storm would pass. He’d been so easy to rile of late. He surely wouldn’t start properly on her. Not while the girls were down the landing. She needed to make sure for their sake. Turning to face him, she was all sympathetic smiles, placing comforting manicured fingers on his freckled chest. ‘My poor Paddy. This must be so hard for you, losing our Jack.’ She screwed her face up into something resembling empathy. ‘I know he’s Frank’s son – was Frank’s son – but I know Jack always looked up to you as his father figure.’

  Watching his chest rise and his overall demeanour switch from one of morose threat to puffed-up pride, she held her breath. This could go one of two ways … She looked down at his penis, already at half-mast and swelling fast. The glint in his eye revealed his intentions. Paddy wanted to spray his territory. Shit.

  Nimbly, she side-stepped beyond his reach, scurrying in her stockinged feet into the bathroom, where she could lock the door until his ardour had waned. Not quick enough, though. He thumped across the room after her. She braced herself to feel his unrelenting arms encircle her small waist from behind.

  ‘Not now, Paddy.’ She tried to wriggle free. Felt suffocated by his insistent bulk. ‘The car will be here in twenty. The girls …’

  ‘Balls to them. They can all wait. Come here. Paddy needs some love.’ He started to kiss her neck, biting the soft flesh beneath her ear.

  ‘Don’t bite me. I don’t want to have to wear a scarf.’

  But he had already sunk his teeth into her and was sucking, pressing his erection into her bottom. ‘I’m going to take you up the arse, She. You know you like it like that.’ He shuffled her into the en suite and bent her over the bidet.

  ‘No, Paddy!’ She tried to push him off, wishing she could shout for help. ‘Give over! We’re going to be late.’

  The harder he pressed himself against her, the more she instinctively shrank away from him. Squeezing her eyes shut, she knew it would hurt. There wasn’t even any lube in the bathroom. This was the last thing she wanted on the morning of her nephew’s funeral.

  ‘Paddy, love. I’ve just showered and my piles are playing up. Let me give you a hand job.’

  He was already rutting against her inner thigh, sticking his finger inside her silk knickers. She felt the gossamer fabric of the tights give way. Another pair destined for the bin. Behind her, crushing her arms into the rim of the bidet, she felt him part her cheeks with his clammy hands. Groaning with anticipation. Enough.

  Bucking him hard with gym-honed glutes, she pushed him backwards enough to catch him off balance. Spun around, kneeing him in the erection.

  ‘Whoops. Sorry, darling. We’re going to be late.’ She studiously stared down at her Cartier watch. Tapped its diamond-encrusted face. ‘Have you seen the time?’

  But her husband wasn’t interested in the time. His purple-red erection made his intentions abundantly clear. Glowering at her, he lunged for her breast with his teeth bared. She ducked away from the feral bite and slapped him hard across the side of his head. Immediately realised her blunder and ran back into the bedroom, wondering what the hell she could do next to fend off this attack before it got serious. He was escalating quickly today. It was easier when he went nightly to M1 House and had his voracious needs met by one of the bandeau-dress-clad slags that were ferried by promoters to the VIP area. Mainly little scrubbers from Trafford and Stretford – that lot were anybody’s for free vodka and the promise of a rich sugar-daddy from Bramshott. As long as Paddy didn’t shit on his own doorstep, as he had with Tracy Wheelan, she could rationalise his philandering. Sheila knew the game and she was glad of it, because it gave her breathing space. Not today, though. Not since Frank had gone into mourning.

  ‘Bitch!’ Paddy shouted, haring after her.

  With the large bed barring her way, he tackled her and flung her on top. Thumped her hard in the stomach with a fist full of venom. Watched her reaction momentarily like a predator fascinated by his struggling prey before going in for the kill. Thumped her again.

  The air left Sheila’s lungs, replaced with a void that her desperate, futile shallow gasp
s failed to fill. The vice-like pain in her gut was intense. She clawed at the bedding. Felt her eyes bulging and her face flushing red. Finally she managed to yelp, curling up in a foetal position. Allowing the oxygen back in in agonising, miserly spurts. She was careful to hold her hands above her head. Willing herself not to cry for the sake of her mascara. Paddy drew his fist back yet again. Jesus. He hadn’t been like this in a long while. Certainly not since before the heart attack. The optimist in her had hoped he’d turned over a new leaf. The cynic that had devoted an entire adult lifetime to Patrick O’Brien knew better. 200,000 hours of knowing better in fact, her therapist had said. Her disappointment and apprehension manifested itself as a ball of bile erupting into her throat. She swallowed it down. Started to choke and cough, which made her tender stomach throb.

  ‘Go on then, you arsehole,’ she spluttered. ‘Hit me!’

  A knock at the door stayed his hand.

  ‘Mum? Dad!’ It was Dahlia, by the sound of it. ‘Everything alright in there?’

  ‘Yes, love,’ Paddy said, kneeling above her, fist still held high in readiness.

  ‘We’ll be out in a minute,’ Sheila shouted brightly, not wanting her daughter to hear any fear in her voice. She was a time-served craftsman in the art of concealment. What the girls didn’t know about their parents’ marriage wouldn’t harm them. So it had always been and so it would remain, as long as she breathed.

  There was a pause. Sheila sensed Dahlia was merely listening behind the door. The handle was depressed on the other side. Then released.

  ‘Anyway, the car’s here,’ Dahlia said at last. ‘Me and Amy will wait for you downstairs, okay?’ Her footfalls were audible as she walked away.

  The fire seemed to subside in Paddy’s eyes. He dropped his fist, finally. ‘I’m sorry, She,’ he said, quietly. ‘I’m really sorry, I—’ His face crumpled in contrition.

  Jekyll and Hyde bastard, Sheila thought.

  ‘Forget it. Get dressed. Frank needs you.’

  Clasping her hand to her stomach, she pushed her husband off.

  With the girls in the car, it was essential to remain upbeat, Sheila decided. Sandwiched between them, she clasped their hands to her mouth and kissed them.

  ‘It is so lovely to have you both home. I just wish it wasn’t under such dreadful circumstances.’

  ‘Will they find who did it? Who did this to Jack?’ Amy asked, her red-rimmed eyes blinking too fast. She looked so like her dad, but thankfully hadn’t inherited his incendiary nature.

  ‘Jack played with fire,’ Dahlia said, rubbing the dark fabric of her conservative lawyer’s suit between her fingers. ‘He should have known better.’

  Sheila could see Paddy’s lips thin. She willed Dahlia to say nothing more. Thankfully the peace was maintained until the car pulled up at Jack’s place – a smart Victorian terrace in Didsbury. Conky McFadden had beaten them to it and was already standing by the front door, holding leather-gloved hands clasped before him, wearing a grim reaper’s expression.

  ‘Sorry again for your loss, boss,’ he said. ‘Everyone’s inside, waiting for you. I’ve checked there are no unwelcome faces.’

  Inside, the sparsely furnished contemporary living room was already packed with sober-faced friends, family and ushers, all looking as though they had put on their best and only suits. Women’s stilettos digging into Jack’s beautiful parquet floor. Jack had always made people take their shoes off. Sheila felt it as an affront on his behalf. Gaudy floral tributes dressed with purple ribbon were perched on every surface. The scent of lilies was overpowering. Paddy had had her order a giant ‘JACK’, studded with white carnations. That would take pride of place in the hearse window at his behest, of course, only marginally upstaged by the blinging coffin.

  As she crossed the room behind Paddy, the animated chatter calmed almost instantly to a low, mournful thrum. Everybody took a respectful step back to let the great King Patrick advance to his rightful place next to Frank, who was standing by the white and gold coffin – its lid mercifully closed now that the Vigil had taken place. Sheila had been amazed that her nephew had been made to look like he was just sleeping off a good night in Ibiza. Appearing rather worse for wear than his dead son, however, Frank now looked like he had spent the night at the bottom of a bottle of vodka. Paddy slapped him across the back and cleared his throat, his eyes darting across the room, as though he didn’t know how to react to a man who unashamedly displayed the visible pain of the bereaved.

  ‘Sheila,’ Frank said, his chin dimpling up and the corners of his mouth turning downwards. He embraced her warmly, leaking hot tears onto her neck. Poor bastard.

  ‘We’re here for you, Frank,’ she said, beckoning her girls close so that they should also show their uncle moral support. Casting an eye over the scores of O’Brien cousins, uncles, aunties, dressed to impress. ‘Your family’s all here.’

  He shook his head too energetically. Wiped his eyes on the cuff of his jacket.

  ‘Jack was my fucking family,’ he said, hammering his chest with a nicotine-stained index finger. ‘I lost everything when I lost my boy.’

  He directed a bitter stare towards Paddy.

  Frank staggered out behind the coffin towards the waiting cortege that lined the leafy side-street. The gleaming black funeral limousine and hearse stood out among vehicles of relatives and pimped-up rides of Jack’s inner circle and O’Brien firm lackeys.

  People thronged the street, as if it were a state burial – the men nodding respectfully and the women offering sympathetic smiles to Frank. Dressed in a fine black suit and slim tie, he looked the part, but Sheila could see from the pitch and roll of his walk and his bowed posture that he was drowning on the inside. A ship threatening to capsize. She linked arms with him, pleased to swap Paddy – who was too preoccupied with shaking the hands of his acolytes to be feeling anything but pride – for a thin-skinned man who was flooded with the full spectrum of emotions.

  With the reassuring presence of Conky McFadden travelling behind them and the flower-filled hearse in front, they journeyed through the red-brick streets of south Manchester, bustling with back-packed students hurrying to their lectures, to the Holy Name church on Oxford Road. Focusing on the black peaked cap and creased, red neck of the driver, Sheila was careful to avoid the gaze of Paddy. He was sitting, legs akimbo, like he was en-route to a party, holding a monologue that nobody listened to about the O’Brien dynasty and feudal nature of respect. She made damned sure that he couldn’t see her wincing with pain from the bruising caused by his punches.

  Finally, as the car pulled up behind the hearse, Sheila understood the enormity of an O’Brien being murdered. Jack O’Brien, of all people. The pavement outside the large, sandstone Catholic almost-cathedral churned with people. Gaggles of young girls decked out in hotpants and vests as though they were heading off to the Trafford Centre for a day’s shopping, taking macabre selfies with the hearse in the background. Paparazzi, snapping nattily dressed black guys whom Sheila recognised as rappers, with their arms slung nonchalantly around the shoulders of singers she had seen on the music channels that played continually on the gym’s TVs. All fluttering false eyelashes and backcombed 1950s hair. Actors, recognisable from soap operas. The region’s glitterati and gritterati had come out in force. Jack clearly hadn’t belonged to the O’Briens. He had belonged to the world. Sheila wondered how Paddy felt now, knowing he was a zero next to his dead nephew. The thought made her smile.

  As the pall-bearers shuffled forwards, bearing the coffin on their shoulders, Paddy pushed his way between Sheila and the beleaguered Frank. Placed his arm territorially around Frank’s shoulder.

  ‘Back off, She,’ he said, glancing in her direction but not meeting her disgruntled glare. As he turned to face forwards, she was sure he winked at some groupie onlooker who was dabbing artfully at observant, dry eyes. ‘This is brotherly business.’

  Feeling her cheeks flush hot, Sheila bit her lip and looked down at her shoes. Acknowle
dged the pain where Paddy had hit her but pushed it aside, hooking her arm inside Dahlia’s. Swallowed hard as her brother-in-law started to sob like a small boy with a skinned knee. From behind, she watched his shoulders heaving, but there was nothing she could do to comfort Frank. She walked three steps behind. Always a cheap afterthought in expensive clothing. At her side, Conky McFadden lifted his glasses and fixed her with his bulging thyroid eyes. Behind the disconcerting frog-like stare, she saw sympathy. Even Conky could see the hurt she thought she was hiding so well.

  Inside, the organ played a solemn hymn that echoed around the lofty vaulted ceiling. She had loved coming here as a little girl, on the way back into town from school. Alighting from the bus at the university students’ union, she would sit in silence on one of the pews, marvelling that the tiny golden crucifix, hanging above the altar, was such a modest focal-point in such a famous and otherwise ornate church. The Smiths had sung about it. Even Elsie Tanner from Coronation Street had had her funeral mass here.

  Towards the front, she spotted Gloria, looking prim but proud beneath a fascinator that had Debenhams written all over it. She gave her a fleeting smile that would remind her she was not family. Noticed Maureen Kaplan and her posse of bent accountants on the same row, all deferentially nodding at Frank and Paddy. All except for the man that wasn’t one of Kaplan’s sons. What was his name, again? Goodman. David Goodman. He looked like he was about to vomit. And, perhaps most interestingly, she noticed that Goodman was staring intently over at a small dishevelled-looking man with a buzz cut and glasses, sitting next to a frump of a woman with hair that resembled a brown helmet.

  The detective and the tax inspector. The gruesome twosome. Ellis James and Ruth Darley.

  Chapter 24

  Gloria

  Watching the coffin as it was lowered into the ground in Southern Cemetery, Gloria mused on how sombre Catholic funerals were. Turgid hymns. A dour priest talking about original sin. Very little in the way of passionate outpourings of sorrow. They were all so darned stoic, she observed. Almost Presbyterian compared to her lot. Only Frank, the poor soul, stood sobbing his childish heart out as he shovelled some soil onto the coffin. But Paddy was transfixed by something else – something to her left. Gloria peered around, pushing some feathers from her fascinator out of her eyes to see what was so blasted interesting.