Born Bad

by Marnie Riches

  He shook his head vehemently. Eyebrows arched in apparent regret.

  Maureen turned to Sheila. Wearing the grim face yet again – a mask lost, then found.

  ‘Well?’ Sheila asked.

  ‘What have the police and HMRC got precisely?’

  ‘Our brief says they’re relying on his testimony at the moment as principal witness. The warrant to search your Spinningfields offices still hadn’t come through this evening. That’s why they tried to detain us all for as long as possible. But they’ve also applied for permission to search above a butcher’s in Cheetham, apparently. Is that your “other” office, where you keep all our dirt?’

  Maureen closed her eyes and smiled. Exhaled heavily. ‘Yes. But that’s okay, because everything was moved two days ago by my Zac, and this almighty grassing gobshite didn’t know anything about it. I move the files to a new location every three months to be on the safe side. Short-term lets for cash in obscure places. No questions asked.’

  ‘Well, if they can’t get their hands on the documentation, all they’ve got is him.’ Sheila slapped her hand on Goodman’s sweaty shoulder. ‘And they haven’t even got him, because he’s here with us. So, what do you want us to do with him?’

  Maureen turned to her son-in-law, her eyes devoid of any warmth. ‘Kill him.’

  Chapter 28

  Lev

  Where’s my money? You owe me. Time’s running out. I want paying now.

  Lev thumbed the text deftly into his phone and sent it off. Stiff from sleeping the night on a friend’s sofa in one of the Salford high-rises, as he pulled his hood up and wove his way through the grey-faced crowds of Cross Lane market he wondered briefly if his benefactor had tried to make the drop while he’d been detained. Maybe there was an undelivered bag of cash with Leviticus Bell written on it, lying on a desk somewhere. Who knew? Deep down, though, he felt certain that he was being given the run-around, if not duped entirely.

  Kicking aside the muddy leaves of rotten cabbage that had fallen from the vegetable stalls, he wondered what his next move should be. Three texts had come in from Tariq Khan since he had been released from police custody, demanding that he show for work and explain himself.

  Walking briskly towards the bus stop, he glanced down at them.

  You owe me some answers. Come into the office.

  What happened to Irina?

  Smolensky’s out of action. Report to me or Jonny immediately.

  The Fish Man was out of action. This was the best thing he had heard since the coppers had told him he was free to go. But what did it mean? Did it mean he was merely staying out of mischief but was still on the prowl? Or had the police found one of his machetes or boning knives on him and kept him in the cells?

  As he swung himself into a seat on the top deck of the bus into Manchester city centre, Lev watched the ugliness of Salford whizz by. The bizarre mid-century totems of the university stood tall on his left; to his right, the ungainly orange, brown and white tower of Spruce Court where he had bedded down. Last night, he had lain awake, contemplating if it might be easier merely to hurl himself from the fifteenth floor like so many tenants had apparently done over time – body at the bottom, wallet in the road, the wry NHS grin of false teeth some quarter of a mile away as the only farewell bid by the jumpers. But then he had remembered his son needed him. And now, he was travelling through this swirling mess of dual carriageways that marked the emergency exits for Salford residents, lest they should try to escape their miserable Pendleton prison for somewhere only nominally better with good shoplifting prospects, like Salford Quays’ Lowry Centre or Ordsall’s TK Maxx.

  No answer to his text. And he was still studiously avoiding responding to Tariq’s repeated prompts.

  Trying to work out what his next move should be, he called Tiffany. She answered on the sixth ring, just when he’d been prepared for voicemail to kick in.

  ‘What do you want?’ she asked. Ominous quiet in the background. ‘I’m painting my toenails.’

  ‘How’s Jay?’ he asked.

  ‘Look, Lev. I feel rough. He was doing my head in, crying all the time. I couldn’t get hold of you.’

  ‘Liar. My phone’s been on. What’s happened to Jay?’

  ‘Are you starting something? Shall I put the phone down on you, Leviticus, because I haven’t got the energy for this.’

  Lev bit his lip, feeling certain that she’d ring off at any moment if he didn’t keep his cool. He could hear post-OD fatigue in her voice and a general impatience. He really didn’t have the energy for her bullshit. Why was it his fate to get embroiled in the sorry lives of women who always demanded to be centre of attention, even if they could only claim that by acting up? Tiffany. Gloria. They both knew exactly which buttons to push to get a reaction from Lev. And he was left with the sinking feeling that if Jay did somehow reach adulthood, he would grow up to be a slave to their egos, just like him. ‘I just wanted to know how he was doing.’

  ‘He’s not here. He’s with your mother.’

  She hung up before Lev could express his deep misgivings that Gloria should have the boy in anything but an emergency. Bollocks to it. Faced with the prospect of being interrogated by a suspicious Tariq if he ventured up to T&J Trading, Lev decided he had better check on his son, even if it did mean speaking to Gloria.

  He dialled his mother, wishing his life had not taken this turn for the terminally disappointing.

  ‘What do you want, Leviticus?’ Gloria sounded agitated as she answered his call. ‘The charges were dropped, weren’t they? You got what you wanted.’ The noise of tinkling lift-music in the background and the chatter of African women standing close by, talking animatedly about who knew what? Jay, screaming near the mouthpiece. He’d know that sound anywhere. He felt a visceral ache inside him. Tears pricked at the backs of his eyes.

  ‘I want my son.’

  ‘I’m busy with him.’

  ‘What do you mean, you’re busy with him?’

  ‘A new business enterprise for my ladies.’

  Shit. What the hell did that mean? ‘Where are you?’

  ‘Primani. Sleepwear section. You can come and help if you like.’

  He ended the call and groaned. Wiped the treacherous tears from his eyes. You’re a brother. Pull yourself together and stop whingeing like a kid. Jay needs you. Looked at his phone screen; a text from Mia Margulies showing her tits, but still no answer from his duplicitous benefactor.

  Praying he wouldn’t spot one of the O’Brien crew, he jumped off the bus and made his way across the bridge that spanned the grey-brown roiling mass of the River Irwell. He briefly considered throwing himself in but merely spat into the inky water. Past the Ramada Hotel and over Deansgate to the fancy shops of St Anne’s Square and New Cathedral Street. Hadn’t he hoped to buy Tiffany real Uggs with his drug money when they were first dating? Fortuitously, the riots had intervened, offering the luxurious elephantine boots for free instead. Better that he didn’t have to blow £200 on making her look like a tree trunk. He smiled at the memory. That was a time before she had been ensnared on a daily basis by the lure of narcotic amnesia as an antidote to the grind of bringing up a sick child.

  Lev headed up a chewing-gum-spattered Market Street, past the chuggers, trying to sell him a rosy glow, past the hawkers, trying to sell him broken lighters, past the preachers, trying to sell him eternal life, praise-Jesus-Hallelujah, towards a windy, pigeon-shit-festooned Piccadilly. He was sick of Manchester and all its empty promises. He was sick of his small, brutish life. All thanks to his mother. The Lord giveth and Gloria taketh away.

  In Primark, he spotted her immediately. She had a formation going with her cleaners that would have put Alex Ferguson to shame. All working their way through the pyjamas section, pushing prams.

  ‘Why’s Jay in his pram?’ he asked, pulling the hood of the pram back so that he could inspect his son’s face for signs of maltreatment. There were none, fortunately. ‘He’s way too big for that. He sho
uld be in his pushchair, to get stimulation and that. What the hell you up to?’

  His mother looked round furtively. ‘You want some jimmy-jammies?’ she asked. ‘You look peaky.’

  He watched with idle fascination as she snatched a pair of men’s pyjamas from a carousel. Placed them on the counterpane of Jay’s pram. Pushed them inside with the boy. Lightning quick hands for a woman showing the early signs of arthritis.

  Jay squealed with delight perhaps for the first time in months.

  Hardly believing what he had seen, Lev glanced over to the other women. One was studying a shopping list. Another hastily pushed a negligee into her buggy.

  ‘You nicking to order?’ he asked, a half-smile tugging at his lips.

  ‘These are my ladies,’ Gloria said. ‘They’re illegals. If I don’t get them work now Sheila has closed the business, they’ll starve. They’ll end up on the game. I’m saving them from a life of immorality.’

  ‘By getting them to shoplift? From Primark of all places? Jesus. Can’t you do better than that? Even M&S would be better than here.’

  ‘No blaspheming! They’re training, Leviticus. Practice makes perfect.’ Gloria winked.

  ‘Where did you get all these babies?’ He glanced around at the prams, though with the rain hoods up and the covers on, it was impossible to see if there actually were any babies inside at all.

  ‘Babies? Oh, yes.’ Deftly, Gloria held a tomato-red plush-pile dressing gown up to her body, then flung it into the carry-basket beneath the pram. ‘I’ve also started running a little baby-minding service on the side.’ She smiled primly. A vision of respectability in her polyester flower-print dress and court shoes. ‘I’m helping all the single mums in the area get back to work! Isn’t that tremendous? The pastor’s delighted with my charitable nous!’

  Lev sucked his teeth and shook his head. ‘You’re the limit. Do you know that? You always were the biggest hypocrite I ever met. Is it any wonder I turned out the way I did?’

  His mother’s expression was suddenly sour. ‘You ruined your life all on your own, Leviticus. You’ve got too much of your father in you. And now all you’ve got to show for your tender years is a criminal record and a son with a tangerine for a brain.’

  Had he heard her correctly? ‘I beg your fucking pardon.’

  ‘Stop swearing. It’s ungodly. And the Lord is listening.’ Gloria scowled at him. Looked up towards the lighting, as though Jesus were perched there, judging all that came to pass in the fleshpot of consumerism that was Manchester’s Primark.

  Lev grabbed the pram, pulled the stolen goods from their various hiding places and threw them at his mother. ‘You haven’t got a clue, have you?’ he asked. ‘There’s a word for people like you. Socialpath or something. That’s you, that is. Well, I’ve had enough.’

  ‘Give me that pram back! I’m using it.’ She tried to tug the handle from his reach.

  Jay started to scream, his angry face just visible beyond the counterpane and rain hood. Lev noticed the tomato-coloured dressing gown in the basket beneath the main carry cot. Pulled it out and flung it onto a startled Gloria’s head. ‘And you can take your shitty dressing gown and all. You cow! Calling my son a tangerine. You’re tapped! That’s what you are.’ He hammered on the side of his head with his index finger. ‘Completely frigging tapped.’

  Not knowing where he would go or what he would do, Lev hastened towards the lift, shushing the bellowing Jay as he ran through the various possible scenarios in his head.

  ‘Come back!’ Gloria shouted.

  He ignored her. Stepped into the lift with a young couple who were arguing in an Eastern European language. They looked askance at Jay and immediately fell silent.

  Take Jay back to Tiff’s, eat humble pie and go after this money I’m owed.

  Or, take Jay to T&J Trading, face the music over Irina and hope Tariq and Jonny don’t think I grassed and got them all locked up.

  Or, stay and get the old cowbag to help.

  As if she could read his thoughts, Gloria stood before the open door of the lift with her arms folded across her chest. Stern-looking, like a deliverer of fire-and-brimstone sermons and bullet-hard cakes at a church fair. ‘If you turn your back on me now, Leviticus, don’t expect me to come running and help you with that boy ever again.’

  Lev offered her his middle finger. He knew he had only moments in which to mull over his options. Then, the doors would close and his options would dwindle to two.

  ‘Children, obey your parents in everything, for this pleases the Lord!’ she shouted with wide-eyed fervour. ‘Colossians 3:20.’

  Nope. Enough craziness. He would let the doors shut and be done with the old nutter.

  His phone pinged as the lift started to close. The doors immediately slid open again as the hood of the pram was picked up by the sensor. Closing. Opening. Gloria was still standing there expectantly. But Lev had to read the text.

  Truce is being called. Try harder. Then you’ll get your money.

  Lev felt the blood drain from his body to who knew where. His world felt like it was spinning the wrong way on its axis. His vision blurring like a bad signal on an old TV. He looked down at Jay, who had sat himself bolt upright, partially ripping the rain hood from its anchor. Clutching his temples, shrieking with staring, apoplectic eyes at the open-closing, open-closing doors as though they were shutting repeatedly on his little head.

  Sighing, Lev lifted his son out of the pram, gathered him to his chest and stepped out of the lift back towards his mother, pushing the clumsy pram with one unpractised hand.

  Gloria beamed at him. Arms wide open in anticipation of an embrace that he did not offer. ‘See, Leviticus? Before I formed you in the womb, I knew you. Jeremiah—’

  ‘Shut the fuck up, Mam. I’m in trouble. I need your help.’

  Chapter 29

  Paddy

  ‘Thanks for coming, Katrina,’ Frank said, embracing his sister. His voice bounced off the stainless steel of the air-con vents, exposed above them in the lofty, industrial-style space that served as the private function area of M1 House.

  Paddy sized his older sibling up. She was dressed in a frumpy midnight blue A-line skirt and a baggy navy jumper, marked out as a nun by her navy veil. She always had been a plain Jane, he thought. A world away from a proper woman – a fuckable woman.

  Katrina returned Frank’s hug with obvious affection. She swept her veil aside. Her face flushed red, kissing her favourite baby brother on the cheek.

  ‘How could I not come to our Jack’s wake? Second time lucky, eh?’ She took a step back, holding Frank’s emaciated, sleep-deprived face in her mannish, short-nailed hands. Winked. ‘You’ll give him the send-off he was always meant to have, love. It’s an absolute disgrace that the police wouldn’t allow the boy a dignified funeral. A scandal of near-biblical proportions. God bless you, Francis. You always had a good soul and a pure heart.’

  ‘Ta,’ Frank said, looking at his shoes. ‘Help yourself to butties while me and Pad have this meeting. People should start to trickle in in a bit. You’ll be alright, won’t you? Auntie Theresa’s coming, so you won’t be on your own.’

  Paddy watched the chummy way in which Frank squeezed Katrina’s hand. Irritated by the intimacy, he turned his attention to Sheila, who was standing like a mannequin with Gloria next to some profiteroles and pink wafers on a long buffet-laden table. An elaborate ice sculpture of a man wearing headphones and spinning records on two decks sat alongside the traditional fayre that Frank had insisted upon. The frozen carving was impressive, Paddy decided. His own homage to Jack that he had commissioned while in custody. At least Sheila had got that right. The two women were deep in conversation about some shit or other. Probably nail polish.

  ‘You’ll look after our Kat, won’t you, She?’ Frank said.

  Sheila nodded. Treated Katrina to a false smile. Paddy wanted to slap his wife for insubordination. She ought to show a nun more respect. But Sheila had never really found time for
Katrina. Sometimes, Paddy wished he had married a more traditional girl. More respectful. He eyed his wife, dressed to kill in a tight beige dress that accentuated her figure and showed the world how amazing those legs were. There was a downside to having a beautiful wife. Paddy wondered if she had been shagging someone while he was being detained. Inadvertently, he clenched his jaw – with such force that his back molars ached with the pressure.

  ‘Right girls, this is man’s work.’ He pushed up the sleeves of his suit jacket. Legs akimbo, feeling the effect of the two lines of coke he’d just done in the toilets. His overtaxed heart told him that perhaps he should have erred on the side of caution. His overhyped brain told him he was master of the universe. ‘You’d better just make sure everything’s right for the guests. It’s a big night tonight.’ Locking eyes with Gloria, he said, ‘Can you check the cutlery’s shiny, love? Don’t want to give the relatives anything to slag us for.’

  Katrina left Frank’s side and strode over to him. Put her hand on his arm, as though ministering to one of her flock. Lowered her voice so that she was almost inaudible.

  ‘Now, you’re lucky to have been released, Patrick,’ she said, eyeballing him like she used to when they were kids. Well-meaning and utterly unswerving in her stance. Paddy was transfixed by Jesus, looking more than very hacked-off with his lot on her sizeable crucifix. ‘Just you remember those flight tickets that Sheila has been keeping warm in her handbag.’ She nodded meaningfully. ‘Your daughters are relying on their daddy to do the right thing in this instance, as far as doing the right thing is even possible in your crooked line of work.’

  Paddy sniffed hard. In his head, he told her to cock right off. He nodded briskly. Feeling fidgety, as though the last thing he wanted was to be rooted to this spot in his brother’s nightclub, being given a lecture by his do-gooding sister. ‘Yeah,’ he said. ‘Thailand.’

  ‘It’s for your own good, Patrick. Leave that life behind and repent at your leisure in the sun.’ She angled her head so that he had no option but to look into those deep blue eyes that had apparently seen God and that were full of celestial wisdom. Bitch had always been the best O’Brien. ‘This is your chance to show you’re made of better stuff than Dad.’