by Jessie Keane
‘They’ll wreck you, those things,’ Connor told him.
Connor was finding everything bloody irritating today. There he was, expanding the family fortune, keeping everything on track, and there was Dad, still boxing when he should have packed it in five years ago. Mum moaned about it, all the time. Connor loved his dad, but for fuck’s sake, why didn’t he call a halt to it now? At least Josh had never tried to encourage Connor to get into the ring. It was a mug’s game, getting knocked bandy day and night, in his opinion.
He’d seen his dad come home bent double and bleeding from fight injuries, stiff as a board for a week. He’d seen the smears of blood in the sink where Josh had spit up after taking bad kidney punches. No, he was never going to be a boxer. Running the yard at a good profit and doing a few iffy deals was about his limit.
‘Ah, you’re too bloody serious,’ said Joey, thumbing out notes and handing them over to the girl. ‘Have one yourself,’ he told her.
‘Thanks,’ she said, preening under the spotlight of his attention. ‘I will.’
They took the drinks over to their usual table in the far corner by the fire. No one ever sat in the one particular chair closest to the hearth except Connor; he was getting a name around the area as a hard nut, someone you wouldn’t want to mess with. Everyone knew his father was a champion fighter with an eighty-four-inch reach, and the son was no less dangerous, built like his dad and cool to the bone.
Connor felt content in general with the way things were going. He liked working alongside his old mucker Benedict, who was a character who’d originally trained as an accountant. Benedict was always neatly suited and booted and never called Ben. He was also a neat freak, which tickled Connor, but his organizational skills and his flair for skirting the laws of the land really helped the business they were in.
Benedict also kept the books of some other businesses who practised on the borderline between bent and kosher – brothels pretending to be tanning salons or massage parlours or saunas; bars and pubs who got their stock off the backs of lorries fresh from the continent. He provided fake paperwork and references for people who needed to prove to banks that they had a reliable income before granting them a mortgage.
The deals were coming in nicely and the latest scam Benedict had cooked up was one where he arranged mortgages for people who didn’t even exist; so far, he’d arranged twenty million pounds’ worth of fake loans, so Connor and him had netted a commission of two hundred thousand. And the millennium bug that had scared everybody shitless before the New Year had never happened. So everything was sweet.
Kylie was proving a problem though. Mum always clashed with Connor’s girlfriends, but she had really taken against Kylie. Mum had given her icy looks and acid remarks on Christmas Day at home, criticizing every word she said and acting as if Kylie ought not to be there. And then New Year’s Eve came around and Shauna had thrown a special millennium party. Come midnight, there Connor was with his tongue halfway down Kylie’s throat, with Mum looking daggers at the pair of them. Which meant that Kylie, rattled, had stepped up on the sofa in her six-inch heels – Mum’s sofa! – and said they were getting engaged. Which was the first he’d heard about it.
‘All the best,’ said Joey, supping his pint.
Connor took a drink then set his glass on the table. ‘So, you seen Tobias Wilkes then?’
Tobias Wilkes fronted a company for Connor and Benedict and had for quite a while been straight in his dealings with them. But then the wheels had come off in his marriage and the wife was suing him for divorce and threatening to skin him for every penny. He was hitting trouble, and because of that Connor had been watching his financial dealings very carefully. He had spotted what he feared; Tobias was skimming off the top and hoping he wouldn’t notice.
‘He’s coming down here at eight,’ said Joey.
Connor looked at his watch. It was quarter past. ‘Then he’s late.’
‘Held up in traffic maybe.’
‘Or just taking the piss,’ said Connor. He lifted his pint and downed it in one long swallow. He stood up. ‘Come on. If the mountain won’t come to Mohammed, we’ll take the fucker to him.’
They pitched up at Tobias’s door and rang the bell. There were lights on, someone was in. Joey had been in the pub toilets before they left for a little livener, and now, to Connor’s disgust, he was high as a kite. Joey hammered at the door.
‘What you want?’ came a trembling voice from inside.
‘Tobias? That you? Open the fucking door,’ said Connor.
There was the sound of a bolt being thrown back, and the door opened. Tobias Wilkes stood there, a short and balding middle-aged man. He looked terrified, not the efficient businessman facade he usually presented to the world. He was scruffy, unshaven, and his shirt was soiled. A waft of sour whisky breath hit Connor. He’d been drinking hard, trying to give himself a bit of Dutch courage, and he was weaving on his feet. ‘You were meant to be down the pub at eight,’ said Joey, pushing in past the man. Connor followed more slowly. ‘What you playing at? You know Mr Flynn wanted a meet.’
‘What for?’ Tobias smiled sickly. Connor saw there was nervous sweat on his upper lip. He knew what for. Tobias looked guilty as fuck.
‘You been taking liberties with my cash,’ said Connor as the three of them stood in the hall. Joey was dancing from foot to foot, coming in close to Tobias in a threatening manner.
Christ, how many of those damned things has he shoved down his throat this time? wondered Connor.
‘No, I . . .’
‘Ah, don’t bother,’ said Joey.
Without warning he pulled out a knife and smashed it into the man’s right shoulder.
Tobias cried out like a stuck pig. Joey yanked the knife free, and blood flowed out from the wound and dripped down Tobias’s manky old shirt. Joey came in close again, too close. This wasn’t a murdering offence. Connor grabbed his arm and Joey’s head turned. His eyes when they met Connor’s looked wild, unfocused. For a minute Connor thought that Joey might even turn the knife on him, then the fog seemed to clear in Joey’s drugged-up brain and he stepped back a pace.
‘Argh! Don’t. Don’t!’ yelled Tobias, sobbing. He was clutching at his arm, and his eyes were full of panic. Blood was spilling out, soaking his fingers in red. ‘All right, I skimmed a bit. I admit it. I’m sorry. My old lady’s going to have my balls on a platter over this fucking divorce and I was going to pay it back when I could, every penny!’
Now Connor came in close to Tobias. Wincing, bloody, Tobias staggered back against the wall as Connor loomed over him. Connor was big, powerful; Tobias was small and in shock.
‘You’ll pay it back on Monday,’ said Connor, and even his voice struck fear in Tobias. Connor’s voice was deep, resonant; it seemed to come from somewhere down in his boots. ‘I’ll call round and you better be here, with what you stole off my family, or you’ll be fucking sorry. And you better start looking for another job, and consider yourself lucky I don’t get really upset about this. I know you got troubles and I’m making allowances. But you take the piss any more and I swear, you’re a dead man.’
‘That told him,’ said Joey, grinning as they went back down the path to the gate.
‘Yeah. That told him.’ Connor stopped walking and yanked Joey to a halt with a hand on his arm. ‘And now I’m telling you. You’re out, you fucking moron. Finished.’
‘You what?’
‘You heard.’
‘But I—’
‘Shut up. You’re a fucking liability. I said all I’m going to say. You’re out.’
71
Aunt Ginny’s funeral was the saddest thing Suki had ever seen. It was all cut-price. There was only her, Sweaty Stefan and kindly Felice, plus the preacher and the pallbearers in attendance. Aunt Ginny was ushered out of the world in a cheap casket without fuss, but there were plenty of tears. Suki howled the church down while Felice patted her back and cooed comforting words. When it was all over Suki said goodbye
to her friend and Stefan chose his moment to step up.
‘Sorry for your loss, Suki,’ he said. ‘I’m real sorry.’
He’d spruced himself up and the odour of his cheap aftershave was so pungent it was making her feel sick.
‘That’s kind of you,’ she said.
‘If there’s anything I can do, name it,’ he said, and hugged her while Suki stood rigid, hating the feel of his pudgy body against hers but too stunned and grief-stricken to even fend him off. And at least he was being nice to her for a change. Maybe he wasn’t so bad.
‘I’ll walk you home,’ he said, and Suki, dazed by grief, started walking.
But Felice was back. She’d seen what was happening as she went out the church gate and had turned right around and come back to the rescue. She eyed Sweaty Stefan with hostility.
‘Suki don’t need you to walk her home, Stefan. Although I’m sure she appreciates the thought. It’s kind of you. But I’m going to do that,’ she said.
He hesitated. Suki almost felt sorry for him, he looked so crestfallen. ‘If you’re sure . . . ?’
‘Sure she’s sure,’ said Felice, hooking one arm through Suki’s and hauling her away.
‘Jeez, girl,’ she said when they were out of Stefan’s earshot. ‘Wouldn’t that be the perfect end to a perfect day? Sweaty Stefan rubbing his fat belly, his buck-naked fat belly, all over you?’
Suki burst out laughing at that; it was a laugh edged with hysteria.
‘Now you settle down,’ said Felice, squeezing her arm. ‘Cry if you got to, but don’t go doin’ nothin’ that desperate. Your aunt was a great old lady and she wouldn’t want you mixin’ with an arsehole like him.’
When Felice left her and she was home alone in the trailer, Suki went into Aunt Ginny’s little bedroom and sat on the bed, feeling dismal. There was something slippery under her foot and she glanced down and then bent, picked up a magazine and looked at the cover. It was a cruise brochure, dog-eared and faded. She peered under the bed. There were stacks of them under there. Aunt Ginny had lain in here at night and dreamed of that life, cruising the world. A dream that was never going to be realized.
Feeling sick at heart, Suki stood up and went through to the kitchenette and poured out a big measure of Aunt Ginny’s Southern Comfort, the one she kept over the sink for what she called ‘medical emergencies’.
Well, this was an emergency all right.
But the booze made her feel worse, not better. She drank a bit more. Then the room began to spin so she went to her room and lay on the bed and clung to the thin mattress and followed Felice’s advice. She cried hot bitter tears for the loss of the only person in the world who had truly loved her. She cried until finally she slept, and when morning came she was sore of eye and aching of head. Aunt Ginny was gone and she was utterly alone.
She slopped water over her face, towelled dry and dressed and pulled on her old but clean blue shirt-dress, and there protruding from the pocket was Aunt Ginny’s letter that she’d got out the day before the funeral, ready to read. Only she hadn’t been able to summon the nerve to read it. Not then. Now Suki sat on her own bed, her hair uncombed, her head throbbing like a brass band, and stared at it. She slit it open with one fingernail and pulled out the sheet of paper inside and began to read it.
Suki darling, look in the Mickey Mouse tin in the pantry . . .
She didn’t get any further. The words blurred as the tears came again. Suki sat there, shoulders slumped, the note in her hand. With a sigh she staggered to her feet, feeling weak as an old woman, letting the note fall on to the bed. She went into the kitchenette and opened the door to the pantry, then she dragged the Mickey Mouse tin down from the shelf. She put it on the sink and prised the lid open. Inside, there was a stash of dollar bills. Quite a few of them. She took the tin into the bedroom, slumped down again, and turned it out and counted the notes.
There were five hundred-dollar bills in there.
And now . . . what would she do with that?
She looked out of the smeary trailer window. More trailers just like her aunt’s were lined up out there. Trucks and flatbeds and ancient boats and other junk were piled up all around them. A mile or so up the way from here, there were grand old plantation houses surrounded by oak trees dripping with Spanish moss. Big-paddled riverboats were going up and down the Mississippi, taking people to other places. And beyond that . . . who knew?
Suki looked at the cash. Then she took out Aunt Ginny’s note again and braced herself, dried her tears. There were more lines of writing, and this time Suki read them. When she’d done that, she just sat there and stared at the words. Then, shocked beyond belief, she read them again.
72
‘Your mother fucking well hates me,’ said Kylie one night after a marathon sex session in bed.
Connor grinned and lay back, hands behind his head, glowing with satisfaction.
‘Don’t take it personal. She hates all my girlfriends,’ he said. It was a fact. Shauna was his mum, and all respect to her for that, but he knew what a cow she could be to anyone outside her precious ‘family unit’.
‘How many have there been?’ asked Kylie, snuggling in against his chest.
‘Five or six,’ said Connor, thinking maybe forty. His girls never hung around for long. Shauna saw to that, and if he wasn’t serious about a girl anyway – and he never had been – it didn’t bother him. But maybe with Kylie things were hotting up a bit too much. And this ‘engagement’ thing . . .
‘You did that just to get up her nose, right? The engagement announcement on New Year’s Eve,’ he said.
‘Worked, didn’t it?’ Kylie smirked. ‘Face like fury on her after that. Hey, we could get engaged, couldn’t we.’ She lifted her head, looked into his eyes. ‘What d’you think?’
‘Sure,’ said Connor, thinking, No way. But then, it was just a ring. Nothing serious. It would keep her happy and when Kylie was happy, she put out like crazy. So why not?
Kylie let out a shriek of joy and got to work on him again. Later, she was going to give him some very good news.
Shauna stewed over the New Year’s Eve event for a week. That little bitch! Jumping about on her furniture, announcing her engagement to her son. And grinning at her like that. Mocking her. Well, she wasn’t going to get away with it. Shauna made a long overdue call, and within a day Jeb Cleaver was waiting to meet her in a barely used pub six miles down the road, well out of the way so that none of her usual associates would see them together. Shauna was groomed to perfection, and the sight of this apparently high-class woman alongside a tatty yokel was bound to attract unwanted attention.
‘So,’ said Jeb, getting a gin and tonic for her and a pint of real ale for himself. ‘You got a job for me, yeah?’
‘I might have,’ said Shauna, and told him about Kylie and what a nuisance she was proving to be. ‘I’m going to talk to her, but if she don’t see reason, then you can try.’
Shauna looked at Jeb with thinly disguised disgust as he downed the ale in one and belched loudly. She was bound to him now. Jeb knew damned well that something had happened to Ciaran and Rowan at the hands of the Flynns, and he’d mentioned their disappearance lots of times, and said he was better off without them. Now Bill Cleaver was getting on and he had just the one son under his roof, so Jeb found himself more appreciated than before. Yes, Jeb might still puzzle over where Ciaran and Rowan had gone – but it didn’t bother him one jot.
As for Bill, he was a drunk who had never been a good father to any of them. If he’d ever cared about why his other two sons had gone out one night and never come back, he’d long forgotten why. Jeb was in charge of the pig farm these days. He hired in casuals to pick up any slack, and on the rare occasions Bill got wistful about Ciaran and Rowan, Jeb shrugged it off, said they were probably out in New Zealand, herding sheep or fucking them, one of the two.
‘What do I get out of this?’ asked Jeb.
‘I’ll pay.’
‘Pay me in kind,’
said Jeb with a bullish leer. ‘Come out to the pickup and we’ll discuss it.’
‘No. I’ll pay cash. I’m just telling you now to make sure you’re in, if the need arises.’
‘Honey, things are always rising around you.’
Shauna thought this was so ironic. So fucking sad. Josh who she loved didn’t want her. But this fucking low-life oik still did. ‘I haven’t got time today,’ she told him.
‘Suit yourself,’ he said, and smiled.
73
Josh Flynn came triumphantly out of the ring waving his arms in the air and dancing from foot to foot, but inside he felt completely fucked. The minute he was out of sight of the raucous New York crowd, the bouncing and crowd-waving dropped from him like a cloak. He slumped into his dressing room and all but collapsed on to a bench there. The room was spinning, he was so exhausted.
‘You did good,’ said Benny, one of the older blokes from the gym he used when he was Stateside, who was acting as his second. ‘Beat his arse like a real pro.’
‘I thought he was going down in three,’ said Josh. Everything hurt. He was used to that, but these last couple of bouts had felt hellish, overlong. He was in his forties now. His hair was turning grey and he had wrinkles around his eyes. Maybe he was, finally, getting too old for all this shit, just like his boy Connor kept telling him.
But bare-knuckle fighters didn’t retire. They kept on fighting the next challenger, and the next, until they got knocked down and couldn’t get up again and had to stop. Josh’s opponent, a muscular black man eight years his junior, had hung on until round ten; he was a true street fighter, straight out of the Bronx, and wouldn’t give up until his back smacked the canvas and he couldn’t pull himself to his feet again without help.
‘I just wanted to put the fucker down,’ said Josh, still panting as Benny rubbed at his chest with a white towel. It soon turned red. He was scratched and cut and battered all to hell. The middle knuckle on his left hand felt sore as fuck; he’d busted that joint more times than he could count over the years, and now it ached every winter. ‘Bastard kept coming.’
