by KERRY BARNES
She rubbed her eyes and tried to straighten her hair. ‘What’s going on?’ she asked again.
Mike didn’t have time to discuss business – not that he would anyway – but, now, time was of the essence. He needed his son out of the country.
‘Jackie, for once in your life, shut the fuck up, get the bags packed, and just go, will ya? I’ll join you when I can.’
‘Well, you’ll have to give me a few hours. I need to go to the hairdressers and the—’
Before she could finish, he aggressively snatched her arm and pulled her close. ‘You’ll get those bags packed and be ready to get on the road in fifteen minutes!’
She knew then she couldn’t push him any further. Something serious was going down.
‘All right. Get off me. ’Ave you booked a flight?’ Her pitch was high and sarcastic.
Mike let go of her and snarled, ‘You’re one useless bitch. Just go to the airport and book the next flight, and if there ain’t any today, then stay in a hotel until there is one! You’ve got the credit cards. Now, use your poxy pea-sized brain and get your arse into gear.’ His deep voice, his spiteful tone, and the urgency of the situation were enough to clear her head in an instant. Without another word, she left the room and headed upstairs.
Unbelievably, Jackie was out of the house with their bags in record time. But he was disappointed by how roughly she bundled Ricky into the back of her white Range Rover. Her shoving Ricky the way she did raised his anger. He wanted to drag her by her extensions and ram her face into the wall. But he couldn’t get caught up in yet another domestic; he needed his son away from here and soon. The thought of speaking to any woman like that, let alone hitting them, was just not part of his make-up. He always treated women with decency and respect and never in his life had he raised his hands to one – until the day before yesterday with Jackie. But there was no love left between them. The only reason he kept her around was because she was Ricky’s mother, or she would have been gone years ago.
* * *
A black Mercedes pulled up on the drive and out crawled Eric, looking the worse for wear; his designer stubble was hardly Calvin Klein, more scarecrow, and his wide light-blue eyes looked dark and sunken. Mike spotted right away that his brother was sweating from fear, a thin layer of greasy mist cladding his face. He had aged overnight.
‘Jesus, Mikey, that poor dog. Those Harmans are absolute animals!’ he said, as he paced the floor, running his hands through his hair.
‘Eric, listen. I won’t let no fucker lay a hand on you. Now, calm down.’
Eric looked up through his long dark lashes, and for a second, Mike felt sorry for him. ‘I’ve sent Ricky to Spain with Jackie, to keep them out of the way. Now, what about your Tracey? Maybe she should join them?’
‘You must be joking. Jackie only nearly scalped my bird, all ’cos she thought Tracey had her eye on you. No disrespect, Mikey, but Jackie was out of order.’
Mike put his arm around Eric’s shoulders. ‘Listen, it’s gonna be all right. And I know what ya mean about Jackie. She’s a cunt. Trouble is though, Eric, right now, she’s my cunt, and I still have to look out for her. Mark my words, though. Once this shit is over, if she doesn’t buck up her ideas, she’s gone for good.’
Eric’s ears pricked up. ‘What? Are ya gonna dump her?’
‘Yeah. She’s pushed me to backhanding her, and that ain’t me.’ He sighed heavily. ‘I don’t love her. In fact, I fucking detest her. I should never have got with her and just waited for … Oh, never mind. I’ve got my boy to think about now.’
They headed to the bar in the lounge and waited for the others to arrive.
Eric thought about his brother’s words and wondered if he was contemplating going back to his ex-girlfriend. He’d heard through the grapevine that she was in London. He’d been tempted to make a play for her himself, but this latest row between his brother and Jackie might have put paid to that pipedream. If Mike split with Jackie and knew his ex was back in London, he would no doubt go sniffing around.
‘Mikey, I think I want to jack it in. I wanna settle down, have a family, and start me own business.’
Mike chuckled. ‘Eric, you are a fucking bell-end sometimes. What ya gonna do? You ain’t even got a swimming certificate let alone a GCSE.’
Eric looked his brother over and felt that nagging sense of envy that seemed constantly to eat away at him. Being classed as second best to Mike was not how he saw his future.
‘Anyway, Eric, we have more serious matters at hand than career advice. ’Ave ya told Farver to stay in Florida? I want him outta the way an’ all. This is a war we are walking into, and I don’t know the level of their army … yet.’
Eric felt his stomach churn. ‘Yes. Dad’s staying another few weeks. Do you think they’ll do us over, one by one?’
The brandy hit the back of Mike’s throat and he swallowed twice. ‘No! I didn’t string up Travis’s cat, did I? I fucking strung him up. They wouldn’t have the guts to open up Staffie. Nah, they cowardly butchered his dog instead. Who the hell do they think they are, eh? The fucking Mafia?’
Within a few minutes, Lou and Willie arrived. Like Eric, they were unsettled. Staffie was the last to arrive and he was freaked out. Mike poured them all a drink, and they headed for the dining room where they used to play poker, until Jackie managed to ruin that too, with all her mad, drunken outbursts.
They sat around the table and Mike looked from one to the other; his sidekicks, they were. It was how it was from when they were born. His father, Arthur Regan, used to run the firm. Willie Ritz’s old man, Charlie, and Staffie’s father, Teddy, were the muscle in the crew. Then there was Lou Baker’s father, Big Lou, who was the brainy one. They were Bermondsey boys with a serious reputation and an eye for a good heist or for pavement work. Robbing the security vans, they ran the manor.
‘I don’t like it, Mikey,’ said Lou, always the voice of reason. ‘It’s not knowing enough about the Harmans that sits uneasily with me.’ His tone was softer than the others and slightly more refined. In fact, Lou looked the odd man out. With his passion for sharp suits and his blow-dried hair sitting neatly behind his ears, he was always immaculately turned out – and more like their lawyer than a villain.
Mike nodded. ‘Well, lads, that’s our first job. I want every single fucker in South-East London interrogated. I want everyone knowing that the Harmans are grasses. I’m gonna make damned sure that no other cunt will wanna work with them – that is, if they are attempting to take over the firms in our manor. These cowardly bastards will regret trying to bring me down, that’s for sure.’
Willie was almost chewing his lips off, his last toot of cocaine having left him agitated, as per usual. ‘I wanna know why they saw fit to grass our operation up to the Filth, and why us? I mean, we’ve got no beef with them. We don’t even know ’em!’
Mike snarled. ‘Well, I’ll get to the bottom of it, even if it means ripping a few heads off along the way!’
Staffie jumped to his feet. He was raging. ‘Well, I swear to God, if I get my hands on any of those Harman brothers, I’ll gut them like a piece of fish. I fucking loved that dog. ’Orrible, evil lowlifes they are!’ After a few deep breaths, he sat back down.
Mike poured him another brandy. ‘’Ere, Staffie. Drink this, mate, and calm yaself down.’
Mike looked at Staffie. He couldn’t remember a time when the man was young or had hair; he was always the big bruiser with a thick forehead and hands like bricks.
‘Right, get on ya phones now and call around. I want to know everything there is to know about these bastards.’
Chapter 3
Harry Harman entered his mother’s kitchen with a face like a smacked arse. Doris was in her pinafore, not that this was unusual. Making a sandwich, she turned to her eldest son. Briefly looking him up and down, with no hint of an expression, she carried on slicing the cheese.
‘Where’s the ol’ man?’ His deep voice was gruff from too many fags and
he had another distinguishing characteristic – a fat neck to match his overlarge head. A spiteful-looking man, he glared with hate most of the time. Those cold eyes never softened, even when he watched his mother with her crooked fingers, riven with arthritis, pouring tea into her dainty bone china teacup. She was almost fifty-seven and yet the boys still had her running around after them, cooking and ironing their shirts. They had moved out years before, with huge drums of their own, yet they would still bring their washing home, treating her as though she was their slave.
‘I don’t know, Son. Shall I give him a message?’
Harry tutted. ‘Nah, I need to find him, like fucking now!’
Doris stopped buttering the bread and wiped her hands on her apron. ‘Son, he’s probably up to no good with that old tom up on the Sandycroft estate, as well you know an’ all. So, I would be grateful if you didn’t come in ’ere and raise your voice at me,’ she said calmly, before she picked up the knife again and carried on buttering the bread.
Harry was seriously irritated. He knew his father was off somewhere having it away with the next tart who would put it out for him for a few drinks, but he felt somewhat guilty; he should have been more polite to his mother. Doris had a knack for winding him up with her righteous ways. She moaned constantly about their father and for good reason: he shagged everything in sight, and when he wasn’t doing that, he spent all their money on drink.
Whilst she could at least thank her lucky stars that her husband never belted her one, her mother always said she’d married beneath herself. And as the years rolled by, she wished things had been different. Hindsight was a wonderful thing but if only she’d never said ‘I do’ at the time. Trying as hard as she had, she’d been unable to change him or her sons for that matter. All three were a chip off their father’s block. And all of them had two things in common – a total lack of class and not a single brain cell between them.
Frank Harman wasn’t the best-looking man in South-East London, but he was okay – although he viewed himself as a Paul Newman double. If he was, Doris never saw it, and now he resembled the wrestler Big Daddy. Still, she’d made her bed and she had to damn well lie in it.
With three boys and a girl in the family, they sadly took on their father’s looks and build, with the possible exception of Scottie, who was the better looking of the bunch. Paris wasn’t too much of a looker without make-up, and certainly never had her mother’s sweet face.
Trying to keep up her posh voice and sophisticated ways only earned Doris the reputation for being a snob, and so, as the years dragged by, she became resigned to being put down at every turn by her insufferable children and humiliated by her villainous husband. Even her daughter had an air of arrogance about her, goaded on by the three boys. Their little princess, they called her. Doris wasn’t so blinded by her antics as the boys were, though. She was a class-A tart and was always causing unnecessary bother. Flashing her new tits and a five-hundred-pound pout, she was a spoiled little madam.
If only she could be proud of at least one of her four children, but the truth was she was ashamed of them. Totally. Frank was to blame. He brought them up to do whatever it took to earn a few bob, and there was nothing legitimate in it either. He laughed at their naughty antics, and so it was no surprise that they were all off the rails before they even reached primary school.
‘Where’s Paris?’ Harry asked, trying to moderate his angry tone.
Doris shrugged her shoulders. ‘How would I know? I haven’t seen her in a week. She’s probably staying over with that new fella of hers … Travis, I think his name is.’
Harry knew that wasn’t the case. He shuddered inside, remembering the picture of Travis in pieces. It wasn’t the bruises that turned his stomach but the fact that it was obvious he’d been gruesomely tortured. The photo on the phone had served as an ominous warning.
As thick-skinned as he was to violence and life itself, he felt uneasy. Looking back at his brother Vinnie’s feeble attempt at revenge made him want to crucify him. Gutting the dog was pathetic and instantly sent out the wrong message. He should have carved up Stafford, not the mutt: now that would have been a real warning not to mess with the Harmans.
‘I’ve made some fairy cakes. Would you like one?’ asked Doris, with a fake smile.
Harry thought he could see a trace of sarcasm on his mother’s sweet face, but, on reflection, he assumed he was just on edge and angry. ‘No, I need to get hold of Farver and Paris.’
Doris took her cup and plain cheese sandwich over to the kitchen table and sat herself down. Harry watched her, and for the first time in his life, he noticed how lonely and pitiful she looked as she ate her boring lunch at the Formica tabletop in her plain dress and pinny. The vision of Travis and then this image of innocence, his mother, oblivious to her son’s antics – he knew he wouldn’t be able to bear it if the Regans hurt her. She wasn’t like them. ‘Muvver, can you go and stay with your sister for a while?’
Holding the china teacup in her hand, Doris looked up at her son and just stared.
Harry was uneasy. ‘It’s just safer for the moment, Muvver.’ He softened his words.
‘Have you forgotten, Harry, my sister passed away six months ago? You were all invited to the funeral … but I guess you were too busy to go.’
Harry swallowed hard. He did remember her mentioning something, and yet he’d forgotten about it. He’d been too busy at the time – although he wouldn’t have gone anyway. He hardly knew his aunt. ‘Well, have ya got a friend you can stay with?’ His guilt now turned to annoyance.
‘No, Son, I don’t have any friends because your father put a stop to having any of those! Anyway, why do I need to get away? What trouble are you in now?’ Her tone was bitter.
‘Never you mind, Muvver. Just do yourself a favour and get away for a bit.’
‘No, Harry.’
With a deep furrowed frown, Harry glared. ‘Listen, Muvver, I ain’t fucking about. Ya need to get away from the house—’ Before he could finish, Doris jumped up from the table.
‘No, Harry! You listen to me for once in your life. I’m sick to the back teeth of being bullied … yes, bullied, by all of you. As for that useless father of yours, I’ve been pushed around by him for far too long, and I will not take it from you too. So, take note, sunshine, I’m not going anywhere. This is my home and not yours, so if anyone is leaving it’s you, Harry. Christ Almighty, I’ve had years of hiding from the aftermath of your troubles or dodging the police. Well, no more!’ She sat back down and took another sip of tea.
Harry sighed in frustration. Of course, she was right. For the first time in his life, he looked at her for who she really was – a downtrodden, washed-out woman. He pulled a chair out and sat opposite. ‘Muvver, I’ve a flat down the coast. It’s nothing too fancy, but it’s okay. Why don’t I take you there for a short holiday?’ His voice was almost sweet; it was so unlike his usual gruff tone.
Doris gave him a wry grin. ‘Harry, please stop taking my aloofness as stupidity. I’m fully aware of what you’re up to. Since when did you do charm? If you think offering a trip down to the seaside is doing me a favour, you’re very much mistaken. I know the truth and so do you. Like all of you, if I was to get hurt due to your antics, then none of you would be able to live with yourselves because you would be eaten up with guilt!’ she said, with a raised voice.
‘Muvver!’
‘No, Harry, just shut up, please! A holiday down the coast? I never even knew you had a holiday home. I haven’t been to the coast in over twenty damned years. You only want me to go now because it suits you. Me, invited to have a break? It’s ridiculous.’
Those words, coming from the mouth of this mild-mannered lady stunned Harry. And the look in her eyes told him she was not going to put up with him pushing her around. The speed at which he jumped up from the table caused the chair to topple over. Before she’d a chance to say another word, he left, slamming the door behind him.
The cold stark realit
y of the present situation made Doris so tearful. Her dear sister’s departure from this life was such a travesty. Doris deeply missed their weekly chats on the phone and the odd weekend trip up to Bath. It shouldn’t be this way; she should have been able to sit and share a pot of tea with her own daughter and chat, but Paris was just like the others – all out for herself. Staring down at the china teacup, she heard nothing but the quiet humming sound of the fridge, her only company. It was a stark contrast to when her kids had lived at home; the constant loud noise had been unbearable. They never spoke – they always shouted.
Just as she stood up to wash up the cup and plate, the back door burst open and in stormed Paris. Usually, Doris would greet her, offering lunch or a drink, but not today. Today, she wanted nothing more than to be alone and pretend she’d never had a family.
‘All right, Muvver?’ she said, as she plonked an oversized bag on the table. ‘I’ve got a few bits that need to be hand-washed. Put the kettle on. I’m fucking parched.’
Doris ignored her and continued with the washing up.
Paris rifled through her Louis Vuitton tote bag looking for her phone, still annoyed that Travis hadn’t returned her calls. In among the make-up, hairbrushes, and hairspray, she finally felt the rhinestone-covered phone case and retrieved it from her bag, only to find the battery had died. ‘Oh, for fuck’s sake,’ she cursed and dived in again to find the charger. After plugging it in, she returned to her seat and looked over at her mother. ‘Did ya make the tea?’
Doris untied her pinafore and turned to face her daughter. ‘No, Paris, I didn’t. If you want a cup, then make it yourself.’
Paris’s heavily made-up face produced a frown that even the Botox couldn’t freeze. ‘What the fuck’s up with you?’
‘I’ve had your brother in here demanding I move out for a while, I’ve had your stinking father take my last tenner from my purse yesterday, and now you, expecting your washing done and tea made. Well, you can all go and bugger off. I’m sick of all of you.’
