The Business

by Martina Cole

  Colin was straining with all the strength he possessed against young Declan’s superior strength, terror giving him an extra spurt of energy.

  ‘Please, Mr Dooley, I’ll have the money later. I am due a few quid, money I’m owed . . .’ His voice was hoarse with fright, with the knowledge that he had finally reached the end of his road.

  ‘Too late, Colin . . .’

  As the water gushed from the kettle on to his head and neck Colin screamed, the sound like that of an animal. It was high-pitched and laden with anguish. He fought with every ounce of his strength to avoid the torrent, only making it harder for himself in the long run.

  Like Gerald, his captor had no feelings of remorse or sorrow. Young Declan just watched it with a quiet interest, concentrating on holding his prey still while he learnt exactly how these things were done.

  He knew he wasn’t Einstein, but he also knew he was a quick study, and that meant the difference between a good living and some serious wedge.

  He wanted to earn the wedge, and he wanted it sooner rather than later. Gerald Dooley was his ticket to the stars and he felt honoured to have such a teacher.

  Gerald winked at him gamely, nothing he did in the pursuit of his occupation was ever done with malice. But it was always done with a certain aplomb. After all, without a decent rep he wouldn’t even be employed. He didn’t love his job as such, but he knew he was a one-off, knew that he was known as a man who got things done quickly and succinctly. His real forte was that he made sure no one had to clean up after him and in their game that was the main requisite.

  If he was asked to demand something, he would get it by any means, and his secret was that he never discussed those means with anyone. He was a hard man, by nature and by reputation, that was his strength.

  Imelda could smell the cloying aroma of colcannon, she had loved the smell until her pregnancy. Now the aroma of cabbage and grease made her stomach turn. As she forced herself to take deep breaths, she felt the terror of her situation once more. She knew that she had to get it out in the open, had to tell her mother before she either worked it out for herself or was told by an outsider. Imelda knew in her heart that this was news that was best delivered swiftly, but it was still a terrifying prospect.

  As she walked down the stairs, she could hear her mother busying herself cooking the evening meal. She wanted to catch her while she was alone, wanted to spill the news of her downfall in private. Imelda was aware that her mother had a soft spot for her, and she instinctively knew that if she could talk to her alone now, her mother’s reaction would be to protect her.

  Entering the kitchen she smiled widely. ‘That smells lovely, Mum.’

  Mary Dooley glanced at her youngest child and immediately sensed that something was wrong. She had felt that there was something worrying her daughter for a while and now they were alone together she decided to try and find out what was the cause of her youngest child’s obvious unhappiness.

  ‘Sit down, child, and I’ll make us a nice cup of tea.’

  Imelda did as she was bidden. Pulling a chair out from the large Formica table she sat down heavily, her heart aching and her body stiff with nerves.

  Mary poured them both a cup of tea and, sitting beside her daughter, she said heavily, ‘What’s ailing you, child? Are you feeling ill?’

  Imelda looked into her mother’s face. She was so like her, even she could see that. They were like twins born years apart. In her mother’s presence though, she could feel the heaviness of her breasts more acutely for some reason and knew that soon they would betray her. She was as fertile as her mother and she knew that would be her downfall. Because, unlike her mother, she had allowed herself to be used without the safety of a wedding ring.

  ‘Is anything bothering you, child, are you worried about anything?’

  Mary was genuine in her distress, was honestly worried about her daughter. It came across in her voice, in her gentleness, and in her expressive eyes. Eyes that seemed to tell her daughter that she was prepared to hear the worst, and unfortunately, the worst was what she was going to get.

  Gerald Dooley heard the screeching before he had even entered his house. This was an almost unheard-of occurrence, and his shock was exacerbated by his daughter’s language. His Imelda had never uttered a swear word in his presence in her life, so he knew that the harangue he was now party to was serious.

  As he opened the front door he kept his movements quiet, listening to his wife and daughter as they went at each other without care.

  ‘You fecking filthy little whore, you’d do this to me and to your poor father? What the fuck have I bred?’

  Imelda’s voice was as loud and just as angry as her mother’s. ‘Do you think I fucking planned this then? Do you think I did it to get one over on you? It was an accident, a bloody stupid accident.’

  As Gerald went into the kitchen he was amazed to see his little wife with the kettle in her hand, just about to throw it and its contents all over their daughter. It was like déjà vu. Only, he didn’t want his daughter scarred for life, no matter what she had done.

  Seeing her husband standing there, Mary Dooley immediately stayed her hand, and his daughter looked at him with wide, scared eyes and a defiance that, until then, he had only observed in her brothers.

  ‘What in the name of God is going on here?’ His loud voice stayed them both, even more than his actual presence.

  ‘I could hear you two down the street like a pair of fucking old shawlies going at it. What the neighbours must be thinking, I don’t know.’

  The last few words were enough to quieten down his wife; the neighbours and their opinions were the only thing outside of her family that she cared about. Her reputation was everything to her, and though others might bring their petty squabbles outside the front door, she would normally have died before doing the same thing.

  Taking a deep breath his wife looked at him triumphantly and said in a stage whisper, ‘Ask your one here. She’s pregnant and she won’t tell me who the culprit is.’

  Imelda and her mother watched as Gerald digested this information. The differing expressions on his face were enough to put the fear of Christ up any man young or old, and his wife and daughter didn’t feel any different. As he walked around the table towards his daughter, his hair almost on end and his muscles straining with anger, his wife ran between them both, realising what she had caused. She was a different woman now, a quiet woman, the peacekeeper. The voice of reason. ‘Gerry, Gerry, come on now. It’s not that bad . . . Calm yourself down, man.’

  In that few seconds Mary knew he was capable of killing the child, and the poor child within her. In those few seconds she saw that she had read this situation all wrong. In those few seconds she knew that her doting husband was not above a murder for his daughter’s crimes.

  Imelda was cowering on the floor now, her face a mask of terror and disbelief. That her father, her dad, could ever turn on her like that was unbelievable. She had thought he would have been the one calming her mother down, which was why she had felt confident enough to argue with her mother in the first place.

  She had not expected this reaction towards her. Towards the father maybe, but never towards her. He had stood by her all her life, had been the one she ran to when anything had gone wrong. He was the one who would take her part against her mother, her brothers, even the school. He had been her rock and now she was finally finding out what it was like to live without his blind acceptance. She could see the hatred in his eyes as he looked at her. The disappointment. The absolute disgust.

  Gerald was about to attack his daughter physically when he felt his wife’s hands on his chest. Felt her shoving him away from his youngest child. Somewhere in the chaos in his mind he knew this was a good thing.

  He allowed himself to be pushed from the room, allowed his little wife to steer him towards the dining room and shove him inside. But all the while he could feel his anger and his disappointment getting stronger and stronger. His daughter had
lain with someone, and he knew from experience that it wouldn’t be anyone they would be pleased to welcome into their home. If that had been the case, she would have had the sense to bring him there. This man was some piece of shit that she had taken up with, because for all her innocence you didn’t live in a house like this without picking up a few tips about how the world outside worked.

  He pulled out a chair and sank into it, his usual pride in the room was diminished now. Ruined by his daughter’s actions. He felt the murderous rage abate just a little and was amazed to find that his wife was still talking to him, still trying to quieten him down. He had heard nothing, not a word of her babbling. It was as if he was on a different planet, a planet where the life he had always known was over. He felt as if he was in a parallel universe, as if he was caught up in an episode of The Sky at Night. It was all wrong. Felt wrong. It was out of whack. Someone had taken his baby down and he was going to see that they paid for it. Paid for it dearly.

  Even though he cared, cared for all the other people in his orbit, wife, sons, etc., they were really nothing to him. His little girl was the be all and end all of his existence. From her birth, she had stolen his heart. She was the child he had heard about, but had never believed existed. The golden child. The daughter that friends had assured him would mean far more to him than his sons. He had never really believed them.

  Until he had looked at his daughter’s face, had held her in his arms, he knew that until then, he had not really understood real love. He had not believed that a man could worship a child as he had worshipped her. She had been born at home, like the others, but when he had held her in his arms, he had felt an emotion so strong it had all but broken him. She had amazed him, looking at her was like looking at the world in a new light. Because she was now a part of it. His sons had never had that effect on him, even though he loved them. They would one day be men, grown men. But not this child, she was his late surprise, his baby girl.

  He had a daughter, and the knowledge had made him weak, vulnerable. He had looked at her and seen the fall of Adam. He could see why men could destroy another man’s property, another man’s life, and all for the love of a daughter, a female child. It was such an event in his life he had never really got over it, though he had suppressed it as best he could. He’d never been one to show his emotions to the world and so he had loved her within the confines of his family, and he had loved her with a vengeance, as he had his wife. For the first time in his life, he had known real fear. He had protected her, cared for her, and overlooked her shortcomings. Which were legion, since she had been spoiled by everyone around her since her birth. She had been the one to run to him, climb on his lap, the only one of the children to be wholly his. His sons had always been their mother’s boys. And he had accepted that, known that was how it should be. He was, after all, his own mother’s son. Sons and mothers had a close relationship, as he knew first-hand, and he also knew that was true of fathers and daughters. As much as he loved his boys, Gerald Junior and Brendan, his daughter was like some kind of unknown entity to him. And he loved her all the more because of that.

  Imelda had arrived late in his life and, from day one, she had captured him, and his heart. She had been his reason for living, he had seen her as his bright star, the child who would take him into old age. Her birth had given him the rush he had needed at fifty. He had been blessed with this child. She was like a gift from God Himself, proof of his virility, proof of his loyalty, his love for his wife. She was all he talked about, all he really cared about. And he’d assumed she would have been like the boys, had assumed she would have toed the line, done what was expected of her. So he had not envisaged her being brought down like this, getting laid and left, like any tart around about. She was better than that. She was worth more than that, surely? He had seen her marrying a man who was worthy of her and, more importantly, worthy of him, and the legacy he would leave. He had seen her without stain, had believed she was without anything even remotely sexual. As his baby she had been not only sexless in his eyes, but also without the want of sex. He had believed her to be pure. She had acted the good girl, the good daughter.

  And he had been fucking wrong. She had been allowed more freedom than her brothers, had been seen by him as a shrewdie, far too clever to be caught like this. He had always known that she was well above her poor brothers when it came to brains, intelligence. The school had said she was a veritable fucking brain-box, that she was destined for great things. Well, if she was such a fucking know-all, how come she was in the club, and how come she had brought this kind on shame on the family? On him?

  It was all a fucking lie, a fucking charade. She was no better than the girls he had seen around, the slags, the tarts. She had been like a viper in his breast. Pretending she was something she wasn’t. Her innocence was what he cherished, was what he demanded from her. Her innocence was what he held dear to him. What he felt was so special about her.

  Now though, she had broken him, she had destroyed all. She was no more than a whore. Even if she had only done it once, he would not feel any different, because once, as far as he was concerned, was once too fucking often in his book. This whore was not a one-time only girl though, he had seen her, heard her arguing with her mother. Gerald knew then that she was far too fucking cocky to have been caught out on the off. The thought of her, his baby, his girl, on the cock was more than he could bear. He was devastated and he was disgusted.

  His baby was pregnant and, to make matters worse, he knew that the culprit was not someone she was proud of. If that had been the case, she would have fronted them up, would have argued her end. Would have been woman enough to give them both a piece of her mind. That he could have coped with. Could have understood. Respected even. Because it would have meant she was in love. Would have meant she was adult enough to fight her end. Fight for what she believed in. Instead, she was ashamed, she was cowering from him like the treacherous bastard she was. She was disgusted with herself, so how could she expect him to feel any different?

  Never in his life had Gerald felt so let down, so ashamed, so repulsed by someone in his immediate family. Taking a deep breath he looked at his wife as if he had never seen her before and he asked quietly, ‘Find out his name. Find out who he is.’

  Mary soothed him as best she could. Of all the things she had expected this day, his reaction was not one of them. She had thought that he would have stood up for this child of his, had believed he would have taken her under his wing. Been the one to bring the family together. But this man before her was like a stranger, like someone she had never seen before, and who she hoped she would never see again. This man was dangerous, extremely dangerous, and for the first time since she had known him he frightened her.

  In fact, she was seeing him as others saw him, and it was not a pretty sight. For the first time in her life he didn’t make her feel safe and cared for. He just made her feel absolutely terrified and that wasn’t a feeling she had ever associated with her husband.

  Chapter Two

  Jason Parks was lying in his bed, enjoying the softness of the mattress and looking forward to the ministrations he was guaranteed to receive from his mother. She was a real touch in that respect. She cared for him as a whole, from his washing and his ironing, right through to his meals and his penchant for a few cold beers. She took care of him without a care for herself. He was her baby, her little boy. He encouraged her to feel like that, of course. He knew what side his bread was buttered on.

  The best thing of all, as far as he was concerned, was that it didn’t cost him a penny. The silly old bag did it out of love. Jason was a complete waster, even he had accepted that much. He had no real interest in anything or anyone, unless it would enhance his standing in the community. The community being the people he saw as worth the effort. Worth putting himself out for.

  As he lay there in his clean sheets and with his music playing far too loud, he felt his usual smugness. His mother was his biggest critic, but she was also
his biggest fan. If he took it into his mind to film himself murdering his family, his mother would still defend him, would never believe that the man on the film was actually her son.

  It was one of the reasons he loved her so much. There was literally nothing he could do that would bring down her wrath upon him. She saw him through her special, mother-made, rose-tinted glasses, and he thanked God for that every day of his life. He was sensible enough to know that anyone but her would have aimed him out of the front door years ago.

  His father, a cunt of the first order, was also handy, he had a bit of a rep, and a good few quid. His mother kept him in line where Jason was concerned, so that was a touch. His father thought he was a complete muppet, and voiced his opinion of his son at every available opportunity. He called him shiftless, useless, and many other epithets when the fancy was on him. Luckily, his mother was always on hand to stop him before he went too far.

  All in all, Jason saw himself as one jammy bastard, an expression he knew was used by more than a few of his so-called mates. He was a charmer, a robber and, on occasions, he was a thief. There was a subtle difference between a robber and a thief; a robber was respected, they robbed banks, building societies or post offices. That was an acceptable occupation in his world. A thief, however, was a completely different entity. A thief was looked down on by everyone, even by the Old Bill. A thief stole from those who couldn’t afford it. A thief would scrump anything they came across, a thief was so low they would nick off their own, which was why they were so hated. Thieves were without any kind of conscience, they took what they wanted from anyone in their orbit without any kind of care or distinction. They were vilified by their contemporaries because they were so untrustworthy and so devious.

  A thief was the lowest of the low. And young Parks was lower than anyone actually realised. He was a natural-born grifter, if he saw something he liked, he skanked it. A necklace, a ring, a wallet. He would take it without any remorse whatsoever. He was sensible enough, though, to keep his thieving to himself. He was an emerging Face, a robber, and he loved the kudos of that. He saw himself in the future with a good few quid, a decent motor, a few kids, and with a nice bird who was sensible enough to turn a blind eye to his misdemeanours. Life, he decided, was good, and it could only get better.