The Business

by Martina Cole

  The people who had written the money off as a bad investment had been reimbursed, though not before she had awarded herself a generous bonus. She explained to them that she had collected their outstanding monies because she wanted them to understand that even though her husband was gone, she was quite capable of taking over from him, and that with Jackie Martin and her sons, they would not have to worry any more that certain people’s debts were unobtainable. She guaranteed them that she would personally make sure that nobody would be immune from the payment of a debt again. No matter who they were, or who they might be related to. She didn’t tell them that she had gone to the so-called hard-nut relative, the Name who had inadvertently been the reason that a substantial debt had been overlooked. She had explained how the sudden reluctance to pursue the outstanding monies then affected the reputations of all involved, not least them personally. Because it was their name that had stopped the collection of a debt that was owed fair and square. Mary said that her husband, God rest his soul, had explained to her that when he had been advised that a certain debt was to be left, the person owed the money was not only seriously out of pocket, they were also now the bearer of a grudge. A grudge that could only ever have one outcome: the loss of respect and, even more importantly, the loss of loyalty, to the person who had been the cause of the debt’s non-payment. That, of course, was themselves. Mary also pointed out that, unlike her husband, as a woman and a mother, she had never owed a penny in her life. She was willing to bring this subject up with the people concerned. She explained that she would understand if they felt that she was undermining them, but she also explained that, as far as she had understood, in their world integrity was often all that any of them had. And, as far as she was concerned, gambling debts especially, were not only money owed, they were also the equivalent to a gentlemen’s agreement. Once the shock of her visit, and the reason thereof, had worn off, she then requested their help in her collection of the debt owed. In effect, she asked them respectfully, with raw dignity, to take a step back and allow her to go about her business without the fear of retribution just because a relative or friend of theirs felt that such a connection could actually warrant them being given a fucking swerve of Olympian standards. Mary also pointed out that if they let their family use their name as a reason to do what they wanted, eventually that name would be tarnished for ever. Mary Dooley was so angry, so forthright, and so honest, that she had been assured by each and every one of the people concerned that they would not interfere with her or her collecting of the debt in any way, shape or form.

  She had thanked them politely, reiterating that she knew they all understood that a debt was a debt, and that it had to be paid. She had been so frightened the first few times that she had heard nothing but the crashing of her own heartbeat in her ears. Then she had understood that she was being listened to because she had an argument that was without fault. She had given them the opinion of the people outside their own little worlds. And she knew all about living in your own world.

  She had proved a good point, and people were now coming to her as a matter of course. She was pleased with how it was working out, but more than anything she was amazed at how much she enjoyed the actual day-to-day running of the business. She had a knack for it, and she was more than surprised at how easy she found it. Unlike her husband, Mary was aware that extreme measures were not to be used lightly. In fact, her mixture of a polite request, followed closely by a vicious demand had proved fruitful. Once the word had spread on the street that they were still in business, that Jackie Martin was more than capable of carrying on the business without his partner and local legend, Gerry Dooley, they had been set. But the real powers-that-be knew that Mary Dooley was the real brains behind the outfit, and they were happy to give her the work. Especially as she delivered.

  The fact that Michael Hannon was the silent partner in the business alone was guaranteed to speed up the payment of most of the street debts, and Mary was not averse to a bit of good publicity if it paid dividends. She also knew that the chat on the pavement was already insinuating that she was the new principal of the business, working in conjunction with Michael Hannon.

  She neither confirmed nor denied these rumours, as she was more than aware of how beneficial they would eventually be. If Jackie Martin had caught wind of them, he had not mentioned anything to her. But then, he wouldn’t. Would he? Jackie was quite happy to let her do the real collar, and he was also happy enough as a figurehead, that was all he wanted out of the partnership. If he heard the rumours concerning her, he had not said a dicky bird.

  Mary was enjoying herself for the first time in years; she was using her brain again, and she could feel it kicking back to full throttle as the days turned into weeks and the weeks turned into months. The cleaning of the house was still of tantamount importance where she was concerned, and what she loved most about her new job was that she could do it at her leisure. In her own time. After all, her job did not require her actual presence, all she had to do was research the debtor and find out their local haunts. That was easy, most of the people they wanted were well known to everyone around about, so finding out their daily schedules was not exactly rocket science. It was the more slippery customers that she enjoyed tracking down, and it seemed that she had a natural aptitude for it.

  Since she had taken over the business, money was pouring in, and she was determined to keep it that way. Gerald had hidden money all over the place, and she was still trying to locate most of it. It was only now, being left widowed so abruptly, that Mary understood just how much her husband had kept quiet about his business dealings. She also realised just how ignorant she had been about their financial concerns. Gerry had given her a good wage, and she had appreciated that. But he had obviously been salting money away and, unfortunately for her, he had not seen fit to share that information with her.

  It galled her, because no matter how she tried to dress it up, or tried to defend his actions, at the end of the day she had to admit to herself that her husband had not held her in high enough esteem. If he had, he would have made a point of telling her where the fucking bulk of their cash was hidden. She wasn’t a fool, she knew that the Filth were always on the fucking cadge, loved nothing more than busting someone who worked in a cash-only business so they could have a little dip into what would become known jokingly as the police holiday fund. Gerry paid off a lot of Bill, and he had weighed out a lot of his grasses, as she now did herself but, even taking that into account, and no matter how she tried to dress it up, she came to the same conclusion. Her husband had not seen fit to let her fully into his world. She had asked Jackie Martin if he knew anything about what her husband might have done with his excess monies and she believed him when he had denied all knowledge. She also had a terrible feeling that her husband had not been averse to having his old mate over into the bargain. She just wished she could remember anything he’d said that might give her a hint as to where the money might be hidden. She had even asked the boys, but she had known from the start that would be a fruitless exercise. Gerald would not have told them anything of importance.

  After all, Mary now had a daughter who was due to give birth and she needed as much money as she could gather; her grandchild would want for nothing. She hoped the baby was a girl, as the product of a so-called rape she felt that a girl would be easier for people to accept. They had to keep up the rape story, it was what had justified her husband’s death, it had also salvaged what was left of her daughter’s reputation.

  Though from what she could garner, any vestige of a reputation Imelda had possessed, had been destroyed by her early teens. Her daughter disgusted her, she was like a stranger, she didn’t know her any more. She actively loathed her, and that broke her heart. It was her fault that they were in such dire straits. Without Michael Hannon’s protection they would never have started up the business once more. It would have died with Gerald and the family would have been scratching a living as best they could.

  Imeld
a was now back to her old self with a vengeance; she was argumentative and aggressive and, without her father’s calming presence, she was now completely without any kind of stabilising influence.

  Mary watched her daughter as she slipped from the room, knew she was going to go upstairs to her bedroom to have a smoke and a couple of drinks. She counted to ten, and then she followed her. It broke her heart that a child she had borne, a child that she had given life to, had seen educated in the Catholic church, and who she had once believed was worthy of her love and her trust, had no care at all for the baby that was growing inside her.

  Had no conscience about any of her actions, past or present.

  Louise Parks was a broken woman.

  Her only son’s death had almost turned her mind. The way he had died haunted her every waking moment, even when she fell asleep.

  That she loved her son was an understatement; she had worshipped and adored him. Jason had been her whole life. She had birthed him, cared for him, and looked after him without a second’s thought until he had been murdered. Had been butchered.

  He was a little fucker, she was the first to admit that. He was a stroppy little bugger too, when the fancy took him, she admitted that, but he was not a rapist. She had searched her heart to find the honest answer to that accusation. She had tried her hardest to pinpoint something, anything, that might prove her instincts about her only child wrong. She had forced herself to look at her dead boy in that way. Had forced herself to try and find some reason for him to be branded a rapist. But she could not find anything that would make her believe it was true. She could not for the life of her find anything to justify that accusation.

  He was not a rapist, he was just a healthy red-blooded boy who slept around and could not connect with the man who had sired him. That was the truth of it; he had been a young man without any kind of paternal influence in his life.

  But Jason was not a lad who could have harmed a girl, he never would have hurt a female; he had always had a deep love of women. It was the only thing he had ever had in common with his father; like a mongrel he could smell a bitch on heat from a mile away.

  Louise knew that people would think her a fool for what she believed, but she knew her son. And she knew that he was not capable of hurting any female in that kind of way. He might have broken their hearts, but that was different. And Imelda Dooley was never off the fucking phone, or the doorstep at one time. But who would believe her if she said that? She would be accused of lying to save her son’s reputation. She would be either pitied, or ridiculed.

  She had braved the funeral of Gerald Dooley, had seen the girl whose baby her Jason had apparently fathered, had tried to gather up enough courage to ask her if she would please tell the truth. Would please explain that she was lying about her son, because she had to be lying. She had to be making the story up.

  But whatever people believed, it was still her grandchild inside that girl’s belly, and it was well on by the looks of things.

  Louise had nothing now, neither chick nor child. But if that Imelda was to be believed, she had a grandchild only a few weeks away from delivery.

  Louise would do anything to have a part in its life, to see it grow up, see it bloom. She was so alone that, at times, the pain felt so acute she really believed that it might bring about her demise. She had slipped the girl a note, begging her to let her see her grandchild, assuring her that she would never allude to her son in any way if that was what she wanted. She had put her address and her phone number down, and she had also promised that if Imelda ever needed a friend or a place to go, her home would always be open to her, no matter what. She had felt a need somehow, a need to contact her and establish some kind of common ground with the girl.

  It was all she could do, and if seeing her grandchild meant she had to deny her dead son, then she was willing to even do that much. After all, the child was her flesh and blood and, no matter how it was conceived, and she was convinced that it was not through brute force, it was still a part of her family, was still a part of her dead son.

  Louise sat on the edge of the sofa; she was so thin the bones along her spine were visible through her blouse. She had a lovely face, heart shaped and chiselled, with high cheekbones and deep-set blue eyes. She had the look of a twenties flapper about her and, even with her hair scraped back into a ponytail, she still looked much younger than her years. It grieved her that after years of dieting, after all the time she had obsessed about her weight, it had taken her only child’s death to achieve her goal weight. She finally understood her mother’s old saying, ‘Be careful what you ask for, you just might get it.’

  What a price she had paid for her new-found svelteness, and even she knew that she was now too thin. She knew that she was far too skinny to be healthy; she looked in the mirror and she didn’t recognise herself any more.

  She felt the tears welling up inside her once more, felt the tightening across her chest that her son’s memory brought on. She wanted to scream at the fates, at God Himself, for taking her boy away from her so violently, and so unexpectedly. For letting her be left alone in this world, bereft of the only thing that had made her life bearable.

  Her husband’s death had not even really registered, the only time she had even thought about it was when she had been informed by his solicitors that she had been his sole beneficiary, and that was only because she had outlived their son. That her husband had left Jason everything had given her some small consolation. At the end of the day, he had not given him much when he was alive.

  She would find herself sitting in Jason’s bedroom, burying her face in his clothes, trying to recapture his scent. The smell of him; his sweat, his aftershave, his deodorant. She would feel the terror that the utter emptiness around her would invoke. She would feel the tight band of his loss as it gripped her chest, making her hope that she was at last having a heart attack, or that her heart might actually be breaking in two. But she was still here, she was still alive. It was only her faith and the fear of retribution in the afterlife, fear of being kept away from her son, that kept her from finishing her life. She had to concentrate on the child Jason had given to Imelda Dooley, she had to plan and she had to scheme. Even if all she could do was watch the child from afar, then she would have to make sure that was enough for her.

  If she was to be a grandmother, then she had to accept her situation as best she could. She had to keep her head and tell Imelda Dooley whatever she wanted to hear, agree with whatever she said about her son and convince her that she was willing to do whatever she could to make up for her son’s actions. She was willing to do just that, she had a lot of money and a lot of what her solicitor called assets. So she knew that she had at least that much going for her. If push came to shove, she would buy her way into the child’s affections.

  Louise had heard the gossip, knew that Imelda Dooley was not a wilting violet, she also knew deep down that her son had seen a lot of the girl. Louise had spoken to Imelda briefly at the funeral, and she had also seen the mother’s reaction to her being there. Imelda had rung this house on many occasions, she had opened the front door to her, and she had also, God forgive her, lied to her for her son on more than one occasion. Jason had not raped the girl, Louise was convinced of that much, and she had searched her heart for even the slightest hint of doubt about her son.

  She poured herself another glass of water and, sipping it slowly, she did what she did for most of every day since her son’s death.

  She prayed.

  Michael Hannon sat in the back room of his cab rank on Ilford High Road. He was perturbed and not a little annoyed. That Mary Dooley was well able for the debts was not something he really interested himself in, that Jackie Martin was, to all intents and purposes, the new ganger didn’t interest him. That he had just been told by an old and trusted friend that the said Jackie Martin was bad-mouthing him because he felt that he was being had over on his percentages of the debts, did interest him. Especially as he was now paying more than
he had paid out previously, and also because he hated disloyalty of any kind.

  Jackie Martin had fallen into the same trap that all treacherous bastards eventually fell into. He had allowed Gerald Dooley’s wife to walk into the top job, and he had thanked God for her doing that. Because Jackie Martin knew that he had no fucking brains at all; he was to brains what Idi Amin was to democracy. Jackie Martin was suffering from an over-inflated ego, coupled with the fact that now Gerry was gone, he had no one to keep him in order. He was an inveterate gambler, everyone knew that, and Gerry had kept a close eye on him and his expenditure. In short, Gerald Dooley had always made sure that Jackie Martin did not end in the same position as the people they were paid to shake down. Gerry had ensured Jackie’s debts were paid sooner rather than later. It was something that anyone with half a brain would have understood the logic of.

  Without this personal service, it seemed Jackie Boy was suddenly going off the rails, and Michael Hannon had an awful feeling that Mary Dooley was not aware of any of this. Her sons were not exactly the sharpest knives in the fucking drawer and he had a terrible feeling that they would not see the sense in giving their mother a heads-up about this. They were still quite happy to follow Jackie’s lead, to do what was requested of them.