The Business

by Martina Cole

  Jamsie was just what she needed; he was big, strong and funny. He was making her laugh and making her feel special, and that was just what the doctor had ordered.

  ‘Are you all right, girl?’

  Jordanna nodded, her huge blue eyes, as always, expressing her innermost feelings. ‘I am feeling pretty good actually, better than I have for a long time.’

  Jamsie didn’t question her answer, he felt the truth of it and he also felt pleased that he was the reason she was feeling so good about herself. He didn’t know how, but he knew instinctively that she had not felt happy for a very long time. The sadness was all over her, the hurt was almost tangible, and he promised himself then and there that he would be a staunch supporter of this girl in whatever she wanted to do.

  Jordanna was totally enamoured with him, from his dreads to his killer smile he was sex on legs. She felt a connection with him, and knew it was more than reciprocated.

  She could feel her mother’s eyes burning into her and she refused to meet her stare, this was Kenny’s night and it was up to him to make their mother a part of it all. She was only a by-stander these days, and that suited her. Jordanna Dooley had no interest in becoming a part of Kenny’s world, or her mother’s, for that fact. It frightened her. Been there, done that, and she had the scars to prove it.

  Basil could hear the conversation that was going on nearby and he was impressed with Kenny’s acumen. He was a real man’s man and, more than that, he was a fucking personality in his own right. That he was suddenly a good friend and confidant of Jamsie O’Loughlin had not gone unnoticed. Well, he was determined to point out a few of Jamsie’s less edifying qualities to young Kenny Boy when the opportunity arose. Especially as his own mother was a real watchword where hard drugs and Jamsie were concerned.

  Jamsie O’Loughlin was not a mug, he was the real deal in many respects, and he was the general spokesman for the local West Indian population. He ruled his empire with fear and humour - he was not someone to be taken lightly in any way, shape or form. That Basil was in throes of a tear-up with him was neither here nor there this night. It was Kenny’s night, and he was not about to rock his boat in any way. He would never ever ruin anyone’s night. Trouble could wait, it came soon enough as it was. Why bring it into the open when there was no need to, when it was the kind of trouble that was not going anywhere, could wait a few days.

  Basil had heard from what he classed as very good contacts that Jamsie was treating his girls to the needle, and very young girls at that. Juveniles who were unable to make an informed decision about anything; not that most junkies chose to become skagheads, an informed decision about anything was usually beyond them by the time the drug took hold.

  Once on the needle the girls were no better than captive prisoners, when the brown took over, they were its slave. Junkies would fight, steal, lie and even kill, for the next high. It was not their fault, not really. They were at the mercy of a need that transcended love, loyalty, family, basically anything that stood in the way of the next score. The girls were very young, and they would now do anything to get the money for an armful. Most of them would be destroyed completely by twenty-five. Most of them would look thirty before they hit their nineteenth birthday. They would lie about everything and anything, always wondering if they could con their way to another few quid. They would forget what it was like to be cared about, what it was like to care about other people, about themselves. They would forget about everyday things like cleanliness, regular eating, and they would not only stop bathing and eating, they would also stop interacting with other people. Junkies might needle up together, but that was as far as their interaction went. They might jack up in a flat somewhere, but their high was a very personal moment. Heroin was not a social drug, although it might have seemed it at first. In the initial stages people skanked and laughed as they watched the drug being burnt on a spoon, might even have chased it the first few times. Then the lure of the intravenous high would be spoken of, explained in all its Technicolor glory by people who either had a hidden agenda or were still in the first flush of the skag love affair. Amphetamines, cocaine, grass, none of them had the same resonance as the brown. Heroin was a drug that was more often than not introduced to a body by someone with an alternative agenda. A man could have total control over a girl once she was introduced to the opiate benefits of the heroin high. He would then make a point of procuring the drug for them and, in extreme cases, taking the fucker alongside of them, to prove it was not as dangerous as they might have heard. But it was always a scam. It was a form of social control that most of the political philosophers had never thought to investigate thoroughly. After all, like politicians and judges, they were, as always, unaware of what was really going on underneath their noses. It was a win-win situation for the dealer. No one liked junkies and, more to the point, no one wanted them either. As society’s outcasts, they were dropped into a nightmare of supply and demand, with nowhere to turn.

  Once on the brown, the person involved gradually lost their free will, along with their kindness, their decency, their whole personality. Coupled with the instigator’s total control over them. Then came the paranoia, the belief that everyone who was trying to help them were parasites, were liars and cheats.

  It was not long until the girls involved found themselves without family, friends or morals. Within a few weeks they were totally dependent not only on the drug, but also on the supplier of the drug. That most wraps bought on the streets often contained so little heroin it would not get a puppy dog high was neither here nor there. It was a physical and psychological addiction that lasted the person concerned their whole life. It was, in most cases, a death sentence, and it went unnoticed because once a person got on the H, they were immediately classed as the lowest of the low.

  Basil could see Jordanna eyeing up Jamsie, and that the fucker was eyeing her up back. Kenny was watching Jordanna too, and Basil decided to wait and see how it panned out before offering his opinion about it. Kenny walked over to the pair.

  Jamsie O’Loughlin was about to find that he was in the unenviable position of trying to explain to Kenny that his intentions towards his sister were honourable, not an easy feat when you were the pimp extraordinaire of your generation.

  A pimp was someone who was looked on with a certain respect while, at the same time, the very nature of his business automatically made him a second-class citizen to most of the men he dealt with. It was like anything else. A pecking order existed in all walks of life and, until it affected him personally, it was never an issue. Once it became an issue, it was all-out war. Like any war, its cause was the inability of others to see things from a like-minded point of view.

  Now, outside the venue and confronted about his intentions towards Jordanna Dooley, Jamsie had a decision to make. He could fight this, or walk away. He decided he felt a strong enough attraction to Jordanna to fight his case.

  ‘Look, Kenny, I didn’t know she was your sister, and I understand that you might have certain reservations where I am concerned. I understand that. But I can assure you now, I met her tonight and I liked her, a lot. There is no hidden fucking agenda, I just want to take her out. If I did want to put her on the pavement I think we can both assume that idea would now be what is commonly known as moot, don’t you? She is lovely. I saw her and I got hit by a fucking thunder-bolt. ’

  Jamsie laughed in complete disbelief at his own words, knowing how fucking silly they sounded to him, let alone Kenny Boy.

  Kenny looked into his dark eyes, searching for the lie he knew was not there. Jamsie was a mate, he had always looked out for him. When Kenny’s mum had been on the bash he had sometimes looked out for her too. He would track her down and pass on the information to Kenny Boy. That he had been requested to do so beforehand by Basil or Jimmy Bailey was neither here nor there. He had always given Kenny the info with a quiet and dignified demeanour. Jamsie’s attitude was that if his mother had been flogging her arse he would not have wanted the whole world
to know about it either.

  Although, in Kenny’s case, the whole world did know; at least the world they inhabited anyway. Kenny’s life had been blighted by his mother’s fucking lifestyle, she was a mother who would have been better off drowning her kids at birth to save them the aggravation or, better still, someone, somewhere, should have drowned her.

  Still, Jamsie had always given the boy the benefit of the doubt and respected him for keeping his eye on his mother. Imelda was a cunt and, like all cunts, she did not deserve this boy’s care or attention. That she had it was more in his favour than hers.

  Jordanna, who he had heard of, but never met, was a different kettle of fish altogether. She was a real good girl, and he felt a deep want of her that was so powerful it guaranteed him all this fucking old fanny. He was being questioned, and he was swallowing; that alone spoke fucking volumes.

  ‘You fuck my sister up and I will hunt you down like a fucking dog, and I will kill you, Jamsie. I will rip your fucking heart out. She has had enough hurt in her life without you waltzing in like Steve Stunning and sweeping her off her feet. Unless you are serious about her, you leave her alone.’

  Jamsie grinned, and his large white teeth and easy-going friendliness were very much in evidence as he said seriously, ‘I understand your reservations about me, I would be the same if I was you. But I swear to you, I have never felt like this before in my life. I just want to take her out, get to know her, that’s all.’

  Kenny was inclined to believe him; he liked Jamsie, he always had. But he was a dealer and a fucking pimp, and that meant he used women. It was the nature of that particular beast. All women were beneath them, beneath their contempt. They saw the female sex as paper money, saw them as less than animals. Pimps could not afford to be nice, it defeated the object.

  His mother had been a real learning curve where most men were concerned. The average bloke would shag a fence given the opportunity, and Kenny did not want Jordanna stuck in another nightmare of her own making. He had not looked out for her the last time, and he was not about to let that happen again. He would fucking cut the next bastard up with a smile and a cheery song. Jordanna would never know pain like that again. Not while he was capable of drawing a breath.

  ‘You had better treat her with the respect she deserves. If I find out any different, there will be fucking ambulances arriving.’

  Kenny saw Jamsie relax at his words. ‘All I want is the chance to get to know her. If it turns out we don’t get on, then we’ll both chalk it up to experience. But let it go now, Kenny, you’ve made your fucking point, no need to labour it.’

  Kenny knew he had gone over the top, but what else could he do? She was his sister, his flesh and blood and he had left her to her own devices once and look where that had got her. He forced himself to smile then. He knew that Jamsie was not about to mug him off in any way, Jamsie being more than aware of his penchant for hurting people who disappointed him in any way. Jamsie knew that if he fucked up he would be living on borrowed time. Plus, he liked Jamsie. Always had, he had done him a few favours over the years where his ponce of a mother had been concerned. He hoped that his sister did fall for the bloke big time, he wanted to see her settled with someone who could look after her. Better the devil you knew, he had learnt that old fucking chestnut the hard way. His sister needed to be loved and cared for, more than anyone realised.

  Imelda was over the moon. Her son had finally invited her to join him at the bar and she understood the significance of his offer as much as the people around her. By publicly recognising her, he had given her a new-found acceptance that she could now use to her advantage as and when the opportunity arose.

  Until then, she had been shrewd enough to keep her head down and her trap shut. She knew that she needed to keep this son of hers onside for the foreseeable future.

  With his public acknowledgment of her, she was once more on the cusp of public acceptance. She would be welcomed back into the bosom of the local drinking establishments, and would be seen as a viable borrower of money; she would now be in a position to run up debts, debts that she had no intention of paying.

  Jordanna was still a loose cannon in many ways, but Imelda would work on her. She would ensure that her daughter came around to her way of thinking in the end. She was rocking, standing there in full view of everyone, being treated like a queen; she felt she was finally where she should be. Her son, against all the odds, had made it, and because of him, she was now ready to take her rightful place in the not-so-polite society she craved. Jamsie O’Loughlin was a dealer of platinum standards, as she knew better than most. They went back a long time. But she would keep that bit of information to herself. He sourced brown that was so pure it was dangerous until it was cut at least three times. If her Jordanna managed to hook him, Imelda was basically set for life where the drugs were concerned. After all, he would be honourbound to serve up his bird’s mother, it stood to reason.

  As she looked around her, she saw the sceptical glances that were coming her way. She knew that she was the only fly in her son’s otherwise exemplary ointment. He was a real player now and he would go on and on until he became the only player. He got that single-mindedness from her.

  Basil was watching her closely, but Imelda didn’t react in any way. She was hated, and she knew that. But she could apologise for England when it was demanded of her. She could grovel with the best of them.

  As Kenny winked at her, she smiled widely, she knew he was only making a point where she was concerned. She knew that he only wanted her in his life so he could keep an eye on her while, at the same time, forcing the people around him to accept her. If they did that, then it would prove to him, once and for all, that he was finally a Face.

  She could write the fucking script for him, but she had to pretend she was ignorant to his ulterior motives, though she did wonder if he realised what was going down himself. He got his sneakiness from her, though. His natural desire to keep everything to himself, no matter how trivial, was an inbred thing she felt.

  She was genuinely sorry though, because she had admitted to herself a long time ago, that she didn’t really like her son that much. He was a stranger to her in many respects, and as he didn’t really like her either, she felt that made them even somehow. He was a user like her, but he dressed it up and convinced himself that it was for the good of other people.

  She did not like him, no more than she did her daughter. She saw Jordanna as weak; she was like a fucking albatross hanging around everyone’s neck.

  A real party pooper, even now she was devoid of anything that even resembled interesting. She was a good-looking girl, she had to be, she was her double. But she had nothing that could be seen as individualism. She was a fucking wet blanket. A fucking poor-me merchant, and that was all her mother’s doing. Mary had fucked up both her kids, big time. But then, she had not expected anything else. The girl was a complete washout, if only she had inherited her shrewdness, her mother’s nous, then she might have had something about her. Something going on.

  As it was, she was a boring bastard, and that was proved by her daughter’s obvious interest in Jamsie O’Loughlin. Imelda knew him well, but then she would, he was her kind of guy. Jordanna was hanging on his every word and, more to the point, Jamsie seemed to be hanging on to hers in return. It was sick-making.

  That her daughter had already buried a child, and lived through her mother’s lunacy did not even register with Imelda. As far as she could see, her daughter was a weakling, a wimp who was incapable of seeing the main chance as and when it presented itself. With Kenny’s new-found notoriety, Jordanna should have the brains to be using it to its full advantage; instead she was like a fucking moron, frightened of her own shadow. It was a crying shame. She should be at home watching Countdown with all the other anoraks, not here among the movers and shakers. This was wasted on her, and that really annoyed Imelda.

  But she would keep her head down and her arse up, and wait for the chance to further hers
elf. If she played a blinder she would not have to do another blow job ever again, unless she wanted to, of course. At this stage in her life, her son’s new-found notoriety was a real touch. Imelda raised her glass at Jamsie in an imaginary toast; she was not surprised when he did not bother to reciprocate.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  ‘You are a fucking imbecile, and as such you need a fucking serious livener, boy. You think you can take me for a cunt and I wouldn’t fucking notice?’

  Kenny Boy was livid, his face was bright red and his hands were clenched into fists of rage. He was breathing in short, staccato bursts, his heart was beating faster than an alarm clock, and he was swallowing down the urge to kill.

  He was more than aware that he had not yet struck the object of his anger, and that pleased him because he knew he needed to rein in his anger. His rage was never far from the surface, and it was always his first reaction to anything that happened to him or his. Smash it, crush it, hurt someone. His rage was a natural part of his life. It was there when he awoke in the morning, and it was still there when he went to sleep at night.

  He fought a daily battle to keep it contained. He knew he was often outrageously over the top where his anger and his personal feelings of retribution were concerned. He could quite happily kill someone on the slightest of pretexts. Wiping out anyone who he saw as a rival or as a piss-taker was par for the course. He fantasised about killing his enemies, he had done since he was a little child. It was how he coped with the day to day, how he coped with living down being his mother’s son and all that entailed.

  He knew inside himself that his anger often far outweighed the reasoning for it. But he also knew that his single-mindedness was seen as an asset by the people he worked alongside. He liked Harry, and he really didn’t want to hurt him, but he couldn’t see what else he could do. The man had fucked him over, big time.