by Martina Cole
‘I’ll sort you right out, Harry. A fucking hammering is just what you need and is exactly what you are going to get.’
Harold Carter was literally shaking in his brand-new, expensive boots. He had dropped a serious bollock and he knew he deserved what was coming to him. It still didn’t help though, knowing that he had asked for it. If it was anyone else but Kenny Boy he would have swallowed. But Kenny was not known for his sympathetic nature. Kenny Boy would administer a punishment far exceeding the crime committed, it was nothing personal, it was just his nature. When Harold Carter had helped himself to the takings he had not felt he had gone over the top as such. He had only spiked a few quid, a fifty here, a twenty there. It was not as if he was creaming off the hundreds, or the thousands. At worst, he was guilty of giving himself a well-deserved drink, no more and no less. But he should have known that Kenny Dooley would know what he was owed down to the last fucking penny. It was a foible of his; he made a fucking point, apparently, of knowing how much he was owed by everyone and anyone.
Like that should be a big surprise, the general consensus was that Kenny Boy was a fucking weirdo. Of course he would be interested in the pennies and the halfpennies. It was what he did best. Everyone knew that Kenny could glance over a column of figures and work out the total in seconds without breaking a sweat. He needed nothing: no paper, pens, or calculator, he did it all in his head.
But this also didn’t allow for the fact that everyone else in their world, other than him of course, were amenable to a little bit of skimming by their workforce, it was what made their world go round, what kept people on the payroll. Kenny was not the only criminal in town and, by the very nature of his business, he was honourbound to employ other criminals, who he, for some reason known only to himself, expected to act like choir boys. Harry was shitting it, and he knew deep down that all this was very wrong. But he was not about to point that fact out, he was not on a death wish.
‘Look, Kenny, all I did was take the extra, it’s not unheard of to extract a drink . . .’
Kenny didn’t let him finish his sentence, he was already punching him to the ground. He saw the theft of his money as a personal affront, saw it as a mark of disrespect towards him personally. That was something that was never going to happen. Not in his lifetime anyway.
As Harry Carter lost consciousness he wondered briefly if he would ever open his eyes again. Kenny Boy was quite capable of finishing him off for this.
Kenny was still kicking at the prone body when Jack Carling dragged him away. Kenny was so incensed at Harry’s audacity that he wanted to kill him, wanted to erase him from the planet once and for all.
‘Come on, Kenny, he had a small skim. Get over it, for fuck’s sake.’
Jack was having trouble keeping Kenny away from the prostrate form; he was holding him against the wall, forcing him to calm down and let his sensible head prevail once more.
Kenny knew that if he really wanted to, he could take on Jack Carling, and Jack’s minions as well, without even breaking a sweat. His edge was that, unlike everyone else he dealt with, he did not really need an excuse to hurt people. He could hurt anyone at any time and, when he felt the urge, he did just that. He would use the slightest pretext to unleash his anger on an unsuspecting public. It was another thing that worked in his favour. If Kenny Boy gave someone a good hiding they must have deserved it; he was not known for being a bully, or for just flexing his muscles. Kenny had a violent streak, and that was common knowledge. What was not known by all and sundry was that he had to control himself from day to day, that he understood that his temper would be his downfall if he didn’t learn to control it. But he knew he had to calm himself down, especially now. Harry had been a good worker, and most people would not feel the need to chastise him for his little scam. But then he was not like other people, he saw the theft of his poke as fucking disgraceful. He saw it as a challenge to him and his authority, as a fucking complete and utter piss-take.
‘You tell that cunt he is finished with me now, he is gone, over with, and you make sure that anyone who takes a wage from me understands that if even a fucking fiver goes on the trot, I will personally hunt down the cunt who palmed it myself. I pay enough out in wages, I don’t expect to be fucking robbed by me own.’
Jack was nodding in agreement, he knew he was getting a warning and he also knew that he would have to pass that warning on, and pass it on very vocally so this man could be placated. He was a real giant in his field was Kenny, he had the goodwill of every major Face in the Smoke. But he was a real weirdo in other respects. Jack pushed him towards the door, he wanted him away from Harry’s prostrate form.
Kenny was not the easiest of bosses, but then who was? He was a real earner though, he earned fucking serious amounts of brass. But, in all fairness, he paid well, and so Harry Carter’s little mistake was not to be overlooked from Kenny’s rather narrow point of view.
‘Come on, Kenny, let’s get you out of here.’
Kenny followed him quietly now. He was a big lad, and he was also a very intimidating lad, especially when the fancy took him. Seeing him attack Harry like that had been a real eye-opener. Kenny was certainly not an easy man to placate, in fact he was a fucking handful. A big, paranoid and overly strong handful.
As they walked out of the warehouse into the weak January sunlight Jack said seriously, ‘He did not deserve that, Kenny Boy. He was taking pennies, it ain’t like it was fucking fortunes.’
Jack was a name in his own right; Kenny had specifically requested him from his last employer. Jack came with a fucking gold-plated guarantee, and that was the only reason he was being allowed to offer his opinion now.
Kenny laughed, his even white teeth and youthful good looks made him seem like a candidate for a boy band. He was a real handsome fucker, and he knew it. But he was also a nasty fucker, and anyone who chose to forget that, did so at their peril.
‘The fact that fucking ponce skimmed quids off me is why I am so fucking annoyed with him. It’s an even bigger insult than if he had tried to scam me for fortunes. Can’t you fucking see that? He was tanking me for fucking fag money, so what the fuck does that make him and, more to the point, what does that make me? You tell him, if I see him again I will fucking hammer him all over again.’
Jack saw the logic in his argument. The bloke had a valid point. But he had still gone over the top. Kenny had delivered a beating that would have been given to a supergrass. The punishment had to fit the crime. After all, they were not the Filth.
As he turned away from Kenny, Jack was surprised to be grabbed physically by his hair and then violently forced back inside the warehouse by Kenny Boy. He was thrown unceremoniously on to the filthy concrete flooring and Kenny then kicked him over and over again, putting his considerable weight behind each blow. But this time the kicking was delivered with a viciousness that was all the more sinister because it was also very controlled. Jack curled up into a foetal position and waited for him to stop. He was bleeding already, and he knew his mouth would need to be stitched. He felt every blow as it landed strategically on his prone body. When the beating finally stopped, he waited a few seconds before carefully rolling on to his back. He was hurting badly, bleeding like a stuck pig. It was monstrous that this had even happened. As he looked up at Kenny Boy he could see the undisguised hatred in his eyes.
‘You ever see fit to question me about any of my fucking dealings again, and I’ll fucking kill you. You arrogant cunt. Should I want your fucking opinion in the future, I will request it from you in a civil and interested manner. I will ask you a series of probing questions, and I will then listen carefully to your well-thought-out and hopefully, your very enlightening answers. Until then, you keep your fucking conk out of my affairs. Do you get my fucking drift? Or would you like me to put it in writing so you can peruse it at your leisure?’
Jack understood then just why this young fellow was so well thought of, he was a real bona fide nut-job. He had no fear of anyone, and he
had a rough dignity that was very difficult to ignore. Seeing him now Jack was frightened of what he could be capable of should he feel the need. Should he feel that he had been disrespected.
Pulling himself upright, Jack Carling knew when he was beaten. He spat out a mouthful of blood and, wiping a hand across his face, he felt the lumps and swellings that were already forming. He would look like a fucking accident victim for weeks. His ribs were broken, and he had trouble taking a deep breath. The shock of the attack was overwhelming him. He had never experienced anything like it before in his life.
‘I am sorry, Kenny, I was trying to diffuse the situation, that’s all.’
Kenny was smiling widely now, as if the earlier contretemps had never happened. He was the amiable friend, the joker. He was the big-hearted mate. He seemed unaware of Jack’s condition, didn’t seem to see the blood or the bruising.
‘I know that, Jackie Boy. All I am saying is, I am more than capable of diffusing a situation as and when I see fit and, for the record, I will reiterate once again, when I want your fucking opinion, I’ll ask you for it. Now, dump that cunt and let’s get back to the job in hand.’
Jack knew then that what he had heard was basically the tip of the iceberg where Kenny was concerned. He could see the absence of real emotion in his handsome face, in his deep-blue eyes. Someone had once said Kenny Dooley was a psycho, and he was. The big worry for Jack was that Kenny himself didn’t seem to know that.
‘Come on, Jordanna, I just want to have a coffee with you. Why are you so bloody against me? I am really trying here.’ Imelda was angry and irritated with her daughter and this came across in her voice.
Jordanna sighed. She was in a hurry, she was meeting Jamsie and she wanted to tell him her good news. But her mother accosting her in the street had thrown her off-kilter. Jordanna was a much more confident person since Jamsie had come into her life. She also knew, thanks to her brother, that he had handed the pimping side of his business over to his cousin Dexter. It was his way of showing that he was serious about her. He just dealt now, and he was more or less the main dealer in London. That was also thanks to her brother, as she knew. But Jordanna did not see that as a negative, all she was interested in was Jamsie O’Loughlin as a person. And that person was the love of her life. He made her feel good about herself. He made her feel like a valid person.
Now her mother was once more trying to inveigle herself into her daughter’s company and she didn’t want that. She didn’t appreciate her mother forcing her to spend time in her company. She had Kenny, why did she still think she needed Imelda as well?
‘I am late as it is, Mum. Maybe we can meet next week.’ She was already walking away from her. But, as she knew, Imelda was not going to be brushed off so easily.
‘Relax, will you? All I want is to know how you are. Surely you can spare five minutes for your own mother. Jamsie will keep. Christ knows, he would wait months for you if you asked him to.’ This was said in jest, but the underlying jealousy was evident to them both.
As Jordanna walked back towards her house she was annoyed with herself for her weakness where her mother was concerned. Where everyone was concerned. She always tried to keep the peace and old habits died hard.
Opening the front door, she heard her mother’s heels as she clattered down the hallway behind her. It was just like when she was kid, the feeling of dread that noise could still evoke inside her. The hollow click-clack of her mother’s stilettos brought forth another memory. She saw herself in her mother’s shoes, four-inch black leather courts, wearing a pink-and-lemon nightdress and, as she clattered up the hallway, she remembered being picked up by her mother’s bloke and taken into the bedroom, her little body protesting, screaming in distress at what she knew would happen to her, and her mother turning away. Her mother pretending she didn’t know the significance of the event, deliberately ignoring her daughter’s cries.
She was still nervous around her even now, she remembered far too much to ever feel comfortable in her presence. ‘How much do you want, Mum?’
She was standing in the kitchen now, her lovely face as always deeply troubled when her mother was nearby. Her figure was still good, tight. Like her mother she was high-breasted and slim of waist. She had also inherited her long legs and the knack of wearing clothes so they looked as if they had been handmade for her. She was opening her purse, ready to pay her off. Get rid of her.
Imelda was now acting the outraged mother. It did not sit well on her broad and very aggressive shoulders. It was an act that even a child would have sussed out.
‘I don’t want anything, Jorge. I have plenty of poke, your brother sees to that. I just want to talk to you, see if you’re OK. I care about you.’
Jordanna had put the kettle on now, and she was nervously waiting for it to boil. Her mother was watching her closely. It put Jordanna in mind of a stoat watching a rabbit, waiting for its chance to spring, its chance to kill. She knew that her mother had no real interest in her, she never had. She just wanted her onside, she had Kenny Boy but that wasn’t enough for her. She needed her daughter as well, needed her to pretend that her mother was once more an integral part of her life. It was all about pretence with Imelda. That was all her life had ever been.
‘I am fine . . . and you, how are you?’
She had a hard time saying ‘Mum’, it was not a word she found easy. When she said it, she knew it sounded forced, sounded all wrong. She knew it sounded more like an accusation than a term of endearment.
Imelda sat down on a kitchen chair, her body was fluid, still with the illusion of youth about it. For Imelda, her daughter was the equivalent of looking in a mirror. It was uncanny, she saw her own eyes, her own features. Only, her daughter was a much younger and softer version, of course. Too soft for her own good, if truth be told.
‘I am OK, I suppose. Are you pregnant again by any chance, Jorge?’
The question caught Jordanna off guard. She had not told anybody yet, she had been holding the knowledge inside her, enjoying it for a short while, hugging it to herself and allowing herself to daydream. She saw a child who would be a scholar, a child who would be so intelligent they would confound everyone around them. She imagined a little boy, or little girl, tremendously good-looking, so stunningly beautiful that people would remark on their handsomeness on a daily basis. She had dreamt up a child whose life would be perfect in every way. Who would be so loved that they would never know the pain of insecurity, the pain of knowing they were not wanted by anyone who really mattered.
But now that was spoilt. Ruined. Her mother knowing about anything was like a poison, it was now no more than a guaranteed bad deal. How she had known she was pregnant, she didn’t know. She couldn’t even start to imagine. But Imelda did know, and the worst thing of all was that her knowing just convinced Jordanna that, as always, she was doomed. Her baby was doomed, and her mother was the cause of it all. She hated Imelda for that, hated her for knowing her secrets and for speaking them out loud as if she had some kind of right to discuss her daughter’s life, had been a valid participant in it, thereby entitling her to have any kind of opinion about her. Her mother’s arrival at this particular moment, her assumption that she would be able to talk her way into her life, was absolutely outrageous. Her mother’s arrogance in thinking that she was so weak and stupid she would be thrilled at her sudden interest in her and her life made Jordanna absolutely livid. Her mother acting like she really cared about her when they both knew that she was the only reason Imelda had not been locked up and forgotten about made her feel so full of resentment and so full of anger she was finding it hard to breathe. ‘How do you know I am pregnant?’
Imelda smiled widely, her face for once showing what could be termed genuine happiness. Not because of her daughter’s condition, but because she had guessed it so rightly. It had been a shot in the dark, but her daughter was such a fucking moron that her having a baby was to be expected. She had a bloke, so a baby would be the next step. It was hard
ly rocket science. Jordanna was a fucking walking cliché and, in all fairness, that only made it easier for her to manipulate the situation.
‘A mother knows these things, Jorge. Have you told anyone yet?’
Jordanna shook her head vehemently. ‘No.’
Imelda started getting irritated with this daughter of hers. Trying to get any information from her was like getting blood from the proverbial stone. The girl was two fags short of a full packet. It was also obvious to Imelda that her daughter was a holder of grudges; life was shit, big deal, she should get over it. She was tempted to give this little whore her side of the story, but she knew she wouldn’t be interested in that. She was already determined to play the victim, well, so be it. She had nothing on her conscience where her kids were concerned. But the urge to slap this little mare’s face was really tempting. ‘Well, when are you going to tell people, love? It’s hardly something spectacular, it’s not like no one in the world has never done it before. How do you think everyone on the planet got here? Someone pushed them out of their body. You’re only pregnant, Jorge. I did it twice meself, for fuck’s sake, and I’m still here to tell the tale.’
Her mother had just dismissed Jordanna’s baby and her need to keep it a secret for a while as if none of that mattered at all. And, in fairness, it probably didn’t matter to her. Nothing ever did. Ever had, for that matter. Least of all her own babies; she had never really cared about them. Even Kenny, her golden boy, had only been a diversion for her.
Jordanna felt a black, filthy anger rising up inside her at her mother’s cruel disregard for her and her wants. She was suddenly overcome with all the feelings she had tried so hard to suppress for years. They were the reason she was so nervous all the time, was so worried and scared of ever really letting herself go. She had never once allowed herself to give free rein to her deepest feelings, and she knew it was because she always tried to keep the peace, tried to do what was best for everyone around her. She felt it was her responsibility to keep everybody happy, even if that meant she was buried under the weight of it all. And, looking at her mother now, it finally hit her that she had wasted her time trying to do the right thing. She knew now that she had not ever even made this woman think of her, let alone understand the sacrifices she had made. Her whole life had been one bad dream after another.
