Like Father, Like Son

by Sarah Masters

  Catlow took a deep breath. “Like I said, I had a visitor. Someone from Starky’s gang. He wanted… He wanted me to take Katrina on. She was to work here overnight and drug deals would go down in the lobby. I couldn’t say no—the man, Damien his name is—frightened me. Said he’d break my legs if I didn’t do what he wanted.”

  “And, of course, because your legs had been threatened, you complied?” Matt said, sarcasm rife in his tone. “Would you have done the same had it been your wife’s and children’s legs, I wonder?” That had been below the belt, but having his suspicions confirmed that there had been something off about Catlow from the minute he’d met him meant Matt’s nerves had been tweaked too much for him not to push this bloke. Hard.

  Catlow didn’t answer that. There was no need. His cards had already been placed on the table long before now.

  “Anything else that would ‘go down’ that I need to be informed about?” Matt asked.

  “Yes.” A whisper.

  “On you go, then.” Matt folded his arms across his chest.

  “He runs a prostitution racket out of here—Damien or Starky, I don’t know which. Any spare rooms are filled during the night. Katrina made sure everyone left before Olivia came on shift.”

  “And you were paid generously for this, were you?” Matt asked.

  “No, that’s just it, I didn’t take any money at all. None was offered. You can check my bank accounts on that score. My payment was keeping my legs unbroken.” Catlow must have caught sight of his dangling lock of hair. He smoothed it back over his head, hand shaking.

  “Got yourself into a bit of a mess, haven’t you?” Matt said.

  Catlow nodded. “Will my wife have to be told?”

  “Oh, give it a rest about your wife. You reap what you sow, Mr. Catlow. The chips will land wherever they fall.”

  Disgusted, Matt rose then stalked away, anger burning inside him. Aaron would deal with sorting Catlow out and arranging what needed to be arranged. Matt had to get some fresh air and a bit of space to think. With a visit to Starky in the very near future, he had cards of his own that he needed to lay down.

  Or keep close to his chest. Whatever worked best.

  Chapter Four

  Belly full of Whoppers, and given the pain he was in, Robby strutted as best he could down the street his ma lived in. The grand weighed heavy in his pocket, and he was dying to spend it. The new phone weighed heavy in the other, and he was dying to take pictures with it. He’d earn himself a few more of those grands then think about moving into a new place. The room he currently rented in a flat-share was dire, the only thing he’d been able to afford at the time of leaving his childhood home to branch out into the world his ma had hoped he wouldn’t step foot in. Now, if he played the game right, he’d be living in a swanky five-bed with a swimming pool. Okay, that was going a bit far, but whatever.

  He rang the bell then turned the handle down on the always-unlocked door. His ma hadn’t moved with the times to get herself out of the decade she’d felt most comfortable in, back when the neighbors weren’t to be feared and she’d been able to leave her house unsecure and unattended, and no one had dared to go inside. Robby would have a word with her about that—again—and get some sort of alarm fitted. He needed to keep her safe. Starky’s threat to her wellbeing if he didn’t do whatever was asked of him still lingered in his mind.

  “Ma?” he called, stepping into the hallway then closing the door.

  “In here, Robber.”

  He smiled at the nickname, a bit ashamed he’d lived up to it on occasion. His old dear had never given any signs that she had a clue that he was in a gang, and he didn’t intend for her to find out, either. Not if he had a say in it. She’d brought him up to be ‘one of them good boys’, and although he’d joined The Jugulars a few years ago now and should be well able to not feel guilt for his actions, he still did sometimes. He supposed her raising of him had given him some kind of moral compass, even though it didn’t point him in the right direction for the most part. Fuck, he was well off the course she’d plotted for him.

  He walked along the hallway and into the kitchen at the end. She sat at the Formica-topped table peeling veg—sitting because the last time he’d been here she’d complained that her legs gave her hassle these days. He was sad about that but hid it with a smile, seeing the slow cooker on the counter. Stew coming up, he reckoned.

  Maybe he’d stay for dinner.

  “All right?” she asked, not glancing up from her task.

  “Not too bad, you?” Robby went over to the teapot. He lifted it by using his finger and thumb. It was heavy, made his hand throb and ache until he had to grit his teeth. He managed to pour himself a mug without shedding too many tears.

  “Fair to middling,” she said. “Can’t complain, although my hips are sore again today. Bloody things feel like the balls don’t fit right in the sockets anymore. Vera next door reckons it’s because I don’t get enough exercise. Said something like ‘If you snooze, you lose’. Maybe I ought to start taking a walk every day.” She chopped the carrot then moved on to peeling a parsnip.

  A walk? That will mean she’ll be more accessible to Starky if he has a mind to do something to her. Shit. I can’t mess up. Ever. I have to keep her safe.

  He noted her cup was full, so he curled his finger around his mug handle and, with a herculean effort, carried it to the table. His bandages were stained with the ketchup he’d put inside his two Whoppers, and the faint aroma of the burgers wafted up. He added tears to the bandage, swiping it over his face.

  He sat opposite her and waited for her to notice his hands.

  She carried on working, though, head bent. “The police have been round, asking where you are. I told them I didn’t know, because I didn’t. Don’t think they believed me, but you know I don’t tell fibs—not unless I really have to and it’s for a good reason, like someone being hurt by the truth—so they can stick their opinions up their arses. Vera next door reckons you’ve got yourself into a bit of bother. Is she right? Was I wrong telling her that you weren’t the type to be in any bother at all? Have I made myself look stupid?”

  He didn’t want to lie to her, but what choice did he have? “Yeah, I got mistaken for one of those gang members. Had a few fingers chopped off.” It was better to be blunt with her. And it wasn’t like he could hide what had happened to him, was it?

  “Very funny,” she said.

  “It wasn’t a joke, Ma.”

  She raised her head then. Spotted his swaddled hands. The knife and parsnip dropped from hers, landing on the table with a clatter and a thud. “Oh, dear God!” She slapped a palm to her chest and stared at his face, hers going red and sweaty. “Did you report it to the police?”

  “Nah, best not to when it involves a gang. You know what they’re like.”

  “But they need catching. They need putting away!” She scraped her chair back then came round to his side of the table. “You’ll have been to the doctors, won’t you?”

  “No. I came straight here after the gang let me go. No need to fuss, Ma. It’ll be all right.”

  “It bloody won’t. Your hands could go septic and all sorts.” She stroked his hair, bending down to inspect the bandage of one hand. “Is that blood? Oh, my life, that’s blood.”

  “It’s tomato sauce,” he said. “They fed me before turfing me out.”

  She strutted off behind him, in practical mother mode now, and he waited while he listened to the sounds of boiled water from the kettle being poured into what he knew would be a metal bowl, and the creak of the cupboard door where she’d no doubt opened it to pull out her trusty bottle of Dettol.

  “What did they think you’d done?” she asked, voice shaky. “I mean, you don’t have anything to do with them gangs, do you? I don’t understand.”

  “Wrong place at the wrong time, Ma, that’s all.”

  She appeared at his side and put a bowl of water on the table. She added a bit of Dettol then bustled off behind hi
m again. The smell of the disinfectant reminded him of the times she’d cleaned him up when he’d been a kid, the scrapes on his knees and elbows stinging.

  Next came the plonk of the first-aid kit being dumped in front of him, and the unraveling of one stained bandage—the one on his right hand. He didn’t like to tell her, but just by her doing that he wanted to faint.

  The painkillers Starky had given him weren’t as good as the man had claimed. Robby gritted his teeth, more tears spilling, him powerless to stop them, and he almost turned away from what was about to be revealed. But once the last covering of bandage was removed, he made himself stare at the stumps. It wasn’t as bad as he’d feared. All right, the tips were caked in congealed blood, and a bit of yellow goo seeped out of one, but Starky had also given him antibiotics.

  Robby hadn’t asked how he’d managed to get hold of them.

  There was still quite a bit of length left on the fingers of this hand, so Robby thanked his lucky stars that Damien had at least been thoughtful enough to not go right down past the second knuckle.

  “Oh, Lord!” His ma dipped cotton wool into the bowl. “This is going to sting.”

  Fuck, did it sting. He howled as she tended to him. He was close to passing out a few times. Breathing ragged, he was thankful when she’d finished and had wrapped a clean bandage around his hand.

  “Wait for a bit before you do the other one?” he asked.

  “Best to get it all out of the way at once,” she said and proceeded to work on.

  How he didn’t keel over… Christ. The pain. It was like having his fingers chopped off all over again. Only two of the three fingers on the second hand had a longer tip removed. It was going to be okay. He was still going to be able to use them.

  Thank God for small mercies.

  Once she’d done, he was nauseated and his whole body burned in agony. He rested his elbows on the table, keeping his forearms straight so his hands pointed to the ceiling. They throbbed less in that position.

  While his mum cleared away her Florence Nightingale accessories, he concentrated on slowing his breathing. It helped battle feeling sick.

  She came back to the table and placed a hand on his back. “That’s it, Robber, deep breaths.”

  “There’s some painkillers in my pocket.” He’d not long taken some, but hell, he needed another dose. He cocked a hip so one of his arse cheeks rose off the chair. “Can you pop two out of the pack for me?”

  She dug inside and, too late, he remembered the grand. The folded wedge spilled out, some of the notes landing on the floor, and she crouched to pick them up then placed them in a pile on the table. After doling out the painkillers and putting a straw in his mug so he could sip through it, she retook her seat.

  “Paid you off for making a mistake, did they? Paid you for your silence?” She jerked her head at the money. Ma sounded different now. Wary. Angry. “Is that all your fingers are worth?”

  “No. I got myself a new job.”

  She narrowed her eyes. “What’s that, then?”

  “Painter and decorator. Pays well. They’re my first wages.”

  “Did you paint a mansion?” she asked, more than a bit snippy.

  “Eh?” He frowned.

  “Well, there’s quite a bit of money there. You must have painted a lot.”

  She knew, didn’t she? She was canny, he’d give her that. Like she’d always told him, he’d never be able to pull the wool over her eyes no matter how hard he tried and how clever he thought he was. Eventually, she always ratted him out. And there was him thinking he’d done a brilliant job so far, keeping his gang membership quiet all these years. He was surprised Vera hadn’t grassed him up and wondered why she hadn’t. She didn’t normally keep her loose lips shut. The bloody woman knew all sorts, nosey cow that she was. Maybe she’d not told his ma because she cared about her and didn’t want to upset her?

  “I hope you know what you’re doing, son.”

  That last word reminded him of Starky, and Robby’s stomach rolled over. Did he know what he was doing? He thought so, but then he’d thought the same while following Damien and Starky’s missus, and look what had happened there.

  “It’ll be fine, Ma,” he said.

  She nodded. “It was inevitable, I suppose.”

  “What was?”

  “You working for Starky.”

  “How did you—?”

  “Painter and decorator, you said. Starky runs a building firm. He pays big wages. I’m not senile yet.”

  “Oh.”

  He blushed, whether from the continued pain or her catching him out, he wasn’t sure. Probably a bit of both. Sweat pinged out on his forehead then dribbled down his temples. He didn’t bother wiping it away.

  “Got yourself into a situation where you couldn’t say no, did you?” she asked, taking up peeling her parsnip again. Her hands were shaking, and she’d gone a bit pale.

  “Something like that.”

  “Like father, like son,” she whispered.

  “What?”

  “Nothing,” she said. “You might want to save those wages if that’s how much you’re getting every week. It’ll come in handy if you need to move away.”

  He knew what she was really saying. Earn as much as he could then fuck off. Disappear before things got too dodgy. He wasn’t sure he wanted to do that, though. Yeah, he could see her point, understood her worry, but he enjoyed being in a gang, mad as that sounded. He felt as though he belonged. That he was important. The latter was something he’d longed for since his dad had walked out on them.

  Do you really enjoy it, though? Honestly?

  “Do I need to prepare myself for a ‘visit’?” she asked. “Because that’s what they do, isn’t it? Come and see the family members so everyone’s aware of the rules. When you kids get yourselves into gangs, your family’s in them with you.”

  “What? No! Starky isn’t like that.”

  “Isn’t he?” She cocked her head. Paused in her task. “You don’t know the half of it. Robber, I wanted so much more for you. I thought… I thought I’d done well. Thought I’d managed to bring you up so you weren’t in that sort of lifestyle. Seems the lads round here, no matter how hard their parents try, all end up working for him in some form or another. You sure you’re just a painter and decorator?”

  “I’m sure.”

  She stared at him, reading his soul, his lies, his secrets. He blushed harder.

  “I suppose I’ll just have to take your word for it.” She pursed her lips. “Like I did with him.”

  “With who?”

  “Never you mind.”

  He nodded. That was to be the end of it, then. She knew he was lying but she was prepared to accept his decision. Shit, he adored her. She’d always loved him, no matter what. He reckoned she always would.

  “Thanks, Ma.”

  “What for? Worrying my arse off from now onwards? Wondering how the hell you got yourself into a situation where you got your fuck—your fingers chopped off?”

  Guilt pinched his nerves. “For being you.”

  She smiled tightly. Finished scraping the skin off the parsnip. Chopped at it with swift movements. It reminded him of his fingers being cut off.

  He shivered.

  “Yes, well…” She rose. “I’ve got to do something.”

  Off she went, and he watched her back as she went down the hallway then turned at the newel post to climb the stairs. She paused and gazed at him. Fuck, that look hurt. He heard her silent words of caution, felt her love, and knew that she hoped he’d come out of this all right. He dipped his head to acknowledge what she hadn’t said, then she was gone, up the stairs, her footsteps shuffling.

  Robby sat and cried. He was in a mess. His situation was what he’d wanted, yet at the same time it was something he wanted no part of. It was always like that when he came home. Within these walls where he’d grown up, he was back to being the old Robby, before the lure of gangs had taken hold of him. Here he was the good par
t of himself, the one Ma had always wanted him to be. Outside these walls, though, that part of him was diminished, eclipsed by his need to be like every other young bloke on the estate. To fit in. To be employed by Starky so he was safer than he’d be with The Jugulars.

  He had entered into a dubious game. He’d be playing with The Jugulars yet against them, too. He’d have covert meetings with Starky, he’d follow Damien and Starky’s bit of stuff all over again and try not to get caught this time. He’d essentially be a spy, something he’d never aspired to be—even though he’d become one when he’d found out what Damien had been up to. But he had no choice now. His ma was his main priority, and in order to keep her safe, he’d work for Starky until his dying day.

  If she was my main priority, then why did I join The Jugulars?

  He leaned his head forward to wipe his tear-stained face on the bandage of one hand. The action had been involuntary, him forgetting for a moment the pain his movement would bring. A fresh burst of agony speared through him, and he sipped some tea using the straw to take his mind off it. The painkillers had started to kick in—maybe they were strong after all—and his eyes drooped.

  “You need a bit of a sleep, son,” his ma said.

  Her reentry into the kitchen had him jumping.

  “If you get any more of that pus seeping, you’ll have to tell your new boss you need it seeing to. I heard he has all sorts of people on his payroll. Ones who can help you in this kind of situation.”

  She’d heard right.

  “Okay, Ma.”

  He closed his eyes briefly. Sensed her sitting at the table again. Heard the scrape-scrape-scrape of skin being removed from the veg. He was transported back to childhood, where, like now, he sat in the hub of the house while Ma busied herself. Things had been simpler then, Robby not having to think for himself if he hadn’t wanted to. His ma had dealt with everything, and all he’d needed to worry about was getting a cuff round the earhole if he hadn’t eaten his greens.

  “You’ll be wanting some dinner, I take it?” she asked.

  “If there’s some going spare.”