by Martina Cole
He sat down behind his desk, and busied himself going over the invoices for the alcohol and food. He had a good manager in – the guy was young, granted, but so was Michael – and he had known him for a long time. He trusted him implicitly, and knew that Paulie O’Keefe had the gift of numbers. He could not only keep two sets of books going – a must for anyone in a cash business like this – but he also had the added bonus of being big enough and ugly enough to ensure that people would think twice before they crossed him. Michael and Paulie were a good team. The only way he could survive was by surrounding himself with people he could trust. He had learnt that from Patrick Costello.
There was a gentle tapping on the door and, sitting back in his chair, Michael called out, ‘Come in.’
As expected, Paulie O’Keefe entered the room. With the heavy build of an Irish navvy, he seemed to fill the room with his presence. Michael was a tall man, but Paulie was big everywhere, from his huge legs, like tree trunks, to his giant head. He had short, thick red hair and small piercing blue eyes. His mouth was thick-lipped, and he had a nose that seemed to have been flattened across his cheeks. He had the look of the fool about him, but Michael knew that he was actually a genius, especially when it came to numbers. He was perfect for the job in hand and, once people got over his appearance, they soon learnt that nothing got past him.
‘Fucking hell, Paulie, you seem to grow bigger every time I see you!’
Paulie laughed. ‘What can I say, Michael, I like me grub.’
Paulie sat down gently in the large leather club-chair opposite Michael and, taking out a pack of Benson & Hedges, he lit one leisurely.
‘Well, we are well in profit, Michael. It’s like printing dough, honestly.’
Michael nodded in agreement. ‘I know. I went over everything last night. This place is already paying for itself. Everyone’s happy, I can tell you that.’
Paulie smiled, acknowledging the compliment. Then, leaning forward in his chair, he said quietly, ‘There is one bugbear though, Michael, and I can’t do anything about it without your say-so.’
Michael frowned. There weren’t many things on God’s green earth that Paulie O’Keefe couldn’t sort out by himself. Michael felt a distinct tightening in his guts, and prepared himself for bad news.
‘Come on then, Paulie. Out with it.’
Paulie O’Keefe stared at his friend for long moments before saying angrily, ‘It’s that flash little cunt Rob Barber. He’s been coming in here mob-handed, and he runs up huge tabs – never paid one of them to my knowledge – and he causes a fucking fight every time. Now, the bouncers are wary – after all, he is a Barber. No one wants to be the one to cause a fucking turf war. But he has to be tugged, Michael. I kept this quiet because I knew you would go mad if you found out. But last week he went too far. He was coked out of his fucking brains and, to cut a long story short, he ended up smacking some little bird in the mouth. I told him to fuck off out of here myself, and he went without too much trouble. I think even he knew he had gone too far. But we have to make a stand, Michael.’
Michael sighed heavily. This was trouble with a capital T all right. The Barbers and the Costellos had always had an uneasy alliance. The Barbers were Notting Hill boys, and they had no interest in East London, or South London come to that.
Jonny and Dicky Barber were not men whose company was sought after. The Barbers were no more than violent thugs. Unlike the Costellos, they had not adapted to the changing times, they still ruled their little empire with only violence and intimidation. Consequently, although they made a living, they were hated. Their empire was also shrinking. The Jamaicans were not easy to subdue – anyone who had ever dealt with them knew that. Now they were a force to be reckoned with in their own right. They had the monopoly in Brixton, Tulse Hill and Norwood, as well as a strong presence in Notting Hill, Shepherd’s Bush and the surrounding areas. They were the new Irish, for fuck’s sake – everyone with half a brain knew that. They were happy to work beside you for the earn, had plenty to bring to the table and, most importantly, had the contacts needed to supply the product for the growing trade in cannabis.
Now Rob Barber, the youngest brother, an idiot with the IQ of a fucking amoeba, had the gall to come to his club, and try to fucking mug him off?
Paulie could see the anger building inside Michael. He had to be the voice of reason, but he had not had any other choice here. Rob Barber had shit on their doormat, and that could not be tolerated. Still, it had to be sorted with finesse. ‘Listen to me, Michael. My first instinct was to take the fucker out the first night he rolled up here, but I knew that would only cause more trouble. So I swallowed because, as big a cunt as he is, there are still his brothers and their firm to deal with. Patrick and Declan have to be in on this, mate. You have to see the logic of that. They must have the final say.’
Michael knew that Paulie was right, but it was the principle as far as he was concerned. That little shit Rob Barber would have known that it was his name on the door here, that the Costellos had given the club to him. Rob Barber had really been challenging Michael, and that was hard to overlook.
He had earned his place in the Costello family, he was respected by everyone in his orbit. When Patrick Costello singled a person out, it was assumed – rightly – that the person concerned had done something very noteworthy indeed. Something that warranted their meteoric rise through the ranks. To be treated so disrespectfully by someone like Rob Barber – a man who was a laughing stock – was fucking outrageous.
He had to calm down; he knew that giving in to his emotions was a futile exercise. He needed to keep a clear head, think this through properly. ‘You’re right, Paulie, we need to sort this with care. But you should have told me the score from the off. It should never have gone as far as it has. And I can tell you now, mate, Patrick will already know everything there is to know. He has ears everywhere – I learnt that very early on. I left you to it, and I know you were only trying to sort it out yourself to save me any aggro but, in future, you tell me anything of relevance sooner rather than later, OK?’
Paulie nodded. ‘I didn’t want to bother you with it. I honestly never thought it would go so far. But you’re right, Michael, in future I’ll know better.’
Michael smiled then, a big, bright smile. ‘Oh, and tell all the doormen he’s barred on my express order and if Rob Barber wants to discuss it, he can come and see me – personally.’
Chapter Twelve
‘Are you looking forward to us getting married, Michael?’
Michael opened his eyes slowly at Josephine’s question. He was just about to fall asleep, he was so tired, even though it was the middle of the afternoon. It had been a long, stressful week.
‘’Course I am, you silly mare.’ He tightened his hold on Josephine, pulling her naked body even closer to him. ‘You don’t half ask some daft questions, you know.’
Josephine laughed. ‘I just love hearing you say it!’
She was lying against him; they were a perfect fit together and she lived for these stolen moments in her bed. Her mum and dad were at the betting shop today going over the books, so she and Michael were safe for a few hours. She suspected her mother knew they were sleeping together but she knew they wouldn’t talk about it out loud. She loved to be alone with Michael like this. She knew that he loved her, and she understood that he had a lot of things to take care of when they were out. She was happy to stand with her friends, chat, have a laugh, and wait for him to come and claim her. But, sometimes, she wished that he would forget about his work just for one night, and take her out like he used to, just the two of them. Now they were either in his club or one of his pubs. He would be here, there and everywhere, and she tried not to mind too much, but it was hard sometimes.
He’d fallen asleep, was snoring now, and she sighed. She didn’t really have that many friends, the majority of the girls were just hangers-on. They were nice enough, she supposed, but she was aware that the main attraction was that she wa
s Michael Flynn’s girlfriend. They wanted to be a part of his world; they all flirted with him when he was beside her, throwing blatantly provocative looks his way. She could see that he wasn’t interested in any of them, though – he loved her, she was certain of that.
She was better looking than any of them anyway. She’d always been aware of her beauty – accepted it as a fact of life. One of her earliest memories was somebody saying to her mum what a beautiful child she was. She wasn’t a bighead – she didn’t use her looks for attention; after all, she only had eyes for Michael. One of the nuns at her school had said to her that she was a lucky girl because she was beautiful inside and out. The nun had also told her that beauty could be a scourge, and to remember that looks faded eventually, but the beauty inside her was for ever. She had liked hearing that. It had the ring of truth to it.
She remembered the first time she had seen Michael. She had been fourteen years old, and she had been walking home from school. She had looked across the busy high road, and seen the most handsome boy ever, standing stock still, and he had been staring at her. She had smiled at him suddenly, as shy as she was then, and that had been it. He had walked over the road, dodging in and out of the traffic, and she had waited for him as if it had been the most natural thing in the world.
Once they were married she would feel much better. It would be different then, she wouldn’t have to go out with him, night after night. She would have a home to look after, babies to take care of. She couldn’t wait. She wanted a girl first, a little girl who would help her take care of her siblings. As they were both only children, she and Michael agreed that they would have a houseful of babies. All gorgeous, and all wanted.
She fell asleep beside him thinking of names for her babies that were waiting to be born.
Chapter Thirteen
Patrick and Declan Costello were both listening intently as Michael explained the situation that Rob Barber had caused in the nightclub.
His voice expressed no emotion as he gave them both the facts. This was something that had to be decided by the Costellos; his personal anger would play no part. Still it was hard for him to keep his personal opinions to himself.
He made Paulie O’Keefe sound like the hero of the hour, careful to emphasise that he had only wanted to keep Michael out of anything that might cause unnecessary trouble with the Barbers and that was why he’d kept silent at first. He could see Patrick nodding his head as if he could understand that kind of logic. It wouldn’t have been through any cowardice – everyone knew that Paulie O’Keefe was more than capable of standing up for himself should the need arise. Paulie had the reputation of a real marler, a fighter’s fighter. Once he was set off, he would bite, kick, punch, head-butt, use any available weaponry, no holds barred. He was also known to easily take on more than one opponent if necessary. No, that Paulie O’Keefe had not demolished young Rob Barber was the feat in itself here.
Declan was annoyed, Michael could tell that much. He hated the Barbers with a vengeance. They had a history. Many years before, Declan had beaten Dicky Barber to the proverbial pulp. Dicky Barber had been the one to insist on the fisticuffs; he had confronted Declan outside a pub in Woolwich of all places. He had challenged Declan to a fight and, once provoked, Declan had been more than happy to oblige.
Jonny Barber had taken no action at the time. He had enough sense to know that Dicky Boy had brought all the grief on himself. He had sought out the fight, and he had lost. There was nothing to be done. The fight had been in public, and Dicky had been the instigator. Jonny chose his battles shrewdly and he’d had a feeling that, if it ever came down to it, the Costellos would not be easy to topple. They were a bigger firm in every way, and they were well liked. It was better to retreat on this occasion, and Jonny had made sure that Dicky Boy had done exactly that. This was something Patrick Costello had known within days.
‘Rob Barber has to be thirty-five if he’s a day! “Young Rob Barber”, my arse. He’s a cunt. Even Jonny don’t trust him, and he’s his own brother! What does that tell you?’ Declan’s voice was laced with anger and disgust.
Patrick poured them a large whisky each. He stood by the windows, looking down at the empty warehouse, picturing it in his mind as it might have been many years before, packed to the brim with casks of brandy, or bolts of different coloured silks. It would have been a hive of activity then, the whole place ringing with noise.
‘It’s a piss-take all right, Declan. But I think that this is a job for Superman.’ He turned back towards his brother and Michael. ‘You want him badly, Michael, I can tell.’
Michael smiled grimly.
‘He was after you, my son. You’re the one he wanted, and you know that. He was stronging it in your club. Now, thanks to Paulie O’Keefe and his good intentions, that ponce probably thinks that you haven’t got the bottle to face him. He thinks you’ve tried to swerve him.’
Michael stood up abruptly, and Patrick and Declan Costello were both suddenly reminded of how dangerous the lad could be if provoked. Michael’s biggest asset was his ability to control his temper. Not many people could do it so well. Patrick himself could, but Michael was the only other person he had ever encountered who was able to do it so absolutely. It was a rare gift, and it showed a strength of will that was as powerful as it was unique. In the world they inhabited, the capability for violence was the norm, but very few could channel that violence and use it like a deadly weapon.
Michael was genuinely furious now. Patrick wanted him to show his real feelings, knowing that he needed to vent his anger. This was personal. Rob Barber had come looking for him. He had invaded his personal space. Michael was the new kid on the block, and people like Rob saw that as an invitation, a chance to enhance their own reputation at the expense of someone else. Rob Barber would never have fought him one-to-one; Michael knew that his reputation as a fighter would have put paid to that. No, Rob Barber would need a knife or a gun, a posse of people around him. He was a coward.
‘I want him all right, Patrick, of course I fucking do! But I know enough to keep my private opinions to myself, and I have enough self-control to make sure that I don’t cause trouble for anyone else. If I had gone after him, you both know that I would have nigh on fucking killed him.’
Patrick Costello started laughing, and Declan, swallowing his drink in one gulp, joined in.
Michael Flynn stood there as the Costello brothers roared with laughter and, despite himself, he started to laugh as well.
Patrick wiped his eyes on his coat sleeve. ‘You are so like me, Michael. Always thinking of the big picture. You try and work out what might happen if you were to let your natural instincts run riot. I know exactly what it’s like.’ He was tapping a finger into his temple now, his face screwed up with seriousness. ‘I knew as a kid that I had too much anger inside me, that I had to learn how to contain it. As young as I was, I had the ability to kill someone when the anger took over. You are the only person I have ever met who has the same affliction, Michael. And, like me, you have learnt to control it.’
Michael recognised the truth of the man’s words. He could see Declan watching them both, fascinated as he listened to his brother explain himself as if it was the first time he had ever really understood him. The discomfort that Patrick’s words had created was evident.
Patrick sighed heavily, as though he was tired out from all the talking. ‘You can have Rob, Michael. Declan, you can finally finish off that ponce Dicky. And, as for Jonny Barber, I have wanted to take that ponce out for years. Now we have no other option. Rob has seen to that, the useless fucker.’
Michael smiled. His smile was so endearing. No one looking at it could ever have believed that it could hide so much hate and so much anger.
Patrick poured them each another drink and raised his glass in a toast. ‘We need to plan this well. Do it quickly and quietly.’
Michael nodded. ‘I agree. We need to let things calm down. Take them unawares.’
Patrick Costello was
hearing exactly what he wanted. This was something to be done with finesse. Done properly, it was a message for everyone out there with dreams of the big time. He said quietly, ‘On the plus side, boys, once the Barbers are out of the frame, we will be without any natural predators!’
Declan nodded his agreement as they clinked glasses. ‘Couldn’t have put it better meself, bruv.’
Chapter Fourteen
Hannah Flynn watched her son as he ate his dinner. He had always attacked his food, and she enjoyed watching him eat. He savoured every mouthful and, like any mother, she loved to watch her child devouring what she had provided. Not that she had ever cooked elaborate meals on a daily basis; she didn’t enjoy cooking so she had never bothered with anything fancy. Until now it had never really mattered. Now that her son was so embroiled with the Callahan family, she was making an effort to keep him around.
Lana Callahan, on the other hand, cooked meals as if her life depended on it, and she was teaching young Josephine the finer points of Irish cuisine, as she called it. A contradiction in terms if ever Hannah had heard one. Lana Callahan cooked all the old Irish recipes Hannah’s granny had cooked. It annoyed the life out of her. She was actually far more Irish than any of them. She had been born in Ireland for a start – and she still had the accent to prove it. Second-hand Irish, that’s all they were. They had no knowledge really of where their family had come from originally, and had no contact with people there. They’d never even been to Ireland.
According to Michael, Lana was a really good cook, and Josephine was following in her mother’s footsteps. She was a veritable fecking saint, if her son was to be believed – the Holy Mother of God should watch herself. There was a serious contender for the crown of Queen of Heaven in Josephine Callahan.
