Revenge

by Martina Cole

  Michael laughed again. ‘Oh, don’t worry about me, Jermaine. I don’t shit without planning it out first.’ He put his hand on Jeffrey Palmer’s shoulder and squeezed it. ‘I never wanted this, remember that.’

  He went to his desk and opened up one of the drawers, taking out a small axe. ‘But I always do my own dirty work.’

  He split open Jeffrey Palmer’s skull with one massive blow. ‘I think that is what the Jamaican Yardies call a permanent parting.’

  No one moved, or batted an eyelid.

  Jermaine O’Shay felt the spray of blood hit his face. It was outrageous. He watched in disbelief as Michael chopped the man’s head off. Declan was looking at Jermaine with resignation and sorrow. He had tried to warn him, but he wouldn’t listen.

  Michael Flynn was drenched in blood now, it was like a scene from a cheap horror film. Jermaine tried to stand up, tried to defend himself, but his own men forced him back on to the chair, and held him in place.

  Michael laughed once more. ‘I hope you realise, Jermaine, that this is nothing personal. I liked you. I liked Jeffrey. But I will not be crossed. I will not be treated like a cunt by anyone. I gave you every chance I could. But you insisted on throwing it all back into my face. So fuck you.’

  He took his time with Jermaine O’Shay, knowing that this night would be whispered about and remembered by all present. It was about credibility, about teaching people a lesson. It was about making sure the people you employed never forgot who they were dealing with. It was about making a point for the future. Even the Barker boys were impressed, Declan could see that. Like them, Michael Flynn actually enjoyed this.

  Chapter Sixty-Seven

  Josephine heard Michael come in and glanced at the alarm clock on her bedside table. It was four a.m. She had just fed the baby, and was settling herself into bed again. She waited a few minutes, expecting him to sneak into the bedroom as he usually did. But he didn’t come.

  Then she heard the shower turn on in the main bathroom. He always used the shower in their en suite, and she wondered why he would suddenly need a shower in the middle of the night.

  She got out of the bed, and walked silently out of the bedroom, and across to the bathroom. She slipped through the bathroom door, shutting it quietly behind her. It was a large room, with black marble tiles from floor to ceiling, and an antique bath that had cost a fortune. The walk-in shower was big enough for five people. She saw his clothes on the floor. They were soaked in blood. She instinctively reached for them and saw Michael watching her from the shower as she bundled them up quickly.

  ‘Bring the towels down when you’re finished, Michael.’

  His eyes followed her as she left the room, before he turned back to finish his shower.

  When he came downstairs she was burning everything in the large fireplace in his office. He passed her the towels he had used, and she threw them on to the blaze without a word. She didn’t want this mess in her home.

  ‘Is that everything?’

  He nodded.

  ‘You’re safe, then?’

  He pulled her into his arms, and held her tightly. ‘’Course I am, you silly mare.’ He kissed her hair. She was trembling.

  ‘We’ve got a baby now, remember.’

  Michael smiled as he pulled her away from him gently, and looked deep into her eyes. ‘How could I ever forget? It’s all for you and her now.’

  She smiled back brokenly. ‘I know that, Michael. I know.’

  Book Three

  He who brings trouble to his family will inherit only wind, and the fool will be servant to the wise

  Proverbs 11:29

  Chapter Sixty-Eight

  2004

  ‘That is one lairy little mare, Josephine. Don’t you let her get away with it.’

  Lana was furious, and Jessie Flynn knew her nana had a right to feel like that. She was heart-sorry for what she had said to her, but she had been goaded.

  Josephine didn’t answer. Instead she kissed her daughter on the cheek, and walked her to the front door. ‘Declan is dropping you off at the disco, and your dad or I will pick you up, OK?’

  Jessie sighed theatrically, still ashamed about swearing at her nana, but at least her mum understood why she had done it. ‘I know, Mum. Why change the habits of a lifetime?’

  ‘Well, we worry about you, darling, that’s all.’

  It was said easily, but the underlying warning was there. Jessie was well aware that her father would never let her out of the house if it wasn’t for her mother.

  ‘I’m sorry for shouting at Nana.’

  Josephine smiled sadly. ‘I know that, lovely. She means well, try and remember that. She was the same with me.’

  ‘I know. But I hate having to fight for my freedom, Mum.’

  Josephine laughed delightedly at her daughter’s dejected countenance. She was a real drama queen, a natural actress.

  ‘Look, darling, if it was left to your father you’d never leave the fucking house. I’ve told you before, the best way to manage him is to let him think he is in control.’

  Jessie rolled her big blue eyes with annoyance. ‘I’m nearly fifteen, Mum, I’m not a child any more.’

  Josephine pushed her away gently. ‘Well, the jury’s still out on that one, mate. Have a good night.’

  She watched her daughter as she climbed into her uncle Declan’s Mercedes. As she waved her off she felt a stab of fear. Jessie looked eighteen even without any make-up on – she was her daughter all right. Done up she looked like a grown woman. But she wasn’t, that was the trouble. She was twenty-five in her body, but still a child in her mind. Older men looked at her with interest, and why wouldn’t they? She didn’t look like a schoolgirl; she had ripened far too early, bless her heart. It was a godsend that she was Michael Flynn’s daughter, that alone gave her the protection most girls of her age didn’t have. She was a beautiful girl, and that wasn’t a mother talking. Her Jessie was a true stunner, in every way that counted for this generation.

  She went back into the kitchen, prepared for the fact that her mother was going to give her an earful about why Jessie should never be allowed out without a chaperone. Her mum worried about Jessie looking so much older than her years, and she did too. But, by the same token, her Jessie had her head screwed on. It was strange because Jessie was much closer to Michael’s mum than hers. Who would ever have thought that? Hannah seemed to understand her granddaughter in a way that Lana couldn’t comprehend. If she didn’t know better, she might actually think her own mother didn’t like her only grandchild. Lana always seemed to be finding fault with her. It hurt Josephine because her Jessie was a good kid, but all Lana saw was the girl’s appearance, and she seemed to insinuate that Jessie being well-developed was a black mark against her somehow. It wasn’t something that anyone could have prevented. Nature had endowed her daughter with good looks, a great figure and a bone structure to die for. She was a sensible girl, who had never given them a day’s worry, and that was the most important thing as far as Josephine was concerned.

  Lana was still fuming at being called an old bitch. ‘Did you hear the way she spoke to me, Josephine? Who does she think she is? You need to put a stop to that fucker’s gallop, I’m telling you.’

  Josephine looked at her mother, saw the way she was bristling with indignation, determined to make her point about her only grandchild, and suddenly she heard herself bellowing loudly, ‘Oh, Mum, will you give it a rest, for fuck’s sake? She’s fourteen years old! Get off her back, and give her a chance.’

  ‘You let her get away with murder. You are making a rod for your own back, madam.’

  Josephine was trying hard to keep a lid on her anger. ‘Do you know what, Mum? Jessie is a fucking good kid, she does well at school, she goes to Mass without a fight, she helps out around the house. She never pushes her luck. She is my baby and, unlike you, I don’t look for flaws, or weaknesses. She’s still a kid, Mum, so let her be one while she has the chance.’

  Lana si
ghed. She couldn’t help it but she didn’t like the child – didn’t trust her. She was still waters, deeper than the ocean, that fucker. She would be proved right eventually. She loved her granddaughter – of course she did – but there was no liking there. Jessie Flynn was so selfish, so arrogant, so self-assured it was sickening to witness. She wouldn’t be a kid for long. Already she knew too much. She had never understood the word no but, then again, she had never heard it. Everything she had ever wanted, she had been given. Michael would pluck the moon out of the sky if she asked him to. She was the only child, late arriving, and she was treated like fucking royalty. But she was also sneaky. Even as a little kid she had known she possessed the upper hand in the relationship with her parents. She was an accident waiting to happen, she would not toe the line for much longer, Lana would put money on that.

  She looked at her daughter, who she loved with a vengeance and, modulating her voice, she said carefully, ‘All I’m saying, Josephine, is she plays you like a fucking banjo.’

  Josephine laughed. ‘’Course she does, Mum! It’s called being a teenager. It’s what they do. But she knows that me and Michael wouldn’t put up with too much nonsense from her. She is still young enough to listen to what we say to her. Now, do you want another glass of wine or not?’

  Lana nodded. Josephine poured the wine, and Lana turned her thoughts to her daughter. Josephine rarely left her house now – more often than not it was Lana who did the shopping for the family these days. Josephine was becoming more insular by the week, and young Jessie wasn’t a fool – she would be bound to use that to her advantage. It was human nature. She had a lot of her father in her; she was stubborn just like him, and she was prone to serious anger when thwarted. She was her mother’s double in her looks, but she had inherited none of her mother’s kindly nature. Like her father, she rarely showed anybody her real self. She had inherited Michael’s temper too. It had occasionally surfaced over the years and, just like Michael’s, when it did finally erupt, it was a powerful force in its own right.

  Chapter Sixty-Nine

  Michael was exhausted, but he had no choice but to carry on. He was negotiating a deal that would bring him millions over the next few years if it came off. He had planned it down to the last detail; it had taken nearly a year to bring to fruition. Now he was almost there. He was working with a huge Colombian cartel personally, and he was only too aware how dangerous that could be. These people were not impressed with anyone, anywhere, and it had taken him a lot of time and effort to convince them he was a viable partner. He had his own rep as a bad man in Europe, but compared to them and the world they moved in the Europeans were fucking amateurs. These men were a law unto themselves; they would shoot their own mothers if they deemed it necessary to the cause, and were more than capable of torturing and murdering a rival’s child to prove a point. They inhabited a world where a human life was valued cheaper than a can of Coke. It was a different ballgame altogether.

  Now he, Michael Flynn, was fronting one of the biggest deals ever negotiated on British turf. And, once it was in place, he would be the undisputed king of Europe. No one could have a shit, shave or a shampoo without asking his permission first.

  He looked out of his office window over the Thames. He loved this view; it made him feel invincible. He surveyed his domain. London was all his. He had bought, fought and forced his will on everyone who mattered, and it had paid off.

  The offices had been recently revamped, and he wasn’t sure he liked the results. With the white walls and bleached oak flooring, there was nothing remotely attractive about it – it looked far too impersonal for his tastes. He missed his old desk – an antique captain’s desk. It had been bulky and scuffed, but it had character. Now he sat at a very expensive modern desk that was basically two planks of highly polished wood, held together by willpower and two pieces of eight by four. It had six spindly legs, which didn’t exactly fill him with faith it would stay up, and it was without even one single fucking drawer to give it an iota of usefulness. Even the chair he sat on was uncomfortable – yet it had cost more than his first car. But it was all about front – he knew that better than anyone – and it impressed people he dealt with.

  He was getting old, he supposed. He was turning into the very people he had loathed as a young man. Yearning for the past; now, of course, he understood why they had felt that way. He still wouldn’t let anything be done over the internet. He was classed as a dinosaur because of that, but he didn’t care – he didn’t trust it. They could shove cyberspace up their arses. For the right price, like most things in this life, it could be abused. He didn’t trust anything that had the power to reach millions of people at a stroke. It seemed to him that computers bred laziness and apathy. People were too quick to trust in something that they couldn’t build themselves, that they had to rely on other people to maintain for them, and at great cost as well. It was a recipe for disaster. He particularly worried about leaving a trail that could be discovered without the person involved even leaving their office. No, he wasn’t prepared to join the cyber rats.

  He worked in a world where the fewer people in the know the better. He still relied on private meetings and word of mouth. Fortunately for him, so did the Colombians. Now they had finally agreed to meet him on his own turf. It was the last step. That they had felt confident enough to come to him was a coup in itself. They needed to show him that they trusted him, and he had to prove to them that he could guarantee them the protection needed. He had done just that. They had landed safely in England, and no one had questioned them.

  It was dark now, the lights were on across London. It was funny, but he always thought that London looked more impressive by night. It looked more alive to him, full of possibilities and secrets. He glanced at his watch, a diamond Rolex with a platinum face. It was just after nine p.m. They would be here in the next ten minutes or so. He glanced around him. He had everything ready. The drinks cabinet – that he personally thought looked like a fucking cheap filing cabinet – had every alcoholic beverage known to man, and the leather sofas were placed strategically so everyone could interact together without having to move about too much. There was also food in the kitchen, should anyone request it.

  Salvatore Ferreira was an extremely cautious man. Michael appreciated that trait. He rarely left his native Colombia. Michael had taken over a whole floor of one of the top London hotels to guarantee Salvatore his privacy, and also to give him the chance to enjoy the luxury such an establishment could provide.

  He heard the soft thrumming noise that heralded the arrival of the private lift and, settling himself into his chair, he waited patiently to begin the meeting he had been waiting for for a year, and which would cement his legendary status in the criminal underworld once and for all.

  Chapter Seventy

  ‘Listen, Declan, I didn’t want to be the one to tell you this, believe me, but what else could I do, for fuck’s sake?’

  Peter Barker, the elder of the Barker brothers, looked into Declan’s face with its usual blank countenance. But his colour was high, he was flushed red. Declan could tell the man was angry, and so he fucking should be. This was a piss-take, especially now when everyone knew there was something serious in the wind.

  ‘Look, don’t shoot the fucking messenger, mate – I’m trying to do the right thing here.’

  Declan shook his head. This was the last fucking thing he needed tonight. The music from the nightclub was loud, even through the heavy fire doors of the offices. He hated the music they had to play in the clubs these days; it was fucking abysmal – it sounded like electrical interference to him. Declan sighed and, as calmly as he could, asked, ‘Who did you say told you this, Peter?’

  Peter took a large joint out of his jacket pocket and, after lighting it, he puffed on it fiercely, before he answered his friend’s question. ‘I told you already, Declan – it was Jack Cornel. He was full of it. The stupid-looking northern ponce! I was all for hammering him, but my brother Billy step
ped in. He reckons that this is about nausing up Michael’s meeting with the Colombians – though how they know about it is fucking suspect in itself. You and I know the Cornels have never been happy answering to him. Michael never gave them their due, and they fucking knew it. They are so fucking full of themselves. They still seem to think that the North is a fucking no-go area for us lot down here. The M1 passed right over their fucking heads, I tell ya.’

  Declan laughed at the man’s words despite himself. He could be funny, could old Peter Barker. He had a dry humour which wasn’t everybody’s cup of tea, but always hit the proverbial nail on the head.

  ‘So they have come down south, determined to cause fucking havoc, have they?’

  Peter nodded sagely. ‘Basically, yeah. They think that if they cause problems for Michael, the Colombians will see the error of their ways. That’s the real worry. Michael won’t want any kind of issues, will he? That stands to reason.’

  Declan let this information sink in. The Cornel brothers had been a thorn in everyone’s side for a long time. They were without scruples, devoid of even the most basic of social graces, and they had taken over the North East almost by accident from the Dooleys. Jack Cornel had shot one of them over a debt and, as the older Dooley brothers were on remand, he had not yet been challenged about his foolishness. The Cornels were relatively new to the real game – up to now, they had been no more than cannon fodder. It had been assumed that they would be removed tout suite. But it had not happened. No one had ever seen the Cornels as a serious threat; now, it seemed, they were under the misapprehension that they were hard enough to take on Michael Flynn and the whole South East. What planet they were inhabiting was up for debate all right. It was ludicrous, and it could not have come at a worse time. Jack Cornel was a natural-born fighter, but his younger brother, Cecil, was a fucking looney. He was definitely two bob short of a pound note. He didn’t fight as such – he just attacked with whatever weapon came to hand. Jack Cornel was a fucking exhibitionist; he would love nothing more than to cause a row with Michael in public. He was too thick to see the folly of his actions – all he would see was the glory of people knowing he had dared to do such a thing. As for Cecil, an original thought in his head would die of fucking loneliness; he would follow his brother’s lead. It was a fucking abortion. Of all the times the Cornel brothers could have chosen to get themselves killed stone dead, they had to go and pick now, when Michael Flynn was negotiating the biggest deal in criminal history.