Close

by Cole, Martina

  Spider was shifting Dexedrine at fifty quid a thousand and the kids wanted them. Amphetamine was the new drug of choice, whether in pill form or powder, and it was making shit-loads of money for them. Spider ran the business with military precision and he was adamant that south London was his and Pat had to stand by him on that.

  Pat looked around the house he had recently purchased and a sense of pride washed over him once more; no one in his family had ever bought their home before. It was a strange feeling, owning something so significant. It was a commitment, it was the roof over his family’s head. It was an asset as well, he was aware of that. He had bought it cash, that had been another of Lil’s demands. Until now he had not thought of putting money into anything tangible, had steered clear of anything that could be investigated by the tax or the police. But Lily had pointed out that the turnover from his legit businesses was more than ample for a purchase of this size and as usual she had been right.

  The house was in her name and she held the deeds to it. It was the least he could do. He owned other houses, but they were business properties and they were in his name; he could walk away from them at any time. This place felt solid though, it was his home; his family’s home. He liked the feeling of belonging somewhere, of having a base. And he loved the fact that his Lil was happy here, that she felt safe knowing it was hers no matter what.

  His boys started fighting, they were watching Tom and Jerry on TV and arguing over who should be the cat and who the mouse. His daughters went over to them and, as always, Kathy sat with Pat Junior and Eileen sat with Lance. The girls’ presence stopped the fighting in its tracks and he was proud of his boys and their gentle way with their sisters.

  He was shattered and as he sat back on the sofa and relaxed, Lil brought him in a cup of strong, sweet tea. He pulled her down beside him, kissing her hard, slipping his tongue into her mouth and he felt her responding as she always did. She could never be angry with him for long. As angry as she got, she needed him like other women needed to eat and drink. Without him, she was nothing. Without him, her life was empty, even with four children to occupy her time. She hated herself for it, but she accepted it as part of her life.

  The awkwardness between them was over once more, until the next time. But the accusation was still behind her eyes, as was the tired acceptance of his lifestyle and the effect it had on her and their family.

  He was a man and, in their world, that meant he could do what he wanted. She didn’t like it, but she dealt with it. It was this he found so hard to cope with. She was worth better than that and they both knew it.

  Spider was drinking white rum and smoking a twist; the scent of cannabis was heavy on the air. His girlfriend, a young Jamaican woman with braided hair and almond-shaped eyes, was nursing her baby son while listening to Peter Tosh on the sound system.

  Spider watched Rochelle lazily, his thick dreadlocked hair hanging over his face, his eyes closing with tiredness. Like Patrick, he had been out on the lam for a few days; unlike Patrick, his girlfriend had eaten his face off when he had come home. Finally, and with much persuasion on his part, she had calmed down enough to nurse their baby. He knew he was going to have to do some serious grovelling over the next few days to get her back onside. She was a good girl and he loved her; she was fiery, too young for him really, but she had heart and he respected that.

  There was a knock on his front door and Spider had to shake himself awake to answer it. He was seriously stoned and he opened the front door with difficulty. The house was like a fortress and he took his time unbolting the front door. He knew who was behind it and he was smiling genially when he finally slid the last lock.

  ‘Fucking hell, man, this place is like Fort Knox.’ Spider’s younger brother, Cain, was standing there, grinning.

  Cain was the antithesis of Spider in that he had short, cropped hair and he favoured tailored trousers and understated shirts. Spider was a larger-than-life character and his apparel reflected that. He was wearing baggy tracksuit bottoms and a pure-cotton embroidered overshirt that looked tight on his heavy frame. With his dreads and his moccasins, he looked every inch the Rasta dealer. Cain was an up-and-coming young blood; at twenty-one he had the nerve and the nous to make his mark on his community. He had an easy way about him that belied the strength and single-mindedness that was only evident to the people who knew him. Spider was twelve years older than him and proud of the young man he was grooming for the future and for his eventual retirement.

  ‘You got my money?’

  Cain laughed, his white, even teeth glinting in the sunlight. ‘Shut the fucking door. You the one who told me never to talk business in the street or me own backyard!’

  As he locked up once more, Spider could hear his brother chatting about his nephew’s good looks and flirting with Rochelle. The boy was a natural-born womaniser and, listening to him talking and joking with his Rochelle, he felt the love that many men reserved for their children. He loved his life. It was times like this that made him realise just how lucky he was.

  ‘They are coining it in and walking all over us, Dave, and we are being fucking mugged-off.’

  Dave Williams sighed as he listened once more to his brother Dennis’s usual litany of perceived wrongs. Since Dicky had been murdered he had taken on the mantle of the older brother and it was hard. Dicky had been the main man; he had always known what to do and how to do it. Dave tried and Patrick gave him his due, but he was always worried that he would get it wrong. Dicky’s death had left a hole that Dave knew he wasn’t able to fill, and he had the distinct impression his brothers felt the same way as he did. They were grown men now, and he knew they were itching to get a few quid off their own backs. He was now the eldest and they respected him, but they were not boys any more. They were a handful, and he knew that better than anyone.

  ‘Relax, for fuck’s sake! You’re like an old woman.’

  ‘Fucking relax? You have the audacity to tell me to relax?’

  Dennis had his usual petulant look; he had a temper and it was not easily kept under control. He had always kicked off at the slightest thing; he saw insults where none were forthcoming and he heard conversations that had never taken place. He was a lairy fucker and he was getting harder and harder to control.

  ‘No one can get a fucking foot on the front line and that is what’s giving me the fucking hump. Spider and his brother have sewn it all up.’

  Dave sipped his coffee in silence and waited for the rant to continue as he knew it would. This had been a daily occurrence since Dennis had tried to shift some speed in south London; he had sold enough for a small profit, but he had not sold enough for his liking. He had also been warned off; in a nice way, with respect, but to be warned off was something that had never happened to any of them in living memory. They were the ones who did the warning and they were not about to step back and watch others get a serious graft without them even having a touch. It had caused a lot of upset and a lot of bad feeling towards Patrick Brodie, who was being seen more and more as a traitor by his own workforce.

  Dennis was stalking round the room. His broad shoulders were stiff with the anger he was feeling and his moonface was screwed up with hatred and humiliation.

  ‘To add insult to fucking injury, Dave, that black cunt and his cohorts are dealing all over the show. They are in every nook and cranny; the pavement stinks of them, so where does that leave us? Fucking Brodie is all right, ain’t he? He is in league with them, he fucking owns them. He is raking it in, but what about us, Dave? I was told to fuck off last night, as if I was a fucking ice-cream, a cunt. I was told that Ilford and Barking were no-go areas because that lot were already dealing out of Celebrities nightclub in Forest Gate.’ Dennis shook his head in bewilderment.

  ‘We have nowhere to peddle anything. They’ve sewn up the Lacy Lady, Room at the Top and the fucking Tavern. Lautrec’s is already part of their domain and Southend is sewn up tighter than a nun’s crack. It’s everywhere we go; Raquel’s in Basildo
n, the fucking Roxy, the Vortex, Dingwall’s in Camden. There is not a pub or a club left that we can call our own, from the Old Rose to the Dean Swift, and that even includes The Green Man, my watering-hole. They have Callie Road, the fucking main pubs, the fucking docks and all the poxy local boozers. They are like fucking leeches taking the food out of my kid’s mouth.’ He spat into the fireplace for maximum effect.

  ‘We have got fuck all left, their boys are even selling speed in the fucking Beehive on Brixton Road and they are, by nature, puffers. The West End and Islington are overrun with that smooth-talking ponce’s fucking minions and I ain’t swallowing no more. We either have a touch or we take it over once and for all.’

  ‘Will you fucking calm down?’

  ‘Calm down? You want me to calm down? Who are you, the fucking yoga king of East London? Up yours, Dave. I want this fucking sorted, and I want it sorted soon. Spider and his brother are riding around in fucking flash cars with all sorts of fucking weapons. They are kinging it up like they own the fucking show and we are expected to just fucking tug our forelocks and not say a word? We can’t even shift anything in Manchester, Liverpool or fucking Scotland. We have been frozen out, fucked off like recalcitrant school boys and all you can say is calm down? Are you stuck up Brodie’s arse or what?’

  Dave didn’t answer, it was pointless, but he was digesting the information. He knew that he was going to have to sort this out sooner rather than later, because his brothers were on his case now. Drugs, speed in particular, was big business and they had invested a lot of money into it. The problem was that Pat was not only a good mate but he was also their biggest rival and, short of selling to him personally at a loss, they were in right lumber. Pat wasn’t going to pay over the odds for the gear and who could blame him?

  But he was out of order to assume that they wouldn’t want a bite of what was a fucking lucrative business. Just because they had not bothered with it in the beginning did not mean they were going to walk away from an earner now the product was in such high demand. If Spider had stuck to his own turf, none of this would have happened. Everyone could have had a bite, and everyone would have been happy.

  Dave chose to ignore the fact that Pat Brodie was running the show and that anything outside south London was his domain. He conveniently forgot that Pat had offered them an in many times and they had been too busy chasing the dollar in other areas. He also chose to disregard the warnings that Pat had given him in a very gentle but firm way; they were free to pursue their dealings as long as it didn’t encroach on any existing businesses he had already put in place. Basically, he had insinuated that they had missed the boat and it was too late now to start complaining about it.

  But, as Dennis had pointed out, if they were dealing out of all the nightclubs and they had a monopoly, then a talk was definitely in order. He was aware that most of the little firms could only deal because they had Pat’s permission to do so and that they were only answerable to Spider, who was universally acknowledged as Pat’s front man where the Persian Rugs were concerned. This, of course, was the bugbear where his brothers were concerned.

  They were feeling left out, feeling that they were being overlooked, insulted even. The boys were men and, like all up-and-coming youngsters, they were ripe for an excuse to flex their muscles, to make their mark. They were greedy little fuckers, and they were dangerous because of that. The only reason they had been given such a ride over the last couple of years was because of Patrick Brodie, but they were not intelligent enough to suss that out and he was not about to mention that fact just yet. Dennis was their spokesman, the only one with the guts to come into his home and air his grievances. The others would follow, he knew, but only when they were assured they would have a friendly reception.

  They were conveniently forgetting all the graft they had because of Pat, all the money they were raking in with him on other businesses. The speed was making them greedy; the money to be earned was astronomical and naturally they wanted in on it. The groundwork had been done, as it had always been done for them, though they couldn’t see that of course. They were heavies, no more and no less, and their egos were bigger than King Kong’s cock, but they were adamant they were not going to take ‘no’ for an answer.

  Dave was starting to see his brother’s point of view; that they were being treated like second-class citizens and that they would be better off without Brodie.

  He was honest enough, at times, to admit to himself that Pat had overtaken him; he saw an opportunity and he went for it, taking Dave and his brothers along with him. It irked Dave at times because he not only wanted to have the respect Brodie commanded; he also wanted to be seen as a vital link in the criminal chain that ruled London.

  The fact that people were relaxed enough to tell his brothers that they were not going to deal with them, thank you very much, because they were already being served up by Spider, was another reminder that they were, and always would be, only foot soldiers to Brodie. This was a melon-scratcher all right, and he needed to think about it long and hard before he did anything of any substance. Once something like this was put into words and thereby into the public domain, there was no going back. He needed to seriously consider their options and the best way to approach the problem in hand.

  ‘Let me think about it, all right?’

  Dennis nodded imperceptibly. He was halfway home and he knew it; he had given his brother the bullets, now it was up to him to fire them.

  Annie was putting the children to bed and, as usual, Lance was playing her up. She pulled him on to her lap and whispered in his ear as she always did. ‘Once the others drop off, come out to your nana, darling.’

  This was despite the fact that Pat had made a point of telling her that the children were to go to bed at the same time, and if he did find out that she had been favouring Lance, she was out for good. She and Pat had an uneasy alliance in that she made sure she didn’t antagonise him and he made sure she spent as little time with the kids as possible.

  ‘I don’t want to sit with you, Nana.’

  Lance’s petulant face was beginning to irritate her and she took a deep breath before saying quietly, ‘I have a few sweeties for you, and you can watch TV.’ Her voice was soft and the other children watched the little tableau with interest.

  ‘Come on, darling. Nana has missed you, give me a hug?’ The yearning was in her voice and the child picked up on it, knew he had the upper hand, and used it to his advantage.

  ‘No, Nana. I’m tired.’ Lance pulled away from her, his thickset body almost knocking her off the chair with its strength. He hated the feel of her rough hands on him, the way she pulled him about, kissed him all the time and squeezed him into her body, nearly suffocating him. But he loved the power he had over her, and because of that, he had power over his brother and sisters. His nana adored him and tolerated them, they all knew that. Because it had always been like that none of them questioned it; they were just glad she didn’t feel the same way about them.

  It was the first time in ages that Annie had babysat. Pat made sure she spent as little time as possible with the kids and she knew she was on borrowed time. Lil was not enamoured of her any more either, so she had to sit it out and wait until they were desperate before she got access to the one thing that made her life bearable.

  ‘Kiss your poor old nana and we’ll play games; whatever you like.’

  Lance shook his head and said loudly and with force, ‘I don’t want to, Nana. I don’t like you any more.’

  The hurt in her faded eyes made him feel a moment’s sadness, but she made him feel uncomfortable and he had realised, as young as he was, that her feelings for him were not healthy. His mother had no real time for him; he knew that she didn’t love him like she did the others. But his nana, who worshipped him, just made him want to hurt her. She smelled awful and she made him feel like he was being suffocated.

  The smack was loud in the room and all four children jumped with fright. Lance had a red mark on his
face and he stared at Annie with defiance and hatred as she started to berate him.

  Pat Junior pushed his sisters from the untidy living room and walked back towards his brother. He grabbed his arm and started to pull him from the room, all the time Annie’s screaming and swearing was ringing in their ears.

  ‘You two-faced little fucker, all I’ve done for you . . .’

  It was the usual litany of complaints and both boys closed their ears to it.

  Lance watched helplessly as Pat Junior was dragged back into the middle of the room by his hair. All his power was gone now, and he knew it. His nana was off on one of her rants and no one could calm her down. He ran from the room and went up the stairs to his sisters, settling them into their beds and listening to the commotion below him.

  Pat Junior felt her nails in his scalp and, turning towards his grandmother, he landed a hefty kick on to her shins, making her let go of him, and also making her curse louder than ever. He was eight years old and he pushed her forcefully and shouted, ‘I am telling my dad about you.’

  Annie knew she had gone too far and forced herself to calm down.

  She looked at the boy in front of her and, smiling tremulously, she did what she always did. With eyes full of tears and a broken voice she said sadly, ‘I am so sorry, child, but I miss you all so much, and you are all so horrible to me . . .’