by Owen Mullen
Charley could’ve dipped her reply in sugar, fed it to Nina in small bites and she would’ve eaten it. She didn’t. A low humourless sound saved for just this moment started deep inside her.
‘When you can stand it, I’ll tell you what she was really like. And, trust me, you won’t feel so sorry for yourselves.’
Nina’s need was greater than mine. She said, ‘I’ve waited my whole life. Tell me now.’
Charley kept her eyes on her, assessing the impact of what she had to say, knowing it would be devastating. At the time, I was too caught in the moment to think about it. Later, I would realise she could’ve said anything, made up a lie, a string of lies if she’d wanted to minimise Nina’s pain. That wasn’t where Charley was at with this. She tilted her head and raised her chin the way I’d seen Danny do hundreds of times.
‘Oh, she talked all right. Sometimes all she did was talk. Just not to me. Lying in bed in the room next door to me, drunk, raving for hours about the past. I’d never met my father but I knew all about him because she screamed his name and accused him of every sin under the sun. After her second marriage ended, she hauled me across one state after another. I had my sixth birthday in Tulsa, my tenth in a trailer on the Gulf Coast. By fifteen, we were back north living in a hovel on the outskirts of Chicago, the only white folks in an all-black neighbourhood and she was the busiest hooker in the ’hood.’
Charley paused. ‘Getting the picture?’
We didn’t answer and she got to the point. ‘You’re asking did she regret leaving her children. The answer is, no, not once, not ever.’
I saw hurt flood Nina’s face. So did Charley. It didn’t move her to soften her tale; her lips pressed in a crimson line and she delivered the killer blow. ‘As far as Frances was concerned, she was better off without you – all of you. All of us. She only took me because I was in her belly.’
It was a harsh assessment, in its own way as shocking as anything we’d heard. Unlike Nina and me, Charley had had a lifetime to come to terms with it.
I spoke for the first time. ‘When did you suss that out?’
‘As soon as I could put two thoughts together.’
‘How did you feel?’
She turned her dark-brown eyes on me. ‘About the same as you do right now.’
‘So how did you know about us?’
Charley shook her head. ‘Still chasing an idea of the perfect mother, aren’t you? You’ve carried this image of a woman you barely recall, whose claim to fame is that she gave birth to you. Didn’t need anybody to tell you about your old man. You remembered him, all right, and had her pegged as trapped and helpless. You’ve spent your lives making up excuses to justify what she did to you.’
Charley grunted in lieu of a laugh and examined her manicured nails. ‘And along I come and spoil the party with the uncomfortable truth. Our mother was a drunk and a whore and if she’d fucked off and left me, I would’ve thanked God for cutting me a break. As it was, I got out of there as fast as I could. Two days before my sixteenth birthday.’
She’d carried the pain of being our mother’s daughter alone and needed to offload it.
Nina said, ‘You said she died. If you weren’t there, how did you know?’
‘An old neighbour kept in touch and told me there was a fire. The liquored-up bitch had burned the boarding house she was staying in down. The landlord identified her body.’
Charley gave us a minute to take it in; there was no warmth in her eyes and I believed she’d been holding onto her little speech a long time. The chance to say it had finally come; she’d seized it with both hands. Maybe for her, it squared the account. It had done nothing for Nina – she seemed to have grown smaller, hugging herself like a child. She didn’t cry but she would. When she was alone. What we’d just been told was worse, far worse, than Danny, me or Nina had imagined. Leaving us behind had cost our mother nothing because she didn’t love us. It was going to take a while to process and I didn’t have room for it right now.
Charley said, ‘Hard to imagine you were better off without her, but you were. Look what you’ve become.’
I said, ‘None of that explains how you found us.’
She brushed something off her clothes with a flick of her wrist. ‘Over the years I pieced it together. Drunks say things they don’t remember the next day. I was sober. I remembered everything. Don’t mourn her, she wasn’t worth it, though I can see from your faces you hate me for what I’ve told you. You should be thanking me. Daniel and Frances Glass were our parents. Two flawed people who produced four exceptional kids. The three of you and me. You got stuck with him. Believe me, you got the best of it. You had each other. I had no one but myself.’
I looked at them, sitting opposite me: sister No 1 and sister No 2. As alike and as dissimilar as it was possible to be. Charley, a super-confident rough diamond, and Nina, a damaged teenager hiding in a sophisticated woman's body. What they had in common was me and a shared future. There were interesting times ahead, that was for sure, as these women vied for pole position: one clinging to something she believed was her right, the other determined to have what had been denied her. Suddenly, I was relieved the secret sibling hadn't been a boy.
The final word was mine and I was determined to have it. They weren’t so very different. Not at all: under the skin, they were children carrying a lifelong hurt, each believing the other had had it easier than them.
I knew. Because that was me, too.
I spoke to Charley. ‘Trading horror stories – and be sure, we have ours – won’t take us where we want to go. Danny did a lot of stuff, most of it you don’t want to know, except he was right about one thing. He believed in family.’
Nina said, ‘When it suited him.’
I ignored her and carried on. ‘Danny’s gone and isn’t coming back. We – the three of us – are what’s left. Who did this, who got that… none of it matters. What does is in this room: Luke and Nina and Charley.’
Nina cocked her head to one side; she was listening. Charley’s expression didn’t alter; she’d come expecting a fight and wasn’t getting one. Blood alone wouldn’t be enough – she’d earn her place or it would end – but for the moment, she was in.
I said, ‘We can waste time chewing over old bones, resenting, even hating each other, and that’s okay. But don’t forget what we’ve achieved. We came from nowhere – fucking less than nowhere – now we own south London. And we aren’t finished. Not by a long shot. We’ll succeed because, at the end of the day, we’re family. The Glass family. Nothing and nobody beats that.’
22
The last few days had been a bastard. I’d spread myself too thin and was feeling it. Unfortunately, the drama was far from over. Three years of peace had lulled me into a sense of security that had blown up in my face: somebody out there had gone out of their way to damage me. I was hurting. Down 200 K and the game hadn’t long started. Losing the larger players would be bad news – avoiding that happening was crucial. Later, I’d call Bridie O’Shea and explain the change of plan; the old rebel was a pragmatist, a lady you could do business with, so I wasn’t expecting a hard time. The Bishops made a noise – didn’t they always? In the end, all they were being asked to do was deliver their own money, for Christ’s sake. From then on, the risk was with me. But the real opposition would be the guy I was meeting next. My promise to cover the loss hadn’t stopped him humming and hawing and scratching around the edges of Danny dropping out of sight, all the while treating me like his favourite nephew, almost a friend.
Except, I knew better: Jonas Small didn’t have friends; he had interests.
I parked in Flat Iron Square and walked to Borough Market. From his voice on the phone, I’d guessed Jonas Small had been expecting to hear from me. He’d spoken quietly, deliberately, the gravel in his tone less harsh, and I wondered if he’d cut the smoking down from a hundred to just the sixty a day.
It was early, his ‘Indian’ restaurant wouldn’t be open, so we arranged to
meet in Southwark – a compromise between his part of London and mine.
I saw him before he saw me, leaning against a wall outside The Market Porter pub, his hands thrust into the trouser pockets of the same king of comedy suit he’d had on in Brick Lane. The cigarette dangling from his lips and the butts on the ground at his feet told me I’d been wrong about a change in his habits. When he finally noticed me, he took a last puff, crushed the smoke under the heel of his shoe and stood upright. We’d agreed to come alone. I hadn’t stuck to it and I’d bet neither had Jonas. Trust had to be earned. With him, it never would be. He smiled – but then he always smiled – waited for me to reach him, fell in step beside me and asked a question I wasn’t remotely interested in answering.
‘Lukie boy! Did you know there’s been a market here for nigh on a thousand years?’
Small could do both sides of a conversation and often did. Listening was optional, somebody else speaking just a pause to let him gather his thoughts.
‘Yeah. A thousand years. Love a good market. A while back, some poor bugger got poked in the eye with an umbrella here. Died, he did.’
Jonas was at his chatty best, firing out obscure pieces of information to an audience who couldn’t have cared less. With his scattergun chat and the loud clothes, it would be easy to write him off – I wouldn’t make that mistake.
He admired the elegant glass and metal façade at the entrance, at odds with the industrial architecture of the rest of the place, and held out his arms. ‘Bloody marvellous, ain’t it? Makes you proud to be a Londoner. The Market Porter opens at six o’clock in the morning if you’re ever choking. Strike that. Forgot who I was talking to.’
We strolled between the stalls. Two or three traders recognised him and waved; he waved back. Jonas stopped to examine a display of apples and bananas and said something I didn’t hear to the woman behind the stand. She laughed and he lifted a peach, pressed the soft flesh and pulled a coin from his waistcoat. She shooed his money away and we walked on.
Small bit into the peach and for a moment he was quiet. Juice ran between his tobacco-stained fingers onto the ground from the fruit he’d never intended to pay for: a tiny deception but a massive clue to his character. He was a conman, and he was good at it.
He weighed the peach in his palm. ‘My wife’s clairvoyant, did I tell you that?’
‘Don’t think you did, Jonas, no.’
‘Yeah. She can see the future. Fucking spooky sometimes. Knows what I’m going to say before I do.’ He nodded at the wonder of it. ‘This morning, I’m coming out the door and she says “He wants out of the deal. You mark my words, Jonas, Luke Glass wants out.”’
His moustache was damp, a fragment of peach flesh lodged in his beard, but his eyes were clear. ‘“He wants out.” Her very words, as God’s my judge. You going to tell me she’s right? That you got me here to call it off?’
‘No, not at all.’
He exhaled, like something heavy had been taken off him, took out a packet of B & H and lit one.
Small laughed, a reminder of the wolf’s head on Aldgate Pump. ‘Not looking forward to telling Lily she was off the mark. Then again, there’s a first time for everything, ain’t there? I’m well pleased to hear it. Very pleased. Our arrangement got off to a shaky start, no denying it, but backing out… not how business is done. Couldn’t see Danny backing out.’
The peach stone dropped to the ground; he kicked it away with his foot and looked back along the line of stalls. Our acquaintance had been mercifully short, though I knew him enough to realise something was coming. I wasn’t wrong. He stroked his bearded chin, as if a blinding flash of insight had arrived and he was about to share it. He rested his hand on my shoulder like an uncle offering wise counsel. ‘This money thing with the club. It’s good. In fact, it’s excellent. Except it won’t work. Not in the long run.’
‘Really?’
‘Yeah, really.’ He sounded sad. ‘The risk’s too high. Just been proved, hasn’t it? Two hundred grand down the fucking Swanee. And, okay, you’ll cover it this time.’ He waved a questioning finger in my face. ‘But it’s a big nut to swallow. I wouldn’t do it. No chance I’d bloody do it. Not twice.’
‘What is it you’re saying, Jonas?’
Small searched for the words in the air above me. ‘We’re vulnerable. Some bastard’s already taken advantage. Others will see that and get… encouraged, understand what I mean?’ He waited to let it sink in, his mitt massaging my shoulder. ‘We could make a nice few bob or we could come a right cropper.’
‘That’s business, Jonas.’
‘True, true, although it doesn’t have to be that way. If we pooled our resources there isn’t a firm in London who’d dare come within a mile of us without getting their balls shot off.’ He hooked his fingers into his waistcoat pockets and puffed out his chest. ‘Strength in numbers. Oldest defence in the world. ’Course, the percentages would need to change to accommodate the new arrangement. Fifty-fifty sounds about right. That said, to sweeten it and since you’ve done the donkey work getting the club up and running, I’m prepared to consider sixty-five-thirty-five. No, I tell a lie. Sixty-forty.’
He couldn’t be serious. Except, he was.
In the restaurant in Brick Lane, I’d gone along with his stream of consciousness bullshit.
And I’d listened to enough of it.
I spoke slowly, choosing the words so there would be no misunderstanding. ‘Jonas, let’s you and me get one thing straight. I’m not Danny. He has no part in this. You’re dealing with me. Understand? Me. Luke Glass. If you’re not comfortable with that we’ll go our own way and no hard feelings. But another fucking word about my brother and it’s all in the bin. Danny’s in Spain or Portugal or wherever he is, I couldn’t give a monkey’s. I’m here. LBC is mine. If you want to do business with him, get yourself a bottle of Ambre Solaire and fuck off out of it. Otherwise, enough with the ‘Danny’ shit.’
He stared at his shoes. Nobody spoke to him like this; he didn’t appreciate it. Somebody had to and I was fine about it being me. ‘Also, while we’re here, forget the “we”. There is no we. Though you’re right on one thing. We were vulnerable. As an interested party you’ll be relieved to know that’s sorted. From here on in, the cash will be delivered to the back door of the club, where an army will be ready to welcome it or whoever else is along for the ride. Before was a lesson. And the lesson’s been learned.’
I stepped back and looked at him. ‘Is any of that unclear?’
He murmured something I couldn’t make out.
‘Come again, Jonas.’
‘On his deathbed, Voltaire was asked to renounce the devil. Voltaire says, “This is no time to be making new enemies.” Worth remembering.’
The wolf-grin spread across his face, the filling flashing in the light. He was full of crap. I ignored it and shook his unresisting hand. ‘Glad we had a chance to sort that out. I’ll be in touch. Tell Lily I said hello.’
23
A cool breeze rustled the branches at the bottom of the garden caressing Oliver Stanford’s cheek as he stood in the shadow of his house, waiting for the moon to disappear behind the clouds before he made a move. Elise was in the conservatory, a glass of wine in one hand, a book in the other, blissfully unaware she was in danger. Stanford had had a wasted day. Distracted and unable to concentrate, his mind constantly wandered to the shoebox on the front seat of his wrecked car. Its symbolism freaked him. Thanks to the raid on LBC – the raid he’d known nothing about – his relationship with Luke Glass was at its lowest point in the three years since he’d taken over from his brother. Luke wasn’t the animal Danny had been. But the bullet set off alarm bells in Oliver Stanford’s head; it seemed he had a new enemy.
During his time with the Met, Stanford had had more than his share of villains spewing revenge when he’d collared them, angry threats thrown out as they were led in handcuffs from the dock to the cells below. No more than a final show of defiance from men who’d
gambled and lost. Any copper who let that get to them was in the wrong job. The logic comforted Stanford but didn’t negate the chilling significance of the warning.
Elise had been delighted to see him home so early. Arm in arm, they’d watched the sun drop over the horizon, then settled themselves in the latest addition to their house, until he’d spoiled the mood by announcing he’d brought work with him that needed his attention.
It was a lie. More accurately, another lie to go with the many he’d told her during their marriage.
Through the late-evening gloom, he’d noticed the barely perceptible pinprick glow of a lit cigarette, dancing like a firefly in the trees. His wife’s lips moved as she read, her eyes staying on the page when he got up and went to his study. She’d thought, for once, she had him to herself and was annoyed with him.
When he was alone, Stanford acted quickly, taking a hollowed-out book from the shelf, removing the gun it concealed and thrusting it in the waistband of his trousers. He closed the side door behind him as quietly as he could and crept towards the garden. Once upon a time, a younger Oliver had prided himself on being a decent detective – he was about to find out if he still had those skills.
All the senior officer had to do was pick up the phone and two squad cars would arrive in minutes, sirens blaring. Except, there was no knowing where that would lead. Dealing with it himself made sense because whoever it was might have a tale best left untold, the price of decades of dishonesty.
Light from the conservatory spilled onto the patio. On the other side of the glass, Elise had her spectacles balanced on the end of her nose, engrossed in her story. That his actions might’ve threatened her safety was too painful for Oliver Stanford to consider. London was a jungle, yet there were rules – he couldn’t be certain the figure hiding in the trees lived by them.
He kept to the bushes, bent low, every step slow and measured. A twig snapped like the crack of thunder when he shifted his weight from one foot to another and Stanford held his breath. In the stillness, he heard the metallic click of a lighter and saw a cloud of grey smoke rise between the branches and drift across the lawn as the stranger drew on a fresh cigarette. Suddenly, the policeman understood. This was a charade: whoever was hiding wanted him to know they were there.
