Faces (29 page)

Ange was heaving now, the urge to be sick was overwhelming, and she rushed into the toilet. She knew her daughter could hear her as she heaved, and she was glad about that. It was only when Jonjo brought her in a cold flannel and wiped her face with it, that she finally let go of her tears.

Lawrence Mangan was lying in his bed, a smile on his face, and a fag in his hand, as he watched the woman sucking at his cock as if her life depended on it. The woman was a stunner, her good looks almost obliterated by the deliberate overuse of the war paint that only expensive whores managed to get away with. He assumed it was because they knew they were worth more than the average bird. They were well-versed in their trade, and their heavy make-up made up for the sexlessness of the actual encounter. They looked like women from magazines; they weren’t real and they weren’t there for any other reason than the money.

This one though, for all her clever machinations, had no chance of getting him up again; he was ready for a hasty goodbye and a kip. He never let the working girls stay over, he believed that they were thieves, that the nature of their job made them amoral, until eventually, they looked at everyone in their orbit as a mark. They would lift a pair of cufflinks, a bottle of deodorant, it didn’t matter, but they would lift
something
. He had experienced it before, and punished the girl severely. She had been on her way out the door with his watch, a plain gold Bulova but, as far as he was concerned, it could have been a jewel-encrusted Fabergé egg. The point was she had been on the nick, and he would not let something like that go without at least a mention. He had blinded her. His anger at her audacity had caused him to go over the top, and a bottle had somehow been smashed into her face. As far as he was concerned, she had asked for it. He then had had her removed by two of his best minders, and they had taken her away in complete silence, never referring to that evening ever again. So, once bitten twice shy. He pulled the girl’s head up roughly and, pushing her away from him, he waved her away as if she was a troublesome fly.

Linda Crock had been here before with punters; once they had what they wanted, they took their shame and guilt out on the girl they had used. Well, fuck him, she had got her money beforehand; Mangan’s reputation was of a useless lay, a man who would attempt to get his fun for free by intimidation and by using his reputation as a so-called Face. Well, she had been dealing with pimps since she was fourteen years old and it took a bit more than this bloke to rattle her cage. She had the money safe and sound, so she didn’t have to pretend an enthusiasm she didn’t feel any more. She also knew that men like him got their just deserts in the end anyway. As she dressed she replaced her usual sexy look with a haughtiness that told him he had just been had, and that she was an actress worthy of the West End stage.

Her demeanour unsettled Lawrence, and he was quiet as she sorted herself out. She didn’t even say goodbye; he had assumed she had gone to the bathroom, and it had taken him a while before he had realised she had actually left. He knew he had been mugged off, and it annoyed him. That it was by a woman who sold herself to anyone with the correct amount of money regardless of age, weight or personal hygiene, hit a nerve somewhere. It made him see himself in a less than flattering light. Most of the working girls he came across knew of his past indiscretion and so played the game until they were at least safe and sound outside his front door.

He was still seething at her arrogance when he heard the tap on the front door and, grinning, he got up to open it, wondering what the fucking loser had left behind and determined to make her sweat for it, whatever it was. She needed a reprimand; most women did in his experience. As he opened the front door, his expression one of inconvenience mixed with loathing, he realised too late that his worst nightmare had just come true.

 

‘You all right, girl?’ Jonjo’s voice was low, and his cannabis-loaded voice told Annie he was stoned out of his tree. He crept in and sat on the edge of the bed. In the light of the bare bulb from the landing he could see his sister was battered to a pulp. He didn’t feel an iota of sorrow for her though, she had let herself down badly and, when he had finally cottoned on to what was happening, he had been as disgusted as his mother at her behaviour. He still wanted to check she was OK though, his mother could really go to town when the fancy took her. She was a real brawler, as short as she was.

He looked at his sister’s ravaged face and sighed, ‘I’ve talked her out of telling Dad or Danny Boy. All right?’

Annie nodded, the tears spurting hot and salty from her eyes now, his sympathy making her more upset than she actually was. Feeling sorry for herself she began to sob, placing her right arm gingerly across her eyes and her left arm over her chest, as if to hide herself from him.

‘Who was he?’

She was unable to answer him, her crying was so severe.

He smiled sadly and, taking her hand from over her eyes, he looked down at her in earnest and said, truthfully, ‘If you don’t tell me, Annie, I will recount this night’s events to not only our dad, but to Danny Boy as well. So, make up your mind who you want to tell your sordid little story to.’

She was bleeding still, her lips were swollen up and she could taste the blood that had dried on them, could feel the stinging from the bald patches she knew were now all over her head. Clumps of her thick hair were everywhere; she could see them lying all around her, and the sigh made the tears come hot and heavy once more.

‘I ain’t fucking about, Annie, who the fuck was he?’

She was shaking her head, and he saw the extent of her beating. Even her ear was bleeding, one of her earrings had obviously been ripped out at some point during the fight and now she had a sliced lobe that, he guessed, wasn’t going to heal up in a hurry. His mother had really done a number on her, and so she should.

‘Come on, before I get impatient . . .’

Annie sobbed and, holding her hand tightly across her mouth, she whispered brokenly, ‘I don’t know, Jonjo, I swear, I met him outside the café in Bethnal Green.’

Jonjo sat back from her then, his back arched with shock and temper, and his sister noticed how much he had grown into himself the last few months. He wasn’t as big as Danny Boy, but he was still a fair old lump, and, when he pushed his face down into hers, she was reminded of just how violent this family of hers could be when any of them felt their world was being threatened.

‘You better be fucking kidding me. You mean to tell me that you brought a fucking stranger into your home, and you let him strip you off and almost fuck you?’

She was aware that he was on the verge of killing her and she tried to calm him down, all the while wishing that her night had not ended in such a violent and frightening way. What had possessed her to bring the boy home with her, why had she not done what she usually did and let him take her to Vicky Park, or up an alleyway? Why was she doing this in the first place? But she knew why, she was rebelling against the regime that kept her locked up like a fucking nun and, because of the name she carried, the name that made sure no one ever came near or by her. She didn’t answer him, instead she buried her face in the pillows and cried as if her heart would break.

Jonjo looked at his sister, who he loved, but any sympathy he might have harboured for her disappeared. Grabbing her arm he dragged her around to face him and said, once more, ‘This is your last chance, cunt, give me a fucking name or I’ll give you what the old woman give you, only I won’t stop until you’re dead.’

Annie knew he meant every word, he was already bringing back his fist to carry out his threat and, before she knew what had happened, she said quietly, ‘He’s from Romford, his name’s Ian Peck.’

Jonjo lowered his fist slowly and, after looking her over once more, as if she was an overflowing sewer, he got up to leave. At the door he turned and said viciously, ‘Fucking Romford, you’re having a laugh, ain’t you?’

She was crying once more as he closed her bedroom door none too quietly behind him. She was repeating the same words over and over again in her head, ‘I must get away, I must get away.’ But she knew that would be impossible, she would only go out of this flat feet-first in a box or on the arm of a husband. At this moment in time, the former was without doubt her preference.

 

Lawrence Mangan knew that he had been smartly out-boxed, and he also knew he was not going out without a fight. That these two youngsters could come to his home, his fucking
home
, and act like they were the dog’s knob was practically beyond his belief. As he looked past them, he saw two of his workforce, his so-called minders, watching the proceedings with vacant eyes and knew that they were in on it. Knew that the men he paid a wage to, who he had been so convinced were his loyal minions, were waiting to see what was going to happen to him. In that moment the fight left his body, and he realised that, for all his money, and his connections, no one was going to come to his aid, even if he could ask them to. As he saw the grinning face of Danny Boy Cadogan, he knew that he would be the only witness of his own demise. When Danny Boy pushed him back into his bedroom, he saw Michael Miles holding a carrier bag full of tools and Danny Boy empty them out onto the bed, and it finally dawned on him that his demise was not going to be quick or, indeed, painless. Danny Boy wanted pay back for every slight he had ever experienced from him, real or imagined. He was going to use him as a warning, as a theatrical occurrence; his death would herald the boy’s entrance into the world of the real grown-ups.

As the seriousness of his situation was sinking in, Danny Boy sliced Mangan quickly and cleanly across both eyes with a box-cutter, the action effectively blinding him in his own blood. As he sank down onto his knees, his hands instinctively covering his face, he could hear himself begging for mercy with all the humility he could manage, with all the self-pity he possessed, and he hated himself for it. He pleaded with the boy to finish him off quickly, to let him go like a man, not to torture him as he had tortured others, because he was, after all, a Face, and that should count for something. Eventually though, he could only weep and plead until, finally, he was simply groaning, accepting his fate and praying that it would be over quickly. But he knew that was impossible; Danny Boy Cadogan was out to set a precedent, was out to make his mark in a spectacular manner. He was guaranteeing his acceptance into the world he wanted so badly to be a part of, to ensure that he was seen as a future main player.

Then, his natural antagonism coming to the fore, he screamed out blindly, ‘Look at me, Danny Boy, look at me long and hard, because one day this will be you.’

Danny Boy laughed at him and then said chirpily, ‘Your eyes look like boiled eggs covered in ketchup. I bet that hurts, don’t it?’ He slapped him none too gently across the face.

Lawrence’s blindness now made him even more frightened than he was before.

‘Remember that old saying, Lawrence? What goes round fucking comes round. How true is that, eh?’

Lawrence could picture young Danny Boy then, from his strong jawline to the powerful shoulders that he never made any attempt to show off, and he knew his eyes would be blank, but his excitement at the thought of a kill would be overwhelming. He had heard all about Danny Boy’s overly casual attitude to violence, even by their standards, but he had never dreamed that it would one day be turned on him. Now he knew that his own viciousness and hatred was coming back to bite him.

Danny Boy was a thug. He had underestimated him and what he was capable of. He also knew that this would bring Danny Boy Cadogan to the forefront of everyone’s minds. A Danny Boy Cadogan was needed, Lawrence understood that now. There hadn’t been anyone even remotely like him for a long time. He was that maverick villain, that mad bastard known to the police as a psychopath and, to his friends and neighbours, as a nice bloke who was afflicted with a terrible temper that, unfortunately, he couldn’t control.

His eyes were screaming with pain, and his body was already going into shock, the tremors so acute he was having difficulty breathing. He could hear Michael moving around as he searched the premises for anything that could be used by them in the future to further their own ends. He knew that his life’s work was going to finally be spent by a couple of fucking thugs without thought or reason, and that he would only be remembered because of his gruesome death. Danny Boy knew what he was doing, and even now he had a sneaking admiration for him, even as he hated him with every bone in his pain-wracked body.

When he heard Danny putting the tools in some kind of order, Lawrence went quiet and he prayed for death as he knew it was inevitable.

Danny Boy whispered in his ear, ‘We’re going to have such fun, Lawrence, and I am determined to make sure you don’t miss out on any of it. I want you around for the grand finale.’

 

The condition of Lawrence Mangan’s tortured body hit every daily paper, and caused an uproar for a few weeks over its severity and the fact that organised crime was once more safe and well in the capital of this great country. It was eventually knocked off the front pages by a randy vicar whose wife was nearly as amoral as he was.

The events of that dreadful night had worked in Danny Boy’s favour though; he was now not only respected, but also feared as part of the new breed of criminal that was gradually pushing out the older men. The sheer violence they used to gain what they wanted was now becoming commonplace and, amid all these rising stars, was Danny Boy Cadogan with his unique brand of villainy. The Yardies, the Greeks, the Turks and the Chinese all saw him as a force to be reckoned with, as did the majority of the home-grown criminals he consorted with. What no one was saying out loud, however, was that the demise of two men, both classed as social dinosaurs, or agitators, had opened the door to all sorts of new earners. These young men were bringing in new money-making schemes, and were then spreading the wages around with an almost childlike abandon. They were still willing to take the chances and still too young to have succumbed to the fear of being caught, of being found out, and then having to accept the consequences. Ergo, a hefty prison sentence. They were young enough to believe that a twelve would see them come out in their late thirties with enough time on the clock to make their mark all over again.