Faces (43 page)

Michael saw the lights of Danny Boy’s car as they shone across the office walls, heard the barking of the dogs and the loud creaking as the gates were opened. He poured himself another drink and braced himself for the coming meeting with his best friend. Danny wasn’t a fool, and he knew that he only had their best interests at heart. But it still wasn’t a conversation he was looking forward to though.

 

‘You look better than I thought you would.’

Ange was attempting to smile as she spoke, but the effect was awful. She looked what she was; a woman on the edge. That she had loved the man who had left her alone yet again, this time for good, was never in doubt. It was just that, unlike her, no one else understood why. Ange had seen something in her husband that seemed to have eluded everyone else he had ever come into contact with. His own children included.

Mary watched her warily, unsure now of this woman who, it seemed to her, had spawned a man even she was frightened of. But the visit was welcome because Mary knew she had to get as many people on-side as possible. She hoped Ange was here as a friend and not an enemy.

‘I always look good, Ange, that’s the problem.’ She said it sadly, without the gentle slurring that made her sound even sexier than usual. Her voice was low, deep; she always sounded as if she was on the verge of taking her clothes off. It was another thing her husband hated about her. She made porn queens look like amateurs, and it was all without any effort on her part whatsoever.

Ange was drawn, her wrinkled face seemed to have aged drastically overnight. She was looking at her daughter-in-law sceptically, as if she had never met her before, as if she was weighing her up.

Both women were quiet for a while, Mary because she didn’t feel comfortable with her mother-in-law. For the first time, she felt as if she was judging her, and it was not something she had ever experienced before. At least, not from Ange, anyway. Ange was generally someone she spoke to, but didn’t really bother with. Her own son had no real respect for her and who could blame him? She had taken his father back even after he had destroyed the family she professed to love so much. Taking him back had been like a kick in the teeth to her elder son after everything he had done to keep them together, keep them fed and clothed. He had kept a roof over their heads that was paid for and was, for once in their lives, a certainty. A definite. He had made sure his mother wasn’t out scrubbing floors and washing other people’s clothes and had become the husband she had always craved; the man she had dreamed about. Danny Boy had taken on the mantle of the father, and they had all been the better for that. He had knocked his pound out in the pursuit of his family’s happiness, and he felt proud at what he had accomplished for them all.

Ange Cadogan had been set like a jelly and, despite that, she had still chosen to take back the man who had caused them so much grief and heartache in the first place, who had caused his elder son to become a robber and a burgeoning young Face just so that he could take proper care of his family. A family that had never had it so good, and who had finally accepted that their lives were so much better without the father they secretly despised; the father who had no care or interest in any of them, their mother included.

Ange had set in motion a chain of events that had reverberated down the years and caused untold misery for everyone involved. Now, the woman Mary had ignored, had acknowledged as and when it suited her, who she had no real connection with, was suddenly important because she had Danny Boy’s affection.

‘Did they say what it was, what caused it this time?’

Ange’s voice was low, full of compassion, and Mary responded to that. She almost cried with relief at her kind words. ‘No, Ange, they said it was just one of those things.’

Ange nodded sadly, and sighed gently. Her heavy coat and carefully applied lipstick made her look like a mannequin. There was an unreality about the situation that Mary couldn’t put her finger on.

‘You’re shaking, Mary, you’re trembling like an Eskimo playing strip poker. Look at your hands.’

Mary looked down at the covers and Ange saw the beauty that she knew her son despised, even as he loved it. She knew what Danny Boy was like, he was far more like the father he had destroyed than he realised. Than any of them realised, in actual fact.

‘I know you drink, and I know you drink on the quiet and, if I was married to my son, I would probably do the same, girl. He’s a fucking vicious, vindictive bastard. But he still deserves a child, and you’d better get your act together, lady, and produce one, or he’ll kick your arse out the door so fast you’ll hit the pavement running. Now, I want you up and about for the funeral, and I want you there by my side as if we’re all really sorry he’s gone. I want to give him that if nothing else.’

Mary nodded, unsure of this woman now. Unsure of the power she seemed to have garnered for herself almost overnight.

‘I’m sorry about Big Danny . . .’

Ange flapped her hand in impatience, and said wearily, ‘Don’t say it if you don’t mean it. He’s gone, and we’re all still here. Focus on that. But I don’t want any sympathy that isn’t genuine. Not from me own anyway. You’ll stand there with me and your husband and you’ll stay sober. Your poor mother, the lights of heaven to her, had the curse of the drink and all. It’s a haven for the destroyed, for the unloved, and for the weak.’

Ange wiped a hand across her mouth then, as if wiping away the words she had just said, even as she knew the truth of them. In her heart she knew her son tortured this girl, knew that he was capable of great wickedness and his wife would always bear the brunt of it; she wondered if he had a hand in the loss of the babies. She hated that she even thought he might be responsible, because to even suspect him was like admitting it was true. So she pushed the thoughts away, as she always had, and said, ‘You’re like a thorn in his side; he’s eaten up with you, wanted you so much he could kill for you and, like everything else, once he gets what he wants he sets out to destroy it without a second’s thought for how his actions might reverberate on those around him. Now, I am here to offer you my support, but you have to do your bit. That means cutting down on the drink and taking care of yourself. Once a child arrives, a child born in wedlock, he’ll come round. He’s a lot more like his father than he realises, and he’ll never leave you if you have his children. His personality is such that another man would never get the chance to have what he’s had, even if he doesn’t want it anymore. So, listen to me now; get a child and you’ll have a bargaining tool with him. Because you need something to hold over his head, make sure he sees you as an asset of some kind in the future; make him take care of you. If you don’t listen to me now, Mary, you’re on your own. But you get to the funeral and you make sure my Danny Boy behaves himself. Take control of your life, girl, you might be surprised at his reaction. All the time you let him walk over you, he will.’

Mary Cadogan had never heard her mother-in-law talk so much. It was as if the death of her husband had opened her up to the world around her. As if his absence had finally destroyed the shackles that had kept her so close to him, no matter what he might have done to her. And he had pulled some stunts in his time.

‘Don’t let that boy drag you into the dirt, and don’t let him control the rest of your life. I know him better than he knows himself. He is not kind to you, I guessed that a long time ago. Listen to me when I say this,
don’t
give him a reason to hurt you, he doesn’t need one. If you provide him with one, he’ll use it to justify his behaviour. Now, I’m off; I’ve said my piece and the rest is up to you.’

She stood up and Mary saw a woman who had finally grown into her own skin, a woman who had lost the only thing she had ever really cared about in her life, and who was actually relieved about it. Now her husband was gone, and she could relax because, like the son she had produced, she was pleased that, at least with her husband’s death, no one else could have him now. He couldn’t leave her; he was finally and irrevocably hers. His death had enabled her to finally let go and, for the first time in years, she was doing just that.

At the door Ange looked back at the girl lying in the starkness of the hospital room and her features softened for a few moments. Then she said quietly, ‘He’ll never let you go, and you will never understand him. What you can do now is make the best of what you’ve got. Like we all did, your mother included.’

Her words hung on the air long after she had gone, and Mary was still sobbing as if her heart would break when the nurses finally organised an injection so she could get some much-needed sleep.

Chapter Twenty

Danny Boy looked around the packed church and, being contrary of nature as always, he decided he was pleased at the turnout his father’s funeral had generated. His ego was thrilled that they were all actually there just for him, for his benefit, not for the useless ponce who had created him, and who he had ultimately seen fit to annihilate. His father’s death affected him not one iota; he had lost any kind of affection many years before, and he had never tried to regain it in any way, shape or form. His father had been a pain in the proverbial arse as far as he was concerned, and his demise had been nothing more than a cowardly act; something he had expected, even welcomed. Why should he have to grieve for someone who had been dead to him for a long time? But the fact that so many people had bothered today assuaged his ego, made him happy because it showed the esteem people held him in. If he hadn’t been the man he was, this ponce would be planted without a fucking bunch of daffodils from the nearest garage. There had been enough flower arrangements delivered that morning to cover twenty graves; Danny’s only consolation being that the sheer weight of them might keep the old fucker down if he had any notions of going out on the haunt. He wouldn’t put that past the old cunt either; he’d probably still go out on the rob in the afterlife. Thieving wanker that he was. His thoughts made him smile and he bowed his head quickly so no one would see the smirk on his lips.

He had a sudden flash of memory, when the Murrays were at his front door all those years ago. He felt the fear envelop him once more, and the anger at their threats and intimidation. They had expected him to roll over and let them bully him and his family at their leisure. He had dug deep down inside himself to fend them off, and discovered that day that there was a vicious, more violent bully lying dormant inside him, and the Murray brothers had unleashed it. It suddenly occurred to him that he had a lot to thank his father for. If he had not been such a useless cunt he might never have realised his full potential. Without his father’s gambling debt he could have ended his days working like any other fucking Joey, trying to make ends meet and looking forward to voting every five years. He could have ended up a bar-stool philosopher like his old man. He saw then that he had actually had a near-miss, that he had dodged the bullet of mediocrity and embraced his destiny. Without his father’s marathon fuck-ups he could have ended up like any other bloke he had grown up with; a grafter, someone who washed off the sweat that other men, cleverer men, made their fortune from. What an existence that would have been.

He was responding to the Mass without thinking of the words. He just wanted his communion; lately, he needed it, for some reason. He had even been seen at the six o’clock Mass on a regular basis. He liked the early Mass, liked the quiet of the church; even welcomed the old men and women who frequented it with their disappointed faces and the stench of second-hand shops hanging around them. They were like a lesson to him on what not to be, they reiterated his belief in himself and his perception of the world he inhabited. He would never be them.

Danny bowed his head and prayed; he meant every word he said and he knew that God understood that, understood him. Like Christ, he had experienced the trials and tribulations of all the great men. Jesus had been tortured, he had been mocked, and he had risen above his humble beginnings and made his mark on the world. People might not still be talking about Danny Boy in two thousand years, but he was confident he wouldn’t be planted and then forgotten about, like so many of his peer group would. He was already a legend, he had iconic status. Christ had been served up by his old man, and he had experienced the same fate himself, except Danny’s father had been protecting his own carcass and had no interest in the fate of his family.

Danny felt sorry for God at times because, like him, He was lumbered with cunts the majority of the time. He had to sort out their problems and make sense of their stupid lives for them. Had to try and give them something to believe in, to hold on to. For the majority of them, all that meant was making a few quid and being given the opportunity to make something of their stupid and pathetic existences.

The priest was speaking louder now; his voice always rose when he said the Gospel. Well, there might be many mansions in
His
father’s house, but he had a feeling the Holy Father wasn’t about to let his old man in to sully the place up. Myra Hindley and Adolf Hitler would be further up the line than his old man. He watched his wife as she held on to his mother’s hand; they had been acting like best mates lately. He could see the shadow of Mary’s eyelashes on her cheekbones, she had great bone structure, reminiscent of the old-style movie stars. She was immaculately dressed, as always, her dark clothes were seriously expensive and her hair had been washed and blow-dried to a glossy sheen. She was a stunner all right, the whore. He felt the anger once more, the hate that seemed to overwhelm him at regular intervals. His wife always looked so fucking calm and so fucking collected. She was like a doll, a parody of a real woman. She seemed the picture of health and vitality, except that he knew that everyone around her was taking bets on how long before her liver gave out. She was drinking like the fish she stank of. No amount of perfume could disguise the stench of treachery that emanated from her. She was like a fucking leech, an albatross hanging round his neck. He tore his eyes away from her before he felled her to the floor with one almighty punch, even the sound of her shallow breathing was enough to antagonise him into a murderous rage. He should never have married her, he should have done what everyone else had, fucked her and left her.