Faces (57 page)

She had laughed loudly, in desperation, and said to him angrily, ‘But I’m telling you the truth, Danny Boy, why would I lie to you, what the
fuck
would that gain me?’

He had looked at her for long moments, as if she was a lunatic, and then walked off. She wondered, at times, just how anyone allowed him out on his own. He was so obviously a fucking nutter. He was a sadistic, vicious bastard. And she knew that better than anyone; but she actually loved him. For all he was, she loved him, because she knew he would do anything for his family. For her. If it ever came down to that.

Arnold came into the house and she smiled at him happily. He had, somehow or another, grown on her over the years. In fact, she could not imagine her life without him now. They had two handsome little boys, and she knew he worshipped them. Even though the elder one was a bit of a wild card. She could not say for definite who the father was, but he was black enough to satisfy Arnold, and so that was good enough for her. The younger boy, on the other hand, was his father’s double, right down to the thick dreadlocked hair that took so long to twist, and the steely blue eyes and thin lips that made him look like a young Damian Marley. He was a looker, and he knew it. But Arnold was not right lately, and that was bothering her. He was very quiet, he seemed distracted. In fact, he showed all the classic signs of someone having an affair. Except he was hardly ever out of her sight these days.

As she poured them both a drink, she said brightly, ‘Danny Boy is still convinced poor old Mary is out on the cock. He is so paranoid lately. I just laughed at him and his fucking stupidness, and he got the right ache with me. Really got the arse.’ She was roaring again, finding her brother’s reactions hilarious. She expected Arnold to laugh as well, agreeing with her, as he usually did, but he didn’t this time, and she said seriously, ‘Is everything all right with you, Arnold?’

Arnold looked at her, and realised that he did actually love her; as brash and loud as she was, he really cared for her. As he did the boys, but he was nervous now in case he had inadvertently marked his own card with Michael Miles, that there might be a minute chance Michael would report what he had said back to Danny Boy. In his heart, he knew that Michael wouldn’t do that to him, but the fear of it happening would always be there. With his accusations he had broken a friendship he had cherished. Accusations that he still believed had an element of truth to them. He now had the added aggravation of having to tell David Grey to take a running jump, and tell him that if he ever approached him again he would be honour-bound to tell Danny Boy what he was saying about him. That should be enough to keep him in line. At least, he hoped it would be anyway. If Danny Boy ever suspected that he had been accused of something that was so heinous in their world, he knew that he would kill him stone-dead. He also had the added fear of Inspector David Grey opening his big mouth to someone else, and putting his name in the frame. It was an abortion from start to finish. Why hadn’t he just kept his big trap shut, why had he believed that Michael had been
his
mate over Danny Boy’s? Those two had been mates since they were kids. He was nothing more than an outsider to them, a complete outsider at that. He might be married to Danny Boy Cadogan’s sister, but that was as far as it went. Well, he knew when to retreat, and he knew when to watch his back.

Annie, watching her husband, saw the changing expressions on his handsome face, and wondered once more what the hell could be bothering him. Whatever it was, he was not letting her in on it, that much was for sure. Unlike Arnold, she knew the pitfalls of being involved with her brothers. She knew the danger they presented to the outside world. She also knew that Danny Boy was a dangerous fuck. And, even though he was her brother, she didn’t trust him, and she never would.

Mary was lying on the sofa, her back was aching, and she knew she had drunk too much to hide that fact. She would have to plead an illness and, even in her drunken state, she knew she was ill much too often these days, that no one believed her any more. She felt her eyes fill with tears of self-pity; Danny had really hurt her again the night before. He had forced her onto the floor in the kitchen, telling her that she was nothing more than a drunken joke, that people were laughing at her. In the end, she had lain there glad of the respite. Enjoying the coolness of the tiles on her skin. It annoyed him that she didn’t look as drunk as he knew she was. In fact, she had cooked a dinner for them all and it had been perfection personified. The girls had enjoyed it so much they had asked for seconds. But her back was killing her, and she guessed, rightly, that it was her liver. The palms of her hands were bright-red and itchy, and she knew that was the result of too much alcohol. But it was the only way she could cope with her life, a few drinks took the edge off; she still looked after the girls and, bless their hearts, they were just beginning to understand how hard her life was. As they were getting older, and he couldn’t control them so much, they were now getting a taste of his unique outlook on life for themselves. And they were not impressed with it.

She heard his footsteps as he entered the house, their home, and she felt the fear his presence always slammed into her chest. The terrified banging of her heart, the sound so loud in her ears that it drowned out everything else around it. She waited for him to enter the drawing room, waited for his sarcastic comments, his hateful remarks, and she was disappointed.

He was full of good-natured bonhomie, as was sometimes his wont. He knelt beside her and kissed her gently on the mouth. He was heart-wrenchingly handsome and, even though she loathed him, she could see how other people, especially women, might perceive him. She knew that he was classed as a decent man by the majority of his contemporaries and she wondered at someone who could fool people so easily. God knew he had fooled her for long enough.

‘Bad head again, mare?’

She nodded slightly, wondering if he was going to turn on her in the next twenty seconds.

‘Can I get you anything, mate? Aspirin, a cold flannel, how about a large vodka?’

She closed her eyes tightly and waited for the harangue, but it didn’t come this time. Instead, he actually did bring her a large vodka, and he placed it carefully on the small glass table by the arm of her sofa. She stared at it in terror. Then, smiling that crooked, gut-churning smile he had, he said gently, ‘Go on, drink it. I promise you, I won’t say a word. I swear on Leona’s life.’ He looked so earnest, so caring and understanding.

She shook her head slowly, the ice had caused droplets of water to form on the outside of the glass, and the aroma of the neat vodka was filling her nose. But she didn’t touch it. Danny sighed heavily. She was perfect, from her hair to her toenails she was still groomed to within an inch of her life.

‘Look, mare, I decided today, that if you want a fucking drink, you can have one. So make the most of it, girl.’ He picked the glass up and placed it in her hand. It was cold and slippery and she put her other hand up to steady it, frightened she would drop it. Then, smiling, Danny Boy helped raise it to her mouth. Encouraging her to drink it with soft words of affection. She took a mouthful and savoured the taste of it on her tongue.

‘Come on, mare, get that down your Gregory. Then I’ll pour you another one.’

She drank it down slowly, without pause. The feel of its icy coldness like an old friend as she drained the glass. Then, looking at Danny Boy she smiled nervously. ‘Why are you doing this, Danny?’

She was slurring her words, not so much that it would be noticeable to the average person, but enough for the people close to her to know that she was drunker than usual.

He shrugged nonchalantly. ‘I’ll go and get you another, shall I?’

As he slipped from the room, she closed her eyes slowly. She was convinced that he was up to something; he was always up to something. She attempted to pull herself to a sitting position, but her arm couldn’t connect properly with the leather arm of the sofa so she crashed back down each time. She giggled silently at the knowledge that Danny Boy was not there to witness it. Eventually though, she managed to pull herself up slightly, accomplishing this by digging her heels into the other arm of the sofa, and pushing with all her might.

When Danny finally returned with another glass of neat, iced vodka, she was half sitting up, and more than ready for him. He passed her the glass once more and, sitting beside her on the huge leather sofa, he put his arm around her slim shoulders and said gently, ‘Look at your mummy, girls, this is her at her drunken best.’

It was only then that Mary noticed that her two daughters were sitting silently on the sofa opposite her. Then that she knew that they had witnessed her behaviour, her need of a drink.

They were both wide-eyed with bewilderment and when her face finally crumpled and she started to cry, a long, draw-out animal crying, as if she was in physical pain, they were still watching her intently, their beautiful little faces a mixture of fright and deep sorrow at their mother’s plight.

Danny was laughing his head off as if this was the best joke in the world. ‘Drink up, mare, go for it. I waited at the door to see if you would notice your daughters, or even me for that matter. I mean, let’s face it, I ain’t exactly little, am I? Most people notice me. But no, not you, true to form, all you could concentrate on was the next drink.’

She was almost hysterical now, the humiliation was so strong that she felt as if she could actually die from the pain she felt inside her. She knew she had snot hanging from her nose and that her make-up was running down her face. But she couldn’t stop crying, the noise was getting louder and louder, yet she still couldn’t stop it. It was as if, now the flood gates had finally opened, she was crying for all the years she had held the tears back. Had stopped them from falling, had forced them away with sheer willpower.

‘Stop it, Mummy, stop, you’re scaring me.’ Leona’s voice was getting higher by the second; her mother’s hurt and upset was communicating itself to her two daughters and they were both now visibly upset.

As her two young daughters started to wail with her, frightened by their mother’s obvious suffering, Danny Boy just laughed louder and louder. The beautiful house he had bought for them was resounding with the noise of his vicious laughter and his family’s despair. It was then that Mary finally knew, once and for all, that this had to stop.

 

Jonjo was savouring his pint, he loved the first pint of the day; it was like the first fix when he had been on the brown years ago. Only, instead of floating up to cloud nine, he wafted towards the men’s toilets. He could piss for England when he got a thirst on, and he had found out quite by accident that he could take his drink. So he had embraced his new pastime with a fervour that had astounded him. For all his drug-taking he had never really liked alcohol, only consuming it to keep him chilled until the next hit. Now though, it made him feel alive, made him aware of his surroundings, and exacerbated the sounds from the music on the jukebox. He loved it. In fact, unbeknownst to him, he was one of the large breed of men and women who should not drink. It made him aggressive, it made him opinionated and, worst of all, it made him reckless.

Sitting in the Blind Beggar he looked around him at the clientele and smiled happily. He was on a good vibe; it was later on, when he had downed ten pints in the belief that he was sober and able to take his drink, that the nastiness would emerge. When someone asked him to go away, or a girl asked him to leave her alone. Or a cab driver would refuse to let him in because he was chundering all over the pavement. That was when he convinced himself that all these people, these strangers, were out to put him on a downer. The misconception that he was happy and everyone else was a miserable bastard would creep into his psyche and he would suddenly decide that the only way to sort it out once and for all was to either glass someone, nut someone, or punch someone, depending on who he decided to fight with on that particular occasion. It was only the fact that he was Danny Boy’s brother that had stopped someone from harming him, but he had not sussed that out yet. But for now, he was happy; he was enjoying the first flush of the lager and debating whether to have a whisky chaser.

It was cold out, and he watched as the people around him talked and laughed. He saw them remove their winter coats and settle themselves down for a night’s drinking and chatting. He felt the warmth from the heating, coupled with the general camaraderie, and decided he would have one more pint, then go and meet his brother at a little drinking club they frequented in south London. He knew he was already late, but he decided to have another pint anyway.

When Danny Boy and Michael walked in two hours later, he was convinced that they had actually arranged to meet there all along. He tried to explain that to his brother who, he noticed quickly, was not giving him his full attention. That was rather annoying, and he was pleased with himself for not rising to the bait and arguing with him.

Danny Boy was not in a good mood, he could tell, and Michael Miles was in an even worse mood. It occurred to Jonjo that he was very unlucky in many respects. All he wanted was to be happy, but everywhere he went people were determined to be fucking miserable.

 

Ange was making herself some cocoa when the back door opened and Danny Boy carried Jonjo inside. He was roaring as usual, and she kept quiet as she listened to Danny putting his brother to bed. The banging and crashing as he tried to get him up the stairs was like someone scratching their nails across a blackboard, setting her teeth on edge. The eventual shouting and hollering of Danny Boy was the last straw.

Ange sat at her kitchen table and, lighting a cigarette, she waited patiently for Danny to come back down. She had automatically made him a cup of cocoa as well, knowing he liked a hot drink in the cold weather.