Faces (62 page)

Jonjo was so fucking backward that he had no chance of ever coming forward. And
he
was carrying him, doing
all
the main work, the real collar, seeing to the day-to-day running of everything. He was the one who was making sure the profits were not tampered with, and that the workforce were doing their jobs properly. He oversaw the bookies, both the legal and the off the books, and made sure the clubs were up for any kind of inspection, from anyone, from the VAT people to the silent investors. He made sure the debts were collected in good time and with the minimum of fuss and the maximum of efficiency. Now, though, it was starting to get him down. He was being royally mugged off and he knew it.

Danny Boy had given him the chance to prove himself, which he had done, and he had then left him to do his level best against all the odds, carrying that ponce of a brother as best he could. Danny Boy had to know that Jonjo was a liability, that he was a fucking ice cream freezer, a silly little geezer with a mistaken belief that he was a major player in the Cadogan organisation. And, even though Jonjo knew that without him in his corner he was fucking finished, that he would be sussed out as a prize cunt within days, he still played the big I am, acted the part of the fucking gangster. He played to an audience who pretended they believed it all because the fact that Danny Boy acted like it was the truth meant they had to as well. Yet they came to Arnold if they needed anything, came to
him
if they wanted anything done.

Just the thought of it was enough to make anyone with half a brain think twice about their position in the world they inhabited. Jonjo was a muppet, and Arnold was not going to carry him any longer. And, to make matters worse, he had also started treating him as if he was a lackey, ordering him about in public and demanding money. It had gone too far, and Arnold knew he had to do something about it sooner rather than later. He had his creds, and they didn’t allow for a fucking wank job like Jonjo Cadogan to treat him like the hired help, treat him as if he had no standing in this organisation whatsoever.

Well, today he would find out exactly where he stood. He had brought a lot of good people in with him and they were still loyal; he had the right to withdraw from the Cadogans at any time he chose. He was still nervous though, but he knew that if he didn’t do something now, he never would. It would be too late because Jonjo was using his power and his position at every available opportunity. If he let him carry on much longer it would be too late to rectify the situation. He would then stop being so careful, so loyal to his friends. And it was rank stupidity like that was what caused Old Bill to start looking at them a bit too closely, and all the bent Filth in the land couldn’t stop the Serious Crime Squad when they set their sights on someone.

 

Michael was happy. He was pleased with his morning’s work. As he drove into the scrapyard he was singing under his breath. Danny was already there, but he wasn’t surprised at that, he sometimes thought the man lived there on the quiet. He didn’t let that thought take root, the truth of it was not something he wanted to dwell on. As he got out of his air-conditioned car the warmth of the afternoon air hit him like a wall of sweat. It was so hot, the August sun was relentless, and he wondered if the extreme heat in the yard could be caused by the scrap metal around them being baked in the sunlight. He knew that at times the scrap became far too hot to be touched, even with gloves, and they had to hose it down if a punter wanted to purchase it.

Michael went into the office quickly, the stench of the oil and petrol already too much for him to bear. The oil was everywhere, and he knew it was this that could cause the place to go up like a tinderbox. The years of leakage alone was astronomical; the ground soaked with all sorts of flammable materials. It was another reason why they kept the dogs on the prowl, they provided early warnings in more ways than one. An arsonist could easily render this place an inferno in minutes.

Inside the offices, Danny had on three large fans, but they did little more than recycle the stale air that was a constant seeing as the windows didn’t open, had all been nailed shut by Louie for security reasons.

‘Fucking hot, ain’t it? I have drunk the fucking fridge dry!’

Michael grimaced and sat down heavily. ‘I have a case of beer in me boot, but it’s probably fucking boiling by now.’

Danny laughed, his big, deep booming laugh that always made people forget about his anger and his knack of taking offence on a whim. Something that seemed to be happening more and more lately, and with more and more regularity. ‘I’ll go and get it, mate, you sit down and have a relax.’

As Michael watched Danny Boy go and fetch the case of beer he was amazed, as he always was, that Danny Boy would even do that for him. He was the only person Danny Boy would have done it for and knowing that made him feel sad. He was under enormous pressure because of his relationship with Danny Boy. People came to him because they knew that he was the only person Danny Boy even remotely respected. He loved the man, even as he wished, at times, that he was on the other side of the world. Danny Boy was once more out of control: this happened periodically, it was as if he needed to get rid of his pent-up anger and frustration. He did this by causing fucking murders with people he felt needed a tug, who he felt needed a physical reminder of his place in the criminal community. That was all bollocks of course. Danny just took umbrage every now and then at someone he saw as a threat, someone he saw as capable of one day taking what he had from him, or someone who was maybe just a bit too good-looking for their own good, or that bit too clever. It didn’t matter what the reason was, once he got the thought into his head, no one could convince him otherwise. He would take against someone for the slightest of reasons, or welcome them into the fold for no other reason than they made him laugh.

Danny Boy could go for a drink with his cronies, all open wallet and happy of countenance, and then suddenly someone there was now his biggest enemy, was out to get him. Was now a target for his anger and his frustration. He would then set out to destroy them, and no one would lift a finger to stop him. It was at times like this that Michael really hated this man, even as he was desperately sorry for him. Because he knew that Danny Boy’s life had been stunted many years before when his father had left him to cope with the gambling debt and a mother and two siblings who depended on him to make things right. Still did. Well, he had made things right, he had looked after them all and, along the way, he had turned into this vicious, vindictive man who was now about to start a campaign against someone who they both knew deep down didn’t deserve any of it.

Michael knew the signs, and he would do his best to provide some damage limitation, but he knew it was a waste of time really. Danny Boy was on a mission, and no one was going to stop him once he got started. On the bright side though, once he got it out of his system he would calm down again for a while, and life would return to normal, until the next time.

As Danny Boy placed the beers in the fridge, Michael sat back on the old settee and enjoyed the cool air from the fans. He wished he didn’t know so much about this dangerous man that he was in partnership with, who he knew he owed so much to; not only his success, but his whole life. He was the actual brains of this outfit, everyone knew that, but Danny Boy was the main man. Without him, no one would bother to give him the time of day. He wasn’t really a violent person, not in the way that Danny Boy was, or in the way that most of their contemporaries were. Michael needed a reason to fight, a good reason, but when he had that reason he could hold his own with the best of them. He acted the part when it was necessary but, in truth, he had no real stomach for any of it.

Michael knew though that it was a staple part of their business, that the only reason they were at the top of their game was because they had the reputation for taking out their rivals violently and permanently. Danny Boy Cadogan took no prisoners; if you crossed him in any way, you were obliterated. Simple as that. Well, business rivals were one thing, they were fair game, it was an us-or-them situation. But these terrible grudges that Danny Boy would suddenly amass, for no reason that made any logical kind of sense, would one day prove to be their downfall. He was convinced of that much.

One day Danny Boy Cadogan would come up against his nemesis, would take umbrage against someone who would turn out to be a bigger and better nutter than him. It was the way of the world that they lived in, and Danny Boy’s penchant for suddenly taking against someone for no real reason other than he didn’t like them was likely to backfire on him with dire consequences. And that meant it would backfire on him as well. So he had a personal stake in all this. But, for the moment, he displayed all the usual signs of a man who was on a mission, and Michael hoped and prayed that whoever had rattled his cage this time round wasn’t anyone who would be missed too much and, more importantly, missed by anyone who really mattered.

 

Mary was still shaking and, no matter how hard she tried, she just couldn’t control it this time. Normally she could rein it in, so to speak. She could usually force herself to calm down by sheer willpower. But that was not working for her today. In fact, she had the distinct impression it was actually making her worse. She had already put on her face, as she referred to her morning make-up routine, so she was pleased about that anyway. Once her make-up was in place she could cope with the rest of the day. It was like a mask that she used to hide her real self, to make her into a different person: without the thick make-up and the carefully drawn eyebrows she felt exposed. Felt naked. But the sudden onset of this latest bout of trembling had thrown her. It was so forceful that she couldn’t control it at all. Going into the drawing room, she opened the drinks cabinet and poured herself a large vodka. It looked so innocent, the clear liquid in a cut-glass goblet for all the world looking like pure spring water. Yet, as she gulped it down, she felt the burn as the raw alcohol invaded her morning stomach, hitting the bile in her belly, bile that was already trying to make its way upwards, trying to burn her throat out once more.

Mary slipped her hand into her dressing-gown pocket and took out a packet of Rennies; she ate a handful of them quickly, chewing them without thinking, trying to stem the burning. She felt the burning subside and sighed with relief.

Then, pouring herself another large drink, she gulped it down. She felt the shaking subside at last and enjoyed the cloak of calmness that was suddenly surrounding her being. Closing her eyes, Mary burped gently, placing her slim hand with its expensive rings and expensively manicured nails over her mouth in a parody of lady-like manners. She closed her eyes for a few moments, letting the alcohol take effect, waiting for the next stage in her morning routine: the feeling of complete and utter disinterest that seemed to get her through each day. It took longer and longer for it to settle on her lately, but she was patient, and she was never disappointed. When it finally arrived she was so relieved, she celebrated with another drink. She was a functioning alcoholic, she knew this because she had read up on the subject.

Unlike her mother, who had just been a plain old common-or-garden alcoholic, she was that rarest of breeds. A functioning one. She could cook a dinner, clean a house, do a shop, bath the kids and, if necessary, fuck her husband. She did it all without any kind of feeling or interest. There were other people like her, who could hold down jobs, run businesses, and even operate on other human beings when, all the time, they were as drunk as a fucking skunk. The thought made her want to smile, so she did. She had so little to smile about that when she felt the urge to, she did.

Mary made her way back upstairs. In her bedroom she slipped off her wrap and, looking in the mirror, she saw the bruises on her arms from her husband’s last visit. They didn’t hurt, which was strange because they looked very sore. It was really hot out and she had to wear long-sleeved tops and trousers.

She sat on the end of her bed, a bed she had made as soon as she had vacated it. It was perfect. She often imagined Danny Boy bouncing a coin on it like the horrible big-mouthed sergeants did in the old war films, making sure that it was tucked in properly and therefore worthy of a man like her husband. Worthy of a man of his calibre. She wanted to smile again but she didn’t, she decided he wasn’t worth a smile.

Mary sat there, on the edge of her bed, terrified of messing it up, and looked around the lovely room she had planned so carefully. She had imagined, in her sober lunacy, that such a lovely environment might make him be nicer to her. She stood up carefully. Even with the bruises that covered a large part of her and after the births of her children, she still had a good body. It might not be as firm as it had once been, but she was still capable of giving a lot of women a run for their money, and she knew that. It wasn’t a big-headed thing, an arrogant belief. It was the truth. She only had to open any newspaper or magazine to see the half-naked bodies of other women, famous women, and compare herself with them. She knew she wasn’t lacking as far as that was concerned. Poor Carole was already covered in stretchmarks, and had a belly that wouldn’t look out of place on Buddha himself, and her husband, her brother Michael, still adored her. Actually, so did
her
husband. Danny Boy loved Carole with a vengeance, saw her as the perfect woman. Huge thighs and stretchmarks included. It seemed a jelly belly and fat ankles were now the new requisites needed for keeping your man.

Each birth had seen her go straight back to normal, she’d only had a little bit of sagging on her belly and that had soon disappeared once she had come home. The midwife had been worried about that the last time she had given birth, a stupid young girl with no experience of life whatsoever, who had no concept of the real world that was populated by actual women and children, except for what she had garnered from books. Books she would wager a fortune on had been written by men or, even worse, by one of those ugly women who saw child-bearing as an excuse to stop shaving their body hair, and used their womb as an excuse to make their husbands feel guilty for the rest of their days. And who then felt an urge to tell everyone else how
they
should be feeling. Found the time to write about it with the aid of an Aga and an au pair. Her midwife, the thicko child, as she referred to her in her mind, felt that she was too thin, was too happy and too energetic for a new mum. She had asked her over and over again if she was all right, and Mary had been forced to stifle the urge to smash the girl’s head in with the nearest heavy object. But she had been in full make-up and in full control every time the girl had arrived at her home. The last visit had been wonderful; as she had finally left the house, she had slammed the front door loudly behind her then locked it. Had let the silly little bitch know just how fucking irritating she had found her.