Revenge (27 page)

Chapter Seventy-Three

Jack Cornel believed himself to be an intelligent man – if he had been allowed to have a decent education, he knew he could have made something of himself. His biggest problem was his arrogance, which he had worn like a shield since childhood. All his life he had sought arguments with anyone that he felt might be looking down on him. He had a huge chip on his shoulder. He hated to be treated like a nobody. His father had been a well-known drunk and his mother an even bigger one. The Cornel boys had grown up in a filthy council flat, the result of haphazard parenting, and had to live with the stigma of having the Cornel name.

They had not just witnessed violence – they had been the recipients of it since they could remember. It had been a hard upbringing. Jack had tried to protect his younger brother from his parents’ viciousness and their complete disregard for the two children they had somehow created.

His father had finally beaten his wife to death when the two boys were thirteen and ten respectively. They had then had to try and survive in the care system. Too old for adoption, and much too disturbed for fostering at a residential care home, they had eventually been placed in a lock-down facility that catered for children either sent there by the courts for serious offences or, like the Cornel brothers, because no one knew what to do with them. It was a severe and harsh environment, and they stayed until eventually the social workers released them one after the other on to an unsuspecting public. By then they were past redemption, inured to pain and, without the skills to adapt to society, they had lapsed into the world of petty villainy. Burglars, thieves and liars, they had simply existed, until Jack shot a Dooley. That one act had made him believe he was now capable of moving them up in the world, thereby making a real name for themselves. Jack Cornel saw this as his chance to shine, and he was determined to make the most of the opportunity. He had assured his brother Cecil that, with Dooley’s murder behind them, they were finally on the road to public recognition and wealth.

Chapter Seventy-Four

Declan was watching the Cornel brothers as they drank themselves stupid in a private club Michael had acquired a few years previously, in lieu of a heavy debt. They were with a couple of young lads, both up-and-coming Faces, who knew exactly what was wanted from them. The Cornels had walked into the club with the lads, without a second’s thought, and that alone proved just how gullible they were. They were not even on their own home turf.

It was pitiful. The Cornel brothers actually believed that Michael Flynn was going to arrive here at some point, with the Colombians in tow. As if that would ever happen! As if anyone truly in the know would think that a man like Michael Flynn would actually come to a shithole like this, and bring his overseas guests with him.

He had told the bar staff to give them what they wanted, and to make sure the drinks were large and plentiful – the drunker these prats were the better. The Dooleys had made a major fuck-up by not paying the Cornels out for their brother’s murder. The fact that they were on remand didn’t really mean anything – they were running everything from the prison, business as usual. Rumour had it that they had a problem with the brother who had died, but so what? No one in the world they lived in would swallow something so outrageous. It was their brother, for fuck’s sake! And that needed sorting out. It was a piss-take, an insult to them as a family, and especially when it was perpetrated by people like the Cornels – a pair of prize cabbages, whose combined IQ was equivalent to a fucking mongoose.

Whatever the rights and wrongs of the situation, Declan blamed the Dooleys’ tardiness for the Cornels thinking they were on course for the big time. Now the Cornels were
his
problem, and that wasn’t something he would forget in a hurry. The Dooleys owed him. He was doing their dirty work for them after all, and he was going to make sure they compensated him for his aggravation. It was going to be a very expensive oversight on their part.

He stepped back into the office quickly. They were drunk as cunts, but Jack would know there was something amiss if he saw him there.

He had told the doorman to clear the club by two a.m. The Cornels would think they were getting a lock-in. His lads had already told them they had arranged it so they could be there when Michael arrived. They were drunk and vulnerable and, as far as Declan Costello was concerned, that was exactly as it should be. The treacherous pair of filthy, dirty bastards! Wanting to fucking shoot Michael Flynn dead, and then to assume that would be enough to give them credibility, turn them into real Faces, real villains. They thought he would allow them to step into his shoes without a fight? It was so demented, it was almost comical.

Declan Costello could feel the beating of his heart as his anger smouldered. If the Barkers had not given him the heads up tonight could have been a blood bath; it could have brought the Filth down on everyone concerned, including the visiting Colombians, and that was something, he had a feeling, that would not have been taken lightly.

He lit a cigarette, and pulled on it deeply. It was just coming up to one o’clock. Michael would be there within the hour, and that was when the Cornel brothers would finally realise the error of their ways.

Chapter Seventy-Five

Michael Flynn watched Salvatore Ferreira as he cheerfully succumbed to the charms of the beautiful Bella. She was one of his top-earning lap dancers. She wasn’t as young as she looked, but that didn’t really matter. She had the thick blond hair, blue eyes and creamy skin of a real English rose. She also had a very posh accent, and that went a long way with the clientele. She was really from Dagenham, but she had taken elocution lessons, ballet lessons, and had shrugged off the mantle of an Essex girl, creating a whole new persona for herself. He admired her. She had the sense to realise that this wasn’t a job with a pension, she knew that her shelf life would be short, but could be very lucrative if she played her cards right. He had guaranteed her three grand, cash, to keep Salvatore amused: go home with him, and make him feel like a king. In fairness, she deserved a fucking BAFTA. What a performance! He caught her eye, motioned towards the door, and Bella was off her pole, and in Salvatore’s lap within nanoseconds.

Michael Flynn walked them out to a private car five minutes later and, winking lewdly at a very drunken Salvatore Ferreira, he waved them off gratefully. He had done his bit, and now he could finally concentrate on the other business of the night. He was being driven by a young lad called Davey Dawkins, a good kid, who drove the car without ever trying to start a conversation. Michael appreciated that tonight more than usual. He was so angry he was quite literally capable of murder.

Chapter Seventy-Six

Josephine couldn’t sleep – it was a long time since she had slept through the night. Even sleeping tablets didn’t work any more. She had her own bedroom now. When Michael was out all hours, she didn’t have to go to bed without him and pretend everything was OK. She could come in here and watch her TV programmes, sit in peace surrounded by her private things – her ‘knick knacks’, as Jessie called them. Though they weren’t really knick knacks as such. The boxes she kept in here were full of important papers and magazines. She also had all of her daughter’s school work from the first day she had attended – all her pictures, drawings, report cards. She even had the wrappers from sweets her daughter had eaten over the years. She couldn’t part with them. Michael didn’t think keeping everything Jessie had ever touched was normal. She didn’t care. He didn’t understand the bond between a mother and her child. She had every item of clothing that her daughter had worn. It was boxed up now, of course, washed and ironed. She knew exactly where everything was – every Babygro, every bib, everything she had kept she could find should she wish to.

Her bed was a double, with an antique mother-of-pearl headboard, and crisp white linen. There was no other furniture in here now, except for her chair and her TV. She didn’t need anything else; she was quite happy to give the extra room over to her boxes of memories.

Sitting in here she was surrounded by her whole life. Michael hated it. He felt she dwelt too much on the past, when she should be enjoying the present or looking forward to the future. It was hard for him to understand how attached she was to her treasures. He was different to her; his life was mainly lived outside the house – he was always off somewhere – and he wanted her to be the same. Her journeys out into the world were getting rarer and rarer; she preferred the comfort and safety of her own home. She didn’t drive much any more either, she only got into the car if she had to for her daughter’s benefit. She knew, deep inside, that she was gradually becoming even more of a recluse, but she didn’t care. She had all she needed here in her own home.

She looked down at her legs; they were still shapely. She was a good-looking woman, and she took good care of herself – she always put on her make-up and dressed well. Michael still wanted her; he enjoyed her body as he had years before. She still wanted him, and loved the feel of his arms around her. But she had no desire to go out with him any more. She cooked him meals that a professional chef would be proud of, she always made sure the table was dressed with everything from the finest glassware to the best linen. She kept a home for him that was the envy of many a man. All she asked in return was that he allowed her to live her life her own way.

She walked over to the French doors and, opening them, she went out to the small balcony. Sitting at the table, she looked at the sky. It was a clear night, the moon was full, and the stars were glittering above her. She shivered in the cold night air and, picking up the glass of white wine she had left out there earlier, she took a deep drink. Jessie was asleep, and she envied her daughter for a few moments. It had been so long since
she
had really slept, she had forgotten what it was like. She wished she didn’t suffer from insomnia, that she could get into bed and relax like everyone else. Just to lie down and drift off peacefully was a luxury she couldn’t enjoy any more. Instead, she was wide awake, straining her ears for the sound of her husband’s car crunching on the drive. Once he was home safe, she always felt better.

It was when she was alone in the night like this that she couldn’t stop herself thinking about things she knew were better left alone. Michael’s lifestyle frightened her; she remembered late at night that the world he inhabited was a violent, bloody world. It was a world that she knew he loved, and one that she had never truly understood until the night she had seen him as he really was, covered in blood, and calmly washing it away without any emotion whatsoever. She had helped him – it had been instinctive; she had done what a wife in her position was expected to do for the man she had married. But it was a moment that changed everything. After that night, she had suffered from violent nightmares for weeks, and that was when her insomnia had begun. She was afraid of sleeping, afraid of the nightmares that would take hold, and she had never recovered. His lifestyle, what she knew he was capable of, terrified her. She’d thought she’d understood; seeing it first-hand was completely different.

She knew he would never harm her or his daughter; he loved them more than anything in the world, but that, in itself, was part of the problem. She didn’t feel she could live up to his expectations of her, she hadn’t even been able to give him a child for years. Now she worried that he saw her need for staying at home as a flaw. It was, she supposed, but it was how she coped. Even though he never said anything to her outright, she knew that her refusals to accompany him anywhere hurt his feelings. She didn’t want to do that to him – she loved him with all her heart. But it was getting harder and harder for her to venture outside her home. Just picking up Jessie tonight had been so nerve-racking that when she had finally got back to the house, she had been sweating profusely.

Every day, her world shrank a bit more. She could only ever really feel safe inside her own home, with all her things around her. This need she had to feel safe was powerful. She had to step away from the world that Michael inhabited. It was a world that had gradually crippled her.

She just didn’t want to fight it any more. Tonight she had made her mind up, admitted the truth to herself at last, and made a firm decision not to leave her sanctuary again. She felt almost tearful with joy. Michael would eventually accept her decision. Michael would never risk her actually telling him the truth, the real reason why she was like this.

Picking up her empty wine glass she went back into the warmth of the house. She would have another glass of wine, and watch a nice DVD. That was how she passed the hours away, because sleep was a luxury that all the money in the world couldn’t buy.

Chapter Seventy-Seven

Jack Cornel was drunk, and he was not a friendly drunk at the best of times. He was, in actual fact, a paranoid drunk, looking for problems where none existed, and willing to follow his hatred wherever it might take him. He was already looking for a row, a reason to kick off. He had been waiting all night for that ponce Flynn to arrive and now he was bored. He had come to London to take out Michael Flynn. Every time he thought about it he felt the excitement stir in his belly. This was going to give him and his brother the kudos that they craved. He wanted to step into the limelight, show people what he was capable of, convince the world that he was not a man to be ignored.

Cecil was also drunk. Unlike his older brother, though, drink mellowed him out. He loved the world, and everyone in it. Jack watched as Cecil staggered to the men’s room, all smiles and camaraderie. He was disgusted by his brother’s antics – he was like a fucking big girl’s blouse, so gormless it was embarrassing to watch him. Jack Cornel had one thing in his favour: even as drunk as a skunk, he was shrewd, and he never missed a chance that came his way. He had an in-built cunning that copious amounts of alcohol seemed to bring to the fore; he was one of the few people who actually functioned far better while under the influence of alcohol.

Glancing around, he noticed that the club was already almost empty. When he saw the doorman watching him, he knew immediately, without any doubt whatsoever, that there was something radically wrong. Years of living round two hopeless alcoholics had prepared him for the worst, and it had also taught him the need to have an escape plan at all times. He had not trusted the two young fellows who promised him Michael Flynn on a plate. He had felt from the off that they were just stooges. But he
had
counted on them producing the man in question at some point. He would then have happily taken his chance and, as he was in possession of two firearms, he felt his chances were much better than average; all he needed was a decent shot. He wasn’t about to play games – he just wanted to get in there, take the fucker out, and then bask in the glory.

Now, though, he felt the cold fingers of fear on his neck. There was something more going on here. He swallowed down his drink quickly, before turning to his young hosts and saying craftily, ‘I need a piss, lads, and I need to make sure that my little brother is still capable of cognitive thoughts and behaviour! Fill us up again – the night is young.’

He walked towards the men’s room slowly and carefully, knowing he was being observed from all angles. Inside the toilet, he looked at his younger brother, who was trying unsuccessfully to drain his bladder without soiling himself and his trousers too badly.

Cecil looked in the mirror at his brother and he grinned idiotically. ‘What a fucking great night, bruv!’

Jack Cornel rolled his eyes. His brother was never a man who could hold a drink inside him – he either pissed it out, or spewed it all over the floor. It was a cross he always had to bear, but tonight it annoyed him more than usual. Ignoring his brother, he walked into the stall. There was a window in there. It took him two minutes to open it – someone had painted it shut, so he had to use his penknife to open it. Once it was open he stood on the toilet bowl and climbed outside, calling to his brother to follow him. They found themselves in a small alleyway. Scaling a three-foot wall that took them on to another level, Jack grabbed his brother none too gently by the arm and pulled them both up a flight of rickety stairs until, finally, they were out on the street.

‘What’s going on, Jack?’

Jack Cornel didn’t even bother to answer.

By the time they were missed, the two brothers were long gone.