The Business (12 page)

Mary knew that though Imelda was wary of her simmering anger, she was not going to keep her equilibrium for much longer. She knew that her daughter’s attention span was not something any of them could bank on.

Imelda was bored. She liked things dramatic and passionate and over with as quickly as possible. This was all going on too long for her, and she was now conveniently forgetting why this was happening in the first place.

Mary watched as her daughter bit her bottom lip, saw the bump that was her child, the child she had never once referred to off her own bat. Mary knew, as she looked at her daughter, that she was a strikingly beautiful girl, and that was not just the opinion of a mother, because all mothers were biased, it was no more than a fact. Imelda was a real beauty, and it was that beauty that had enabled her daughter to get away with so much for the best part of her life. She could lie to anyone about anything: she would look into their eyes and tell them exactly what they wanted to hear. And the first few times she did it, they would believe her, because they wanted to believe her and because she was a real beauty, and beautiful people had the edge. But eventually they would be forced to see her for what she was, because Imelda never learnt from her mistakes. She would lie and lie and lie until her lies were discovered. Till she was found out.

Then the teachers, or her friends, or whoever she was scamming at that particular time, would realise how she had played them, would realise that they had been had over, and that they had believed her fabrications without any kind of proof. Her good looks and her natural acting ability had, as always, given her the edge.

Unfortunately, Imelda had never learnt when to step back, had not understood that her lies would eventually be found out. That was her Achilles heel.

But Mary was determined to make her daughter take responsibility for her actions, at least once in her life. She was worried about the baby her daughter was carrying, a grandchild that she herself wanted so desperately, and yet she knew her daughter had no interest in whatsoever. She knew that all the time she was pregnant with the baby, Imelda could just about be controlled. It was after the child’s birth that the trouble would start.

At the moment Mary wanted to get her husband’s funeral out of the way, then she could start running his business properly. She had Jackie Martin and her boys to use as fronts. But whatever happened, she was determined that she was not going to lose her livelihood.

It occurred to her that she actively disliked her daughter now and, even after all that had happened, that realisation saddened her.

 

The funeral of Gerald Dooley was much more than his wife had hoped for. It was massive, there were literally hundreds of people in attendance. It was so big that the traffic had to be diverted, and all the radio stations mentioned it in their traffic bulletins. It was a real send-off as far as everyone was concerned.

Cripps Funeral Parlour had done a spectacular job as always. The plumed horses that were pulling the carriage were groomed within an inch of their lives and people lined the roads, their hats removed in reverence.

It was a funeral the likes of which had not been seen for many a year. Young Faces abounded, all thrilled to be there, excited to become a little part of East End folklore. All pleased to have this story for the years to come. They happily mixed with the older Faces, the real criminals. Men who were not inclined to show their faces in public unless they had to. Men who were the movers and shakers of their world, but who had come out of their self-inflicted exiles to pay their respects to one of their own.

Mary watched them: she knew each and every one of them, and their mothers and their wives. She knew that she was respected, knew that she was seen as a good woman. She also knew that the majority of the men there were aware that she was now the main earner for her family. She also knew that, even though they didn’t really like that fact, as long as Jackie Martin pretended that he was now the dog’s gonads, they would be happy to overlook the truth. Her boys were big lumps, and they could collect a good wedge with the minimum of aggravation, and she knew that was all they would ever do. They were never going to expand of their own volition, between them they were not capable of thinking up even a half-decent scam, or even working out how to
improve
on an old one, bring it up to date.

Even at her husband’s funeral, Mary knew she couldn’t grieve properly because she knew better than anybody that this day was the only chance she was going to get to push forward her case. She knew that today she had the centre stage because she was burying her husband and, because of that, she was guaranteed an audience with anyone she wanted. She had one chance to prove that she was capable of carrying on her husband’s business, to prove that she could be as ruthless as her husband had been, to try and convince the powers-that-be that she had been running the show from the off. She knew she had the sympathy vote, and she also knew that, providing she brought in the money, she would be left alone.

But what Mary really wanted today was not their fucking permission to carry on the earn from her husband; what she wanted, and she was determined to get, was
more
of their goodwill. More money. And she was astute enough to know that today she was liable to get what she asked for.

As they approached the church, Mary looked around the funeral car. She saw her sons in the expensive black suits that she had bought and paid for, their sad faces. The defeated slump of their shoulders and their complete apathy caused her to punch them both angrily in their chests and, as they looked helplessly at her, she whispered with a quiet desperation, ‘Will you two stop looking so fucking sorry for yourselves? Get a grip. If nothing else, make your father proud of you both. Act like fucking men, real men. Pull your shoulders back, walk like men. Act like he would have done, but stop acting so fucking weak.’

She was sorry for them, knew that they were hurting, but she also knew that if they didn’t grow up, eventually they would be outed. They would end up as someone’s gofer. It was on the cards, and she was not going to let that happen to any of them.

Mary looked at her daughter then, saw the arrogance on her face as she looked at her older brothers. She knew that, like herself, Imelda saw them as dead weights, saw them for what they really were.

It grieved her that this daughter of hers had been blessed with not only a serious beauty, but also with all the brains, and it broke her heart that her boys had been blessed with nothing more than their father’s brawn. They didn’t even have the personality that was required to make them use their strength for their own ends. She had been forced to do to them what Gerry had done: threaten them and bully them into submission.

But she had done that, she had done whatever she felt was needed to keep her family going. She had nearly collapsed in on herself, had nearly let herself succumb to her grief and her sorrow. But in doing that she would have been in danger of abandoning her family in their hour of need. So she had picked herself up, and she had used her grief and her anger, and she had channelled it into something constructive. Women were always the ones who had to make sense of the world around them. Women were always the ones who were left to make the big decisions about the family, the children, the home where they would all reside together in harmony, and from where the children would one day leave without a backward glance as they established their own homes. Women decided what their family ate, what they wore, who they mixed with. Women picked up the pieces, mended their children’s broken hearts and broken dreams. And with sons they also sat holding them tightly while they were stitched up or their bones were plastered. Women were the reason for most of the good things in the world. And yet women were classed as beneath men because they were forced by society and nature to depend on men for their money, for their name, for their protection. Well, Mary Dooley had found out the truth of that at long last.

Women were there for their men, they listened to them and they fed them, and they cajoled them when necessary. Women made their men’s lives easier, even though a lot of the time it made their own lives harder. Men had no real concept of pain, of love, of loyalty. Why would they, these things were given to them without a second’s thought throughout their lives?

It was only now, when Mary was left alone, trying to keep her family together, that it occurred to her just how little her husband had actually mattered in her family’s day-to-day life. He had left her alone, and she had found that he was easily replaced. She
could
replace him, and she
had
replaced him. So, what was it all about? What was her life really about? She had married, she had given birth to her children, and she had done everything that had been expected from her. And for what?

Mary had held her emotions inside, she had made a point of overlooking all the gossip about her daughter, had made it her mission in life to make sure that no one around them would ever know the real truth. But this daughter of hers, she was a loose cannon, she was not someone to be trusted. At least with the boys Mary knew she had a modicum of control over them. With this one she knew in her heart that she would not be able to control her for long, there was always going to be a conflict of some kind.

As the Dooley family walked into the church, they gave the impression of a tight-knit, strong family. But Mary Dooley knew it was all an act; she was disappointed in her children and she was disappointed with the way her life had turned out.

When they walked up the aisle of the church and genuflected before the cross of Christ, Mary and Imelda both saw the forlorn figure of Jason Parks’s mother; she was to the right of them, kneeling beneath a statue of the Immaculate Conception, her rosary beads already in her hand. She looked deep in prayer.

Mary was strangely cheered when she saw her daughter avert her eyes, knew that even Imelda didn’t have the guts to look the poor woman in the face. But then again, neither did she.

That people were already noticing her presence was not lost on Mary, and she knew that how she reacted to Louise Parks being at the funeral was very important; it would be talked about for years and she knew she had to think seriously about the best course of action. This woman had lost her only child, her son, and her son’s father, and she was a nice person. It hit Mary for the first time just how terrible it must be for her, to lose your child like that and then be told that he was a rapist into the bargain.

Until now, she had not even thought about how this woman might be feeling, she had not given her a passing thought. The humiliation of Louise Parks’s situation washed over her then, the enormity of what had actually happened seemed to hit her like an invisible sledgehammer. She felt her heart constricting, felt the shortness of breath that always accompanied deep shame, and she knew that if her daughter had really been raped she would have chased this woman from the church the second she had clapped eyes on her. But she couldn’t do it, she couldn’t add to this poor woman’s burden.

Mary knelt down in the front pew and blessed herself slowly. Closing her eyes she prayed silently for the repose of her husband’s soul, and for forgiveness for her trespasses, which were legion.

Mary knew that she should reach out to touch Imelda in a gesture of support if for no other reason than the sake of appearances, but she still couldn’t bring herself to touch her. Instead, she reached out to her sons, and she grabbed hold of their hands so tightly they were forced to move closer to her for comfort’s sake.

Then Mary felt herself breaking down, felt the dam of tears that she had been so careful to keep locked inside herself finally erupt. And she cried like she had never cried before and, with the release of all her pent-up emotions, she felt a tiny sliver of relief. She felt like there was a great weight pressing down on her, crushing her, and she also knew that it was never going to go away.

Imelda listened to the Mass, she liked Mass, she always had. She had never seen it as a chore like a lot of friends had, she had always gone to Mass and seen it as a form of escape. Especially at junior school, when they had celebrated Mass every Wednesday at the local church. She liked the calmness of it, liked the continuity of it, the fact that it had been going for two thousand years.

Imelda believed in God because she felt that there had to be something else, something after all this, and also because anyone who was still being worshipped and adored after all that time had to have something going for them. How many people alive today would still be talked about in two thousand years from now?

She sighed heavily, the child was moving sluggishly and her body felt weary.

Imelda looked at the coffin that contained her father’s remains and realised that she felt nothing. No remorse, no regrets, nothing. But then, she never really felt anything for long in her life, apart from anger and jealousy. She had felt an occasional twinge of other emotions, but nothing that constituted real, lasting feeling on her part.

She had learnt as a child to mimic the people around her, mimic their reactions to certain situations, and she had found that as long as the situation was about her personally, she could conjure up the necessary emotions, even convince herself that she could really feel them. But she couldn’t, not really, she just kidded herself, because if she acted them out, then other people believed in them. It was odd, she had loved her dad, but only because she knew she was
supposed
to love him. She had manipulated him, had convinced herself of her affection for him. But in all honesty, it was another act, like most of her life was an act. Even in the church, watching her father’s funeral, seeing the crowds of people who had turned out to pay their respects, she felt nothing.

She glanced at Jason’s mum, and felt the anger rising inside her. Now, anger she could understand, she was an angry girl. She always had been, anger was the nearest she had ever really got to a spontaneous human emotion.