The Business (25 page)

Little Kenneth was as bright as a button, and twice as handsome. Whereas Jordanna was a tiny thing who loved her brother with a passion.

But the only worry for Mary was that while Jordanna was not enamoured of her mother, and that was something anyone would understand, considering how she had been treated by her, Kenny Boy, as they called him, seemed to adore her.

Jordanna had never spoken to anyone about the fateful night that had culminated in Lance’s death, and Mary wondered sometimes at how Kenny would react when he heard, as he surely would, that his sister had shot his father and killed him stone dead. Even though that was something no one in their right mind would believe.

Mary would watch Jordanna sometimes as she slept, and she would try to picture her with a gun in her little hands, but she just couldn’t envisage it somehow. She had a problem seeing that poor little child defending her mother, the mother who had done nothing all her life except use her as a convenient stick to beat everyone around her with. But the police had been forced to accept her daughter’s statement as fact, because they had no other statement to use against her. Like Mary, they knew there was something seriously wrong about it, but like her, they had no way of proving it. Mary would watch her granddaughter as she slept, would watch her as she tossed and turned, as she moaned in pain and terror, and she prayed then to the Holy Mother that the child would find some kind of peace, would find some kind of happiness.

Imelda still stuck to her story that Jordanna had been the culprit and, as everyone now knew that Lance had fathered Kenny Boy, it was well known that Jordanna had killed her brother’s daddy. It was something the child would one day have to live with. The children would both have to live with it, and as they were so close, as Mary was determined to make sure that they were, she hoped they would be able to cope with it, would love each other enough to understand that they were nothing more than victims of their mother’s lifestyle, their mother’s neglect and her selfishness. It was a terrible situation for everyone involved. But, like everything else that had happened where her daughter was involved, Mary tried not to dwell on it too much because if she did, it just broke her heart all over again. But she still wondered at what the future had in store for these two children, and she worried about how they would cope with what had happened on that fateful night so long ago, and if the bond they shared would be strong enough to keep them together once the truth was finally out.

 

Imelda was looking good, and she knew that. It was strange how, even though she was now on the skag, she still did not look that rough. She had a natural glow to her skin and bone structure to die for, so her beauty was always protected somehow. Even she knew that much, and she was just pleased that nature had seen fit to give her an edge over most people.

She was wearing a short black leather skirt, a matching waistcoat with a sheer top underneath it, and her trademark high-heeled black boots. She was every inch the sexy babe, and she was charging for her services accordingly. She had been on the bash for a good while now, and she found that the life suited her disposition. She liked the money, the hours and, best of all, she liked the fact that she could score all over the Smoke as she was cabbed to her different destinations.

She had no qualms about her customers, they were so under her radar as to be almost invisible. But she smiled in the right places, pretended that they were the best fuck she had ever had, and she made sure that they wore a condom. If they wanted to ride her bareback then she charged them extra. It always amazed her that there were men who were quite happy to put their lives and their marriages on the line for a naked fuck. She never injected herself in her arms, she had learnt many years before that track marks made you a target, for the Filth, for bullies; they showed you up for what you really were. She had always made a point of injecting herself in her groin area, her ankles, anywhere that was not visible to the average person, or could not be hidden from view, hence her trademark boots. Men did not pay out for junkies and they did not pay extra for bareback from anyone they thought might be diseased. Imelda had never shared a needle in her life, not since her initial introduction into the world of heroin, anyway. She might be a stoner, but she was still sensible enough to know that you had to keep yourself to yourself; it was about self-preservation, no more, no less. She had altered her behaviour to make sure she could earn the most money. And she did earn it, and she intended to carry on earning it.

She had a good few quid, a nice supply of the brown, and she had a reputation that preceded her wherever she went. And she liked that, she liked being notorious, she loved that people talked about her, and pointed her out.

She played up to it and, with a few drinks in her, would sometimes re-live the night her daughter had killed her own brother’s father. Sometimes she embellished the story so that Jordanna came out a little heroine who had stopped her mother from being beaten to death, other times she would describe a tragic accident that had deprived her of the love of her life and her son of his father.

Either way, she was not about to tell the truth, and though more than a few people had their own version of events, they were sensible enough to keep them to themselves. After all, Imelda Dooley was not someone you would deliberately pick a fight with; she was more than capable of looking after herself if the need arose, as had been proven.

Imelda liked the cabbing around town, she liked the feel of travelling to an unknown destination and, as she was a real looker, she was often asked for by name so she had a lot of regulars and a lot of money. Unfortunately, like most women of her persuasion, she spent her money without much thought, always with the belief that it would be there again the next day. Which it was, only inevitably the day would come when her youth and her wide-eyed beauty would start to wither and fade, and that was when she would wish that she had been a bit wiser with her money when she had been earning it in large amounts. Then she would understand how hard the business was for the women who were getting older, and she would suddenly notice that every few months a whole new batch of young girls would emerge on the scene. Then she’d wish that she had put a few quid away for the inevitable rainy day.

But, for the moment, Imelda was on a roll, was loving it, and she was still frightened enough about what had happened to Lance to guarantee that she would keep a lid on that famous temper of hers for the time being.

She had once done nearly three months on remand for a GBH charge, and that had been enough for her, she was not about to make that mistake ever again. She had got away with murder, and then nearly been sent down for a fight with a fellow worker. It was bloody laughable.

Imelda often wondered if Lance was actually Kenny’s father. She knew that it was not something she would ever know for sure, not that she was going to admit that out loud of course, but sometimes she looked at little Kenny and saw Georgie Boy, the owner of the gun that had been used against Lance because of his stupid fucking antics. Lance had asked for everything he had got, she was convinced about that much. No one spoke to her like that and got away with it. But when she looked at her Kenny, she saw Georgie Boy, not Lance. He was like the spit out of Georgie’s mouth as they said in East London society.

Imelda felt no regret; in fact, she would do it all again if she felt the need to, and she was happy about that as well. She felt that people were too quick to swallow in this day and age, and if they had any real sense they would know that some people needed taking out, and for their own good at that. She also knew deep inside that she was not like other people, that she was in a different league. Imelda Dooley felt that she did not have to live by other people’s standards because, after all, she had literally got away with murder. That thought made her smile and, as always, her smile made her look like a young girl, not someone who had produced two children and who had a heroin habit so big and of such duration that anyone else would have been dead long ago.

The cab driver was a married man called Arnold Dukes and he was in his early sixties; he had taken to cabbing after he had taken his retirement from the docks. He was watching the girl in his rear mirror, and her beauty had captured his imagination. She looked new to the game, and that, as always, was her greatest asset. She did not look battered yet, she did not look what she was: a junkie, a whore. She still looked fresh faced; she was one of the few people who could abuse their bodies with drink and drugs, yet it didn’t seem to leave a mark on them. She looked like any other young girl; her skin was bright, and her body taut. She offered the men that she serviced the illusion of extreme youth, and that alone was enough to make them believe that she was still new to it all. She knew that and she played on it, used it to her advantage when necessary.

Arnold was the possessor of a grey comb-over, and a spectacular set of rapidly decaying teeth, and his idea of personal hygiene consisted of a bath every couple of weeks and the daily changing of his socks, though that was actually a necessity because the cab was so confined. He had been pulled up over the stench on more than one occasion.

He smoked Capstan Full Strength, and he had a penchant for hand-knitted cardigans and Ben Sherman shirts. He had all but given up on the sexual side of his life until now, until he had seen this girl. He knew she was a brass, but she was stunning. She was built like the movie stars of the forties, big-breasted and possessed of a certain innocence that he was attracted to. He wanted her desperately, and as he knew that she was for sale anyway, unlike most of the women who might have frequented his taxi, he felt that she could be within his reach.

Imelda saw Arnold Dukes looking at her in the mirror, and she smiled seductively, opening her legs slightly so he could get a quick glimpse of what she had to offer. Arnold was over the moon at the way she was coming on to him. He actually thought that she might even fancy him.

‘How much do you charge, love?’

She grinned at him then, and laughing huskily she answered him in such a way it could almost have been mistaken for embarrassment at his cheeky question. In that moment she made him believe that he was the only man she had ever wanted in the world, and he swallowed it hook, line and sinker.

‘Twenty quid to you.’

He knew she charged forty quid a time, knew that all the girls did. Twenty quid was cheap and he knew that. But it was still a lot of money to him. He had it though, and he was willing to weigh it out to feel her firm tits, her soft flesh, and explore her tight little pussy.

Ten minutes later they were parked up in a deserted side street and he was already gasping for air and fumbling with excitement as she climbed on to his lap. As he spewed his particular brand of pornographic filth into her ear Imelda was already planning her next score.

Arnold was just another man in a long line of men who she saw as weak, as fools, and who saw her as young and innocent. Even her reputation and the stories about her didn’t stop men from wanting her, she knew that she had that edge, knew that her notoriety just added to her allure for some of her punters and, consequently, added to her earnings. Unlike most of the girls, she didn’t have a pimp as such, she looked out for herself. But unlike most of the girls in her business, she had no qualms about people knowing about what she did for a living. She was proud of it.

Twenty minutes later she was knocking on a door in Hammersmith. A retired teacher with a bad back, bad breath, and a wife who was away for the night in Slough, visiting their first grandchild, ushered her into his home with a nervous smile and the guilty hope that she would make him feel twenty-one again. He had one eye on her, and one eye on what he saw as his valuables and, to make the night even worse, he was listening out for the phone call that would tell him his wife had arrived safely, and that his new grandchild had a look of him. He was like the majority of the men who asked for home visits, he had thought about it for so long, and dreamt about it for even longer, that when it finally happened he had not allowed for the guilt and the disgust at himself for bringing an actual prostitute into his own home. He would then worry that the woman he had fantasised about for so long now knew his address, knew where he lived. That she could come back at any moment, and blow his little world apart.

It never occurred to the men that the girls concerned went to so many addresses around the Smoke that they didn’t take any notice of their surroundings any more. Didn’t realise that the man in question was of as much interest to them as a political debate on the health service and that all they wanted was to get it over with as quickly as possible so they could go on to the next punter, and the next, and the next, until they all merged into the same person. Guilt was a wonderful thing for prostitutes, it made their lives so much easier. That was always the problem with the cheaper end of the market.

 

Michael Hannon was annoyed, really annoyed. He was not given to grandiose displays of anger or temper but, for the first time ever, he was very close to that now.

Jimmy Bailey had offered him an in on a new business venture a while ago. He was a man of liberal tastes and he was willing to listen to anything that might afford him the opportunity to earn a crust but Michael had blanked him then, when he had asked him to front a brothel with him, because he was old-style and saw the procuring of women and girls as the domain of the foreigners, the Maltese, the Spanish, even the Jamaicans.

But he had found out that, to his detriment, Jimmy’s brothel was now raking in fucking serious fortunes. So, in fairness, Michael Hannon felt he had the right to be gutted. To be wound up, to be aggravated and aggrieved.

Now Jimmy was asking him, once more, if he wanted an in to his new business, and he knew that Jimmy Bailey, a lovely bloke when all was said and done, was relying on him to say as he always had, a resounding
no
. He was only asking him out of respect, and once he said ‘no’, as was expected, Jimmy would then be free to go to whoever he felt was up for his kind of business.