The Business (48 page)

Mary knew that she could not allow her to get away with it any longer. If Imelda put one step out of line she would guarantee that, this time, her daughter would pay the full price for her treachery. Mary would not sit back and watch her hard work go to waste, or see her grandson start playing happy families with that bitch after everything she had caused. She had not even been afforded the pleasure of a decent night’s sleep for years, and her daughter was to blame for that. She had guessed what had happened to Jordanna, had not felt the strength to confront it, had not been able to live with the guilt of the knowledge that she had sacrificed her for Kenny Boy. She was no better than Imelda really, they were both guilty of using Jordanna for their own ends; to make sure that Kenny was protected, that Kenny Boy stayed safe.

Mary pulled her rosary from her cardigan pocket and, kissing the Cross of Christ, she began to pray for the salvation of her family. What was left of it anyway.

 

Kenny was nervous. He was unsure if he was doing the right thing, but he knew that he needed to speak to his mother at least once in his lifetime. He knew all the talk about her, had heard all the stories. He knew she was a fucking muppet, but she was still his mother. No one could change that, no matter how much they might want to.

He had felt really bad earlier on, his poor granny had given him his birthday present and he had wanted to cry, weep, at the love and sorrow in her eyes. He was sixteen and he knew that Mary was sad because he was now his own man, was sad because he was now out of her jurisdiction.

She had given him a really expensive sound system, and he knew that he should have stayed in for a while with her, set it up, and played a few songs on it. She would have been expecting that much at least. Instead, he had thanked her profusely, kissed her and hugged her, then told her he was meeting his mates for a night out.

Now he was actually here, about to come face to face with the woman he only knew from newspaper cuttings and other people’s memories. The woman he had watched, unable to approach her without a third party. It was almost surreal.

Her treatment of poor Jordanna had made him naturally wary of her, but his overriding emotion was not just curiosity, but also yearning. He yearned to know her personally, know her for himself. He wanted to understand her from his personal standpoint, not through the eyes of other people.

It was strange, but he hoped against hope that she liked him. Even if he didn’t like her, he felt an overpowering need for her to like
him
.

He knew she was a liar, knew she stretched the truth to suit herself. She had told some people that she had killed his father, and told other people that his sister had done the dirty deed. In all honesty, he didn’t really care who had done what. His old man had been a right cunt by all accounts, a real piece of dirt. All he wanted to know was the truth, the
real
truth behind his conception and his birth. From what he had gathered over the years, Lance was a convenient father for Imelda’s baby at that particular time in her life.

He had a sudden memory of his first real fight. He saw the classroom as it had been that day. The steamed-up windows from the overly hot radiators, and the condensation that had pooled on the window sills and the floor. His sister had been cornered by a few boys in her classroom and as he had entered the doorway, he had seen her fright. He had seen her bewilderment as the rest of her classmates looked on expectantly, not even attempting to help her out. He knew then that she was bullied because of their situation.

She looked after the dinner money for them both, so he always went with her at first playtime every Monday to pay it into the office. That was why he was there.

He had realised straightaway that she was in difficulties and, even though the kids surrounding her were older than him, he was already aware that he was much bigger than them, as he was in his own peer group. In fact, he was already wearing the clothes of a ten year old, and he had just turned seven.

It was a few seconds before he understood what was being said about Jordanna, and such was his shock and his anger at what he was hearing, that he only became aware of his reaction to it when the teachers had removed him kicking and screaming from the room. They had calmed him down before informing him that he might have to see the police because he had nearly brained two of the boys in his sister’s class.

He had heard the amazement in the men’s voices, and also the grudging respect that he had defended his sister and his family name so ably. One of the teachers, a young priest called Father Patrick, had taken him into the room usually reserved for those who were sick and ill. He had smiled at him, shaking his head in disbelief. Then, after giving him a few sweets and allowing him to calm down, he had eventually asked him what the hell had happened to cause such anger and violence in a young fella like himself.

Kenny had told him the truth, you couldn’t lie to a priest, everyone knew that. He was God’s emissary on the earth, His go-between. As he told Father Patrick about them calling his lovely sister a murderer, that she had broken one of the main commandments, he had seen the look of real animosity that had clouded the man’s face.

‘You’re a good boy, Kenny, you are a real fecking bruiser. What you need is somewhere to channel that aggression. I am the boxing coach for the older boys, but I think I can make an exception with you, as young as you are. Now, I’ll have a chat with the powers-that-be and see what I can do. But never forget that your sister is your
blood
, and while what you did was wrong in some ways, you did it for the right reasons. Remember that our Lord Himself was put into prison, was treated like a common criminal by the Romans. He was accused without a fair trial and He had to withstand the mockery and accusations that were levelled at Him by the ignorant and the uninformed. You are a good lad to defend young Jordanna, and don’t you ever forget that. Never let anyone destroy your good name or that of your closest kin. They’re all you’ve got in the end.’

Kenny had understood then that he was in receipt of a big secret, knew that fighting was perfectly acceptable as long as you were fighting for a good cause. He had been punished for his outburst, but he had also been admired for it. He was suddenly popular, the bigger boys liked him and allowed him access to their gangs and their games. He had already made his name in his own right by the time he had reached the senior school, and the care of the Jesuit priests. He was also an accomplished boxer, but he had long lost any urge for an education. He wanted to get out earning, but he had always kept the respect for the clergy that Father Patrick had instilled in him that day.

Kenny Boy had defended Jordanna from her bullies and won. He had also developed a life-long hatred for anyone who preyed on those weaker than themselves. It was different if the people who needed punishment owed money, or had crossed over an imaginary line and therefore needed to be disciplined. But if Kenny saw anyone being bullied just for the sake of bullying, he could not countenance it. And that was something that stayed with him for his whole life.

Now though, as he waited for his mother’s arrival, he knew that the memory had been brought to the fore because of her disappearance from their lives and because she had been the reason for that trouble in the first place.

He and Basil were in a drinking club Basil had opened up in Lewisham. It was frequented by the kind of people who needed a private place to conduct their business, and where they knew that they could talk without any worries that their conversation might be overheard and repeated. It was in a very prestigious location and Kenny was aware of that. He was out the back, in a small private room that smelt of furniture polish and cigarettes. He was feeling overdressed suddenly, and wished he had not suited and booted himself. He felt very formal, and very clumsy. His hair had been cut recently, and he had laid his brand-new cashmere overcoat, courtesy of Basil, carefully across the back of the settee. He knew that his look made him seem much older than he was, and he also knew it was what would be remembered about him for years to come. Basil had taught him well. If you looked the part, you were treated accordingly. Basil had also warned him that he had better make sure he lived up to it. More than lived up to it, in fact. Talk was cheap. That was what British Telecom were for.

Kenny heard the door opening and he stood up quickly. He was sweating with nerves, and suddenly overcome with embarrassment.

As Imelda walked towards him she smiled widely, the same phoney smile she used on her punters. The smile that had made Basil want to smash her face in all over again; she was the only female in recorded history who had caused him to lash out at the opposite sex and not care that he had done it. She was so fucking annoying, especially now, as she treated her son like any fucking punter she might come across. He wanted to smack her one again, just for the way she was treating her only son. But Kenny Boy did not know any of that, so he smiled back quite happily.

 

Jordanna had awoken in agony, but she was unable to make any sound whatsoever. She was desperate to groan, to beg someone to make the pain go away, but she was powerless to make her lips form the appropriate words. She felt paralysed and disorientated.

Opening her eyes she felt a jolt of pain so intense it caused a wave of nausea to wash over her whole body. It was a sickening pain that told her she was in some kind of trouble. That she was really ill, needed help of some kind. She was trying to remember where she was, who she was with. But her mind was a blank. She was unaware of anything that might tell her where she was or how she had arrived there, and that realisation frightened her.

She heaved then, a dry heaving that she knew was pointless; she caught the stench of her own vomit and knew instinctively that she had nothing left inside her to expel. She tried to lift her head up but she couldn’t. She was unable to even raise her arms, although she wanted to wipe the vomit from her face, wanted to clean herself up.

The feeling of panic at her sudden helplessness was bubbling up inside her now. She could feel the terror as it filled her head with silent screams, and as it caused her heart to beat so fast she wondered if she would survive it. She dropped back into unconsciousness once more, unaware that she was near to death.

She was smiling slightly when the ambulance crew restarted her heart and then sighed with relief as she opened her eyes and looked at them. She was finally lifted out of the dirty gutter, and it was only when she was inside the brightness of the ambulance and on her way to the hospital, that the paramedics realised that she was just a young girl. They also realised that she had been used roughly and discarded. Left to die in fact.

It was only the fact that a young couple had taken a short cut home from a family party and found her lying there, bloody and broken, that had saved her life.

 

Mary was distraught. She had listened quietly to the doctor as he told her, in no uncertain terms, that her lovely Jordanna had enough drink and drugs in her system to keep the Rolling Stones high until the new millennium. She knew then that she had to do something drastic, and she had to do it sooner rather than later. He had also hinted that she had been raped and beaten.

Jordanna had changed so much, and Mary had been frightened of trying to push it, had been scared of making the girl flee, run away from her. Jordanna had been broken within minutes of her mother’s presence, and this was the upshot. And now the same bitch was with her grandson. It was so unfair, it was as if they were all being punished somehow, just because they were related to Imelda Dooley.

Well, she was not going to sit back any more, she would sort this if it killed her. Jordanna had needed to be taken in hand, and Mary’s fear of telling the girl what to do, of causing her to run away, had led them to this. Why did people feel like this nowadays? Why were they so scared of chastising their kids, of making them listen to reason, explaining that what they were doing was wrong? Mary had not felt for a long time that she was in a position to offer her advice and she wondered when the children, the youngest members of the family, had suddenly acquired so much power that they were more or less laws unto themselves.

Now this was the upshot; her lovely Jordanna was in a hospital bed and pumped full of drink and drugs. Had been used like a fucking old pair of slippers. It was like Imelda all over again, except Imelda had gone into her life of drug-induced squalor with her eyes wide open. Jordanna, on the other hand, had only been attempting to blot out everything that had happened to her.

Mary remembered when Kenny Boy had started truanting, remembered the social worker’s face when Mary told her she had caught him as bold as brass in a pub. She had explained that she had hit him across the face in anger and frustration. She saw then that
her
reaction had cancelled out
his
constant truanting, and had only caused them to question her ‘anger management issues’, as they insisted on calling them.

She had finally given up the day she had heard the social worker, a lovely girl with a weight problem and an over-abundance of rank stupidity, ask Kenny Boy seriously, ‘What days do you feel you would like to go to school?’

Mary had understood then that any parental rights she had thought she possessed were long gone. The children were now in the driving seat and even though Kenny’s truancy could eventually bring her into court as his guardian, she could not use force of any kind to ensure he attended the fucking school in the first place.

Esther Rantzen and her ChildLine had inadvertently created a monster, because the kids now thought they were well able to flout the laws as and when the fancy took them. This was the final proof of it all.

Because of Imelda’s actions all those years ago, these children had spent their lives being monitored by the different government agencies. Social workers, probation officers, family case-workers, to name but a few. Consequently, Mary’s hands had been tied for years. She earned, and she did the best she could for them. But any real power she had over them had been gradually chipped away until the kids, being just that, kids, had understood the power was now theirs. It was laughable. Once the schools became involved as well, there was nothing left for the parents or guardians to do. The kids were responsible for their own downfall.