The Business (7 page)

So, closing her eyes tight, Imelda Dooley cried like a baby, burying her face in her father’s shoulder, wondering what her latest outburst was going to cause.

Chapter Three

Mary looked at her daughter for long moments; she was still crying and she was still acting the innocent.

But she was still able to look her mother in the eye, even though she was aware of her mother’s scepticism. She was not about to stop the act.

Imelda had always been the one who had caused the most aggravation in this house. The boys had either known better, or had understood that they would not have been given the same back-up as the baby of the family, the only girl. This daughter who looked for all the world like butter wouldn’t melt. Mary had given this child a major swerve all her life. She’d lied for her, pretended that she was doing really well to all and sundry, especially her father, when in fact she was not even bothering with her school work. And her husband had believed her because he wanted to believe her, had not wanted to get too involved in the everyday running of this child’s life. Of any of his children’s lives, for that matter. Though, in fairness, he had done his best with the boys.

But he had left the rearing of this last one to her, exclusively to her, he had just admired the girl from afar and, if she was really honest, she had loved it. Had loved the power that had given her. Because as much as she loved her husband, she had also resented him at times, resented his utter freedom from them all. And she hated that she had colluded in her own downfall by taking on the mantle of the home and children because she had not known any better.

He had been given the opportunity, like most men, of opting out of his children’s lives while still being seen as playing a huge part in it. He had stood back and enjoyed their successes while she had ensured he had never known about their failures, and the failures with this one had been legion. Deep down, his second-hand parenting had annoyed her, had made her feel that the children might, just
might
, have turned out better with more of his time as opposed to his money. Money he had given her with a flourish, money that had somehow bought him his complete and utter neutrality where his offspring were concerned. If they fucked up then she was the culprit because he had trusted her with them. Over the years she had smothered these feelings, had convinced herself that her life was the life she was meant to live. But deep inside, she had known that was wrong. She had always known that he was in reality a waster who had left the brunt of their children’s upbringing to his wife, not because he thought she would do a better job, but because he didn’t give a flying fuck. But she had never voiced these thoughts out loud until now. She’d pushed them out of her mind because, like most things in her life, if she didn’t think about them then they never happened. Until tonight that is.

Now she had to admit that she was partially to blame for what had happened to her daughter if for no other reason than she had let her have a far looser rein than the others. She had let this last child of hers have the freedom she had never had for herself. She had let Imelda live a life that, in comparison to the others, was outrageously easy, lax even, especially where her father had been concerned. He had been told nothing about his baby or her natural animosity towards the world in general. Mary had made sure of that much herself, personally; she had only ever told him what he wanted to hear, because this last child was his baby girl and he didn’t
want
to hear anything detrimental, anything that would give him cause for concern.

Even when Imelda had been expelled from her school Mary had made sure that Gerald had not heard anything about it. Imelda had been a truant, a smoker, a troublemaker. Like her father and brothers she was a fighter. Always fighting, arguing, and mouthing off to teachers and other pupils alike.

But it was never her fault, it was always someone else’s fault. She was her father’s daughter all right, he was exactly the same when anything happened that he couldn’t cope with, that he knew he had caused.

Mary had done what she had thought was best, had lied and schemed to make sure her husband had never known the whole of anything where his youngest child was concerned. She had made sure he had never known how this daughter of his actually lived, how she really existed in the household where he believed he ruled the fucking roost, where he was the top dog, the main man. It had never occurred to him that his daughter might be a liar, a treacherous whore with no allegiance to anyone unless it benefited her in some way. That she might not see him in the same light as his punters did, as their nemesis, the man who only arrived on their doorsteps when they didn’t have the means to pay their debts. Who was all smiles and friendliness until they owed money, then his sociability went straight out the window and they suddenly realised that he had actually been watching them, that his friendship came with strings. Even as all these thoughts were going through Mary’s head she felt disloyal, but more than anything, she felt angry, angry and bitter at the girl she had shielded and cared for since her birth all those years before.

Unlike her, Gerry thought his daughter was telling the truth now, was convinced that her silence was because she didn’t want to cause any trouble: he was feeling guilty at his treatment of her over the last few weeks. He was ashamed at the way he had assumed she had been fucked and left, the worst thing that could happen to anyone’s daughter, let alone his. He was in bits, was convinced that his assumption about his youngest child was a stigma that would now be attached to him, that his instincts had been wrong. Well, his instincts had been spot on, only no one was going to point that out to him in the near future.

Imelda had played him like a con artist would play a mark. Like her old man she had always had a natural instinct for self-preservation and it had always stood her in good stead. Tonight had been no exception.

Mary, however, knew her daughter much better. She knew that Imelda had never told the whole truth about anything in her life, it wasn’t in her nature. She was a natural-born liar, she always stretched the truth, forcing home a point, she was willing to look you in the eye even when she knew that
you
knew that she was lying through her teeth. And for years Mary had protected her, had secretly enjoyed knowing something that her husband did not. Namely that his baby, his little darling, was a real piece of work, and she had even loved the fact that they were partners together against him.

Until now that was, because this time her daughter was about to cause fucking murders. Literally.

 

Gerald Dooley was distraught, he had gravitated from his beloved youngest child being taken down, used and discarded, to her being raped.

A scenario that, in reality, he actually preferred. He had the excuse he needed, the reasoning that would allow him to destroy the person he felt had ruined his little girl. She now had a bellyful of arms and legs, was going to produce a grandchild that was without any kind of substance in his world, that would be born without the benefit of the marital bed. Without a marriage and, ergo, without its father’s name. Gerald was not going to swallow that, was not about to give anyone a fucking pass where his daughter, his family and their fucking reputation was concerned. Imelda being raped only convinced him that his initial reactions had been right.

That Jason Parks’s father was a local Face was neither here nor there, he knew that once the word was out no one in his locality would hold him in any way responsible for his actions. There were some things that money or prestige could not buy. This was one of them.

They were in the car, driving to Jackie Martin’s house. His sons were being unreasonably quiet and this bothered him. It made him feel that they didn’t share his enthusiasm for revenge for what had befallen Imelda. It made him feel, and not for the first time, that they were too fucking stupid to appreciate what was actually going down. He was smarting from what had just happened when he had brought them with him to the meet in Canning Town. They were supposed to be his look-outs, his protectors. As Gerald had strolled into the Bridge House pub, he had assumed they had been behind him, had been protecting him. Watching his back, which was what he fucking paid them to do. It was only when he had approached the punter in question that he had realised that he was on his own, that his sons had somehow forgotten to accompany him into the bar. Instead, they had stayed outside, chatting like a pair of fucking drongos. In spite of all his teachings they had not had the sense to cover his back. He had walked in there on his Jack Jones and it was only his rep that had saved him from a tragic end. But it had been a learning curve, not only for his boys but also for him. He had understood that he had raised a pair of fucking imbeciles who had no real conception of the world they now inhabited, the world he had ensured was safe for him and his family with just their name alone. A name that was now tarnished by Jason Parks; with one action Jason Parks had undermined everything that he had achieved over the years.

Gerald had collected the money owed, as always, but the fact that the boys had not even had the fucking brains to actually cover his back had really hit home to him. They had waited outside for him, had waited for him outside a pub that was not only on a busy fucking road, the A13, but was also a road that guaranteed a fucking easy shoot, an easy getaway for anyone in the know.

As he looked around the pub, watched everyone carrying on as if nothing untoward had happened, he wanted to scream out his frustration. He walked out with the envelope of money and felt an anger towards his sons that he knew was born out of his utter disrespect for them and all they stood for. It was a real eye-opener. Somewhere in his drunken brain he knew that there was something radically wrong with them. He knew that they should have been as angry as he was, as offended, and as disgusted. But they weren’t.

They were like half men, like a pair of fucking eunuchs. That thought had occurred to him many times before but he had suppressed it. He knew they were not like him, not really. They were only on his firm because they were his flesh and blood. If they were not his sons he would not have given them the time of day. They were a pair of fucking losers, and he knew that deep in his boots. He also knew that he was not the only person who held that opinion where they were concerned. He felt, rightly or wrongly, that these boys of his should have known what was happening with their little sister, should have looked out for her, protected her, but they hadn’t. They had not bothered to even oversee their little sister’s life, which was something that any Irish Catholic boy would have done without any kind of prompting, would have done because it meant something to them. Because their sister’s welfare should have come before their own.

Imelda’s predicament had only served to prove something that he had already suspected, that his sons had no fucking real perception of the world that they inhabited. He was still carrying them, and he would always be carrying them because they didn’t have the fucking brains to hold their own cocks unless he saw fit to draw them both a fucking detailed map.

Outside in the evening air Gerald Dooley saw them as he had never seen them before, standing by the motor with the usual expectant look on their faces, both waiting for him to tell them what to do. Waiting for him to tell them both what the next step was going to be. They were an embarrassment to him, they were a pair of fucking leeches. He knew they were frightened of him, and until now that had not bothered him. But seeing them, with his world crashing down around his ears, he had to admit the truth to himself. Even now his daughter had more brains in her little toe than this pair shared between them on their best day. Imelda had been taken down by a piece of shit, a piece of shit that her brothers should have been aware of, should have been policing. He had stopped by this pub to collect a debt that was outstanding because he knew that after tonight he could be banged up. Even with all that was going on he still had the sense to do his job, do what he was paid for. Once that was out of the way he could concentrate all his energy on the matter in hand.

‘Where the fuck were you two?’

He had thrown the envelope full of cash at his eldest son. ‘I was left in there like a fucking spare prick at the proverbial wedding. You two are fucking useless. I can’t even fucking sack you, can I?’

He had got into the motor and waited for his sons to do the same. Shaking his head, he had said sadly, ‘Drive to Jackie’s, at least with him I’ll feel like I have a fucking back-up.’

Now when they finally reached Jackie’s house Gerry watched the way that they looked at each other; it was a furtive look that he had seen before. A look that had told him that he had stepped on their necks once too often, that he had not allowed either of them to form a real personality of their own. They both always looked to him for direction and, whereas that had once pleased him, all it did now was irritate him.

He had to tell them what to do, when to do it, and how to do it; initiative was not one of their strong points. Even now, at a time like this, when they could see what was important to him, neither of them had the fucking guts to offer any kind of opinion about it all, about their sister’s predicament.

They followed him inside quietly, their large bodies and expressionless faces making him feel angrier by the second. As always, they were waiting for him to give them a heads-up, some kind of lead. His big fear was what the fuck they would do when he was inside, or when he finally popped his clogs. Who the fuck would look after them then? When he was gone they would be like a rudderless boat drifting on a sea of ignorance.

Jackie was in bed asleep, but his wife was shrewd enough to notice the demented look in Gerald Dooley’s eyes and consequently had the sense not to ask him what he wanted with her husband. Instead, she pointed upstairs before retreating to the kitchen without a word. A small part of her hoped that her husband was about to be disposed of. It was unlikely, but she knew, better than anyone, just what a two-faced, treacherous bastard he could be, and she hoped that this trait had finally caught up with him.