The Faithless (17 page)

Now
there
was a woman, though she was getting harder and harder to keep in line. She was like a man in many respects; she thought like one, she worked like one, and she could fight like one when the fancy took her. The only downfall was her mouth. Cynthia never knew when to let something alone, and she would push an issue to the hilt. Lately, that had begun to irritate him; he had enough going on without having a five-point crisis every time he saw her. He understood her loathing of the lap-dancing clubs – most women disliked them. And yet the brothels didn’t bother her one iota. She was a strange, contradictory creature. He cared for her deeply, but she was hard work; ‘high
maintenance’ was the expression men used about women like her these days, and it described her totally.

All the same, when he was with her, deep inside her, was the only time he really felt content, the only time he felt fulfilled. He didn’t analyse these thoughts, he just knew them to be true. What it was about her he could never put his finger on. All he knew was she drew him to her like a moth to a flame. And he hated that it was being spoilt by her constant wanting for more and more of his time.

He shrugged the thoughts away and concentrated on what he was doing. He glanced at his watch and realised he was already late for a meeting. Where did the time go, and why was he still working fifteen hours a day? But he knew why; he didn’t trust anyone around him to do the job properly. He was wary of delegating too much of the big stuff; once you took your finger off the pulse you lost the beat of the world you were in, and that was a dangerous situation to be in. You only had to look at the likes of Kevin Bryant to see the truth of that statement.

Gabby hated her life. She hated school and she hated the nuns there. She was thirteen, and her whole existence was a big drag, at least it was this week anyway.

But there was one high spot, and his name was Vincent O’Casey. He was seventeen and he was gorgeous. She had met him at Chrisp Street Market last Saturday and she was seeing him again tomorrow. She couldn’t wait.

Like all her friends, Gabby’s Saturdays were for doing the markets – the Roman Road, East Ham, Chrisp Street, Romford of course and, occasionally, Soho Market – not that they bought there, but it was wonderful to look at all the strange things. Sundays were for ‘the Lane’, as Petticoat Lane Market was called. Romford was Gabby’s favourite though; she loved that it was far away from her mother, because her mother was a giant pain in the arse.

She frowned as she thought this, and she wondered at how on earth she had been lumbered with such a woman. These days, she went home for whole weekends, when she would prefer to be there only on Sundays and Mondays as it used to be. But her mother wasn’t stupid. She wanted her there because she wanted to make sure she didn’t go
‘out
out’, as she called it. That meant with boys, although it was never actually stipulated. It was fine for her to go with her friends to the markets – it was what her mother had done, after all – but when the evening drew in she had to be indoors like an errant school kid.

Well, she would be fourteen soon – she wasn’t a baby any more. With her already ripened body she knew she could pass for eighteen with the right clothes and make-up. Christ Almighty, she could get in to see any film she wanted, and that was no mean feat. Some of her friends still looked younger than they were, but she was like her mother – all tits and legs, as her grandfather was forever saying. Gabby knew that she was pretty, knew that boys looked at her. Men did as well, though they made her uncomfortable. But they looked all the same – even some of her friends’ dads, and that was absolutely gross.

Her
dad was great but, as always, he had to do what her mother wanted, so Gabby got no support from him. She felt sorry for him, because he seemed so sad a lot of the time, and yet her parents lived in a lovely house and, to an outsider, it would seem they had a nice life. But Gabby knew instinctively that her mother didn’t love her dad, not like he loved her, and that was why he was so sad inside. It was in his eyes, and it was tragic to see. Sometimes she looked at him and felt the urge to cry, he looked so forlorn, so lonely. But how could he be lonely when he had her and James Junior?

Her dad knew that they preferred it at their nana’s house – at least there they could be themselves. He knew that their mother was sometimes inordinately hard on them both, and he tried in his own way to make up for that. He ruined them, according to her mother, gave in too quickly, but she saw her father was sensible enough to appreciate that if you let a child be free, they would come back to you of their own accord. All her mother’s draconian measures seemed to do was make her want to break away, get away, as far away from the source of her unhappiness as possible.

But now she had Vincent to think about, and he was absolutely gorgeous, from his dark hair, his blue eyes, and his muscular physique, to his great big feet. She felt her pulse race as she thought of his body and wondered why she felt suddenly
so shy and awkward. She knew she wanted to kiss him, but she would not let her mind imagine any more than that. She did think about him all the time though, alone in her bed at night, and the feelings she had then were exciting and frightening. She knew her mother would have a heart attack if she knew about them! Her biggest problem at the moment was how she could swerve her mother so she could meet him one night. Like her mother, she was very resourceful and very determined. And, like her mother, she would not, under any circumstances, be thwarted.

Unlike
her mother, Gabby had a truly kind heart, and an even kinder nature. She was happy in her own way, and enjoying the act of defiance that meant her meeting up with her heart-throb Vincent O’Casey behind her mother’s back. She couldn’t wait.

‘The sap’s rising in her, she’s just growing up. She wants to be with her friends and not have us standing over her the whole time.’

‘She’s only thirteen, Dad.’

Celeste sounded upset and Jack Callahan retreated on this occasion. Celeste agreed with everything her sister said, and if Cynthia said that her daughter was not to move across the doorstep then that was that.

Personally, he felt sorry for the child. She was liked a caged lion, and eventually caged animals turned on the person who caged them in the first place. He could see the dislike and the irritation in his granddaughter’s eyes for her mother, and he felt deeply sorry for her. Plus, she was a nice kid and a trustworthy kid at that, which was more than could be said about her mother at the same age.

Cynthia had been round the turf more times than a National winner by the time she was fifteen, although he wasn’t supposed to know about that, of course. That was the problem with daughters, they got into trouble; boys were just the cause of their downfalls. Even in these so-called enlightened times, a girl in trouble was still looked down on where they lived, the doings of a load of braless fucking lesbians and their shouting about equality didn’t cut much ice in the East End of London. Fucking feminism! A load of old cobblers as far as he was concerned. All it meant was that girls were getting like men, and what good
would that do in the long run? Bullshit baffles brains all right, but where his granddaughter was concerned he hated to see her locked up like some kind of prisoner. Jack hated Cynthia at times, really loathed her. She was a piece of work. He knew about her and Jonny, but what could he do? If it ever came out it would be like one of those IRA bombs exploding in the heart of his family. And Jonny was
not
a son-in-law he could give a tug to, pull to one side and put the hard word on. Jonny was the local fucking Face – and how Jack would like to shove his fist into Jonny’s face at times. He knew Jonny loved Celeste, loved her deeply, but he also knew that his Cynthia was in his blood. A woman could take a man like that and get under his skin. Jack had seen it before; when it hit a man he was helpless to fight it. Some women had the power to make a man go against all he believed in, go against his basic instincts, walk away from his family, his job, his life. And the worst thing of all was that these women were never worth it. Hindsight was a wonderful thing, as Jonny would one day find out. For now, as long as Celeste didn’t get hurt, Jack had to go along with it.

He wondered how much his old woman knew. Mary was a shrewd old bird, and she could also keep her own counsel; she wouldn’t air something so potentially dangerous unless she had to. She
had
to know but, like him, her first thoughts were for Celeste and her fragile state of mind.

All that mess years ago had left its mark on them, and the seed of hatred that he had always felt for his elder daughter had grown into something much deeper. He hated feeling useless, hated that he was in no position to do anything for his family. Jonny paid for all their lives now, he had them in the palm of his large and treacherous hands and, at bottom, that was what really bothered Jack. He was helpless to do anything and, for a man like Jack Callahan, that was a terrible position to be in. But one day Jonny would get his comeuppance, of that much he was sure.

Mary Callahan was watching her grandson James Junior as he gazed at the television. She liked to think she had a special bond with him, but she worried that he wasn’t
right
somehow. He could barely count to fifty, and he struggled to read the comics he bought by the dozen. He seemed to be away with the fairies half the time, and spent hours staring at the TV screen. Lately she had begun to wonder if he actually took in what he was watching. All he seemed interested in at the moment was getting a kitten. They couldn’t have one here – she was too old for all that palaver – and there was no way Cynthia would have one in that surgically clean house of hers. But it was all James Junior went on about. His schoolwork was clearly suffering, though she had a feeling he just couldn’t do it and that it was too advanced for him. He needed a private tutor or something.

Mary had broached the subject with Cynthia who had shrugged and said he was ‘as thick as shit’ and ‘he’ll snap out of it.’ At nearly nine, James Junior was larger than other lads his age, but he hardly spoke a word unless spoken to first. Unless he
really
wanted something – then he would pester and annoy everyone till he got what he wanted. Look at all that about the kitten. James had flown into such a rage when he was told he couldn’t have one. They had been amazed at the intensity of it. And the language! Kicking and spitting out filth the like of which she’d never heard before. Jack had eventually given him a good clump, and that seemed to have sorted him out. But again,
the ferocity of his anger was all wrong, too deep and too hateful for a child of his age.

He seemed to have no friends either and she believed it was because he didn’t seem to want any. That, to her mind, was unnatural in a child, and she knew that someone should address these problems but she didn’t know who that should be. It wasn’t as noticeable to everyone else, they just thought he was quiet. But Mary felt instinctively that there was something radically wrong with the boy, and that frightened her. If only she could talk to Cynthia, voice her concerns about his school-work, his indifference to other people. A kitten might be just what he needed, a little friend of sorts, something to love.

The doorbell rang, and she got up to answer it, leaving the young lad with her husband.

Roy Brown, their neighbour for over twenty-five years, was standing there with his little grandson Tyrone and, in his arms, he was holding a dead kitten and a Tesco carrier bag, blood everywhere.

Her evident surprise turned to shock when Roy Brown, his huge face twisted in disgust, said angrily, ‘Get young James out here. Look what he did to the kitten. He cut the little fucker’s throat.’ He was roaring in his anger, and this brought Jack out into the hallway.

‘What the fuck’s all the shouting about?’ He was looking at Roy Brown and the crying Tyrone in utter amazement.

‘Your grandson, that fucking weirdo James, has cut my Tyrone’s kitten’s throat. Cut the little cat’s throat, the wicked little bugger.’

Jack Callahan was looking at his old friend as if he had just grown another head in front of his eyes. ‘What the hell are you on about, man?’

Little Tyrone Brown was only five years old but, with the acumen of men ten times his age, said tearfully, ‘He did, he did, I saw him, he made me watch . . .’

Jack was staring from one person to another in utter disbelief. ‘That’s bollocks! Our James loves cats. For fuck’s sake, he’s been driving us mad about getting one for weeks.’

Roy interrupted him then saying, ‘That’s why he did this.’ He thrust the dead body of the kitten towards Jack who instinctively stepped backwards. ‘
He
couldn’t have one, so he didn’t want my Tyrone to have one either, the murdering little fucker.’

Jack was shaking his head; he refused to believe his grandson was capable of such an act. He was stunned into absolute silence.

Roy handed him the carrier bag saying, ‘Open that, go on, see whose knife it was that cut the animal’s throat.’

Jack opened the carrier bag and peered inside. There, bloodstained and covered with the cat’s tabby hair, was their bread knife. He knew it was theirs because it had a white bone handle – it had been Mary’s mother’s and she treasured it. Sometimes, as she cut up a loaf, she would remark at how long the knife had been in use and how it must never go into the dishwasher, but be cleaned lovingly by hand.