The Faithless (20 page)

‘So, back to where we began, what can I do for you?’

Derek smiled and it changed his whole face, he looked almost affable. ‘It’s holiday villas. Spain, Portugal, Florida. All above board and legal, and none of it really exists, at least it only does on paper. You need do fuck-all except advance me a few quid, and there is minimal risk as the businesses are owned off-shore by private investors. I have the people to sell, I have the wherewithal to get the relevant paperwork to make us kosher. I also know that, when we have enough poke, we shut down and start up again somewhere else. The Spanish are good like that; you can rip off anyone, as long as you have the relevant paperwork. I have the land, I own the fucking land and, one day, I will build on it, but no villas or apartment blocks naturally. It would take the average Joe twenty years of his life to follow the paper trails and, when they find the end of that particular rainbow, we will all be long gone.’ He sat back in his seat and sipped delicately at his Scotch and water.

‘Can I see an outline?’

‘I had it biked to your offices this morning. I have also taken the liberty of enclosing a share scheme showing you exactly how much your investment will bring you on return, depending on your initial outlay, of course. You have my word that I am in this in a serious capacity and just want us all to earn a good crust, and walk away with the minimum of fuss.’

Jonny Parker liked this kid more and more. He had some initiative and didn’t sit there with his plans in his hands explaining it all in an hour. He had biked the details over and now Jonny could peruse them at his leisure. He had made a good judgement call on this Derek Greene, and he was pleased.

‘Fair enough, Derek, I’ll look them over and I’ll speak to you soon. Now, how’s your old man?’

Derek shrugged. ‘Truth is, Mr Parker, fifteen years behind the door takes its toll on a man but, all in all, he’s doing OK. He’s happy enough with his lot, swallowed his knob, can’t do anything else, can he? We all visit. Me mum’s waited, bless her heart. She spent the best years of her life travelling all over the fucking country. But she’s a good old bird, and she deserves to see him home at some point. Brief reckons another two, three years, he’ll be back in the bosom of his family.’

‘Fucking harsh the sentences handed down. Fucking rapist would have been out now.’

‘At least then he would have had a unit where he could wander about and watch telly in his cell. Fucking nonces and their VPUs. Vulnerable Prisoners Units – have you ever heard the fucking like? ’Course they’re vulnerable, who wouldn’t want to kick their fucking heads in?’

They both nodded, pondering the futility of a legal system that protected the scum of society, and locked away men like Derek’s father for the duration. It was a fucking melon scratcher all right.

‘Go away, you weirdo.’

Cynthia Tailor rolled her eyes at the ceiling as she bellowed, ‘Stop calling your brother a weirdo!’

Gabby grinned. ‘But he is, Mum. Even his shrink thinks so.’

Cynthia wanted to laugh then; Gabriella was funny when she wanted to be.

James Junior looked around the table at his family silently. He was a large lad, and he had the look of his father’s family. Staring at his sister, he smiled sneakily. ‘How’s Vincent O’Casey, Gabby?’

Cynthia looked at her son in shock, and he laughed at her as he said, ‘Didn’t you know, Mum? It’s the romance of the century by all accounts.’

Cynthia looked at this son of hers that she was finding it increasingly difficult to like and said coldly, ‘Not Bridie O’Casey’s Vincent?’

Gabby thought she was going to faint with fright at her mother’s words, and her eyes pleaded with her brother to not do this.

He grinned nastily as he said loudly, ‘The very same.’

Gabby was out of her chair in a second, screaming at her brother, ‘You cat-killing ponce! You rotten little bugger!’

Cynthia looked at her two children and wondered which one to slap first. Her instincts won and she knocked her son off his chair with a sideswipe. ‘Get out of my sight, you.’ Then, when
he had scrambled up off the floor and fled the scene of his crime, she turned to her daughter and said quietly, ‘Is this true?’

Gabby knew it was pointless denying it, and so she nodded her head slowly.

When her mother’s hand shot out and grabbed her hair she stifled a scream, knowing it was best to take whatever she dished out as quietly as possible. Begging annoyed her, as did screaming in agony, trying to escape, and attempting to talk your way out of things. Once her mother had you by the hair, you were all but finished.

‘How long? How long have you been going behind my back?’ This was her mother all over, not ‘how long have you been seeing him’ but ‘how long have you been going behind my back’.

‘A while, nearly a year . . .’ Gabby had to be honest now she’d been caught; it was the only way out for her. If she lied now she was as good as dead. Her mother was not a woman to buy lies of any description. Once sussed out, all that you had left to redeem yourself in any way was the truth.

Cynthia screwed up her face in complete and utter amazement. A year! This had been going on for a
year,
and no one had guessed? No one had told her more like. The bastards. An O’Casey – a family so low down on the social stratum they might as well be fucking cavemen. Bridie O’Casey was a lazy, feckless trollop who couldn’t even keep her kids clean, let alone her home. And the father! Paddy O’Casey, the local drunkard. It was beyond her comprehension.

‘All I’ve done for you kids, and this is how you repay me? Your brother up there on the road to becoming a fucking serial killer and you well on your way to whoring! Well, lady, this stops here. You’re coming home for good. No wonder you’re always round your nana’s! I bet she’s encouraging him, fucking vicious old bag that she is . . .’

She punched her daughter in the mouth, sending her reeling
across the room. Gabby landed on the floor by the dining-room door, and it was as if Cynthia was seeing her properly for the first time in years. The long, shapely legs, the high breasts, the tiny waist. This was a woman in the making and, if her boyfriend had seen his way fit to helping her along the road, she would kill the fucker with her bare hands.

Terrified, Gabby pulled herself up off the floor. She knew from experience that this was now about damage limitation. Taking a deep breath she said in her most humble voice, ‘I’m sorry, Mum, I should have told you, but I knew how you would react . . .’

Cynthia was shaking her head at the two-faced skulduggery of this daughter of hers. ‘A fucking O’Casey? Is that your fucking limit? Barbie’s Ken has got more brains than him! The whole family is a bit touched. And you are going out with him! You shouldn’t be out with
any
boys, you’re too young.’

The slap was resounding, and Gabby felt the fury coming out of her mother’s pores. She also felt her own anger mounting; she would not give him up no matter what her mother said.

‘Who’s next, Benny fucking Hill? You stupid little mare, you better not have been doing something you shouldn’t! If he’s mounted you I’ll cut his fucking throat.’

Even Cynthia in her rage could see the absolute shock on her daughter’s face at the suggestion and thanked the powers-that-be that at least the girl hadn’t gone that far. But she could also see that her daughter had no intention of giving this idiot up, and that was what was really upsetting her. She would make sure this family of hers would not go to the bad, and would not show her up.

Such was the thinking of Cynthia Tailor.

Mary and Jack Callahan listened to their granddaughter, Mary with a sympathy that belied the fact she agreed, in part, with Cynthia’s take on this state of affairs. Gabby was well and truly older than her years in looks, but not in any emotional capacity. She was all legs and make-up at the moment, and that was to be expected at her age. What the girl couldn’t see was that a few choice words on Vincent’s part, and her life as she knew it could be over and she’d be left holding a baby. Mary had never thought she would agree with that mad bitch of a daughter of hers, but on this she was right behind her. The boy was too old and too knowing by half. He was also too good-looking for his own good.

It would do Gabby good to go home for a while. In all honesty, since the episode with the kitten, Mary didn’t want the lad here either. He was a strange boy, with his vicious trouble-making and she pondered long and hard at how he had become so callous without her or anyone noticing. She supposed that was the way of the world these days. TV was to blame in her opinion. It made children adults before they were ready – even the soap operas were full of sex and violence, and the kids watched them as avidly as she did herself. Though, at least she was scandalised by what she saw. Mary closed her eyes; she felt very tired suddenly and her granddaughter’s voice was going through her head like a ninety-pound hammer.

‘Well, you should have thought of all this, Gabby, when you were sneaking around meeting that lad.’

‘But it’s so unfair, Nana, my mum is the . . .’

‘Don’t say it, Gabby, she’s still your mother.’

‘I hate her, I hate her guts.’

Jack heard his granddaughter ranting and raving about her mother, his daughter, and he felt a terrible urge to join in with her. But he didn’t. How they had come to this state of affairs he didn’t know, all he knew was it was Cynthia’s fault. Everything she touched she destroyed. Her own children included.

Derek Greene was a happy man. He had had the go ahead from Jonny P, and he knew his future was secure. He also knew that, if he played his cards right, his father’s future would be secure too. He loved a bit of skulduggery, thrived on it in fact. ‘Walk Like An Egyptian’ by The Bangles came on Melody FM and he turned it up; he liked the beat of the record.

In the back of his car he had a small armoury, and he was delivering it to a friend in need. He was, therefore, driving within the speed limit, with his seatbelt on, and his face a mask of pure innocence. It annoyed him when people got a tug for a stupid traffic violation while endeavouring to carry out their illegal business. It was a pointless nicking and it led to far too much trouble. While he was pursuing his nefarious businesses, he acted, drove and lived by the letter of the law. Why attract unwanted attention to yourself?

Pulling up at the scrapyard in Bow, he got out of the car and stretched for a few seconds. The Bangles had been replaced by David Bowie singing ‘Ashes To Ashes’ and he hummed along for a few seconds before walking nonchalantly to the Portakabins that served as offices.

He liked the yard. It was a place he had played in as a kid, and it was owned by his dad’s old mate Phillip Gardener, a prince among men. He had come to Derek’s rescue after his father’s untimely nicking, having heard about their financial position, and he had stepped in to help them out. Derek had a feeling
Phillip would have liked to help his mother out in a more personal fashion and she had knocked him back. He didn’t blame the man for trying, and he respected his mother for her refusal; she was a decent old bird when all was said and done. His father had better remember that when he finally got out. Derek remembered his father had liked a bit of extra-marital interest, and that would
not
be tolerated this time round – his mother should be treated better than that. He would see she got the respect she deserved.

Phillip was a nice geezer, all bonhomie and kind nature most of the time, but he could also kick the shit out of men three times his size and he wasn’t small by any standards. What Phillip had was a refusal to admit defeat, and young Derek understood that because he had a similar trait running through his veins. No matter how many times he was knocked down, he would get up again, making the opponent wonder just how long the fight would have to go on, and worrying how long they could keep up with the nutter in front of them.

Phillip watched Derek walking towards the offices and put the kettle on, he knew the lad liked a cup of tea. He drank gallons of the stuff day and night. He heard him come into the Portakabin and called out a greeting from the little cubby hole where drinks were made and hands were washed. Unhygienic, but unfortunately needs must and all that. Phillip was quite a fastidious man in his own way.

Phillip was a fixer. He fixed things for people and he had a knack of knowing how a fix should be executed. It was a very lucrative living for him and, when anyone was in a position they were not sure of, they came to him for advice – for a price of course. He was like the grave – he never discussed his own business so it was only right he never discussed anyone else’s. He knew where the bodies were buried, and that meant literally as well as theoretically, so he was left alone, but was very well respected. No kids or wife had come his way – he had a large
house that was looked after by his large, ugly, kind and very capable cousin, Marge. He quite liked his solitary existence, loving Belinda Greene from a distance and treating her son as his own.

The lad was a good study, and he learned quickly. He would make a good fixer himself one day, but first he had to learn the economics of this kind of work. One wrong word and the world he had so carefully constructed could tumble down on him in an instant.

Now they had a bit of work and they needed to make sure it was planned out and executed properly. Derek knew a small part of what was being undertaken, but that was all; even in his honoured position he would not get the full facts until it was deemed necessary. Phillip brought out the two teas and, as was his wont, he poured a small amount of brandy into his own mug.