The Faithless (41 page)

It was strange talking to Cynthia like this, she seemed almost normal, caring even. Vincent knew she loved his daughter, of that there could be no doubt. It was just a pity she had never felt like that about either of her own kids.

As if reading his mind, she said, ‘I was never a good mother. I found the kids got on my nerves a lot of the time. I suppose being lumbered with James didn’t help – he was hard work, Vincent. Not that he meant to be, but he was so weak. I had to sort out everything, from the bills to the washing and the cooking. Everything. I think I just wanted to be free, you know? Free of all the responsibilities. And my mum, well, she wanted the kids there all the time, and I got into the habit of letting her have them.’ She smiled and her whole face was transformed. ‘I suppose that’s where Gabby gets her mothering skills from – she certainly didn’t get them from me!’

For the first time ever, Vincent felt himself warming to Cynthia, disarmed by her honesty.

But Cynthia on full charm offensive was hard to resist; many men had found that out to their cost. She saw him softening towards her. Well, when she was finished with him, he would be her best mate, she would see to that. Although he might not be around too long if she had anything to do with it. At least this way it would allay any suspicions he might have about her. She wanted him to believe that she had his Gabby’s best interests at heart, that she had simply found her maternal instinct later than most women, and that she would always be there for his children, as well as Gabby.

It was so easy. Men were such fucking children – all you had to do was tell them what they wanted to hear, act the little housewife, and Bob really was your uncle and Fanny your aunt.

‘It’s a lovely day – cold but sunny. A fine day to have a baby!’

The Jamaican midwife was trying to make Gabby laugh and, to be nice, she smiled weakly. But she had only just buried her nana Mary, and now the pains were ripping her to pieces. She knew it would be worth it, that her baby would be born perfect, and she would have a proper little family. She wished her nana was here though; it was hard without her.

She saw Vincent walk into the room, and she smiled tragically. Then another pain gripped her and she grimaced as the noise of the air leaving her body sounded like a loud fart and she laughed with him, as he said, ‘Fuck me, Gabs, what hole’s this baby coming out of!’

She bore down, and felt the baby crowning, watching Vincent as the miracle of birth was revealed to him. She hoped he wouldn’t be put off with all the blood. But far from being repulsed, he was entranced. Pleased as punch to be there and, as their second child, and their first son, slid into the world, she saw only pure joy and amazement on his face.

As he cradled their little boy in his huge arms, she was happier than she had ever been in her life. She finally had what she had always craved. Now she had a real family, and it felt good.

As Cynthia held Vincent Mark Two, as his father referred to him, she was once again overwhelmed with the feeling of belonging he engendered in her. It was as if he was her child, the same emotion she had experienced when she had first seen little Cherie five years before. That her Gabriella could produce such perfect children with that dolt she had lumbered herself with was, in itself, amazing. But, once again, this child looked like her. It had her eyes and the same shaped face as her, as well as that sovereign-coloured hair – blond with red streaks – which had always made her stand out from the crowd.

‘He’s stunning, Gabriella, absolutely beautiful. Well done, you two.’ She aimed her smile at Vincent and she saw the delight on his face at her words. Like his genes alone could have presented her with a grandson like this! It would take her time to stamp out the O’Casey traits, she was sure. This little boy would be someone, a banker, or a doctor; he was like a blank canvas waiting for her to colour him in. One thing was for sure – he wouldn’t be a fucking bank robber like his old man, she would see to that. Her smile widened as she thought of what she had done. She had made sure that his father would not be around to interfere in his little life. It was her secret gift to her new grandson.

She smiled at Vincent Senior once more, aware that she
would have to put up with it until he was captured trying to rob a bank in Borough Green. The police were watching them all, and she knew that the conspiracy to rob charge would keep him out of their lives for at least seven years.

Gabriella would be heartbroken, which was to be expected; after all, the girl loved him. Cynthia understood that, but she was more concerned that, if left with these two people, her grandchildren would never have anything in their lives, not anything worth having anyway. They would end up labelled blaggers’ kids, and they would go the way of all thieves’ children, embracing that life as all that would be open to them. So she was pleased with herself, pleased at what she had done.

As Vincent took his son from her, and gazed down into his perfect little face, she did not feel an ounce of shame. She was saving these kids from a fate worse than death.

‘He’ll be someone this little lad, Gabby, I can feel it in my bones.’

Cynthia laughed with her daughter at the words and, looking at Vincent, she winked happily at him.

He winked back, oblivious that his fate, like that of his little family, was well and truly sealed.

‘What a fucking mug! But would he listen to anyone?’

Bertie Warner was incensed at the news young Vincent O’Casey had been captured as he and the Gold brothers were about to enter a bank in Kent. They were caught with guns, balaclavas, the works. A whisper had got out, and somehow the Filth had got wind of it. How, he didn’t know, because it was the first
he
had heard about any of it. In fact, it seemed that no one had any idea about the fucking robbery at all. So either one of the Golds had become loose-lipped, which was very doubtful, or Vincent had mentioned it to someone. Not a chance of that; knowing how Bertie felt about him going back into the game too soon he would have kept it quiet. No, this had to be close to home. Micky Gold had just dumped his wife for a seventeen-year-old blonde, but then would he mention a piece of work to his old woman? It was a melon scratcher all right.

But they were bang to rights now, and they would be looking at a good few years behind the fucking door, before they would be out celebrating Christmas with their families. Stupid, stupid fuckers. Especially that young Vincent. Bertie had had such high hopes for him.

He thought about that girl of his. She had not long had her second baby – a lovely little boy – and she would be devastated by this news; after all, it was not the first time Vincent
had left her literally holding the baby. The poor little whore. Some girls really were unlucky. Still, what was done was done, and life on the outside continued.

But all day he kept thinking about young Vincent and about what a waste of a life it was. The second stretch was always worse than the first – for a start, you knew what to expect. Bertie would grease a few palms, make it easier for him, pay out and get him his own cell, a bit of snout and a few luxuries. Vincent would be out one day, and Bertie wanted him to remember that they had not forgotten him. He would slip that little bird a few quid too, tide her over till she was sorted out. It was the least he could do.

Vincent O’Casey sat in Brixton on remand and listened to the sounds that were once more his background music. Prisons were really noisy at night. Snoring, arguing, laughter, and often the sound of muffled sobs from the men who were desperately missing their families. The sound of the POs walking up and down, hearing the loud sliding noises of the slats opening and closing as they checked to make sure no one had topped themselves or were up to some kind of skulduggery such as digging their way out or making a shiv. This was to be his life again, and it would be his life for years and years.

He wished he had listened to Bertie and Derek, but it was too late. It was way too late for everything and anything now; his little lad would grow up without him like little Cherie had done. His poor Gabby would be left with two kids, and no visible means of employment – without him the garage would need to be sold, he knew that. Why had he been so determined to do it? If he had listened to men older and wiser than himself, he would be at home now holding his little son and, later on, holding his lovely Gabby in his arms. Instead all he had to look forward to was absolutely nothing. Nothing worth anything anyway. He hoped Gabby would be OK, but at least she had her mother. Love or loathe Cynthia, she adored those kids, and she wouldn’t let anything happen to them.

He would kill the fucking Gold brothers! One of them must have had a loose lip, because he had told no one, absolutely no one, about the blag. So it
had
to have been one of them. The worst of it was they had been nabbed before they had even got out of the fucking car. How humiliating was that?

Lying down, he put his face into the pillow and, like many a man before him, he cried like a baby; he cried for his family, for the life he had lost, and for the life he would now be living. But mostly he cried for Gabby and the knowledge he had left her high and dry for the second time in six years. That was what really hurt. Her world as she knew it was gone. The life they had planned was not to be. She had a baby less than three weeks old, and no one to tell her they loved her late at night. That, he knew, would be the hardest for her to bear.

2008

Cynthia was tired but pleasantly so. At three years old, little Vincent was a real handful, but she had enjoyed the day at the zoo as much as he had. With his sister Cherie loving the bones of him, and his nanny Cynthia treating him like a king, he was a very contented little boy.

As she put the pushchair away in her hall cupboard, and walked through to the lounge, she saw the children dutifully taking their coats off and removing their shoes. They were such good kids, did anything at all she asked without her having to yell or bully them into it. So different to her own son and daughter. The thought brought her back to Gabriella, and the news she had imparted earlier that day. It seemed that
‘her
Vincent’, as she sickeningly referred to him, might get early parole. A bit too bloody early for Cynthia’s liking.

Cynthia had enjoyed three years of more or less complete autonomy over the children, but now her daughter, with the help of her antidepressants, was finally getting herself back on her feet. She had taken Vincent’s departure very badly, and lost interest in everything and everyone – even her little boy. As Cynthia had pointed out, that ponce had left her holding the baby
twice;
any other woman would have legged it, but not her Gabriella. Cynthia conveniently ignored her own part in
Vincent’s arrest – she had long ago convinced herself she did everything for her daughter’s own good. Gabriella would never have understood that it was for the best. She had taken losing Vincent very badly indeed. The doctors had blamed it on postnatal depression, and she had not disputed that.

Then, when little Vincent was five months old, Gabriella had had a complete nervous breakdown. She had needed to be hospitalised, and she had stayed there for eight months. Those had been the happiest eight months of Cynthia’s life. She had moved into a house closer to Gabriella’s and she had taken the children. She had made herself a lovely little family and, on top of all that, she had been given benefits, actual
money,
to look after them! This country was wonderful really, with its welfare state – she got more than her daughter would have, what with Carer’s Allowance, and all the other perks. A right little scam if truth be known and it was easily abused – they even paid for her car! But, more than that, the money made them even more hers – she had the Child Benefit book,
everything
in her name. Legally, that was worth a fortune to her as they were in her custody. Possession, as they say, is nine tenths of the law.

Now Gabriella was being difficult, wanting them back home with her. Cynthia intended to make sure that didn’t happen – these were
her
babies now, and she would fight to the death to keep them.

‘Why are you scowling, Nanny?’ This from nine-year-old Cherie who was very observant.

Cynthia forced a smile on her face as she said quietly, ‘I was just wondering how you would both cope if you had to go back to your poor mummy.’ Her voice sounded as if that was inevitable, and she was gratified to see the alarm in the child’s eyes.

‘They won’t make us, will they, Nanny?’

Cynthia shrugged, as if it was in the hands of the fates, and walked out of the room, knowing she was leaving a very troubled
and worried little girl behind her. It was exactly the kind of reaction she was hoping for. If the kids didn’t
want to
go home, she knew that her daughter would not be the one to force them. Also, the social workers would not be too hard on them either – she had made sure that they knew the score – or her side of it anyway. After all, mental illness ran in the family, didn’t it? Her son James was as mad as a box of frogs, and her sister Celeste had not been the full fucking shilling either. Then her daughter, the mother of these beautiful children, was not exactly a shining example of motherhood or normality. She had become hooked on the very pills that were meant to be helping her! She didn’t eat, sleep or shit at regular intervals without them – she was basically a mess. Maybe she
was
trying to sort herself out, but Cynthia had told the appropriate authorities that, while her daughter could visit her children here as often as she liked, she despaired of their lives if forced to go back to their mother’s home full time. It seemed that they agreed with her. They bloody better had in any case, or she would want to know the reason why.