The Life (16 page)

‘Tell me you’re fucking joking, will you!’

Davey Bailey shrugged. At twenty-three, he was now a big man and, like his brothers, he was firmly entrenched in the family businesses. ‘I’m not joking. For fuck’s sake, Danny, you of all people, must have seen it coming?’

Daniel Bailey Junior sat down heavily, jarring his spine with the action. He looked around the office as if he was trying to find an escape route.

‘He’s a fucking nutcase, Danny, I was fucking gobsmacked. Couldn’t believe what I was witnessing.’

Danny dropped his head into his hands and groaned theatrically. ‘I saw it coming all right, I just didn’t think he would fucking actually do it – he knows how we feel about it.’

Davey lit a cigarette and, pulling on it deeply, he said quietly, ‘Like what we think means anything to him. He battered the fuck out of him. Derek Thomas is now fighting for his life in hospital. All over three grand! Talk about going over the top. I’m fucking sick of it, Danny. He’s out of control again. He acts like he’s in the right, and he ain’t.’

Danny didn’t answer his brother. He knew
exactly
what was eating at his father; he had been expecting something like this, even though they were all on a good fucking wedge. Daniel Bailey Senior, his father, was still regarded with suspicion by everyone around them and, even though he had tried to regain
the ground he had lost over the Clarke debacle, it had never really been an option without Peter’s support. It was a miracle he had not had his collar felt for it, a miracle that Danny suspected had a lot to do with his Uncle Peter’s desire to protect the family business, and the man’s knack for finding the people best placed to do him favours, or to smooth his paths, depending on what he required, and who was available for a fee. His father could never get his head round the fact that friendly negotiations and goodwill were far more lucrative in the end than brute force or intimidation could ever be.

Peter Bailey, on the other hand, had always understood that. Consequently, he had branched out into all sorts of different spheres, and he had also managed, in his own inimitable way, not only to muscle in on other people’s earns, but ensure that the person he went into partnership with actually earned
more
. Therefore, the people concerned were understandably happy with the new arrangements. Unlike his father, who just took and, in the process, managed to make even more enemies than he already had. And his enemies, as the Bible would say, were fucking legion.

His father was a taker, and that was what was causing so much trouble. Danny had spent a lot of time building up
his
family’s side of the business. He had painstakingly attempted to make sure that his brothers, as well as himself, were seen as fair, were seen as trustworthy; he treated people with respect, made sure his brothers did too. He was the antithesis of his father in that respect, though his father’s presence in the background made sure the people they dealt with toed the fucking line.

He had learned from his Uncle Peter the wisdom of making people feel they were appreciated, and that it was easier when you were already at the top of your game to make friends of the
new Faces, of the up-and-coming generation, that it was much more sensible to use the talents of the people who worked for or with you, than it was to make them into enemies.

His father had seemed to be finally understanding that as well, had seemed to be pleased at the way they were now treated as a family unit by their peers. His father had four huge sons; they were not little kids any more and were working hard to portray an image of familial solidarity – they dealt with their cousins on an almost daily basis after all. Now, Daniel Bailey Senior had, in one afternoon, destroyed it – he had once more shown himself as nothing more than a common thug.

He had ruined his sons’ graft for a poxy three grand, had sacrificed them because he had heard that his brother was opening another nightclub, and he hated that he wasn’t a part of it, or of anything that would require his active involvement.

‘Did he use his fists, or a weapon?’

Davey looked into Danny’s eyes, and the brothers were both so disheartened and so angry that it was like looking into a mirror. ‘Both. He started out pounding him, then he picked up a fucking spanner that was lying on his desk. He finished him with that, all the time screaming and cursing. It was a fucking embarrassment.’

Danny groaned again. ‘Were there many people in the betting shop?’

Davey sighed. ‘Ten, eight, I wasn’t taking the fucking register, was I? Enough to make sure it gets talked about anyway. Oh, and on the way out of there, he emptied the tills like a fucking school-boy robber – stuffing the money into his pockets. I tell you, Dan, he’s a waste of time. He has no fucking care for how that looks to people, he really believes that it all makes him look big or something. He’s such a cunt . . .’

Danny stood up then and, taking a deep breath, he said
seriously and against his better judgement, ‘Look, Davey, whatever he is, he is still our father, and we have to be seen to be on the same page as him, no matter what. We can say what we like to each other, but outside the family we say
nothing
, do you hear me? That’s the worst kind of betrayal – you know that as well as I do.’

Davey sighed and said sarcastically, ‘I know that, bruv, but in reality, it’s getting harder and fucking harder.’

Davey stood before him, running his enormous hands through his thick hair, and Danny saw how big he was, how powerful he had become; they were both the image of their father. They all had the Irish blue eyes, inherited from their grandmother, and passed down from generations long gone.

Danny also knew that it was getting more difficult to control his brothers; they were men now, and they had their own thoughts and opinions, which they were entitled to express. Sooner rather than later their father was going to have to accept that as a fact of life. Danny had a modicum of control over his father. Daniel had known for a long time that his eldest son was not in any way amenable to him, or his bullying.

Even before Alfie Clarke, Danny had been appalled by what his father had done to Lenny Jones. He was a fucking saint, and Danny had taken to visiting him at least once a week. Lenny could talk now, but he would never walk again. Even after all this time, Danny hated to see the man so broken, hated that his father had done it.

Lenny told him stories of the old days that were as thrilling as they were outrageous, he brought the East End alive, the old East End before the slum clearance and the tower blocks. And Danny had got an education from him as well, learning how the scams worked, how you weighed up situations, how you worked out the odds. He had never really thought about situations as a
mathematical problem before, but Lenny had explained it to him in language he understood.

Lenny didn’t know he was Daniel’s son, at least he didn’t think he did. Lenny had lots of visitors, and Danny wondered if any of them had said who he was. He didn’t think so, because Lenny was always nice to him; he liked Lenny a lot. He was a good bloke.

Young as he had been at the time, Danny had only visited at first to see who had been the cause of all the grief, and he had found himself going back again and again. Now, though, he went because he wanted to, not because of any ulterior motives.

His Uncle Peter had found out about his visits. He had got him on his own and asked him how Lenny was faring; he had told him he was a good lad to go in and visit him. Said he thought he was growing up to be a good man, and he was keeping his eye on him. Danny liked that, had liked hearing it, even though he felt a twinge of disloyalty to his dad.

It was his Uncle Peter who had asked him to look out for his brothers’ interests and, even though his father’s name had not been mentioned, Danny knew that he was also asking him to try and work by his father’s side, and keep his eye on the family businesses. His Uncle Peter did not want to be given any reason to chastise his father; Danny knew if
that
happened it would not end well for any of them. His father, for all his talk and bravado, was still heartbroken over the rift between him and Peter.

Danny wondered how on earth he was supposed to smooth over this latest outrage, but he had to try. It was another step back for them all as a family, when he and his brothers had worked so hard to get this far. Damage limitation, that was what was needed. He almost smiled at the thought; he was becoming an expert at it.

Peter Bailey was in the offices of his new nightclub; it was noisy and the DJ was not his cup of tea – give him Etta James or a bit of Bob Marley any day – but he knew the clientele were loving it and that was all that mattered.

He was quietly fuming. Daniel had once more caused a fucking scene, which he would, yet again, have to clean up. He had scarcely laid eyes on him in the years since the Alfie Clarke drama; they saw each other in church and that was it. But Peter kept close tabs on his brother – especially as far as the business went. He knew Daniel’s every move.

He sipped his brandy, savouring the burn and, as his eldest nephew came into the room, he held his hand up, enjoying the last few moments before he had to deal with the aftermath of his brother’s actions.

‘Is he dead?’

Danny shook his head. ‘No, but let’s just say Derek won’t be back in circulation for a good while. I’ve sorted him a private hospital with the best doctors. I’ve paid his wife off, and guaranteed all her bills are covered, including the school fees for the kids.’

Peter nodded, it was what he had expected. ‘You’ve got to sort him out, Danny, once and for all. If you don’t, I am going to have to get involved personally. I’ve covered his arse once too often and this has got to stop.’

Danny nodded humbly. ‘I know, Uncle Pete. We’ll take care of it.’

‘I know you will, son. Now, what’s this I hear about you, my Petey, and some problem with the debts?’

When Danny slipped out half an hour later, Peter sat in his chair and, pouring himself another large brandy, he closed his eyes. He was tired tonight, tired and worried. He had so much riding on the next few years. He had invested in numerous new enterprises, from the drugs trade – which was so lucrative it was fucking outrageous – to gentlemen’s clubs with private dancers and guaranteed privacy. He had more clubs opening for this new generation of youngsters who were convinced that the only thing that mattered was getting out, getting drunk, and having a good time. He envied them being born into an era when responsibility was something from a bygone age, and where nothing really mattered except doing what the fuck you liked. The sixties had started the drug culture, the seventies had cemented it into the public psyche – thanks to pop stars who had glamorised it – and now the eighties were all about money, clothes and chemical highs. It was almost like printing money, it was so fucking lucrative. But, by the same token, it was also about keeping that part of the business as low profile as possible.

Now his brother was not only attracting unwanted attention, but Peter was facing problems with his own sons. In particular Peter Junior – or Petey as he was known – who, it seemed, had more of his uncle in him than his own father. Petey believed he was more important than his father, his brothers, his uncle, his cousins – in fact, anyone else in his orbit. Peter had always perceived this weakness in his eldest son, this snide side to his personality; Petey had such an inflated opinion of his own worth it was frightening. But it was the lack of loyalty that was the real worry. Loyalty was paramount in the world they inhabited – it
was what kept them out of stir, what kept them on the street. Petey was basically a bully, just like his uncle. He needed to be taught a lesson that he would not forget in a hurry, and tonight Peter intended to have it out with him.

He sighed. Might as well get this over with. He knew Petey was down in the club and he picked up the phone to get him sent in. When Petey came in, looking decidedly sheepish, Peter let rip.

‘You had better explain yourself, boy. I know you have been claiming money in
my
name, and I will fucking take you out, seriously harm you, son or not, before I let you fuck up me, my brother or his family.’

Petey looked at his father; he guessed his cousin had told his father the story. Even though he was ashamed of his actions, he still felt there was a justification. ‘I didn’t expect Danny to get the flak, I was supposed to go there myself. But Danny took it on himself to collect all the rents . . .’

Peter closed his eyes in distress. Nothing could justify what had happened, what this son of his had done. He held his hand up to stop the flow of treachery in its tracks. ‘Are you trying to justify having me over? Are you that fucking stupid?’

Petey didn’t answer. He knew when to keep a low profile.

‘Danny was trying to do you a favour and, because of
you
, he nearly got stabbed. Why would you rob your own, eh? You were taking money off me
and
my brother. Two earns, you jammy fucker, and it still wasn’t enough for you, was it, eh? If you weren’t my son, Petey, you would be a fucking dead man.’

Petey was a realist and he knew when he was beaten. He was aware that his father knew
exactly
why he had done this. He was just waiting for him to come clean and throw himself on his mercy. It was pathetic. Petey was a grown man, and his father
still treated him like a fucking child. ‘You know why, Dad. I owe money.’

Peter looked at his eldest son, his namesake, and felt sick with shame. ‘You owe gambling money again? Have you learned nothing at all? I have earned off weak people like you all my life, and a gambler is the weakest of the weak. You know what gamblers are, don’t you? Fucking fools, mugs. They are the reason we own betting shops. We can’t fucking lose, you imbecile! If gambling was such a fucking doddle, don’t you think bookies would be few and far between? They’re on every high street in the country, waiting for fucking mugs like you to throw your money at them. Well, this is your last warning. You can’t go to any of the card venues around here. I’m making you persona non grata, my son. I’m making this personal to
me
and, believe me, there ain’t a person living who will give you a fucking chair anywhere. I’m giving you six months to get your act together. If you don’t sort yourself out, me and you are finished. You need a wife, a family – you need responsibilities, son. You need to fucking grow up!’