Faceless (21 page)

He was staring at her now. She finally had his full attention.

‘What did you say?’ His voice was incredulous. ‘Run that by me again, bitch.’

She was losing her nerve.

‘You heard.’

Her voice was smaller now, scared. How it should be as far as he was concerned. He moved suddenly, and then he was dragging her naked from the bed by her hair. He dragged her through the flat then, opening the front door, threw her out on to the landing. She

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was trying to scramble to her feet, aware that she was naked and that any minute now the neighbours would be looking through their spy holes to see what was going on. But he had her again, then she heard the door shut behind them and fought to get on her feet.

‘The baby’s in there and we’re locked out!’

He dropped her to the ground and, turning from her, kicked the door in. The child’s cries could be heard all over the flats now.

Then he grabbed Tiffany again and carried on dragging her down the stairwell. He threw her through the lobby doors and out into the street. Her humiliation was complete. As she lay on the pavement, her whole body screaming with pain, he kicked her in the ribs then said in a normal-sounding voice: ‘Be ready at seven. You’re working tonight.’

He pulled out his car keys and unlocked the BMW. He drove off at speed without looking back.

Melanie Drover, a neighbour, helped Tiffany to her feet. She put a dressing gown around her shoulders and held her as she stumbled back up to her flat. Anastasia was being comforted by Melanie’s eldest daughter, a painfully thin thirteen year old with acne and overlarge hips.

‘He’ll kill you one of these days,’ the girl said.

Even at her young age she was aware of what went on in the world of adults.

Tiffany didn’t answer her. She just took the baby and hugged her tight as they cried together.

Her life was a mess. She wanted the neighbours to go so she could have a hit on her pipe. It was the de-stresser she needed daily now. In fact, two or three times a day. And as Patrick had taken the crack with him she was working out in her mind where to score even as she cuddled her baby daughter in her arms.

Lucy listened to her mother’s breathing, loud in the confines of the ICU. The police had already filled her in on the events of the day. Every time she thought of what had happened she felt sick inside.

Someone had not only thrown a petrol bomb at the house but simultaneously poured petrol through the letter box at the front and set fire to the large wheelie bin by the back door. Louise had been trapped inside alone.

She had suffered seventy per cent burns and no one would say what her chances were. She was to be moved to Billericay burns unit the next morning, but Lucy had a feeling that she would not be

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alive by then and that frightened her. As bad as her mother was, she was still the only ally Lucy had ever had in her life. The house had been completely destroyed by the fire and she was in effect homeless. No one had been able to locate her father as his mobile was switched off. He did that a lot lately, switched off his phone and disappeared for hours on end.

Mickey Watson watched his intended as she wiped her eyes again. He felt useless, but that was nothing new so he didn’t dwell on it too much. He knew as well as she did who had done the evil deed and like Lucy he would not tell the Old Bill. No way were they going to get any comebacks. Her father should have left well alone where the Blacks were concerned.

Kevin should never have pushed Karen so far. She was a complete lunatic, as this had shown. Kevin had committed the cardinal sin, he had shown her up, and that was tantamount to a death sentence in the world of the East End hard nut families. The Blacks were a byword for lunacy and being a law unto themselves. Now this was the upshot.

He looked at Louise. She was covered in tubes and had one for breathing coming out of her chest. It made a regular clunking sound, horrendous to listen to, but he had to keep Lucy company. At least until his dinner was ready. His mother was already being very vocal about the incident and he knew he was going to get it in the neck as soon as he walked in the door.

Fucking Marie! Wherever she was trouble soon followed. She was a magnet for upset and aggravation. Always had been, even as a girl. Men fought over her. She seemed to bring out the worst in people. Made them go against the grain, do things they wouldn’t normally do. Look how she had affected her own brother. Nearly sent him mad, she did, with her escapades.

Now she was inadvertently the cause of her mother being fired like a Walker’s crisp, and him getting it like billyo from his own mother for the next six months.

Fucking women. They were more hag than they were worth.

Still, he reasoned, if Louise breathed her last at least that would be one less cross to bear when he married. Pity no one had decided to do his mother and all. That could have been classed as a mercy killing.

He looked once more at the woman’s burned face and hands. She was bald, and as she had never been a Brahma to start off with, he had a feeling she was going to look like something from a Hammer Horror after this little lot.

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And if she did survive, who was going to get lumbered with her? That’s what he would like to know before he was much older. In a way he wished he had left the engagement for a few more months. As his mother had already pointed out, Louise would need nursing and who was there to do it? Fucking silly Lucy, that’s who.

Well, not if he had anything to do with it.

‘Drink your tea, love, before it gets cold.’

His voice was its usual whisper and Lucy smiled for the first time that night. He was a good man, she was so lucky to have him and his support. She smiled again and sipped at the lukewarm tea.

He squeezed her shoulder and she rested her cheek gently against the warmth of his hand.

‘I love you, Mickey.’

He squeezed her shoulder once more.

‘I know, Luce. I know, love.’

Patrick walked the street without fear. People hailed him and he either waved ‘or ignored them completely, depending on who they were. As he went into the club he was buzzing with excitement and adrenaline.

It was situated near Praed Street and was strictly Rasta, bad Rasta, frequented solely by drug dealers, pimps, or people who were a mixture of the two. It had a peculiar smell of white rum and grass mixed with cheap perfume from the women who popped in and out to weigh out money to their minders.

Patrick had loved this place from the first time he had stepped foot in it. He owned it now, though none of the patrons realised this.

Jacksy Gower, the original owner, ran it for him, took a cut and was happy to do without all the aggravation. Patrick made sure it ran on top form and that was good enough for him. Jacksy was going back to the Big J as soon as he could and he was going to retire with a good few quid, a nice white bird and a new apartment complex just south of Montego Bay, far enough from the shanties to make people think they were safe.

He put a vodka and Red Bull on the counter as soon as he saw Pat and, nodding discreetly, let him know they had important visitors sitting in the corner.

Patrick glanced over as he sipped his drink and even he was impressed with who he saw sitting there.

Malcolm Derby was six foot six inches of Rasta bulk and

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temperament. He was one of the new breed of Rastamen who had taken hold in the nineties. Primarily businessmen, their only concessions to their Rasta roots were in their hair and the fact that they didn’t eat pork or shellfish. Other than that they were pure capitalists, out to make a mint and live the life. But Malcolm also traded with the Yardies. He was the face ofYardie in London and anyone who was anyone knew that. He procured passports and he provided addresses, safe houses for his Jamaican friends. He was a dangerous man and he loved it. He had taken over clubs with a gun and a smile, had routed local bully boys and either destroyed them, shot them dead, or made them work for him. He was also untouchable. In fact he was so dangerous even the police gave him a wide berth. He was an advocate of black on black killings. Saw it as business, nothing more. As long as they killed each other he knew the heat wouldn’t be too bad.

Malcolm was rich as Croesus and used his money wisely. He lived with a beautiful black woman, pure Jamaican, listened to Bob Marley and no one else, and smoked the old-style twists. He also had a nice white wife, a good-looking, educated, middle-class social worker who allowed him free rein. He always wore, summer or winter, a big black sheepskin coat, and he dragged out his British passport every time he had a drink.

Patrick could hear him now, shouting about the Bosnians and how they were a drain on society and how we British should not get involved in other people’s wars.

‘They take the money out of the mouths of the children - they don’t work, not even a good scam, just live off the land.’ His voice was disgusted.

No one answered him and no one would ever dare disagree. That was how it was when Malcolm was around.

He saw Patrick and waved him over.

‘It’s the main man, Mr P.’

Malcolm’s mouth opened wide, displaying gold teeth set off by a large diamond that glinted in the subdued light. Patrick walked over nonchalantly and sat down. His hand disappeared into an enormous paw that was displaying its own strength as it shook Patrick’s whole body, spilling the drink from his glass.

‘You looking good, Bwana.’

‘You look pretty good yourself, Malcolm. How’s tricks?’

‘You haven’t heard?’ His voice was scandalised and incredulous all at once. Malcolm was a real drama merchant and Patrick knew he

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had to go with it. He shook his head.

‘Someone killed me blood kin. Shot him face off two days ago.’ He watched Patrick’s expression as he said it and then added in broad South London, ‘The cunt is dead. Pat, and you know where I can find him. A little bird warned him but he will get his hand slapped at a later date. I just want Leroy tonight.’

‘What you talking about?’

Malcolm looked scandalised once more. His broad face framed by three-inch thick dreads looked almost hurt as he shouted, voice growing higher and higher as he got more irate, ‘What am I talking about? You taking the piss? Leroy McBane, that’s who I am referring to, the black bastard. He shot me wife’s brother, ain’t you got no ear on the street, boy? How the fuck you do your business if you don’t know fuck all about nothing?’

‘All right, Mal, relax! I ain’t heard a fucking dicky bird.’

Malcolm stared at him as if he was an errant child.

‘That’s not Leroy’s style. He ain’t a shooter. What’s it all over?’ Patrick asked1

‘Someone shot me boy, one of me gun boys. Took his stuff. My brother-in-law was sniffing round, see what he could gather, and he gets topped at a party Saturday night in Peckham. Shot in the boat five times.’

He broke off and wiped his hand across his mouth. Patrick could see the animosity coming off him in waves. The man was demented with anger. His boys were usually safe as houses, as no one in their right mind would cross this man. Not deliberately anyway.

‘It’s no coincidence, Patrick. He was topped for a reason. That reason being I was after the cunt who took me boy out. Now I heard from Maxie James, your mate, that it was Leroy who scrounged me guns. And Leroy is on the missing list. Big coincidence again, don’t you think. So he must have put the finger on me boy, didn’t he? Fucking scumbag! I’ll pop his bastard eyes out and eat them for breakfast.’

He sat back and waited for Patrick to digest this information, his expression almost feral. Patrick felt the first tendril of fear creep down his spine.

‘Who was the gun boy?’

‘Jimmy Dickinson.’

He had known what Malcolm was going to say before he said it. He hadn’t realised that Jimmy was in such big company. Patrick forced himself to stay calm. He took another sip of his drink.

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‘How long was he one of your boys then?’

‘Long enough to make me mad.’

‘You dealing with the white boys these days?’

Patrick sounded just surprised enough to get away with what he’d said.

‘I deal with anyone who got what I want, Patrick. Even fucking pimps.”

The barb hit home.

‘No one is so big they can bypass me. Remember that in future, won’t you?’

It was a clear warning.

Malcolm opened his sheepskin and Patrick saw a large machete in a specially made pocket.

‘This is Jamaican justice, Patrick. Leroy is getting a permanent fucking parting in his hair, and so is anyone who holds back information on me. So, I ask you once and for all, where the fuck is he?’

Patrick swallowed down his drink and signalled for another round.

‘I’ll take you there meself, OK? He has a little place in Swiss Cottage near his mum’s where he hides out. He’s a piece of shit perve. Done one of me birds really bad, cut her and everything. I owe him a slap meself. It will be a privilege to see him get done over.’

Malcolm grinned widely.

‘You ever seen Jamaican retribution?’

Patrick shook his head.

‘Good. Give you something to look forward to, won’t it?’

Kevin was crying. His shoulders shook from the ferocity of the sobs. As he looked at the devastation caused by the fire he felt sick. Everything was gone, everything destroyed. The house was still smoking in places and as he looked at the blackened shell he thought of all the mementoes that had gone up in flames.

Someone put a hot mug of sweet tea, laced with Scotch, into his hand and he drank it gratefully. He sat on the kerb crying until someone pulled him up and helped him into their house. It was the Indian couple, the doctors, and he allowed himself to be settled down and ministered to.

As they poured him yet another large Scotch it occurred to him that this was the first time he had ever been in their home. He and

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Louise had been invited many times but she had always refused the invitations.