Faces (44 page)

Danny was gritting his teeth and he consciously relaxed his facial muscles, aware that he was being observed by the majority of people around him. He would not show any emotion at all to these toss-pots; his reputation would be in tatters if he did something that stupid.

He looked over at his little sister, she was a looker and all, and she was dressed, for once, with a little bit of decorum. Unlike Jonjo, she wasn’t easy to take care of. Jonjo had accepted that Danny knew best from an early age, knew that he had his best interests at heart. He was a good kid but his sister was a fucking nuisance. She was like the old man, thought she was above everyone else. Was under the mistaken apprehension that she was special somehow. Well, she had a fucking shock coming her way in the near future.

Danny was feeling the heat of his anger again, and he took a few deep breaths to steady himself. In fact, he was aware that his anger was actually at the point of boiling over. His hand went instinctively to the envelope that was concealed inside his overcoat pocket. He knew it was still there, but he was unable to stop himself feeling for it every few minutes. The contents were enough to cause him to actually lose his breath, so great was the betrayal he felt inside him. That the man who had written the words had killed himself shortly afterwards was not something he would ever dwell on. After all, he knew the old bastard had never suffered from any kind of loyalty so, in a way, he was surprised at how great his sense of betrayal actually was at his father’s final actions. Although he didn’t know why he felt the betrayal so acutely; it wasn’t as if he had cared for him in any way.

That his father could have grassed up his own son though, could have written down the words that could have been the cause of his own flesh and blood being locked away until the next millennium and beyond, was absolutely outrageous. In their world that was worse than murdering your own kith and kin. It was a disgrace, but it was also something that left a stain on the family concerned. It was assumed grassing was genetic; it cast a pall over the remaining relatives and left them all as suspect. Untrustworthy.

That his father had topped himself rather than stick around to witness the result of his disloyalty was typical of the man who had sired him. If he, himself, had not been so well connected, this statement could have been his swan song. It had names and dates, it was almost like an anthology of his criminal pastimes. The old bastard had tried to take him down and, thank fuck, he had not succeeded. His old man was such a coward that even his death had been cowardly. He had probably been lying there planning his own son’s downfall, and even that hadn’t given him the guts to hang around long enough to see the carnage he could have caused. He had topped himself in case his scheming had backfired on him, which it had of course. Spectacularly.

He hoped the old fucker was watching these proceedings, seeing his life being played out and knowing that his son had weighed out a fortune to ensure he was buried in hallowed ground. That was for his mother’s benefit, not his. She was like the old shawlies from his childhood, the old Irish women who prayed for everyone else, and who spent their miserable lives whispering their purgatorial prayers, who still believed that all souls would be sent there, no matter what they had or had not done, and that it would take hundreds or thousands of masses for them to finally be released and deemed worthy of entrance into the Kingdom of Heaven. The Pope might have outlawed this practice but old habits died hard. It was still a deep-felt belief for a lot of the Catholics in the world. Purgatory was a given, and a lot of people spent a great deal of time praying for loved ones; determined to see them out of the fires that were a forerunner to hell. Personally, he prayed the old bastard burned for eternity and beyond. Like Christ he had been betrayed by those close to him, unlike Christ he had not had to endure prison or a loaded court case. His Pontius Pilate was still out there somewhere, he was convinced of that. He had dodged the bullet this time, and this was never going to happen to him again. He would make sure of that. He believed in the essence of his religion, after all, he had been there when it had been beaten into him by the priests and the nuns. He knew that his life was already mapped out, and that his eventual destiny was just a foregone conclusion. He had been singled out for greatness and his father’s weakness, his gambling, had been the spur he had needed to realise that. His father’s addiction had actually made his destiny. God was good, and God was also adept at making sure you understood the benefits of a good and decent life. He pointed you in the right direction, if you only had the sense to listen out for His voice. His father, Danny Boy accepted, had been the catalyst for him to emerge from obscurity and rise rapidly to the heights. He only wished that decency wasn’t such a big part of his lifestyle; if it was left to him he would have let the fucker rot in the street. This funeral was his last act of contrition as it were; he had paid in many ways for what he had done to his own father. He had quickly gauged the general consensus about his actions, and he had known that it was in his own interests to bring him back into the fold. It had worked, he had become a hero overnight. The generous and forgiving son.

Now he was burying the man with all the pomp and ceremony his ill-gotten gains could provide, a man who, the rumour mill had it, felt so guilty over his previous actions that he couldn’t live with himself any more. What a crock of shit, but he was willing to give credence to the lie. It suited him, and it made him look magnanimous and civilised.

The priest had been given proof that the old man was suffering from a depressive illness and two doctors had put their signature to letters stating his father was not in his right mind so they could now plant him with clear consciences. The hypocrisy was not lost on any of them.

Danny beat his chest gently as the first bell tolled, losing himself in the imagery of his religion. He walked slowly and deliberately up to the altar rail and knelt down humbly; he accepted his communion wafer with a silent passion. This was the buzz that he loved, this was the real reason for living. As the wafer dissolved on his tongue he felt cleansed once more, could feel the power of truth coursing through his body. He could feel the rush of the people who had come to pay court to him this day. He knew without doubt that he was a real
Face
now; this funeral had brought that fact home to him.

He was untouchable, and he knew that now.

 

Mary was sitting with Annie, and the younger girl was observing the people around her with her usual arrogance. That her father’s death had affected her was obvious, that she was now looking for the angle that could best accommodate her was also noticeable. She was milking this for all it as worth.

Annie knew that she needed some Brownie points with her brother and she knew that she needed them sooner rather than later. He spoke to her, and he acknowledged her; that much was evident to anyone watching them together. But she felt his indifference, and the coldness that told her she had been relegated to the bottom of his list of priorities. She had slept around once too often. She had mouthed him off and pushed him to the extreme, but she had never believed that he would do this to her. He was, to all intents and purposes, blanking her, and that must never happen. Like her father before her, she had a natural antipathy to a day’s collar. In fact, the thought of working for a living was the worst thing she could think of doing. It really was not an option for her. She was the baby of the family and he should be looking out for her as his little sister; she knew that he gave a good performance in public, he had to, it was expected. But she also knew that she wasn’t worth anything to him, she brought nothing to the table and, in their family, that was of paramount importance. She had to find an angle; somehow change her position in this family. Danny Boy was capable of disowning her, and she knew her rep wouldn’t stand up to scrutiny, so she had to make sure that never happened.

She could see Arnold Landers chatting with her brother, and the sight of the two men so close together depressed her, she knew that the only thing keeping her in Danny Boy’s eyeline at this moment was her burgeoning relationship with Arnold Landers. Without him on-side Danny would push her away without a second’s thought. She knew her mother was now at her elder son’s mercy, once and for all, and that his wife was terrified of him into the bargain. She saw the way Danny Boy was approached by everyone, watched as Michael batted off the lesser of their minions and allowed access to only those he deemed worthy enough of Danny’s time and energy. And even they were treated with a quiet disdain: men who had made their reputations while Danny Boy was still no more than a drunken twinkle in his father’s eye now vied with each other for his attention, for a few brief words with him, the chance to publicly be seen with him, to be accepted by him as one of his own. Such was Danny Boy Cadogan’s power over them. She hated him. She hated the power he wielded, even as
she
craved his interest in her and in her life. She loathed him for making her feel like this.

If keeping Arnold Landers on board was what would guarantee her brother’s respect then that is what she would have to do. Her father’s death had left them out on a limb in one way or another; they were all dependent on Danny Boy, they had been for years. Now he had buried the last link to his past, to his family’s humiliation, and it had given him the strength he needed to finally show his hand. He was acting like the main man, was looking around him with glee. He was finally where he wanted to be and no one could, or would take it away from him. Danny Boy was pleased at Landers being part of this venture; he had the means at his disposal to sew up the south London connection. He was a real Brixton boy, and he was more than willing to distribute
and
contribute to his community. For a reasonable stipend, of course.

Annie smiled gently at Arnold Landers and he smiled back; he knew that he was on the road to untold riches, thanks to a little bird with a big family and even bigger tits.

Arnold knew a serious money-box when he encountered one, and Danny Boy Cadogan was his passport to riches beyond his wildest dreams. He was also trumping said money-box’s sister, so it was double bubble as far as he was concerned. He wasn’t a mug, he knew this was the only chance he would ever get of playing with the really big boys. It was the only in he was going to get and he was going to take advantage of it, snatch the fucker’s hand off. He wanted the best that life could offer, and he was standing here, in broad daylight, with Danny Boy Cadogan, being introduced to people he had only previously heard of and, in extreme cases, glimpsed from a distance.

This might be the eighties, and the government might pretend this was an equal society, but everyone on the streets knew that was a crock of shit. Even the drugs trade was controlled by a few choice people, and they were predominantly white. Arnold saw this as his chance to even the score. Bring it home. Make his mark and, along the way, settle a few scores of his own. So he nodded, he smiled, and he acted as if he was thrilled to be there which, of course, he was.

The wake was in full swing and the Irish songs were threatening to drown out the conversation. The Shandon Club in Ilford had not seen the like for many a year; it was packed to the rafters and the drinks were free and copious. Jonjo watched his family partake of the alcoholic beverages with a gusto that amazed even him. His father was well and truly planted and he felt nothing, not even a smidgeon of regret. Slipping into the toilets he entered the cubicle and locked the door behind him then, sitting down, he removed his equipment from his suit pocket. He kept it in an old bicycle repair kit tin that he opened with a flourish. He took out a needle, a syringe, and a quantity of heroin. It was just a today thing, he needed something to take the edge off; at least that’s what he told himself, anyway. He was quite happy to use his father’s death as an excuse to get out of his brains, even though the day meant nothing to him. His father had ceased to mean anything to him a long time ago; it was Danny Boy he was worried about these days. As he burned the brown on a small spoon he felt the excitement begin to build up inside him. Pulling the liquid into the syringe he held his breath, contemplating the shit-coloured liquid that would be his passport to oblivion and a few moments’ respite, respite from the life he hated so much that just living in it for a few hours was too much for him to bear. Tying a length of leather around his forearm, he tightened it with his teeth, teeth that were now going green, were crumbling inside his mouth from the constant gritting, and that made eating anything even remotely crunchy impossible.

Jonjo finally slipped the needle under his skin and forced the heroin into his body; he watched closely as he washed it back into the syringe, enjoyed seeing his own blood, red and thick, filling the vial and then, holding his breath again, pushed it all back once more, into his bloodstream and his brain. The rush was quicker than usual, and his euphoria was short-lived. But, after a few minutes, he felt able to function once more; he had allowed himself enough to get high, not enough to get wasted. There was a difference. As he sat there and felt the calmness envelop him, he sighed loudly. Uncaring, for a few minutes, who might be nearby, who might realise what he was doing, he was nodding, was relishing the feeling that was overwhelming him; was finally without thought or care for anyone else in the world around him. The brown had taken over, he was at one with the universe.

Within minutes he had forgotten that he was at his father’s funeral, all he heard was the music and the deafening sounds of glasses being picked up and emptied by people he didn’t care about. The world was suddenly a reality of his own making and he felt the force of this reality with a vengeance. As Jonjo walked carefully out of the men’s room he heard the familiar words of Danny Boy, and they were far more poignant than they should have been. Especially as the real live Danny Boy had been looking for him for the last ten minutes . . .