Faces (47 page)

Danny Boy stared at the man for long moments and Michael knew that this was either going to be the worst day of his life, or the last day of Grey’s life. He knew Danny Boy better than anybody; he had always suspected that his brain was wired differently to the rest of the world’s. He had no real care for anyone or anything, he did what he felt was expected of him, what he felt the world around him would expect him to do.

Danny Boy saw himself as a maverick, as a thinker, an intellectual. He believed his views on everything were the only views worth pursuing. He was a fucking nut-bag and David Grey should know that better than anyone. He was paid to clear up their shit, to neutralise Danny Boy’s temper tantrums and sanitise him for the local judiciary; most of whom were in his debt in one way or another. He knew that Danny Boy was not someone you could talk down to, or reason with in any way. His behaviour was not up for discussion at any time. Danny Boy expected people to do as they were told, jump when he demanded them to; especially when he was the one paying their wages.

David Grey was like most bent Filth, he thought he had the edge in the relationship he earned the majority of his poke from when, in reality, the moment he took a bung, he was relegated to lower than the shit on their shoes. A fair cop was one thing, no one really minded that; it wasn’t an ideal situation, but it was understandable. A bent Filth, on the other hand, especially one expressing an opinion that he had not been paid for, was something else entirely. It was tantamount to a mutiny, he was paid to ensure this didn’t happen, not lecture them on the laws of the land. Grey didn’t have the brains he was born with if he thought he could get away with this.

Danny Boy was already pouring himself a large drink; even at this early hour alcohol didn’t seem to affect him like it did other people. He could drink a bottle of brandy and still drive his car, talk sense, and negotiate a deal with stunning precision. It was another one of his foibles, that, and the coke and amphetamines he snorted with impunity. Throwing the drink back in two gulps he turned to where Grey was sitting and threw the heavy cut-glass tumbler at him with all the force he could manage. It smashed into the side of the man’s head, and the force knocked him to the ground. As he lay there stunned, the blood seeping from a large gash behind his right ear, Danny loomed over him and said quietly, as if talking to a small child. ‘What part of “I
own
you” don’t you understand?’

Michael was on his feet, and waiting to see what Danny Boy was going to do next. Grey was lying there, curled up in the foetal position, his arms covering his head, expecting another assault at any moment. He was realising for the first time ever exactly what he was actually dealing with. He was getting a taste of the Danny treatment and he was now fully aware of what his role was in the drama that was young Cadogan’s life. He was no more than a foot soldier, a means to an end. His dreams of using Danny Boy until he had achieved his financial goals receded into the sunset, along with any thoughts he might have had about leaving this operation of his own free will. He was, he knew without a second’s doubt, finished. Even if he was lucky enough to leave this room alive, which was debatable, his life as he knew it was over.

 

Mary felt sick, but it wasn’t the morning sickness she craved, it was the sourness of her hangover that was causing it. She stood up unsteadily and crept towards the coffee percolator. As she poured out a cup of the thick strong brew she inhaled the aroma and swallowed down the sickness once more. The kitchen was filled with bright autumn sunshine and, spooning sugar in her cup, she went back to the huge, scrubbed wood table and gingerly sat back down. In the three months since her father-in-law’s funeral her life had escalated out of control. She daydreamed about her husband’s death. It was with her constantly. As she washed up, made beds, or watched TV, the thoughts were always there.

Mary’s favourite daydream, usually after her first drink of the day, was of getting a knock on the door in the middle of the night; it was the police, telling her that her husband had been shot through the heart and brain repeatedly. She liked to know from the off in these fantasies that there was no way her old man could survive; even in her dreams she wasn’t wholly confident he wouldn’t come back to life just to spite her. Her pretend sorrow, and her inner jubilation were there in abundance. These thoughts kept her going, stopped her from going over the edge completely.

As she poured a shot of vodka into the coffee she felt the tension seeping out of her body, and the vision of her husband’s body lying in the mortuary was once more foremost in her mind. His face was gone, his lovely teeth, and the sensuous mouth that hid the cruelty behind his smile was shattered and broken. She sighed with contentment at the picture in her mind’s eye, enjoyed the momentary feeling of freedom these thoughts brought her.

She was feeling nauseous once more and, swallowing the bile down, she rubbed at her throat. Her long, slender fingers were heavy with jewelled rings that befitted the wife of Danny Boy Cadogan and her nails were painted a pretty pink, manicured into perfect ovals. Her slim wrist was adorned with a diamond-encrusted watch, and around her long slender throat was a heavy gold crucifix which she played with unconsciously. With her heavy hair falling around her shoulders and her porcelain skin Mary looked, for all the world, like a woman without a care in the world.

All her life her mother had urged her to get by on her looks, to get herself a Face, someone who could provide for her. Once you landed him, and produced a couple of ankle-biters, you would be settled for life. Money, a nice drum, and the respect that went with any name. Mary had managed the first one; she had married a Face, a fucking serious Face who was classed as the most dangerous man in the country. She had not, however, managed the second part of the plan. The children were either frightened out of her by her husband or beaten from her by him. Don’t end up like me, girl, had been her mother’s mantra and she too had been determined that her mother’s drunken lifestyle would never be hers. Well, she raised her coffee cup to her mother in a silent toast, ‘I am you, Mum, I’m you with money.’

Her laughter rang out loudly in the empty house and she bent over as if in physical pain, and eventually cried like a baby for the woman who had destroyed her daughter’s life before it had even really begun.

 

Michael and Danny were still arguing about how best to take care of Grey as they pulled up outside a small council house on the Caledonian Road. It was a fine day, bright but cold. Both wore heavy overcoats and leather gloves. Their breath was hanging on the air and Danny Boy was laughing quietly. As they pulled up in their BMW they were greeted by everyone who was going about their daily business. Danny Boy, for all his reputation as a bad bastard, was also seen by the majority as a fair man, as a generous man.

‘Grey is lucky I didn’t fucking rip his nuts off and shove them down his fucking treacherous, deceitful throat. You can’t let Filth get a foot in the door, Michael, especially bent Filth. He will get a serious fucking clump off me at some time in the future, but at the moment he sees you as his saviour. So naturally he’ll come to
you
in the future. Well, use him up and wear him out, as the song goes. Now, shut the fuck up and let me sort this lot out, eh?’

As they approached the front door it was opened by a tiny woman with a walking stick and a large smile. The obvious affection she felt for Danny Boy was in her eyes and, as he hugged her tightly on her tiny door step, she was chattering away, her voice harsh and husky from a lifetime of cigarettes and hardship.

‘Come in, my darling, I’ve got a bit of grub on. I know what you two are like for feeding your bleeding faces.’

Inside the house the warmth was overwhelming. It was a cloying heat from the new central heating system Danny Boy had installed for her a few weeks earlier. The tiny house was spotless, the decorating new but very dated, and the smell of bacon and eggs drew them both into the kitchen. They left their coats on the sofa in the front room and, rubbing his hands together, Danny Boy said childishly, ‘Don’t let on to me mother how much I love your scran, she’d brain me.’

Nancy Wilson was almost on the point of exploding with pride at his words, as he knew she would be. Her son, Marcus, was eighteen months into a twelve-year stretch in Parkhurst and he was sitting it out without a murmur. He was a good bloke, a decent bloke and Danny repaid that by making sure all was well with his kith and his kin. His mother had never had it so good and she knew it.

Marcus had a son, Joseph, who was nearly eighteen now, and his wife, Joseph’s mother, a beautiful girl from a good family, had died of cancer when the boy was nine. Nancy had brought him up while her only son had earned a bit of wedge. He had been caught on the rob and Danny Boy had been behind his endeavours. Consequently, he was now Danny Boy’s responsibility, as was his immediate family. Hence his regular visits to this house. Danny Boy always made a point of showing his face at times like this; he knew it was noted, commented on, and added to his prestige. The personal touch was his calling card, it gave him kudos and respect, especially from the older generation. He also felt obliged, he knew that Wilson could have sold him up the river and done a deal, these hefty sentences the courts were handing out didn’t augur well where loyalty was concerned. He had a twelve, that meant do two thirds and get out for good behaviour; which put him away for at least eight of those years. Danny Boy actually felt a deep gratitude for that kind of loyalty.

‘You’re looking good, Mrs Wilson, as always. How’s things?’

Nancy placed two mugs of tea on the table and went back to her stove before replying happily, ‘I’m all right, son. Marcus sends his best and wanted me to thank you once more for all your help—’

Michael cut her off mid-sentence, as was expected of him, ‘You tell Marcus we think he is a blinder, Danny Boy was just saying how much we all miss him.’

Nancy Wilson was made-up with those few words, as he knew she would be. Never in her life had she been treated with such respect, had so many people looking out for her and asking after her. She went to Chrisp Street market and everybody made a fuss of her; she knew it was because of these two men sitting in her kitchen.

She loved them for it, and her devotion to them, especially to Danny Boy, was guaranteed. Her son heard how well she was taken care of and it took a load off his mind. He was also in possession of a single cell because of his contacts, and he had the added bonus of a good few quid when he came home, and the knowledge that he was safer than a chief fucking fireman at a bonfire party. In reality, he had never had it so good either.

As the two men tucked into their bacon and eggs, Nancy replenished their mugs of tea and buttered thick wedges of toast, happy that she had company, and such prestigious company at that. She even had an account at the local cab rank, paid for, of course, by these two men in her kitchen. She didn’t have to do the usual bus trip to visit
her
son, go up the social security and beg them for the fares needed. Didn’t have to sit for hours, waiting to give some young girl her train or bus tickets and get treated like shit as she waited for them to be reimbursed. She went by taxi, and the driver stopped for lunch and kept her company on the ferry ride over to the Isle of Wight. She was also put to the head of the line, no queuing up for her, and no one minded that either. It was heady stuff to a woman who had been trodden on all her life. She told her son how well she was treated and she knew it put his mind at rest.

‘How’s young Joseph doing?’

It was the question Nancy had been waiting for and she pulled up a chair before answering.

Her old wrinkled face was a picture of tragedy as she answered, ‘Danny Boy, I’m almost demented with worry about him.’

Danny Cadogan placed his knife and fork neatly on his plate as he gave her his full attention. ‘Why? What’s he been up to then?’

He was all concern as he gave her the full force of his personality.

Nancy Wilson lit a Benson & Hedges cigarette before answering him, she knew the power of a dramatic pause; she had learned that from her husband. He should have been on the stage, him. Useless ponce he was.

‘He’s on the half a crown, ain’t he? I thought you knew . . .’

Danny and Michael were both stunned for a few seconds. ‘Fuck off! Not young Joe, what on earth would make him go on the brown? He’s not stupid, he’s on the ball.’

Nancy took a deep breath before saying sadly, ‘Jonjo, Danny Boy, he got him on it, I thought you knew. That’s why I wanted to mention it to you today. Jonjo is always round here on the want. Pair of wasters the two of them but, Danny Boy, your brother is the ringleader here, him being older and all, and that’s not me being an overprotective grandmother. I had a word last week about them stashing it in my house. In my fucking
home
. I found it in the bottom of Joe’s wardrobe when I was cleaning. You’ve got to talk to them. I don’t want Lily Law round here with a warrant, and I don’t want my only grandchild to be found brown bread either. I ain’t mentioned it to his dad because I didn’t want to worry him. Banged up in there, well, you know the score yourself. Least said, soonest mended when you’re going through a big lump. After all, why worry him, it ain’t like he can do anything about it, is it?’

Danny was astounded at her words and, for a few moments, he digested the information, unsure for a few seconds if he was actually hearing her right. Then he picked up his knife and fork and resumed eating.

‘I’m sorry, Danny Boy, but I had to tell you, son. I’m at me wits’ end, and the way he talks to me! Fuck off this, and fuck you that, and that Jonjo is as bad. I mentioned it to your mother at bingo the other week and, do you know, she cuts me dead now. Not a sodding word from her. I was only trying to warn her, you know. A word to the wise and all that.’