The Business (16 page)

She felt the child quickening once more, and as it settled itself into a more comfortable position she pulled back her arm and then she felt the sharp pain and the satisfaction the punch she delivered to her own body engendered.

She had taken to punching the child when it moved inside her because she had a real belief that if she could catch it at the right moment, she would maybe be lucky enough to lose it. She had an image in her mind of her as the poor girl who had lost her child as well as her father, she pictured herself looking forlorn and sad. Then everyone would forgive her because she had suffered such a dreadful loss. But the child seemed immovable.

She read in the papers, and heard stories all the time about women who could not have babies, who could not keep their offspring in the safety of their accommodating wombs. She had seen women who were so desperate for a child of their own that they made a point of being the first in line to hold a newborn baby, believing the old wives’ tale that if you were the first to hold someone else’s baby, you would be blessed with one of your own. Blessed. What the fuck was that about? Why didn’t anyone warn her about just how much a baby interfered with your life, and this was before it was even born. Why was her body swollen and distorted when there were women who would give anything to be in her position and yet they couldn’t conceive for love nor money? Who prayed for this to happen to them, who would have seen it as something good, something to celebrate? What woman did not feel complete because they could not do something so fucking easy, so fucking fundamental, that they deemed so fucking necessary to make their lives happier? What was God thinking of to let those women suffer like they did? Then there was her, who was still pregnant after everything that had happened, after all the fucking upset and heartbreak this bloody child had caused.

And her mother, like a bloody vampire, awaiting its arrival, believing that this child would make everything all right, was convinced that this baby was her last chance to do things right.

Imelda felt the familiar terror that accompanied these thoughts and she attempted, as always, to quieten them down. She knew that if she even once gave vent to them, she would not be able to control herself. She knew that she was capable of losing it completely. She knew that if she didn’t control her thoughts, and control her reactions to her thoughts, she would lose the last remaining shred of sanity she possessed.

So she took more deep breaths, and she punched herself in the tummy once more. The pain she inflicted on herself felt almost therapeutic, made her feel that she had some control over her body at least. As she heard her mother’s heavy footsteps on the landing above her, she sighed and, lighting another joint, she smoked it in silence.

 

Michael Hannon was very pleased at the quick response to his request. That Jackie Martin had been given a serious hammering in full view of a number of prominent citizens had gone a long way to assuage his anger.

Mary Dooley was a surprise, he had only helped her out at first because he knew that she needed a few quid. After all, it was common knowledge, thanks to Jackie Martin, that she had no idea where her old man had placed his not inconsiderable fortune. Michael had felt sorry for her because, like his own mother, she had been shafted by the one person she should have been able to trust above all others.

Gerald wasn’t a slag, he didn’t stalk prey, young girls with long legs and the attention span of a gnat. Unlike his own father, who had pursued anything with a pretty face and an accommodating smile. No, Gerald Dooley had done something much worse, he had left his family to wonder where his money was, where he had stashed it in case of emergencies. Michael knew that Mary had, in all probability, like his own mother, been a bigger part of her husband’s life and work than anyone realised. She was, he would wager, the real brains of the outfit. So her complete destruction of Jackie Martin was, as far as he was concerned, the only outcome he would have been happy with. She had complied with his wishes, quickly and ruthlessly. Now, though, he knew she would be looking for a new Face to front the business. He also knew that would not be an easy task as her boys were no use, and the men that Gerald Dooley had trained up in the past were not renowned for their brain capacity.

Michael liked that Mary was causing a stir among the old Faces, liked that she was doing a better job than her old man had and he liked the fact that she was willing to orchestrate everything from behind the scenes, that she didn’t feel the need a man would, to make her part in it common knowledge.

He felt that Mary Dooley was going to be an asset, that she was capable of a lot more than she was letting on, and he liked the fact that he knew it before anyone else did. But mostly, he liked the fact that she would be the last person anyone would think of as a partner in his money-lending and money-laundering scam.

She needed someone to front her collecting business, and he needed someone to run his loan-sharking business. He needed somebody who no one would ever suspect in a million years, who the Filth would not even contemplate. Who the people he had to deal with on a daily basis would never suspect of any kind of involvement whatsoever.

Michael felt the excitement that always accompanied a new score. Unlike his contemporaries, he understood that the seventies were almost over, and once the Labour government were out and, thanks to the three-day week and the fucking constant strikes, that would not be too long now, the Conservatives, and their usual promises of borrow, borrow, borrow, would be the catalyst that would enable him to open up a whole new world of skulduggery. Mortgage companies, money-lending disguised as loans, and the inevitable laundering of the profits he had accrued from his other, illicit, ill-gotten gains through such companies.

It was a win-win situation. Mary Dooley was the last person anyone would credit him as employing, and that was exactly what he was banking on.

Mary was sensible enough to know that she had a few weeks’ grace before she had to replace that fucking eejit Jackie Martin. She was racking her brains trying to think of someone who she could not only trust, but who was in such a position that her proposition would not only be welcomed, but would also be seen for the long-term earner that it was. She didn’t want a youngster who saw her as a stepping stone, or an older man who wanted a quiet life until he retired. She wanted someone who could see the big picture, who appreciated the long-term aspects of the business and could see that there was room for expansion. She knew that all the years of helping Gerry were paying off and she also knew that if she didn’t get this sorted sooner rather than later, then the business would be taken from under her nose. The frustration that Mary felt at her husband’s fucking stupidity still rankled. If she had access to his poke she could call the fucking shots as and when she liked. She sipped her tea, but it was stone cold.

Imelda came into the kitchen then, and Mary looked at her daughter with ill-disguised contempt. She saw the heaviness of her belly, emphasised by the thin cotton dressing-gown she was wearing, and saw how emaciated her arms and legs were, and she realised, with horror, just how much weight her daughter had lost. She felt a stab of fear inside her, not for her daughter’s plight, but for the child she was carrying.

‘Are you eating?’

The question made Imelda laugh. ‘Not really, I can’t seem to keep anything down.’

They both knew she was lying, but neither wanted to admit to that. This was a game they had played out many times in the last few months.

Mary sighed and, for the first time since her husband’s murder, she spoke to her daughter with genuine concern in her voice. ‘Look, Mel, are you really all right? You look rough.’

Imelda opened the fridge and took out a bottle of Coke; unscrewing the lid she took a deep draught of the black liquid. ‘I’m fine, Mum, I swear. I just feel sick a lot that’s all.’ She took another deep draught of the Coke and, burping loudly, she smiled that angelic smile of hers. Then, holding up the bottle she said gaily, ‘I mean, the vodka helps.’

As she waited for her mother to explode she was disconcerted to see that her mother was just staring at her, her deep-set eyes full of a sadness that was so powerful it was almost tangible.

‘I can understand your need to hurt me, Mel, and I can take it, I can take anything you want to dish out to me. But to hurt that child, the child you lay down and conceived without any kind of force whatsoever, that you waited for Jason Parks to acknowledge for weeks in this house, and that you used as a weapon that caused fucking murders, literally. I do not understand your determination to hurt your own child. Your own flesh and blood. Well, fuck you, Mel, drink, smoke, do what you want. It’s like you keep telling me, it’s
your
baby, not mine. But remember this, at least I wanted it, which is more than its own mother can say.’

Imelda looked into her mother’s face and she saw the usual anger, the genuine bafflement that she did not want her baby. She knew that to her mother that was tantamount to a mortal sin. She knew that her mother saw her as unnatural because she couldn’t love her baby, because she didn’t want it, or anything it might entail. She also saw, for the first time since this had all started, a flicker of compassion, sorrow, for her.

‘I’m sorry, Mum, I’ve tried, but I don’t want it, I hate it. It feels like a fucking albatross hanging round my neck. And I know that you don’t understand how I can feel like that about my own baby, but I do.’

Imelda was sobbing then, her frail body shuddering with the power of her pain. Getting up from her chair, Mary forced herself to go to her daughter’s aid, forced herself to comfort her. And as she felt her girl slip her arms around her waist and hug her with all the strength she could muster, she forced herself to endure her touch. The sadness and the compassion she displayed were for the grandchild she was waiting for, her daughter’s touch still made her skin crawl.

If Imelda had not wanted the child, she could have got over that, would have tried to understand that even, but it was her daughter’s arrogant disregard for her baby’s welfare that had finally finished her where her Mel was concerned.

She worried that Imelda’s constant drinking and smoking and her refusal to eat the food she prepared for her, might cause some kind of problems for the baby. She had read in the papers about how drinking was not good for the foetus, how the Americans, who were always ten years ahead of everyone else, were now recognising something called Foetal Alcohol Syndrome. And she was worried about drugs. As she saw her daughter’s drinking escalate, her dislike and disgust had escalated at a similar rate.

Mary felt Imelda pull away, and waited until she had sat herself down at the kitchen table.

‘I don’t really drink as much as I let on, I just . . .’ Imelda waved her hands in distress. ‘I just feel so horrible inside. I feel trapped, Mum, can’t you understand that at all?’

Mary shook her head sadly. ‘No, Mel, I can’t. The child has done nothing to warrant your treatment of it. The drinking, the smoking and the punching.’

She saw her daughter’s eyes widen at her words.

‘Oh, I know about your violence towards the poor child. And as God is my witness, how you could even think about such an abomination, let alone carry the thought out, is way beyond my comprehension. I know I let you get away with a lot because I was lazy, but it was also because there was this new world for young women, a world where you could get a good education and a good job. I knew you were a clever girl, knew that you had a bit of fucking intelligence about you. Had you had the wits to make something of yourself, that is. Instead of using that sharp mind you were given, you’ve fucking wasted it on lies and deceit and your own selfish wants. You can’t even see that you have a person inside of you, a real person. And, one day, that person will be an adult, and they will want you to answer their questions, and you will have to do that at some point, whether you want to or not. But I know that my words are wasted, because
you
will never see further than
you
. You’ve broken my heart, Mel. Even with all the trouble you caused for this family, if you had just once taken the time to consider that poor child, I could have forgiven you eventually. But not now, Mel, you have proved to me the truth of what I had always suspected. You are without any common decency, or any kind of empathy or care for anyone other than yourself. And you know something, Mel, I am actually sorry for you. I am heart-sorry, because you will never know what it is to love somebody more than you love yourself, and you will never ever experience what it’s like to be loved in return.’

Imelda shrugged then, and sitting up straight in the chair, she looked into her mother’s eyes and said loudly and forcefully, ‘And am I to believe that you are speaking from your own experience, Mother? Only, out of your three children, which one of us ever loved you in return and, more to the point, which one of us did
you
ever love more than yourself ? Pot, kettle and black springs to mind. You have destroyed us all, one by one, but unlike the boys, I never let you get too close, lady. Your fucking perfect family was only for the benefit of the outside world. For the neighbours, and the people you deemed good enough for your so-called friendship. In reality we knew we were disappointments to you in our own ways. But
my
father loved me, and he was so in love with you that he didn’t even see fit to tell you where his fucking poke was.’

She laughed then, at the way her mother had suddenly deflated, seemed to shrink before her eyes. ‘I’ll tell you something, shall I? I hate you so much it is the only thing keeping me going. I hope you fucking die screaming in pain, alone and unwanted. I pray that you will one day understand the damage you caused us with your self-righteousness, and your greed. I ain’t got nothing on my conscience where you’re concerned, Mother, but then again, I have no conscience at all.’