The Business (3 page)

And as for her father, well, he was her biggest obstacle in all this, because she had no idea how this news would be received, and in what form his anger and his disappointment would take.

She was nearly crying again, and the fear was once more making her feel faint. If it was only her brothers, she would have braved it out, both of whom she knew would see this latest escapade as yet more proof she was a spoiled brat. It was her mother and her father she was frightened of, because they were the ones who would be expected to sort this mess out. And a mess it was.

She put Elvis Costello on her record player and turned the volume up as high as it would go, her mother was at Mass and she had the run of the house. She might as well make the most it before the balloon went up.

 

Gerald Dooley was a big man, an even-tempered, large Irishman with hands like bunches of bananas and eyes the colour of wet slate. He was imposing, well muscled, and he had a reputation as a fair-minded man, but not a man to cross. He liked a drink, and could hold it. He went to Mass once a week, as did his children, grown as they were, and he had a little flutter on the horses. He was also in full-time employment with a local Face named Michael Hannon; he collected debts, delivered messages with the minimum of threats and, in general, was what was known as a good all-rounder. This meant he had a wage, paid taxes, and was given a bit on top as a bonus. His family lived well and were respected as was he.

His size and his knowledge of everyone’s business were his greatest assets and he had known that since he had been a boy of twelve and he had utilised his strengths from then. In this world he was a big man, outside it he was just another enforcer. He kept on the right side of the law through intimidation and innate cunning. This also held him in good stead with his employer. If he said something couldn’t be done then it was a fact. But he would find a way round any obstacles, and that was his forte.

If someone was fool enough not to heed his warnings, always delivered with a friendly smile, then they were mugs, and would be made to pay the price. Rumour had it that a man, missing these many years, had last been seen talking with him. The story had only advanced Gerald Dooley’s fearsome reputation as a man who achieved his objectives through any means necessary.

This truth would be proved once more when he got out of his Jaguar outside a block of flats in Barking. He was dressed casually as usual, but still well put on. Even in his sixties he managed to garner looks from women of all ages. A reputation could do that for a man, especially in an environment like this. On this particular estate a decent car, a nice set of clothes and the ability to fight was a requisite for the women without a man. It screamed a few quid, the end of any aggravation with neighbours or family, and a guaranteed good few nights out.

Gerald was more than aware of this, and even though temptation had always been in his way, he had never succumbed. His wife had always been enough for him, and his family was his life. He had occasionally taken the odd flyer when he had been a young man and he had always found it a rather distasteful business. His guilt had gnawed at him like a priest with a ranter, and he had decided early on that he was happy enough as he was. With the wisdom of age he knew he had made the right decision, because so many of his contemporaries had sacrificed their families for a quick flash and a bacon sandwich. Youth was no substitute for loyalty and time served, even though it had its obvious advantages. No, his Mary had been an exemplary wife, and he appreciated her respect, her kindness and her love for him and their various offspring. For all her religious fervour he knew she would lie on a stack of bibles if the need arose. That was more important to him than anything else.

Today he had brought a new young lad on the job with him, his father was an old friend and the son, though a big lad, was not the sharpest knife in the drawer. But he was willing and that made up for a lot. He had the brawn, and the makings of a good repo man if he was taught properly from the off.

Lads like this made Gerald’s life easier, and it worked well for them all. Anyone he trained was guaranteed a good livelihood and was generally regarded as having learnt his trade from the best. Young Declan might not be the most scholarly boy he had ever encountered, but he was willing, with a shrewdness that was paramount in their line of work. Ergo, he got the dosh by whatever means, all he needed was the chance to smooth out a few rough edges and he would be set for life.

When they had reached the required front door, a scruffy-looking flat with dirty nets and scuffed paintwork, Gerald Dooley nodded almost imperceptibly. Instead of knocking politely, young Declan proceeded to kick the door off its hinges. This was not a difficult task and, walking into the warm smell of central heating and cannabis smoke, they saw the occupant of the premises standing in his kitchen with the kettle in one hand and the other hand down the front of his pyjama bottoms.

‘Morning, just in time for tea. Only, do me a favour would you?’

The man nodded dumbly, his face devoid of any colour now. Terror was taking over as he felt the trembling that told him he was well and truly fucked.

‘Wash your fucking hands first.’

Jason Parks was walking through the spring sunshine like a man who owned the world and, in his case, he believed that to be the truth.

He was a new kid on the block, nineteen years old, and with the world at his feet. He was already responsible for three armed robberies and a Bond Street jewellery heist. His life was a set pattern and he was pleased with its natural progression. A womaniser by instinct and, with a good teacher in the shape of his father, he loved women, money and prestige, in that order. The latter guaranteeing him the former, as he knew from experience. Women had loved him from the tender age of fifteen and, looking twenty, he had been fortunate enough to have the pick of the litters around and about. His first encounter with a thirty-five-year-old French teacher had taught him that most women were as up for it as their male counterparts, they just acted as if they weren’t interested because of public censure. In fact, most of the women he had come across would fuck a table leg if it had a nice set of togs and a decent motor. The fact that he was possessed of the gift of the gab was a bonus. He talked a good fuck, and he had found he was capable of delivering one into the bargain. Sex, or more importantly, the promise of the sex act, was his whole life and, unlike most romancers, he loved to pleasure a woman, loved hearing her cry out, watch her enjoy his ministrations; that was as much of a turn on as the chase itself.

A good-looking boy with an athletic body and fair countenance, he knew he was a babe magnet; women of all ages, sizes, shapes and descriptions loved him. And in all of them he found something to love. He had taken the cherry of more than a few young girls and he had done it with what he considered panache. He saw himself as their teacher in matters of the personal and private. He enjoyed the role of tutor.

He enjoyed both the danger of a married woman and the innocence of a young girl new to the game. Jason liked the knowledge of their bodies, liked the way the experienced women guided him into their bodies all wet and warm and grateful.

Danger appealed to him, and he admitted that to himself.

As Jason snuck into a small, terraced house in Bow he was smiling. The wife of a notorious bank robber lived there and her husband was in court at this very moment for non-payment of fines. That he had been banged up when the fines had been requested was something for the briefs to argue, all Jason knew was that he had a few hours’ grace until the man came home, and in that few hours he was going to give his wife the seeing-to of a lifetime.

The woman opened the door with a wide smile and the minimum of clothing and Jason was inside the front door before the two men observing him from the house opposite had time to comment about him to each other. Even though they were shocked at the boy’s blatant temerity, to be visiting this particular man’s wife on such an auspicious occasion was outrageous to say the least, that they were also impressed with his front, his bravado, was a given. Anyone who would risk their life for a quick feel had their vote, and even though they knew that he was a wrong one, a fucking muppet, they both felt a grudging respect for him, for his guts, for his absolute bottle. Laughing loudly, they shook their heads sagely at one another. He was a lad all right and, as far as they were concerned, he was to be applauded, but they kept that gem of wisdom to themselves.

 

Gerald Dooley was smiling, and young Declan had the sense to mimic his new boss’s behaviour.

Colin Baxter, a junkie with an unfortunate amphetamine habit coupled with a complete inability to pick a winning horse, now owed what amounted to the national debt, not only to his dealer, but also to his bookie, who happened to be one and the same person.

When the kettle finally boiled Gerald took it off the gas and, motioning to Declan, waited patiently until Colin was safely held over the sink, his head about two inches from the china bottom, his arms wrenched painfully behind his back.

Leaning over the whimpering man Gerald said quietly, ‘I warned you, Col, and you fucking mugged me off.’

Colin was straining with all the strength he possessed against young Declan’s superior strength, terror giving him an extra spurt of energy.

‘Please, Mr Dooley, I’ll have the money later. I am due a few quid, money I’m owed . . .’ His voice was hoarse with fright, with the knowledge that he had finally reached the end of his road.

‘Too late, Colin . . .’

As the water gushed from the kettle on to his head and neck Colin screamed, the sound like that of an animal. It was high-pitched and laden with anguish. He fought with every ounce of his strength to avoid the torrent, only making it harder for himself in the long run.

Like Gerald, his captor had no feelings of remorse or sorrow. Young Declan just watched it with a quiet interest, concentrating on holding his prey still while he learnt exactly how these things were done.

He knew he wasn’t Einstein, but he also knew he was a quick study, and that meant the difference between a good living and some serious wedge.

He wanted to earn the wedge, and he wanted it sooner rather than later. Gerald Dooley was his ticket to the stars and he felt honoured to have such a teacher.

Gerald winked at him gamely, nothing he did in the pursuit of his occupation was ever done with malice. But it was always done with a certain aplomb. After all, without a decent rep he wouldn’t even be employed. He didn’t love his job as such, but he knew he was a one-off, knew that he was known as a man who got things done quickly and succinctly. His real forte was that he made sure no one had to clean up after him and in their game that was the main requisite.

If he was asked to demand something, he would get it by any means, and his secret was that he never discussed those means with anyone. He was a hard man, by nature and by reputation, that was his strength.

 

Imelda could smell the cloying aroma of colcannon, she had loved the smell until her pregnancy. Now the aroma of cabbage and grease made her stomach turn. As she forced herself to take deep breaths, she felt the terror of her situation once more. She knew that she had to get it out in the open, had to tell her mother before she either worked it out for herself or was told by an outsider. Imelda knew in her heart that this was news that was best delivered swiftly, but it was still a terrifying prospect.

As she walked down the stairs, she could hear her mother busying herself cooking the evening meal. She wanted to catch her while she was alone, wanted to spill the news of her downfall in private. Imelda was aware that her mother had a soft spot for her, and she instinctively knew that if she could talk to her alone now, her mother’s reaction would be to protect her.

Entering the kitchen she smiled widely. ‘That smells lovely, Mum.’

Mary Dooley glanced at her youngest child and immediately sensed that something was wrong. She had felt that there was something worrying her daughter for a while and now they were alone together she decided to try and find out what was the cause of her youngest child’s obvious unhappiness.

‘Sit down, child, and I’ll make us a nice cup of tea.’

Imelda did as she was bidden. Pulling a chair out from the large Formica table she sat down heavily, her heart aching and her body stiff with nerves.

Mary poured them both a cup of tea and, sitting beside her daughter, she said heavily, ‘What’s ailing you, child? Are you feeling ill?’

Imelda looked into her mother’s face. She was so like her, even she could see that. They were like twins born years apart. In her mother’s presence though, she could feel the heaviness of her breasts more acutely for some reason and knew that soon they would betray her. She was as fertile as her mother and she knew that would be her downfall. Because, unlike her mother, she had allowed herself to be used without the safety of a wedding ring.

‘Is anything bothering you, child, are you worried about anything?’

Mary was genuine in her distress, was honestly worried about her daughter. It came across in her voice, in her gentleness, and in her expressive eyes. Eyes that seemed to tell her daughter that she was prepared to hear the worst, and unfortunately, the worst was what she was going to get.

 

Gerald Dooley heard the screeching before he had even entered his house. This was an almost unheard-of occurrence, and his shock was exacerbated by his daughter’s language. His Imelda had never uttered a swear word in his presence in her life, so he knew that the harangue he was now party to was serious.

As he opened the front door he kept his movements quiet, listening to his wife and daughter as they went at each other without care.

‘You fecking filthy little whore, you’d do this to me and to your poor father? What the fuck have I bred?’