The Business (54 page)

 

Imelda was over the moon. Her son had finally invited her to join him at the bar and she understood the significance of his offer as much as the people around her. By publicly recognising her, he had given her a new-found acceptance that she could now use to her advantage as and when the opportunity arose.

Until then, she had been shrewd enough to keep her head down and her trap shut. She knew that she needed to keep this son of hers onside for the foreseeable future.

With his public acknowledgment of her, she was once more on the cusp of public acceptance. She would be welcomed back into the bosom of the local drinking establishments, and would be seen as a viable borrower of money; she would now be in a position to run up debts, debts that she had no intention of paying.

Jordanna was still a loose cannon in many ways, but Imelda would work on her. She would ensure that her daughter came around to her way of thinking in the end. She was rocking, standing there in full view of everyone, being treated like a queen; she felt she was finally where she should be. Her son, against all the odds, had made it, and because of him, she was now ready to take her rightful place in the not-so-polite society she craved. Jamsie O’Loughlin was a dealer of platinum standards, as she knew better than most. They went back a long time. But she would keep that bit of information to herself. He sourced brown that was so pure it was dangerous until it was cut at least three times. If her Jordanna managed to hook him, Imelda was basically set for life where the drugs were concerned. After all, he would be honourbound to serve up his bird’s mother, it stood to reason.

As she looked around her, she saw the sceptical glances that were coming her way. She knew that she was the only fly in her son’s otherwise exemplary ointment. He was a real player now and he would go on and on until he became the
only
player. He got that single-mindedness from her.

Basil was watching her closely, but Imelda didn’t react in any way. She was hated, and she knew that. But she could apologise for England when it was demanded of her. She could grovel with the best of them.

As Kenny winked at her, she smiled widely, she knew he was only making a point where she was concerned. She knew that he only wanted her in his life so he could keep an eye on her while, at the same time, forcing the people around him to accept her. If they did that, then it would prove to
him
, once and for all, that he was finally a Face.

She could write the fucking script for him, but she had to pretend she was ignorant to his ulterior motives, though she did wonder if he realised what was going down himself. He got his sneakiness from her, though. His natural desire to keep everything to himself, no matter how trivial, was an inbred thing she felt.

She was genuinely sorry though, because she had admitted to herself a long time ago, that she didn’t really like her son that much. He was a stranger to her in many respects, and as he didn’t really like her either, she felt that made them even somehow. He was a user like her, but he dressed it up and convinced himself that it was for the good of other people.

She did not like him, no more than she did her daughter. She saw Jordanna as weak; she was like a fucking albatross hanging around everyone’s neck.

A real party pooper, even now she was devoid of anything that even resembled interesting. She was a good-looking girl, she had to be, she was her double. But she had nothing that could be seen as individualism. She was a fucking wet blanket. A fucking poor-me merchant, and that was all her mother’s doing. Mary had fucked up both her kids, big time. But then, she had not expected anything else. The girl was a complete washout, if only she had inherited
her
shrewdness, her mother’s nous, then she might have had something about her. Something going on.

As it was, she was a boring bastard, and that was proved by her daughter’s obvious interest in Jamsie O’Loughlin. Imelda knew him well, but then she would, he was her kind of guy. Jordanna was hanging on his every word and, more to the point, Jamsie seemed to be hanging on to hers in return. It was sick-making.

That her daughter had already buried a child, and lived through her mother’s lunacy did not even register with Imelda. As far as she could see, her daughter was a weakling, a wimp who was incapable of seeing the main chance as and when it presented itself. With Kenny’s new-found notoriety, Jordanna should have the brains to be using it to its full advantage; instead she was like a fucking moron, frightened of her own shadow. It was a crying shame. She should be at home watching
Countdown
with all the other anoraks, not here among the movers and shakers. This was wasted on her, and that really annoyed Imelda.

But she would keep her head down and her arse up, and wait for the chance to further herself. If she played a blinder she would not have to do another blow job ever again, unless she wanted to, of course. At this stage in her life, her son’s new-found notoriety was a real touch. Imelda raised her glass at Jamsie in an imaginary toast; she was not surprised when he did not bother to reciprocate.

Chapter Twenty-Three

‘You are a fucking imbecile, and as such you need a fucking serious livener, boy. You think you can take me for a cunt and I wouldn’t fucking notice?’

Kenny Boy was livid, his face was bright red and his hands were clenched into fists of rage. He was breathing in short, staccato bursts, his heart was beating faster than an alarm clock, and he was swallowing down the urge to kill.

He was more than aware that he had not yet struck the object of his anger, and that pleased him because he knew he needed to rein in his anger. His rage was never far from the surface, and it was always his first reaction to anything that happened to him or his. Smash it, crush it, hurt someone. His rage was a natural part of his life. It was there when he awoke in the morning, and it was still there when he went to sleep at night.

He fought a daily battle to keep it contained. He knew he was often outrageously over the top where his anger and his personal feelings of retribution were concerned. He could quite happily kill someone on the slightest of pretexts. Wiping out anyone who he saw as a rival or as a piss-taker was par for the course. He fantasised about killing his enemies, he had done since he was a little child. It was how he coped with the day to day, how he coped with living down being his mother’s son and all that entailed.

He knew inside himself that his anger often far outweighed the reasoning for it. But he also knew that his single-mindedness was seen as an asset by the people he worked alongside. He liked Harry, and he really didn’t want to hurt him, but he couldn’t see what else he could do. The man had fucked him over, big time.

‘I’ll sort you right out, Harry. A fucking hammering is just what you need and is exactly what you are going to get.’

Harold Carter was literally shaking in his brand-new, expensive boots. He had dropped a serious bollock and he knew he deserved what was coming to him. It still didn’t help though, knowing that he had asked for it. If it was anyone else but Kenny Boy he would have swallowed. But Kenny was not known for his sympathetic nature. Kenny Boy would administer a punishment far exceeding the crime committed, it was nothing personal, it was just his nature. When Harold Carter had helped himself to the takings he had not felt he had gone over the top as such. He had only spiked a few quid, a fifty here, a twenty there. It was not as if he was creaming off the hundreds, or the thousands. At worst, he was guilty of giving himself a well-deserved drink, no more and no less. But he should have known that Kenny Dooley would know what he was owed down to the last fucking penny. It was a foible of his; he made a fucking point, apparently, of knowing how much he was owed by everyone and anyone.

Like that should be a big surprise, the general consensus was that Kenny Boy was a fucking weirdo. Of course he would be interested in the pennies and the halfpennies. It was what he did best. Everyone knew that Kenny could glance over a column of figures and work out the total in seconds without breaking a sweat. He needed nothing: no paper, pens, or calculator, he did it all in his head.

But this also didn’t allow for the fact that everyone else in their world, other than him of course, were amenable to a little bit of skimming by their workforce, it was what made their world go round, what kept people on the payroll. Kenny was not the only criminal in town and, by the very nature of his business, he was honourbound to employ other criminals, who he, for some reason known only to himself, expected to act like choir boys. Harry was shitting it, and he knew deep down that all this was very wrong. But he was not about to point that fact out, he was not on a death wish.

‘Look, Kenny, all I did was take the extra, it’s not unheard of to extract a drink . . .’

Kenny didn’t let him finish his sentence, he was already punching him to the ground. He saw the theft of his money as a personal affront, saw it as a mark of disrespect towards him personally.
That
was something that was never going to happen. Not in his lifetime anyway.

As Harry Carter lost consciousness he wondered briefly if he would ever open his eyes again. Kenny Boy was quite capable of finishing him off for this.

Kenny was still kicking at the prone body when Jack Carling dragged him away. Kenny was so incensed at Harry’s audacity that he wanted to kill him, wanted to erase him from the planet once and for all.

‘Come on, Kenny, he had a small skim. Get over it, for fuck’s sake.’

Jack was having trouble keeping Kenny away from the prostrate form; he was holding him against the wall, forcing him to calm down and let his sensible head prevail once more.

Kenny knew that if he really wanted to, he could take on Jack Carling, and Jack’s minions as well, without even breaking a sweat. His edge was that, unlike everyone else he dealt with, he did not really need an excuse to hurt people. He could hurt anyone at any time and, when he felt the urge, he did just that. He would use the slightest pretext to unleash his anger on an unsuspecting public. It was another thing that worked in his favour. If Kenny Boy gave someone a good hiding they must have deserved it; he was not known for being a bully, or for just flexing his muscles. Kenny had a violent streak, and that was common knowledge. What was not known by all and sundry was that he had to control himself from day to day, that he understood that his temper would be his downfall if he didn’t learn to control it. But he knew he had to calm himself down, especially now. Harry had been a good worker, and most people would not feel the need to chastise him for his little scam. But then he was not like other people, he saw the theft of his poke as fucking disgraceful. He saw it as a challenge to him and his authority, as a fucking complete and utter piss-take.

‘You tell that cunt he is finished with me now, he is gone, over with, and you make sure that anyone who takes a wage from me understands that if even a fucking fiver goes on the trot, I will personally hunt down the cunt who palmed it myself. I pay enough out in wages, I don’t expect to be fucking robbed by me own.’

Jack was nodding in agreement, he knew
he
was getting a warning and he also knew that he would have to pass that warning on, and pass it on very vocally so this man could be placated. He was a real giant in his field was Kenny, he had the goodwill of every major Face in the Smoke. But he was a real weirdo in other respects. Jack pushed him towards the door, he wanted him away from Harry’s prostrate form.

Kenny was not the easiest of bosses, but then who was? He was a real earner though, he earned fucking serious amounts of brass. But, in all fairness, he paid well, and so Harry Carter’s little mistake was not to be overlooked from Kenny’s rather narrow point of view.

‘Come on, Kenny, let’s get you out of here.’

Kenny followed him quietly now. He was a big lad, and he was also a very intimidating lad, especially when the fancy took him. Seeing him attack Harry like that had been a real eye-opener. Kenny was certainly not an easy man to placate, in fact he was a fucking handful. A big, paranoid and overly strong handful.

As they walked out of the warehouse into the weak January sunlight Jack said seriously, ‘He did not deserve that, Kenny Boy. He was taking pennies, it ain’t like it was fucking fortunes.’

Jack was a name in his own right; Kenny had specifically requested him from his last employer. Jack came with a fucking gold-plated guarantee, and that was the only reason he was being allowed to offer his opinion now.

Kenny laughed, his even white teeth and youthful good looks made him seem like a candidate for a boy band. He was a real handsome fucker, and he knew it. But he was also a nasty fucker, and anyone who chose to forget that, did so at their peril.

‘The fact that fucking ponce skimmed
quids
off me is why I am so fucking annoyed with him. It’s an even bigger insult than if he had tried to scam me for fortunes. Can’t you fucking see that? He was tanking me for fucking
fag
money, so what the fuck does that make him and, more to the point, what does that make me? You tell him, if I see him again I will fucking hammer him all over again.’

Jack saw the logic in his argument. The bloke had a valid point. But he had still gone over the top. Kenny had delivered a beating that would have been given to a supergrass. The punishment had to fit the crime. After all, they were not the Filth.

As he turned away from Kenny, Jack was surprised to be grabbed physically by his hair and then violently forced back inside the warehouse by Kenny Boy. He was thrown unceremoniously on to the filthy concrete flooring and Kenny then kicked him over and over again, putting his considerable weight behind each blow. But this time the kicking was delivered with a viciousness that was all the more sinister because it was also very controlled. Jack curled up into a foetal position and waited for him to stop. He was bleeding already, and he knew his mouth would need to be stitched. He felt every blow as it landed strategically on his prone body. When the beating finally stopped, he waited a few seconds before carefully rolling on to his back. He was hurting badly, bleeding like a stuck pig. It was monstrous that this had even happened. As he looked up at Kenny Boy he could see the undisguised hatred in his eyes.