The Business (9 page)

Now this man, this piece of shit standing there like a fucking statue, was acting like his son was nothing in the world. Timothy Parks had brought up a child who had destroyed his baby. He was so fucking indifferent as to what was going on around him that he had not even had the decency to ask why the fuck they were there in the first place. Why they wanted his boy, had not even been curious about what he might have done.

No wonder Jason Parks was a fucking nonce, a fucking molester, a sexual predator; he had been brought up by this fucking moron. Gerald suddenly felt convinced that Timmy and people like him were the reason this fucking country was going to the dogs.

‘He raped my baby. She is in the fucking club by that cunt and you don’t even care, do you? You have no fucking obligation to me, or her, or your own fucking flesh and blood, do you?’

Jackie Martin saw the look of abject disbelief on Parks’s face and knew, like the others in the room knew, that this man had nothing to do with what was going on. But he could do nothing, none of them could do anything without incurring the same wrath.

‘He what?’

It was obvious to everyone that even Jason’s father, not his biggest fan at any time, had trouble believing that about the boy.

Grabbing him roughly by the throat Gerald Dooley proceeded to slam the man’s head onto a heavy oak desk, over and over again. As the man’s skull opened up and his blood flowed copiously all over the floor, Gerry began to experience a small modicum of peace.

The desk that was now covered in blood and brains was the only piece of furniture in the place that was worth anything. Like the dead man lying on the navy-blue polyester carpet, it looked completely out of place.

Jackie looked at the two boys and realised that, like him, their breathing was shallow, and their hands were shaking. Like him, they knew that Gerry Dooley was out of control.

Chapter Four

Jason was as happy as a sandboy. He had been well fucked by a well-developed, and very experienced, housewife. He was also well fed thanks to his accommodating mother: he had sated all his appetites bar one. He just needed to get copious amounts of alcohol down his Gregory Peck to round off his day. A day he had really enjoyed, mainly because, unlike most people, he basically did whatever took his fancy. He didn’t work a real job, and he saw anyone who did as a fool, a mug. He had a good few quid at his disposal, and he had an active imagination. He filled his days without any bother at all. In fact, he felt as if he was indestructible.

Now, to add the icing on his otherwise pleasant cake, he had been invited into the back room of his favourite pub. That in itself was an honour. It was where people went to do a few deals, but mainly it was somewhere people could go and talk without worrying who might be listening in.

It was a family pub out the front, the barmaids were older and the clientele were basic; men with their wives and older children. They drank together, smiled, and put the appropriate records on the juke boxes. On the surface it was like any other straight pub in the Smoke. Or in any big city or town anywhere in the United Kingdom.

Only those in the business area of the neighbourhood understood that this place was a front. Drinks were cheaper for the regulars, and the Old Bill were not averse to having a swift half when the fancy took them. Afters were the norm, and weekends saw the place rocking with either an Irish band or a local DJ. Kids were often running around the bar, and the atmosphere was friendly, if suspicious of any newcomers.

All in all, it was the perfect front for the owners, it gave them a modicum of security because no one saw it as the real deal. And the people in the know felt safe there. They could drop in and have a drink, and they could also do a few deals, secure in the knowledge that the place was not really seen as anywhere the Filth would be keeping a watch on. The only Filth involved with this pub were the ones whose job it was to protect it. It was a win-win situation for all concerned.

Not that this front came cheap by any means; behind the scenes there was a network of payments and procedures that would make the Inland Revenue ashamed at its complexity. But it worked, and that was all that anyone was interested in. There was a long line of people who earned good money to see this place was left in peace.

So, for someone like young Jason Parks, an invitation into the back room was like a platinum credit card; it meant you had made it. It meant you were seen as someone to be reckoned with; in his case, you were perceived as an up-and-coming potential earner. It was all about the earn; money spoke volumes, and it spoke most languages.

Jason was thrilled with himself and, as he walked through the packed pub, he could feel the eyes of everyone on him and he knew then what made the criminal life so very appealing to young men like him.

He knew he was a showman, knew that would eventually be his downfall. The real Faces were not really known outside of their immediate circles. Not for a long time anyway. It could take the Old Bill ten years before they could even start a real investigation against them because, thanks to the Jason Parkses of the world, they worked young men like him while being far too intelligent to attract any real attention to themselves. They didn’t live large, and they didn’t attract attention.

Once someone like Jason Parks got an in, they knew they were getting respect, knew that they were classed as all right. And, in their world, that meant more money on the hip, and more kudos on the pavement.

The hallowed back bar, when Jason finally entered it, was a great disappointment to him. He didn’t know what he had expected, but it certainly wasn’t a nondescript room, full of nondescript people wearing below-average clothes. There was no music, and no bright lights. In fact, it was like his mother’s front room. All cheap wallpaper and scuffed furniture. The only thing missing was an underlying smell of cabbage. The bar area itself was small, and manned by a Face called Desmond Pollard. He was big, hairy and he always seemed to be sweating.

There were only five or six other people in there, and Jason didn’t really know any of them. He knew
who
they were, of course, but he didn’t know them personally. He experienced his first prickle of uneasiness, but shrugged it off. Just because he didn’t know them, didn’t mean they didn’t know him.

That was how this whole world worked, what made it so exciting. You dreamt of something like this happening to you, it was half the reason the reason you grafted. You hoped that the people in the know who were, to all intents and purposes, the business, would notice you. If they did, you were then brought into what was, in their world, a very exclusive club. It meant you had arrived or, at least, worst ways, that you were well on your way.

Des was all smiles and friendly banter and, as he handed him a large Scotch, Jason felt his chest expanding with pride. If only his father could see him now.

Out of the corner of his eye he noticed an open door. It was the original back door of the property, a handy exit if necessary for the majority of the people who frequented this establishment. It led out to the car park, a dark, uninviting area that purposely had no lighting because that, of course, would defeat the object.

‘Seen anything of Imelda Dooley?’

Des’s voice was neutral, but Jason felt the veiled animosity underneath, sensed the threat that he realised now had been there since he had walked into the room. From the back of the room a small man with a heavy brow and expensive dentistry called out loudly, ‘Her father’s looking for you, boy. He’s out the back and, if I was you, I wouldn’t keep the fucker waiting.’

Jason looked around him, saw that he was outnumbered, saw that he had been set up, and saw that he had no escape. For the first time in years he wished that he had a real father, someone he could turn to at a time like this. He had only fucked the girl, and she had been fucked by plenty of blokes before him. She had a reputation as a fucking shagger, it was just his luck that he would be the one to get fucking tugged over it. And he would lay his last penny that it was her grassing him up to her old man for revenge. So he had blanked her? It wasn’t like it was the first time that had happened to her, surely? He wasn’t going to be the fall guy; her mate had told him the score, if she was in the club the culprit could be anyone in a very long line of candidates.

He felt fear prickle his spine, knew that how he conducted himself tonight would be the yardstick for his whole future. He had to walk away from this stupidity with his head and his pride intact. After all, Gerald Dooley was not a mug, but he was also not in the top echelons of this world. He knew that Imelda was behind this crap, and he also knew that he had asked for it in many respects. He had not even bothered to acknowledge her and that had to hurt. But to bring her old man down on him, what the fuck was all that about? At this moment in time he hated her.

Swallowing his drink Jason placed the glass onto the nearest table and, like the proverbial lamb, he walked out the open back door to what was, in effect, his slaughter. He knew that there would be some kind of welcoming committee, and he knew that it was not going to be made up of people who were exactly his biggest fans. He knew enough to know he was on his own, but he was also confident enough to believe that he could sort this misunderstanding out if he used his loaf. After all, his father was not exactly someone to be ignored.

The only problem was that Jason was hyped up on pharmaceutical cocaine and carrying a weapon, a lethal combination by anyone’s standards. Coupled with his fear and boyish pride, it was a recipe for disaster. Jason Parks was not going to go down without a fight. Of that much he was sure.

 

‘I don’t believe you, Mel, you’re lying. If you had been raped you would have said ages ago. Until now he was your fucking boyfriend, so make up your mind.’

Mary Dooley was still unmoved by her daughter’s tears, by the girl’s hysteria. She could smell a lie from a mile off, especially where her children were concerned.

Imelda was lying on her bed, the picture of tragedy because she knew in her heart that she had been rumbled. But she was not about to let on to her mother that she was aware she had been found out.

She had learnt years before that the only way to survive in this household was never to waver. Never argue unless you had a chance of winning and, most important of all, she knew that her mother would do anything to keep her father from knowing anything about his children that might put his wife in a bad light.

Basically, no matter what happened, her mother would do whatever was needed to stop her husband from knowing the real score where this daughter of his was concerned. That went for the neighbours as well, her mother had a terror of the neighbours that bordered on mania. She was always telling her family the old Irish adage: people only know what you tell them. In their world that was a really good bit of advice. Like most of the Irish families, they knew that the tiniest titbit of information could be someone’s downfall. Especially where skulduggery was concerned.

Now that she was cornered, Imelda was determined to keep her story straight, keep her father and brothers on her side. She knew that her being pregnant was bad enough, but if her father thought that she had been an active participant in the pregnancy she would be out in the cold without a second’s thought on his part. His behaviour since he had found out about her condition was enough to alert her to just how precarious her position actually was. If she wavered now, her life as she knew it was over.

If she kept up this story she was guaranteed her father’s help and goodwill. If she really played her cards right she might even get an abortion; after all, a child that was the product of rape was not a child her father would be welcoming with open arms. Even a devout Catholic like him could be swayed if the circumstances were such that her having the child would be detrimental to her health, her mental health and her peace of mind. All she wanted was shot of this baby, and everything that it entailed.

It was clear to her now that after what she had said about Jason Parks, she had no option but to keep up the lie. What had been, at the time, no more than an angry lie, a way to get her revenge on the man who she saw as the cause of all her problems, had somehow turned into a huge drama, a drama that she didn’t know how to step back from. This baby had already destroyed her life, now she knew that her lies would make this child even more unwanted. Not just by her, but by the people she needed to help her get through it all. Her family.

She knew deep inside that if she had not lied, then her father would have come round eventually; after all, a life was a life and, as his flesh and blood, the child would have been accepted eventually. He was too chicken-hearted where she was concerned, and he would have forgiven and forgotten in his new role as a grandfather.

Now though, she had burnt her boats and she knew that the only way out of this was to get shot of the baby, and she could only do that if she could convince her mother that what she had said was true. She also knew from experience that her mother would do whatever was necessary to keep the peace with her husband. She was not as sure, however, about her mother swallowing her having the child terminated; she saw a life as a life. She didn’t see the big picture, didn’t see that after tonight the child inside her would not be welcomed by anyone. Least of all her. She just wanted her old life back; she had only had a small taste of life as an unmarried mother and it sucked big time, and the fucking child had not even arrived yet.

Imelda could smell the aroma of soap powder as she pushed her face into the pillows on her bed and she wished that her mother would go away and leave her alone.

‘Answer me, Mel, and I swear that if you tell me the truth I will stand by you, no matter what. But I have to know what’s really going on.’

She kept her face pressed into the pillows, frightened to look her mother in the eye, knowing that she already knew the answer to her question, and also knowing that if she ever admitted her lie she would be finished. She pulled herself up then and, crying noisily and looking for all the world as sad as she possibly could, she said brokenly, ‘Please, Mum, leave me alone.’