by Keane Jessie
For a long while, she’d been ignoring the hidden business that Charlie Stone had dragged them all into. But when Terry had started talking about security measures – passwords, codes for hide and codes for run – her nerves had turned to real fear. She knew that under the cover of importing parts and manufacturing furniture for big retailers, Charlie Stone was feeding a nation’s appetite for drugs and making a fat profit doing it. But now they were in the thick of it all, she found it worrying. Shocking. And she’d had another shock, a terrible one, that she had never even told Terry about.
She couldn’t tell him.
God, what had they all come to?
They were profiting from a sick, horrible trade that caused misery and poverty and death. She doubted she’d ever get used to it. Come what may, she was determined that Belle was never, ever going to know about it, never going to be touched by it. Never. And Terry agreed with that. Their innocent daughter would stay that way: innocent. Untouched by all this filth. She knew that Nula and Charlie felt the same way about Milly. The girls would be kept out of it all; they would be protected.
‘What’s up with you?’ Jill asked him. ‘Come on, babes, talk to me.’
Terry’s eyes flickered upward and met his wife’s enquiring gaze.
‘It’s nothing,’ he said.
‘Well it’s something. You’re not right.’
‘Nula,’ he said with a shrug. ‘She came on to me when I was in the garage. It’s been playing on my mind.’
Jill’s mouth dropped open. ‘She did what?’
‘It isn’t the first time. You know when Charlie was over in Morocco on business with Beezer? He left me there in charge of the big house. That was the first time.’
Jill remembered, all too well. They’d had a row about it. Jill was here on her own in the gatehouse, but Queen Nula up there in that fucking mansion needed Terry close up and personal to protect her.
Don’t I need protecting too? Jill had raged at him.
She knew she did. Why couldn’t Terry see that? Why had he never seen it, and left her exposed to danger?
Now, this. Didn’t that bitch up there have enough? She had the better house, she didn’t have this older place, nice as it was, with a fucking loft still full of bats. She had Charlie Stone, who said to Terry jump and Terry just asked how high. That irritated Jill to death.
‘And . . . what did she say? The first time?’ she asked, shocked.
‘She said we could sleep together that night, and it’d be never mentioned again. No strings, no nothing. Charlie would never know. You would never know. And this time? She was a bit more direct.’
Jill was stunned. Bloody Nula, making a move on her husband. The sheer fucking nerve of the woman. God curse those bloody Stones, they wanted it all.
‘It was nothing. I’m only telling you now because I didn’t want you hearing about it from anyone else. From Nula herself, maybe, claiming that something happened when it didn’t.’
Jill picked up her mug and drained it. She rose, walked over to the dishwasher, put the mug inside, then she stayed at the sink and stood there, leaning both hands on it.
‘And didn’t it?’ she said faintly. Once, Nula had been a plain, unattractive girl, but she’d had the work done to turn her into a good-looking woman. Jill knew that Nula had always hated her and Jill had always sensed the reason why. It was because of Terry. Jill had him; Nula didn’t. And now the bitch had come right out with it. She wanted Terry for herself.
Those fucking Stones.
‘What?’ Terry stood up, came over to the sink and wrapped his arms around his wife’s waist from behind, pressing the whole length of his body against the back of hers.
‘Did nothing happen, Terry? Really?’ said Jill in a choked voice. Knowing what she knew about the Stones and their sexual habits, she was ready to take a hammer blow when he told her the truth, confessed that he’d done it with that loose-living cow.
‘No! Come on. Why d’you think I’m telling you this? I didn’t have to, did I, you daft mare. I wanted you to hear it from me. Nothing happened. Nothing ever could. You’re my wife.’ He planted a kiss on her neck. ‘I’ve never wanted anyone else. You know that.’
Jill leaned back against Terry’s hard body. She loved him so much. But Nula worried her. Nula had influence with Charlie. And Charlie frightened Jill, very much.
31
Charlie was learning that his promise to Nula about the adoption would be a difficult one to keep. They seemed to have been sitting in offices, answering questions about his business and their social life for bloody years, and he came out of every meeting in a thunderous mood. His business was his business. He didn’t like these government types, these official prats, taking out a microscope and looking in. It was dodgy, bearing in mind the business he was really in. But he’d promised Nula, so he forged on with it even though he was unhappy with the deal and increasingly thinking he should never have mentioned the possibility of adoption.
‘It’ll be worth it, honey,’ Nula always told him after the meetings, patting his arm, knowing how much he hated this sort of thing.
‘Yeah,’ said Charlie, and it would, he knew it would, if it got him a son to carry on his name. He tried not to resent poor Nula over her failure to bear another child, because it wasn’t the poor bitch’s fault, she couldn’t help it.
He knew Nula got depressed sometimes and he found that hard to deal with. He was strictly of the ‘pull yourself together’ school of thought. He had no patience with Nula when she was in one of her low moods, crying over nothing. He’d seen her scratching away in those damned notebooks that were supposed to be therapy for her and he’d hit the roof.
‘You ain’t mentioning my business in there are you?’ he’d yelled.
She’d sworn she wasn’t.
‘It’s just how I feel about things. Day-to-day things. That’s all,’ she’d told him.
Meanwhile, there was trade to attend to. The London-based Stones and a dozen other ‘families’ based in London, Liverpool, Newcastle and Glasgow had met and formed an alliance as powerful as the Mafia’s; inch by inch they’d seized control of the whole country’s drug trade. Charlie was going from strength to strength, getting increasingly distant from the street life he’d once known. He was a top man, bringing in the gear, then it was broken up and sold on to the ten-kilo men. They then sold it on to the one-kilo men, who distributed it to their network of dealers. The Matias crew had come over from Colombia. Charlie and his associates met with them at the Dorchester, wined and dined them; it was going good.
All in all, Charlie was pleased with progress. But . . . what did it all mean, if he was married to a miserable depressed cow who couldn’t have any more kids, if he had no son to pass the whole thing on to?
He’d got in the habit of intercepting the post so that Nula couldn’t see what was coming in. One, because anything and everything upset her. Two, because he was sure the adoption agency was going to give them the thumbs down, and of course then she’d be gutted and would plunge into more gloomy crying if he didn’t get there first and somehow soften the blow. The sparky, light-hearted sexed-up party girl of yesteryear was long gone, it seemed.
As time passed, Charlie felt that he would be almost relieved if the adoption idea didn’t work out. No more ups and downs, no more tiptoeing around his moody mare of a wife. No more government toadies nosying around in his furniture-manufacturing business. It made him sweat, operating this close to the wire, he had a lot to lose.
Finally he became convinced that the whole idea was a bad one. He didn’t tell Nula. Didn’t know how to, really. Then he got a letter from the agency asking more questions about his firm, asking to arrange a visit to his premises. Sure, he had legitimate business premises, damned sure he did, six factories churning out three-piece suites for the big retailers, but the real gravy went on at the separate offices that serviced the paperwork for the furniture business. There was the background business where the drugs were cut and pack
aged and shipped out. He couldn’t have government types sniffing around. It was no good.
At last his overstretched patience snapped and he phoned them.
‘Look, we’ve decided not to go ahead. It’s too stressful for my wife. Too upsetting. Call it off.’
‘Well, if you’re sure . . .’
‘Yeah, I’m sure. Forget it. We don’t want to go on with it. Cancel our application, OK?’
‘If you could put it in writing to us . . .’
‘I will,’ he said, and slapped the phone down.
He scribbled the note then and there, and went straight out and posted it. So it was done. But how to tell Nula? Well, he’d have to. Somehow. Or . . . maybe make up something, get one of their boys to forge an official-looking letter saying their application had been turned down. That was favourite. He’d get something cobbled together, and that would shut her up. There’d be no son, and he was sick about that, sad and sorry, but he couldn’t take any more of this delving into his business dealings. It was too dangerous.
‘We haven’t heard from the adoption place recently,’ said Nula over breakfast one morning.
‘Ah, you know how it is with these official things. They’re quick enough with the tax bills, but when you want anything? You can fucking well stew,’ said Charlie, pushing his empty plate to one side, then draining his coffee cup and slipping on his coat. ‘I’m off, doll. See you later.’
32
Charlie had arranged to pick Terry up at one of the houses he kept as boltholes in the old manor, take him along for a meet with one of the ten-kilo guys. As Charlie drove, he told Terry about the adopting dilemma, just as he told Terry about everything. Well, nearly everything. Some things were a bit too near the knuckle for open discussion.
Like – for instance, and he felt really bad about it – the fact that he’d once fucked Terry’s old lady Jill, years back. He wished he could talk to Terry about that, apologize, say that it had been a one-off, which it had, but Terry was his mate and he . . . nah, he wouldn’t understand. No way, no chance. Now Charlie regretted that he had been weak, that he’d given in to the impulse.
He’d been down in the gatehouse kitchen with Jill and Terry had been away somewhere, on drugs business. Jill had made him a cup of tea and they’d talked. Jesus, she was pretty. And she was uncomplicated, steady – unlike Nula. Jill had always seemed wary of him, a bit nervous. He sort of liked that. He liked her clear blue eyes and her blonde hair and he had often wondered how she’d look naked.
Charlie was annoyed that Terry had always been such a cunt over their sex parties. If Terry and Jill had joined in, they would have enjoyed it, he knew they would. He’d invited Terry time and again, but Terry had always refused.
Standing there in Jill’s kitchen when it happened, Charlie knew damned well that his invites to Terry had not so much been to include his mate in the fun, but to have a crack at his mate’s missus.
And why not?
After all, Charlie reasoned to himself, he kept her, didn’t he? Her and her husband? It was him who paid for the roof over their heads, he was the boss here, wasn’t he?
Yes. He fucking well was.
He remembered it so well. Felt bad about it. Of course he did. But turned on by it too. He’d put his cup down, crossed the kitchen. Her eyes had flared with fear as he moved, and he liked that, he loved it when people when scared of him. Then he’d pulled her into his arms. She’d put her fists against his chest, but he was far too strong for her.
‘Please,’ she said, turning her head away.
‘Come on,’ he’d said, and kissed her.
‘No.’
‘Come on,’ he said against her mouth. Then he put the boot right in. ‘Or I’ll tell Terry you started it.’
Her eyes widened. ‘He wouldn’t . . .’
‘Don’t kid yourself. He’d believe me. Me, his mate since we first started crawling, or some woman who’s come late on the scene? No contest. I could tell him the sun was pulled up on a fucking rope and he’d believe me.’
‘No . . .’ It was a plea.
‘Yes. Now come on.’
She’d been delicious. She’d cried a bit, but what choice did she have? She let him do the deed.
And what the hell, what was her problem? All cats were grey in the dark and a cock was a cock. It wasn’t as if she was a virgin or anything.
He had to keep it to himself. He knew Jill would, too. Neither of them would want to distress Terry or cause him pain, upset the bloody applecart.
‘So you’ve cancelled the adoption plans,’ said Terry.
‘Yeah,’ said Charlie, snapping back to the here and now.
‘Probably for the best.’
‘I know that.’
‘But Nula don’t know.’
‘Nah.’
‘She’ll be pissed when she finds out,’ warned Terry.
‘I know that too.’
33
They parked up outside the pub where they were meeting their contact, and went in through a dark, seedy little bar and from there to the back room.
‘Charlie!’ Landon Bloom greeted him with a hug. He was a big man, fat around the middle, florid of face but sharp of eye. ‘Good to see you.’
Then he shook Terry’s hand. They sat down. Landon was one of the ten-kilo blokes, a local gang boss, and he was doing well out of the drugs trade. He also ran door contracts and protection rackets on the side, and although he lived in this dingy little hole and was sitting there in a dog-eared shirt, torn cardigan, shiny trousers and worn brogues, he was worth millions.
‘So what’s the problem then, Landon?’ asked Charlie, when they had addressed the civilities, asked about each other’s wives and kids. He felt they’d skirted the issue long enough. ‘Trouble?’
‘Druggie bastard shot one of my boys,’ said Landon.
‘I’m sorry to hear that. You sorting it?’
‘It’s done. Last seen floating down the river, if you get my meaning. His girlfriend’s still squatting in the house, shouting the odds, but I thought it could be a good place for a stash once we’ve booted the cow out the door. However, Mr Stone, I wanted your approval before I made the final decision on it.’
Charlie nodded. He appreciated the respect Landon was paying him. Landon was all right.
‘Well, let’s get over there and take a look,’ said Charlie.
Landon drove them over to Barking and pulled up outside a beaten-down row of Victorian terrace houses. The front gardens were thick with grass and weeds. Stray roses poked through the undergrowth, long neglected. Old chairs and mattresses were slung out on the pavement. To Charlie it was home; his manor. You could smell piss on every corner, and hot oil from the chip shops. Suddenly, he missed it. Wanted to be back here day-to-day, not out in the sticks. He was bored and he was actually wondering if he could pep things up by revisiting the Jill thing, maybe go and give her another good stiff talking to. He’d love that. He got hard even thinking about it. But . . . shit, he couldn’t do that to Terry again, could he? And anyway – Jill had young Belle under her feet now, and you couldn’t get a good, satisfying poke at the mother over the kitchen sink with a kid wandering about the place, now could you?
Landon pushed open the unlocked door and shouted out: ‘Hello?’
There was no answer. Inside, the walls were black with mould, the lino under their feet was sticky with muck. They walked along the hallway to a kitchen where the sink was brown with tea stains and . . .
‘Christ!’ said Terry, slapping a hand over his nose.
Meat flies buzzed around a small object in the middle of the kitchen floor. The smell hit Charlie and Landon too, and they covered their faces. The woman was curled up as if asleep, but they could see she wasn’t going to wake up this side of eternity. She was wearing a mint-green T-shirt and black shorts. Her skin was mottled purple and white where the blood had settled after death. Her arms were criss-crossed with needle tracks. Beside her on the floor was a used syringe.
‘Fuck,’ said Terry.
‘Well she won’t be giving anybody trouble any more,’ said Charlie.
‘We’ll get her moved out tonight,’ said Landon.
Charlie was looking around. As a place to store a haul, it might do. He went to the kitchen door, then back out into the hallway. There was a sound, right by his ear. He stopped. Tensed. Opened the door under the stairs. Then he stepped back in surprise. There was a small boy in there, looking out at him with wide pale grey eyes.
The boy didn’t move, didn’t blink. He must have heard the commotion and hidden himself away. That whore in there, that disgusting junkie who’d topped herself, was probably the kid’s mother. Charlie stooped down, putting himself on the boy’s eye level.
‘Hello,’ said Charlie.
‘Who are you talking—’ asked Terry, coming out into the hall at the sound of Charlie’s voice. ‘God Almighty,’ said Terry, seeing the kid crouched in there.
Now Landon came out too. The kid backed away further. Charlie was staring at the boy, his mind whirling. He was thinking that this was one of those moments when the good angels came and changed your life for you. It had happened to him once before, after Beezer’s fortuitous spell in jail. And here it was, happening again. Was he a lucky bastard, or what? Well of course he was. He was Charlie Stone. King of the world!
‘It’s all right, mate,’ Charlie said gently to the boy.
He was running it all through his head. He’d had to bin the legal adoption, but here was another, easier route for him to take, and he was going to grab it. Nula need never, ever know a thing.
‘Don’t be afraid,’ he said.
He held out his hand and the boy hesitated for only a second. Then he took it.
‘What’s your name, kid?’ asked Charlie.
The boy blinked. ‘Harlan,’ he said.
34
When the woman from the adoption agency rang and said they’d found a child who might be suitable for the Stones, Nula was relieved. No more hassle, no more pressure, but a son – at last! – to please Charlie. Along with Milly, it would make their family complete.