by Anna Smith
*
Across the city, in Central Station, Jake Cahill stood looking up at the lights on the massive noticeboard. He could have been any other traveller or commuter, watching for their train arriving or the next departure to their destination. But Jake wasn’t going anywhere. He’d been watching the skinny, grubby-looking character with greasy hair and a single earring, studying his every move. In fact, he’d followed him from his hotel in Argyle Street nearly an hour ago, and was mildly amused at the way the little bastard kept looking over his shoulder as he walked up to the station, as though he was waiting for someone to pounce. Stupid prick. If he’d any sense, he would have taken a taxi, reducing the amount of time he was walking in the street where he was an easy target for anyone who might want to waste him. Or maybe he was just arrogant enough to think he was untouchable. Jake had done his homework on this little toerag, and he’d found that the shooting at Mickey Casey’s funeral wasn’t his first hit for the Knuckles Boyle mob. Word was that he’d bumped off a bookie in Salford six months ago, and was now rising through the ranks, cocky enough to leave his calling card – gouging out the bookie’s eye, which was obviously more for his own twisted pleasure than anything else, because even someone as warped as Knuckles wouldn’t tell him to do anything like that. But that was the trouble with these young pricks. They wanted to be remembered. They fancied themselves as one of the Kray twins, when the reality was they were just some lowlife shitbag with a bloated sense of who they were. Why leave a mark? Jake thought. Just do the job, walk away. He was a master at it – a real pro. None of this leave-your-mark shit for him. Just clean and quick and forget about it. He watched the skinny guy pull his rucksack over his shoulder and make his way to the toilets. Jake followed him. He put his hands in his coat pockets and ran his fingers over his Glock pistol and the silencer. He went into the toilets, glad they were empty, save for his target, already inside. He waited, noiselessly fitted the silencer. Then as the cubicle door began to open, Jake moved. He pushed the guy back through the door and onto the toilet pan. The element of surprise. As the little shit looked up, Jake made it simple. He fired straight down into his shocked face, the expression of disbelief frozen. He fired again, just for good luck, then he watched as the man slumped back on the toilet seat. Jake took a handkerchief from his pocket and wiped the spatter of blood from his face that had come from firing at such close range. It wouldn’t show on his black coat. Then he put his gun back in its holster, flushed the toilet and walked out. It would be a couple of minutes before the next person would come in and see the pool of blood seeping through the cubicle door, but by that time, Jake would be on his way up towards Charing Cross where he knew he could get the best full English breakfast in town.
*
At St Mary’s Church, the mourners gathered outside in the miserable wind that seemed made for a day like this, as Kerry pulled up in the funeral car accompanied by Auntie Pat and Uncle Danny. Pat in her black suit, the beautiful image of her mother, stirred Kerry’s heart, because it meant that her mum would never be too far away. Danny was grim faced, eyes scanning the crowd.
‘Christ, the place is black with people,’ he whispered. ‘Your mum was adored. A lot of them will be from years ago; look, there’s Nellie Brady. God love her! She never had a thing in her life. Dirt poor, she was. But your ma was good to her.’
‘Lot of cops too, I see,’ Pat said.
They got out as a trail of Mercs and Jags rolled up, the well-heeled figures climbing out of their motors. Many of them Kerry had seen at Mickey’s funeral last week. She nodded to them, and they looked back at her, faces like granite, broken noses, scars, stern and tough as old boots. Then she also noticed some woman close to the entrance of the church, and there was a flash of recognition. It was Maria Ahern. Jesus. They’d been such close friends at school but she hadn’t seen her for ages, and they’d lost touch a couple of years after she went to Spain as a teenager. Maria looked cold in the rain and wasn’t dressed for the weather. Kerry wondered what life she’d been leading all these years, wishing they could have kept in touch. But clearly their lives had been so different.
*
Inside, her mother’s light oak coffin lay on a pedestal at the front of the chapel. On top of it sat cherished photos of her mum and dad, and of her and Mickey when they were teenagers together. As Kerry sat at the front, flanked by Danny and Pat, the organ struck up and the old hymns suddenly transported her back to a lifetime ago; to the first communion, all the little children traipsing in, hands joined, Kerry in her white dress, her father smiling proudly. She swallowed back tears. The priest, Father Doyle, had been a friend of the family for thirty years, but still looked youthful. He spoke in a soft Irish accent, talking of the years of devotion to the church by her mother, the great family that the Caseys were, and of the tragic taking of lives that had to end, because an eye for an eye brought nothing but more bloodshed. Kerry sat listening, wondering where Jake Cahill was. Even if she’d wanted to, she couldn’t stop him now. She paid lip service as they prayed, confessing her sins, forgive us our trespasses as we forgive them that trespass against us. Not a chance, she vowed.
*
Jake Cahill polished off the remains of his fried breakfast, mopping up the egg yolk and stray beans with a chunk of toast. He waved the waitress over and paid his bill, finishing the last of his mug of tea, then put his jacket on and headed out of the door. The traffic was building up now, snaking up Charing Cross under the bridge heading east. He pulled his coat collar up and made his way over to St George’s Cross, where he had watched his next job, Lenny Wright, go into the basement flat last night. Unknown to the thick bastard, Jake had set him up last night with a hooker named Tina. Jake had known her for years, and she was still quite tidy, but most of all, she knew how to roll a punter. Once he’d established where Lenny went at night, these last three nights he paid her to chat him up. He knew she wouldn’t mess it up. She would take him back to the flat she used for punters and rented under a false, untraceable name, text him when it was time. Jake’s mobile pinged with a text as he crossed the road. He stood outside looking down at the basement where dingy dark curtains were drawn. He waited until the door was clicked open and then he slipped in. Wright was a bit of an unknown quantity to him, so he had to be careful. He’d been part of the Knuckles mob for the past few years and was an enforcer mostly used for bumping off drug dealers who stepped out of line. But if he’d been smart, he would never have ventured into a woman’s flat in a strange town. Plenty of time for that when he went back home. But he’d been on his own since he came up here and was probably looking for a quick shag. Jake didn’t speak to Tina who was already dressed and ready to make a sharp exit. He looked in, glanced at the jeans on the floor, obviously a rushed job to get her into the sack. Jake leaned over the bed, and just as he put the gun to Wright’s chest, the man woke up.
‘Morning, old son,’ Jake said. ‘I’m from the tourist board. I hope you enjoyed your stay in Glasgow.’
Lenny opened his mouth but nothing came out, and he died that way, as the blood spread across his chest and over the grubby bed. Jake heard the door close and he waited a minute, giving Tina a few moments of a head start in case anyone else was up and about. He knew the flat was owned by a fictitious company and couldn’t be traced back to Tina once the body was discovered, so she was in the clear. Then he looked at his watch as he stepped out and up the stairs to the street and into the din of traffic. Two down. He was making good time.
*
To the strains of the final hymn, Kerry braced herself and dabbed her eyes as the pallbearers hitched the coffin onto their shoulders. She walked slowly down the aisle behind her mother’s coffin, her chest almost exploding, trying to choke back tears. She could feel them spilling over and could see from the corner of her eye the sympathetic glances and faces of the mourners packed in every seat and right up the stairs in the balcony too. As the congregation sang, she remembered those days so long ago, all singing, th
e togetherness of a community that had grown older together. This was where she belonged. These were her people. And she was now more conscious than ever that she was the only one left in the family. Towards the back, she caught the eye of Maria Ahern, who looked up at her, tears brimming. Then Maria just reached out a moment and touched her arm, and Kerry bit her lip. All those years ago, so many memories flooded back. Why didn’t they keep in touch?
Outside, the rain had stopped and the crowds gathered around the hearse, people hugging and tearful. At Mickey’s funeral she knew she would be gone by the next day, and all of them, she felt, were just faces from her past. But now she took comfort in them being around her, all of them coming up and hugging her, telling her how sorry they were for her loss. This was her family. And then, Maria. She approached, and automatically they fell into each other’s arms, like old friends, like sisters, parted for too long, a childhood friendship that should never have been neglected.
‘I’m so sorry, Kerry,’ Maria said. ‘Really. I loved your mother. She was so beautiful.’
Kerry sniffed, and looked at her pale face, tired eyes, and wondered what life had done to her to make her like this. She saw her shivering.
‘Oh, Maria. I’m so sad.’ She let the tears roll down her cheeks. ‘It’s so good to see you. You must come back for something to eat at the pub. I haven’t seen you in years. I’d love to talk to you.’
Maria smiled. ‘I’m sure you’ve got plenty of family and stuff to get on with, Kerry. We can meet another time.’
‘No,’ Kerry insisted, squeezing her arm. ‘Please come back. I want to have a chat with you. Jesus, Maria! We had so many laughs and good times as kids. I missed all that when I left. Come on back. Even just for one drink.’
‘Okay,’ Maria agreed. ‘I’ll see you there. Thanks, Kerry. It’s great to see you. I’m just so sad for you.’
She hugged Kerry and turned away as someone else came up to greet her.
*
Jake Cahill had got lucky. He had been geared up to go to Belfast to complete the job, when he had got a call late the previous night telling him where to find the final two on his list. Tom McGuinness and Davey Prentice were on the midday ferry from Stranraer. They were meeting their contact in a roadside café near Girvan on the way down, so with a bit of planning he wouldn’t have to go all the way across the water. Looking out at the sea as he headed for Troon he was glad, it looked like whipping up a storm and the crossing to Belfast could be a real bastard in high winds. He looked at the clock on his dashboard. It was just after ten, and he was already pulling into the café car park. At this rate, he could be back in Glasgow to share a drink with Kerry and Danny and the family at the wake. An image flashed across his mind of years ago, him and Danny and big Tim Casey, the laughs they’d had as they blagged and robbed. The bank job they did down south that netted each of them two hundred grand was the turning point for Tim and Danny. They took their place at the top table. They’d had money to spend and invest. The three of them promised to stay faithful friends to each other, even though Jake went his own way. They always knew they could call on him if needed. He thought of Danny, how he was as hard as nails, and he had the killer punch too. Tim was hard but fair, and he had his dreams of building his own restaurant and hotel empire. Back then, Jake was clinical about life. He’d learned that from his father. If a job needed doing, he was the man to do it, and he had done hits for the paramilitaries, as well as gangsters. It had made him rich, and yes, it had made him lonely. But he was so used to that now, the loneliness was part of who he was. He glanced around the car park. It was empty so he went in and sat at a table and ordered a coffee. He looked out at the sea, watched the waitress talking to the two other customers, quiet salesman types probably on their way around the countryside. And one guy at a table close to the window on the far side. A few moments later, as he saw a white van coming along the road in the distance, Jake got up and left the café, went to his car and waited. He watched as two men got out, and shook his head as he saw they’d left the doors open. Christ. Where did they get guys like this? They were even stupid enough to park it at the far end of the car park behind the café so nobody would see it from the road. Perfect. Once they were inside the café, Jake slipped into the back of the van. About twenty minutes later he heard them returning, laughing and swearing. He wondered if they had been talking to the man he’d spotted in the café, who had looked like he was waiting for someone. He heard them say ‘See you later.’ No you won’t, Jake thought. Then they got into the van. He heard one of them light up a fag, the other saying when he got back he was going to get a ride first thing as it had been three weeks. They joked. He listened as the key went into the ignition, then he got up. Tom caught his eye in the rear-view mirror, but it was too late. Jake had already fired, and in that second Tom’s brain was all over the windscreen. As Davey’s hand went to the door, Jake fired through his temple. It was quick. Then he jumped out of the van and walked straight to his own car, and headed up the road. Job done. He’d also taken a bag from the back of the van with all their money in it – just for the sheer hell of it. On the way back he handed it over to an old man on a park bench in Glasgow, whose eyes lit up when he looked inside.
*
Kerry sat with Maria drinking wine in an alcove a little away from the other mourners. In their turn, everyone had offered their condolences, many of them wanting to tell Kerry stories of the old days, the more drunk they got. This was how it was with family. She could hear the music starting. Soon it would be a full sing-song, and that’s what her mother would have wanted.
She looked at Maria, and shook her head sadly as Maria’s story of her life unfolded. She had married a local boy when she was a teenager, and he’d joined the army. They’d had a good life, and lived away most of the time, in Germany and in Cyprus with their young daughter and son. But everything had changed after her soldier husband completed two tours of Iraq. He came back a changed man, crippled with stress and depression, and an emotional wreck. Eventually they split up – he disappeared and left her with the two kids, and she hadn’t heard from him for nearly nine years. The last she’d heard about him, he was living abroad somewhere. Kerry listened as Maria told her about her daughter, Jennifer, being on heroin, how she was lost to her. Maria said she couldn’t make ends meet, no matter how she tried.
‘So where is Jennifer now? When do you see her?’ Kerry asked.
‘I haven’t seen her for three weeks. I can’t have her in the house. She would steal the eye out of my head. It’s just awful. She’ll steal anything that isn’t nailed down.’
‘So where is she living?’
‘Christ knows. In some squat down in the Calton. She’s on the game and working the drag. I can’t even bear to go there and look for her, because I don’t know how I could cope if I saw her like that. It’s bad enough to see her emaciated.’
‘Jesus. That’s as bad as it gets, Maria. I’m so sorry. You don’t deserve this. Nobody does. What about rehab?’
‘Rehab? That’s no use. There are more junkies in this city than beds, and you have to wait months to get a place. Most of the time the really bad ones are dead by the time that happens.’ She paused, choking. ‘I’m just scared that will be Jennifer. Honest to God. I live in dread of the knock on the door some time to tell me they’ve found her.’
Kerry shook her head. ‘This is terrible.’
‘And the debts? I’ve been paying her drug debts until I’m nearly out of the door. I’ve got some loan shark kicking my door in every week because a few hundred quid I borrowed has now snowballed. Honest, I just wish some days I’d go to sleep and not wake up. Then I see our Cal. He’s the loveliest boy. Clever an’ all. He wants to be a lawyer or something. But he’s working in a car wash to try to help me.’
Kerry felt angry.
‘Loan shark? Christ. You’re into debt with those parasites?’
‘What could I do? They said they would do Jennifer in if I didn’t pay.’
/>
‘Christ almighty. What’s the loan shark’s name?’
Maria gazed at her. ‘Kerry, look. I can’t do anything that will put Jennifer in any more danger.’
‘Tell me his name. Nothing’s going to happen to Jennifer. Trust me. What’s his name?’
‘Tam Dolan. He works out of Maryhill.’
Kerry looked over her shoulder to where Danny had just sat at a table a few feet away. She called over to him and beckoned.
‘All right, sweetheart?’
Danny was already well pissed.
‘Yeah. I’m okay. You might remember Maria Ahern. We were pals from school.’
‘Vaguely. How’s it going, darlin’? Thanks for coming and supporting Kerry.’
‘Danny. A loan shark by the name of Tam Dolan. Operates out of Maryhill . . . You know him?’
‘That fucking scumbag. I know him. I know who he is.’
‘Please tell me he doesn’t work for us.’
‘Fuck! Are you kidding?’
‘And we’re in no way connected to him?’
‘No fucking way! He works out of Maryhill with a mob up there. Ratbag. Why, what’s the problem?’
‘We’ll talk tomorrow. I need something dealt with.’