by Martina Cole
Michael Miles loved London, and he especially loved east London on Saturday nights. It was full of women and girls, all on a mission to enjoy themselves. And he was in a position these days to make sure that happened for them. Thanks to Danny, in the last six months they had been able to spread their little pill-pushers all over the place. It was a good earn, and never in his life had Michael had so much money. It was amazing the effect a few quid could have on a body.
The house was noisy, the TV blaring as usual, and the smell of fried food was overpowering in the small space. As he combed his hair back, he could see his father watching him from the hallway. He knew his father had been in the pub for most of the day and was probably waiting for the bathroom so he could evacuate, in a noisy and deliberate fashion, the beer and jellied eels he had consumed that afternoon. He could smell the stink off him from here, but he didn’t begrudge him. He worked all week in a foundry, sweating his cods off to feed them all; as far as he was concerned he was entitled to his Saturday piss-up.
Later on, he would go down the working men’s club with his wife, as usual. And start the whole process all over again. Sometimes though, with a drink in him, he could get erratic, especially since he had been making a name for himself with Danny. His father was happy enough with the benefits of his largesse, but now and again a paternal half hour came over him, and he would warn Michael, graphically and loudly, about the pitfalls that were almost certainly waiting to befall him. It was all a load of old pony and trap, but he would listen quietly until his father ran out of steam, and then he carried on as normal.
His old man wasn’t a bad bloke, he was just caught in a trap of his own making. He was thirty-three years old and he looked more like fifty. He had a wife and three kids before he had even driven a car. He was his father, and that knowledge pained Michael more than he cared to admit. But he had stuck it out and, where they lived, that alone was a result. In his own way his father cared about them all, even his wife who was so big these days she was out of breath just walking up the two flights of stairs to their flat.
Now, his mother he was ashamed of. He loved her, adored her, but he would not be seen with her for anything. She had once been a beauty but now she wore shapeless clothes and sturdy black patent shoes that were slit down the sides to allow her bunions free rein. She had always been a happy woman, except when she’d had a drink or two, or three, with a ready smile, a constant stream of trivial conversation and a dedication to church. If Michael murdered the whole street she would stand by him. But walking with her now, being seen with her particularly when she was on the rag, was something he couldn’t abide any more. And she was getting worse. It was his secret shame because everyone liked her when she was sober and no one said a word out loud about her but he knew, deep inside him, he knew that they were thinking things. Because he thought those things himself at times.
‘Do you want to get in here, Dad?’ His voice was respectful, as always, and he smiled at his father in the mirror to let him know he could see him.
‘You’re all right, son.’
His father moved out of his line of vision and he heard him go into the kitchen, his bare feet slapping on the brown-tiled floor.
Michael closed his eyes tightly. When he had a place of his own it would be somewhere he enjoyed going home to, not just a place to lay his head and keep the rain out. Like Danny said, they wouldn’t end up like their parents, they were going to live their lives to the full. Or die in the fucking process.
‘They’re fifty pound a thousand, that’s a fiver for a hundred, at three for a pound on the open market it’s a nice little earner.’
The man nodded sagely. Danny didn’t like him. He had a wonky eye so you weren’t sure if he was looking at you or waiting for the bus to come round the corner. But he didn’t care about that.
‘Where’d you get them?’
Danny stared at him in mock incredulity. ‘Who are you, me fucking dad?’
The man sighed heavily; he was obviously under the mistaken impression that he was a force to be reckoned with. ‘Are they kosher?’
Danny looked into the face of a junkie, the dark circles and sunken cheeks were bad enough, but he also had the added bonus of dilated pupils and scummy flecks of creamy mucus at the corners of his mouth.
‘Look, mate, do you want the fucking things or not?’ It was dark, and the night air was damp. Danny wasn’t about to get into a full-scale conversation with someone who was hard-pushed to remember his own name most of the time.
Jethro Marks nodded. ‘I ain’t got much choice, have I? You’ve removed Brendan, haven’t you?’
‘What you on about? I ain’t done nothing to no one. He moved on and I moved in, simple as that. Now, show me your wedge and we’ll do the deal.’
Jethro pulled a wad of money from his back pocket and, snatching it impatiently, Danny counted it quickly. He knew it wouldn’t be light, but you could never be sure with speed freaks. Especially if they fancied themselves as dealers. He passed over the bag of pills, which were on the light side, a hundred and twenty out in fact. But junkies never noticed things like that. Counting the bag of goodies would be beyond him, even if he could have got his head together enough to attempt it.
Danny slipped the money into his overcoat pocket and watched as the man hurried away. Danny gave it a few seconds and then he walked out of the dark alleyway. As he stepped into the brightness of the street lamps he scanned the road for anything he might consider suspect. Bethnal Green high street was busy. Considering it was ten thirty at night there were a lot of people about. Mainly youngsters, around his age and younger. He nodded to the people he knew, and stared out the ones he didn’t. It was noisy, even in the cold, motorbikes were revving and music was blaring out of eight-tracks. Everything from Elvis to The Who and the Stones.
In his suit and overcoat Danny looked far more adult than his contemporaries, most of whom were dressed in cheap winkle-pickers and bum-freezer jackets. It made Danny feel a little stab of sorrow for them, because he knew that they had no idea about life, their own or anybody else’s. The girls looked all right though. At least most of them did: if a girl had a bust and a good head of hair she was already sought after by the time she was twelve. Girls, he had noticed, also had a better eye for fashion than lads. They had their mothers’ make-up and perfume, hairspray and stockings. Girls were also often willing to make their own clothes, and the majority did this well.
As Danny walked up the road towards the train station he clocked each and every girl surreptitiously, checking out their faces and figures, and he was aware that many of them were looking back at him. A couple of brazen ones winked at him and smiled with their heavily painted mouths, their cigarettes held elegantly away from them, like the women they admired in the films and tried so desperately to emulate. Their back-combed hair was glossy under the street lamps, and their eyes were alert for the first sign of male interest that might come their way. It was their stomping ground; too young for the pub and too old for the park so they hung around in groups learning the intricacies of the mating ritual and enjoying their first steps in adulthood.
Danny knew that he was well known these days and considered quite a catch because of his burgeoning reputation, and that a sneaky smile would bring some of the girls over to him. So, winking at a blonde with heavy breasts and a skirt that was tighter than a nun’s crack, he beckoned her to follow him.
Five minutes later she was leaning uncomfortably against a stall in the station toilets as he thrust himself inside her roughly. Afterwards he was annoyed to realise that she hadn’t even bothered to put her fag out.
‘Hello, son. Your mother must have stuck you in a pile of horse shit when you were a baby, you’ve grown bigger every time I see you.’
Timmy Wallace was a big man, with a robustness that made lesser men feel envious of him. He was an ex-bare-knuckle boxer who now ran a small drinking club in Whitechapel for the Murray brothers. They had taken it in lieu of a debt and, agains
t all odds, had made a success of it. Although this was due more to Timmy’s endearing personality and refusal to let anyone take a liberty than anything else. Every few days Danny called in there and, over the months, he had built himself a rapport with most of the clientele.
The place was small, dimly lit, and no one was going to lose any sleep if a fag was put out on the floor, or a drink was spilled on a table. It smelled of dusty wallpaper, cigarette smoke and Bitter. The clientele were Faces who either wanted a quiet drink with no juke box, to make a deal of some kind, or play cards in peace and quiet. Women were not encouraged and, on the rare occasions they did cross the threshold, they were tolerated for only a short while. Danny Boy loved it there, felt comfortable in this world of men, real men. As he slipped through the bar to the rooms out back he always felt a buzz.
‘He is a fucking lump all right.’ This came from a regular called Frankie Daggart, a bank robber with stunning good looks, and a fearsome reputation as a ballroom dancer. He grinned at the cheek of this kid, and enjoyed seeing him getting more and more confident as the time went on. ‘Want a drink, son?’
Danny shook his head and grinned. ‘Nah, thanks anyway, Frank. I still have a few calls to make before I can relax.’ The men all smiled at his level-headedness: he looked twenty if he was a day. His old man must be kicking himself at the trouble he had laid on this lad’s young shoulders. All the men agreed that if they had been blessed with a son like him they would have thanked God for him every day of their lives. He was a Brahma, a diamond, a fucker in the making.
As he slipped through to the back Danny could feel the goodwill emanating from all the men cluttered around the bar and it was a feeling that he cherished. Frankie Daggart was waiting outside for him when he left, a little over an hour later.
Jonjo loved his little sister but she got on his nerves. She was crying again. If she actually cried it would be different, but she didn’t, she just whined. Now, at almost eleven thirty, she was getting a second wind and as he went to go into the bedroom he was almost knocked flat on his back by his mother.
She slammed into the room and shouted angrily, ‘What the feck is wrong with you now?’
Annie screamed as her mother’s rough hand came into contact with whatever piece of skin she could get to. After a few minutes she stopped the beating and, straightening up, she pointed a finger at the terrified child and said loudly, ‘If I hear your fecking voice once more, I’ll brain you, do you hear me? Your poor father is trying to rest in there, and all you can do is aggravate the shagging life out of everyone.’
She roughly pulled the covers over her daughter’s shoulders and left the room. Her whole body was bristling with anger and frustration, her tired face showing the strain of her day-to-day existence. Living in this house was a constant battle of wits and her nerves were shot. Her husband was now able to move about with the aid of a stick, and her elder son made him feel he had to be grateful for every bite that went into his mouth.
Her husband was a shadow of the man she had married: the life had been drained out of him. He was quiet, even taking communion once a week when the priest popped in for a natter. As she went back into the bedroom she nailed a smile on her face and, pouring two glasses of Scotch, she handed one to her husband, trying to ignore the fact that he only livened up when offered alcohol. Even that had to be done on the quiet; if Danny Boy knew, he’d go ape shit. Part of his daily enjoyment was seeing to it that his father was dry, and stayed dry. He used his father’s own frail health as a weapon against him, knowing that the man couldn’t do anything to stop him. Wouldn’t even try.
‘She needs a firm hand that one, I should have put me foot down when she was born.’
He didn’t answer her, but then Ange knew he wouldn’t. One-sided conversations were now the main-stay of her life.
Michael was waiting by the scrapyard, and he was freezing. As he drew deeply on his Dunhill cigarette, he kept his eyes skinned for any movement in the shadows beyond. He hated this bit of the night, he never knew what time Danny would get there, and he felt vulnerable with the wedge of money he had to carry around. His fear was finding someone lying in wait for him, determined to relieve him of his dough and give him a hammering into the bargain. The darkness was unfriendly here, the shapes of the piled-up scrap looked intimidating in the blackness. The smell was smoky, thick with dust and rust; it made him think of death for some reason. The two German Shepherds who ran loose in the yard of a night to discourage thieves were used to him now. They were oblivious to him, but he was wary of them, knowing that they were kept half-starved to make sure that they were irritable and vicious enough to scare off any errant looters. Danny could walk in there and they’d run at him like long-lost relatives after a pools win, all rolling tongues and wagging tails. Danny always had a treat for them, made a fuss of them; even their owner was impressed despite himself, they didn’t even really seem to like him. They were handy though. If anyone did happen to walk by, they went berserk, throwing themselves at the fences and guaranteeing that the person soon went on their merry way.
Michael was numb with the cold now. His ears were aching and his teeth were on the verge of some hefty chattering.
‘All right?’
Danny was behind him, and the loudness of his voice made Michael nearly jump out of his new shoes. ‘Fucking hell, you nearly gave me a heart attack.’
Danny was laughing loudly, a deep resounding laugh that echoed around the place, making the dogs run to the fence barking ferociously.
‘Shut up, you noisy pair of fucking gits.’
Danny was still laughing heartily and the dogs started to whine. Danny rattled the fence to annoy them, and Michael suddenly wished he had not got involved in any of it. His dad was right about Danny; he was a looney tune, and it was at these times he was reminded of that fact. The dogs were almost tearing at each other now because they couldn’t get to them and Danny was winding them up by barking at them and rattling the gate chains. Michael watched him for long moments, waiting until he tired of his game. If he said anything he knew Danny would prolong it just to be awkward, to irritate him.
Michael lit another cigarette and offered it to his friend, and Danny took it from him eagerly, bored now by his baiting of the dogs and annoyed he had not provoked a reaction from his friend. Danny smoked in silence, petting the dogs now, his hand rubbing their ears, the animals pleased at the attention.
‘Fucking horrible things, how you can stand to touch them, I don’t know.’
Danny turned to face Michael and, frowning, he said seriously, ‘Don’t let them know you’re scared, they can smell it off you. Dominate them and they’ll do whatever you tell them without a second’s thought.’
Michael had a feeling he wasn’t talking about the dogs, but was warning him that he had sussed him out.
Then, sighing, he said amiably, ‘It’s fucking taters ain’t it, mate? By the way, I picked up a bit of work from Frankie Daggart tonight. He wants me to sort out a lad who has been hassling his sister’s boy.’
Michael didn’t answer him, he didn’t know what to say.
‘Thought I’d show willing, like, see what occurs. You in or what?’
Michael nodded his agreement, as Danny had known he would.
‘Got me poke then? I want to get home, it’s fucking freezing out here.’
Chapter Five
‘Where’s me blue shirt, Mum?’
It was said with the voice Danny Boy used when in the presence of his father, a deep, slow drawl that dripped with deliberate insolence.
‘Hanging in your wardrobe, son. I washed and pressed it this morning.’
Danny walked from the kitchen slowly, his huge bulk making the small space feel even more claustrophobic. His father watched him go with tired eyes. The boy was out of control and there was nothing he could do about it. To think that a child of his, a child of his blood could turn out so vicious was something he pondered on a daily basis. He was a size, and he was confident eno
ugh to know that his bulk was his greatest asset. Like many a man before him, he would earn a living off his wits and his muscles. Even the priest gave him his due, which alone told him more of his son’s rise in the world than anything else.
As Big Dan sipped his tea he looked down at himself, at the wasted leg that dragged behind him, and the knuckles that were scarred from trying to stop the crowbars as they had rained down onto his prostrate form. He looked around the kitchen, saw the dramatic difference that was echoed through the flat and wondered at a boy who was so single-minded he could achieve all this just to prove a point.
His wife Ange was a bundle of nerves. She sat at the small table and sipped at her tea, her usually open face grey with worry. But he had no sympathy for her, the boy had been ruined by her from the moment he had entered the world. Aching all over, and lighting a cigarette, he smoked and drank the last dregs of his cold tea. The noise grated on his wife’s nerves as it had since her first visit to his mother’s house and the realisation that he had no manners at all, and had been brought up in a filthy hole by a woman who could barely string a sentence together.
Big Danny had always remembered that look on her face, could still feel the flush of shame as he looked around him, and the first stirrings of his colossal anger. An anger this little woman could inflame with a look or a word.
Now he was dependent on her, but he was getting better all the time. Eventually he would be more mobile, the doctor had assured him of that. It was what he was living for, then this scum would be out of his life once and for all.
Danny Boy walked back into the kitchen and, studiously ignoring his father, buttoned up his shirt, slowly. Every movement was calculated to irritate the man who had sired him. Then, tucking it into his trousers, he stretched languidly. Taking a wad of money from his back pocket he peeled off ten five-pound notes and threw them into his mother’s lap, hushing her protestations that she had plenty by giving her a hug and a kiss. ‘If you need anything else, you let me know, there’s plenty more where that came from.’