Faces

by Martina Cole

  His father was staring at the floor so Danny forced his head up and, looking into his eyes, said quietly, ‘By the way, the Murrays send their regards.’

  Jonjo was watching the little play from the doorway, his sister quiet for once as she drank in the drama of it all. Annuncia thrived on any kind of excitement, and now her eyes were bright as she surveyed her father’s humiliation.

  ‘Get yourself off now, son.’ His mother would have pushed him out of the front door if she could have got away with it, and they all knew it. When Danny finally left, the whole family breathed a collective silent sigh of relief.

  Frankie Daggart was sitting in his car outside Upney Station, listening to the radio and watching the girls as they walked by. The young men today didn’t know how lucky they were, the birds were all half-naked and up for a bit of a lark. In his day you had to know where to go to bag a sort, and even then it wasn’t a guarantee you’d get your leg over. That was only guaranteed with certain paper money or coins of the realm, plus copious amounts of alcohol. But he’d prided himself on never, ever paying for it outright, no matter what the occasion.

  As he pictured a series of pornographic scenarios with various young girls, he was broken out of his reverie by Danny Boy Cadogan opening the passenger door and bringing a blast of arctic air inside with him.

  ‘All right, son?’

  ‘Yeah, you?’

  Frankie was disconcerted by being caught with his metaphorical pants round his ankles and, starting up the car, he drove them to the nearby Railway Tavern.

  Once inside the doorway Danny watched in awe as Frankie was greeted by each and every person, offered drinks on the house, and finally seated nearest the fire. A place where they could talk in peace, where no one could overhear their conversation, and where they were seen as Faces.

  The place was buzzing with people and they all automatically shook hands with him, Danny Cadogan, because he was with a local hero. It was heady stuff and Danny basked in the reflected glory, wanting this for himself one day. He knew Daggart was a Face, but this reception was like nothing he had ever experienced before in his life.

  ‘Sorry about that, son.’

  Frankie could see the admiration and naked ambition in the boy’s eyes and laughed to himself. If he was correct in his assumptions, this little fucker was going to make a mark that would reverberate for generations. Either that or he’d get an early life sentence for murder and his investment would be wasted. It was a chance he was willing to take anyway.

  ‘Now, about this ponce who’s earholing my sister’s kid.’

  Danny listened with barely concealed excitement as Frankie explained the whole sorry situation, and then described, graphically, what he saw as the only remedy.

  Danny Boy couldn’t wait to sort out this little problem. It was his in, it was his guarantee of approbation. It would earn him more than a few quid, it would earn him the kudos he needed, wanted. Depended on for his new livelihood.

  Louie Stein was happy for once, spring had finally sprung and the days were getting longer. The yard was working at full capacity and his other business dealings were on the up. Even the totters were in a good mood, they suffered in the winter, out in all weathers, trying to grab a pound; they weren’t known as hardy perennials for nothing. He was in the Portakabin watching young Danny working outside. The boy’s strength was phenomenal, all the heavy lifting had broadened him, he really was a lump now. As Louie saw him making a rude gesture at a passing policeman he laughed out loud. He was a case and, from what he was hearing, he was getting his name known in the right quarters. He was a young one, but he had no fucking care for anyone else and, in their world, that was a bonus.

  Louie called the boy inside a little while later and placed a large mug of tea in front of him. Danny took it gratefully and, settling himself comfortably in the filthy old armchair that was now his designated seat, he blew on it vigorously, before taking a large gulp. All the time he had been working for Louie he had never once asked for or made a beverage off his own bat, he waited till he was either given one, or told to make one. He had good manners. It was another of the things Louie liked about him.

  ‘You got some fucking muscles there, mate, I was watching you throwing the steel about like it was polystyrene tiles!’

  Danny smiled, accepting the compliment as his due.

  ‘How are things going with the Murrays?’ It was said in conversation, but there was an underlying interest that stemmed more from personal experience: something it seemed that they were both aware of.

  Danny shrugged his massive shoulders. ‘OK. I’m earning, they’re earning.’

  Louie nodded. ‘Good. Remember what I told you.’ He lit them both a cigarette and, passing one to the boy, said harshly, ‘That pair would tuck each other up without a second’s thought, so outsiders are deemed fair game. Now, I’ve heard a rumour that they are about to get a tug, so you keep a low profile for a while, OK? Use any reason you want, but don’t score off them for the next few weeks.’

  Danny listened to his friend and mentor and then he said quietly, ‘Thanks for the heads up, Lou.’

  But this knowledge disturbed him. How come Louie was warning him, but not warning the Murrays? After all, he was just a kid. And how did he even know it all in the first place and, more importantly, what was he personally supposed to do with this knowledge, now that he was in possession of it? It was a melon scratcher all right, and it certainly merited serious consideration before he could make any kind of decision. He wanted to weigh this all up and decide what course of action would be best for him in the long run. This was going to be a crucial decision in his life, and therefore not one to be taken lightly.

  In fact, Louie giving him advice like this made him paranoid. He was just a kid, and the Murrays were a force to be reckoned with. He only had to look at his father to be reminded of that. He had to think long and hard about his next step.

  ‘Come on, Dan, finish your food.’ Ange was panicking now, her voice trembling with fear. She wanted him out of the way and was hurrying him up in case golden boy came in early. Well, his son and heir, golden boy, could go fuck himself; he wasn’t in the mood for him at the moment.

  ‘Please, Dan. Don’t upset him . . .’

  She was frightened of a teenage boy and, what was even worse was that so was he. Big Dan clenched his fists until the pain was too much, then he exploded. ‘Will you shut the fuck up, Ange.’

  Jonjo and Annuncia were both wide-eyed at the turn of events; their father almost sounded like his old bullying self.

  ‘You’re like a fucking scratched record, repeating yourself over and over again. Well, I’ve had it. Now, piss off, woman.’

  Jonjo, at nine, was already a big lad and, seeing the hurt and shame in his mother’s face, slammed his knife and fork onto the table and bellowed, ‘Don’t talk to my mum like that. You useless old bastard . . .’ He was close to tears, and his dark-blue eyes were glistening in the light.

  Angelica suddenly saw the similarity between her younger boy and Danny; both the living image of the man they despised and, gently sitting back down, she put her hand over her mouth, as if she was going to be sick, and held it there tightly, near to tears herself.

  Dan looked at his younger son. He had never really taken any notice of him, of any of them really except for his daughter; when she set out to get his attention it was difficult to resist her. Now, as he watched the lad reach over and pick up his plate of food and throw it angrily into the kitchen sink, he saw that they were all more like him than they realised. They were all deeply flawed, just like their old man, and that legacy would hound them for the rest of their days.

  He grinned nastily. ‘Thanks, son, you saved me a job.’

  ‘Fuck off.’

  His mother’s hand made contact with the side of his head and the pain was immediate.

  ‘Jonjo, don’t you dare speak to your father like that.’

  Jonjo was holding his injured ear as he cried, ‘
And you can fuck off and all . . .’

  His father’s stick hit him on the back before he could move out of his reach and the blow knocked him flying. He hit the sink head first with a sickening thud, and the blood was pouring from the gash within seconds.

  As Jonjo felt his mother picking him up he tried to escape her grasp, but the feel of her arms around him was too seductive; it had been years since she had held him for any reason. Annie was now at hysteria level, her terror for once genuine as she saw her mother trying to stem her brother’s bleeding with a tea towel.

  Her father looked on, white-faced and silent, as he surveyed the damage he had caused. All the time his ears strained for the sound of the front door opening and his son coming home to all this carnage. Don’t go looking for trouble, his old mum used to say, it’ll find you soon enough. If only he had bothered to listen to her now and again, so much trouble in his life could have been avoided.

  Colin Baker walked down the road with his usual jaunty air. He was tall for his age, and at seventeen he had the poise of a much older boy. He wore his hair long and greasy, and his skin was a purple mass of acne. He had a slight stoop already, and he favoured rocker-style clothes and music. His big regret in his short life was that he had no motorbike, but that was something he was working on. He was a natural-born bully, and he made a point of using this ability at every available opportunity.

  Unknown to him, the small lad with the gentle ways and thick brown hair, who he tormented on an almost daily basis, had finally cracked and reported him to his mother. Had Colin been aware he was the nephew of a known bank robber he would have tempered his anger. However, oblivious to the boy’s heritage as yet, he enjoyed making his life miserable for no other reason than that he could.

  As he got to his road he was surprised to see a young fellow in an expensive overcoat leaning on his front gate. He went straight into his hard-nut role: legs akimbo and hands on hips.

  ‘What the fuck do you think you’re doing?’

  Danny looked him up and down as if unsure whether he was animal, vegetable or mineral. ‘I was about to ask you the same thing. Colin, ain’t it?’

  Colin nodded slowly, unsure of himself now, wondering if this chap might turn out to be good news. He doubted that, but he was ever the optimist.

  ‘I have a message for you from a mutual friend, Colin.’

  Colin knew that the exchange was being watched by half the street and he opened his arms wide as if inviting a confidence.

  ‘Do you want it now, mate? The message, I mean,’ Danny said.

  Colin nodded again, his natural antagonism coming to the fore. ‘Well, don’t stand there all night, if you got something to say, fucking say it.’

  Danny’s fist crunched his nose, and with that first punch the fight was well and truly over. Colin crumpled and concentrated on covering his head and face with his arms to minimise the damage. The beating was swift, brutal and very public; all the requisites needed for a warning in their world. When he was finished, Danny had hardly broken a sweat.

  ‘That’s from Frankie Daggart on behalf of his nephew, Bruce. Fucking leave the kid alone. You hear me, cunt?’

  Frankie had watched everything from the comfort of his navy blue Jaguar. He couldn’t have clumped the boy, he was too old, and it would have been seen as necessary but well over the top. Having Danny Cadogan, a younger lad, doing it for him, would be seen as a stroke of genius. But this young boy had a definite edge; he fought like an old hand. He had a calm and calculated precision that was instinctive. He could row all right, there was no doubt about that. But he did it with aplomb. He did it with a genuine disregard for the victim, and that was practically unheard of in this day and age. Weapons were the new order; a good fucking hammering, man to man, was not often observed any more. The boy had done good, and he would pay him well.

  As they drove back to the yard Danny was shocked when Frankie said jovially, ‘Poor old Bruce, bless his heart, he’s as queer as a ten-bob clock. But he’s a game little fucker for all that.’

  Danny didn’t answer him, he didn’t know what to say. He wasn’t sure he would have taken the job had he known that. Queers frightened him: they were an unknown quantity. But he kept that to himself, he wanted Frankie’s goodwill. Nothing more and nothing less.

  Annuncia was asleep; for once in her life she had done as asked without any arguing or scenes. The fright had kicked in and sleep was the only remedy. Once his head had stopped bleeding, Jonjo understood that it was not as serious as he had believed. Head wounds always bled profusely and, once it had stopped, he was disappointed to see it was little more than a small gash. His mother cleaned the kitchen up, and then made them a cup of hot sweet tea.

  Then she tried to salvage the situation with her middle child. Jonjo was like his elder brother in many ways, but she was thankful for the fact he didn’t have Danny’s knack of turning even the most innocent of remarks into a declaration of war. She loved her children, she did. And she knew her husband’s treatment of them had been disgraceful over the years, but he was still her husband, their father, and nothing could ever change that fact. Married in a church, they were tied for life; that was what Catholicism was all about. Especially when it suited her.

  Tucked up safe and warm in bed, Jonjo listened as his mother tried to explain to him why he must never tell his brother what had happened. Her voice was soothing and quiet, and he knew that was only so his brother, should he creep into the house, wouldn’t overhear what was being discussed.

  ‘It would cause murders, child, you realise that, don’t you? Now, surely you wouldn’t want to think of your mammy having to referee those two again?’ She was attempting to make light of the situation while, at the same time, reinforcing the seriousness of his actions if he decided to grass.

  ‘What about Annuncia though, she’ll tell him.’

  Angelica closed her eyes in relief. That question said he was going to keep quiet. ‘You leave that little madam to me.’

  He smiled wanly. ‘Why does he do it, Mum? Why don’t Dad take care of us?’

  She kissed his forehead gently then, stroking his hair, she sighed heavily, ‘If I knew the answer to that the Dalai Lama would be out of a job!’

  This son of hers was caught up in the middle, as usual. It was the bane of the middle child’s life. Caught between the first-born and the last-born, they were often left to their own devices. ‘He doesn’t mean the half of it. Your father is a very unhappy man, you know. He’s ashamed of what he did, ashamed of the fact that his gambling nearly brought disaster on us. Ashamed that his son has had to take over the reins of this household. Had to put bread on the table and a roof over our heads.’

  Jonjo started to laugh then, his dry sense of humour coming to the fore. ‘Mum, he never did any of that anyway.’

  They laughed together, conspirators for a few moments. ‘But he wanted to. That was once his dream, but sometimes, son, life makes it very difficult to do the right thing. Life can grind you down, especially if you never get the breaks, the chances that other people seem to get in abundance. But he’s still your father, Jonjo, still your flesh and blood, no matter what he’s done.’

  She smiled down at this handsome boy of hers, whose life was blighted because the man she had married had more interest in women and horses than his own family. Poverty had a way of making people lose their reality; drink, drugs, gambling and whoring were symptoms, not the actual cause of people’s unhappiness. That was the thing they spent their lives trying to blot out, trying to get away from, even if only for a few hours. It crept inside them, numbed them, changed them, it was like a cancer.

  Big Dan Cadogan listened to his wife’s voice and, for the first time in years, he felt the urge to cry. After all he had done to her, after everything that had happened between them, she could still find it in her heart to defend him to the children, the same kids he often conveniently forgot about for weeks, even months at a time, in the same way as he did her. She was just another r
eminder of his failure, another reminder of his complete uselessness.

  Danny Boy would scalp him for this latest debacle he knew and, in a way, he welcomed that happening. It was going to happen, so it was best to get it over with once and for all. If nothing else, the Murrays had taught him that much.

  Michael was listening intently to what Danny was telling him. They were sitting in a café off the Mile End Road nursing milky coffees and chain-smoking cigarettes. Neither of them liked smoking, it was just something they did to make them feel grown up. The café was far too warm, the windows were steamed up, and the smell of grease was heavy in the air.

  The café owner, Denis, was a heavy-set Cypriot with a thick head of dyed-black hair, a gleaming smile, and a wandering eye. He also provided the best hash this side of Marrakesh market. Because of this he had a bustling clientele and an easygoing manner, due mainly to the fact that he smoked a large percentage of his stash himself. All the young people loved him. During the day the place was packed out with the general populace; the olds, the workers, and the displaced. But once the evening arrived, it was jukebox heaven, and a place for the teens to sit and chat over a coffee, all the while practising being a grown-up. Leaving school at fourteen was a rite of passage for these kids, and whatever their parents allowed them to keep from their wages they would spend wisely but quickly over the weekend. The weeknights were therefore mainly used by the up-and-coming young Faces. These were either classed as the new generation of prison fodder, or the new local businessmen, depending on how they conducted themselves and earned their living. Every once in a while though, a real Face would emerge, someone who would be a real name. Someone who would one day not only be feared but also respected.