by Martina Cole
‘You fucking slag, you fucking whore.’
He repeated those two sentences over and over again, and she realised he had no idea he was even saying anything.
As he groaned loudly and came back to reality, he heard her voice telling him to stop. She was fighting him now, her pain and hurt making her stronger. Grabbing her wrists he slammed her hard against the wooden door. The force knocked the wind out of her and her little face screwed up in pain and bewilderment. She looked at him and knew then that he was really dangerous, knew his good looks hid a demon. She stopped trying to fight him, and waited for him to finish, knowing then that any kind of resistance was useless. When it was finally all over he held her close, his breathing loud and ragged in her ears.
The burning inside her was real, and she knew he had hurt her, really hurt her. Her legs had been pushed so far apart that she felt as if her hips were about to break, and her back was raw from being slammed into the brass handle of the shop door.
Danny looked down at her once more, he had never felt like that before. Her youth and inexperience had excited him in a way he had never believed possible.
The pain was unbearable and, as he placed her gently onto the ground, she winced. She couldn’t stand up, and she grabbed at him then. Her legs buckled and she dropped onto her knees. The pain was overwhelming: she knew she was bleeding, that the warm wetness between her legs was not just from him.
Danny watched the girl’s face and, as his head cleared, he knew he had fucked up, knew that he had really hurt her. She was doubled over, and he hastily rearranged himself until he was decent once more. Then he looked around him, checked in case someone was in the vicinity, had been witness to his actions. The road was empty, and the girl was now attempting to stand up. She was clutching at his overcoat, trying to drag herself upright. Her pretty face was screwed up in pain, and he could see the terror in her eyes at what had befallen her. He could smell her now. It was a bitter, sweaty smell and it made his stomach heave. He saw her legs, blue and mottled from the cold night air, and the dirt that was ingrained around her ankles. Her thick hair was greasy and, as her fingers clawed at his coat, he was aware of chipped nail varnish, and nicotine-stained fingers. Now he had sated his appetite the reality of what she was hit him. She was filthy, her eyes sunken, a junkie’s eyes. She was a runaway, the scum of the earth and he was ashamed to admit he had shagged her.
‘Please . . . I can’t get up . . .’
Her mouth was a dark cavern now, and he had kissed her, with her custard teeth and smudged lipstick. He felt the bile rise inside him and swallowed down the urge to vomit. His fist was loud when it connected with her forehead and, as she collapsed onto the dirty floor, he kicked her. The blow was so powerful it lifted her off the ground and Danny felt her ribs crumple as they came into contact with his well-polished brogues. He stepped back and looked down at her as she writhed in agony on the cold pavement, her cries high-pitched and her eyes screwed up with pain. He kicked her again, this time in the back of her head. The force of the blow sent the girl sprawling across the pavement and Danny watched her as she attempted to crawl away from him.
She was quiet now, unable to scream or talk, her instincts telling her she couldn’t defend herself, all she could do was try and get away from the person who was hurting her. As she tried to absent herself from the terrible situation she had found herself in, she knew in her heart that it was futile.
Danny looked around him. The street was still empty, and most of the lamp posts had broken bulbs, the older women on the game saw to that; the darker the night the more likely they were to earn. He stared coldly at the girl again, her suffering was evident, and yet it didn’t affect him one iota. He watched her as if he was outside, looking in on the whole situation, as if it had nothing to do with him at all. He walked to where she was lying and, kneeling down, he looked at her closely. She was bleeding profusely, something he had not noticed until now. She was lying on her back, her mouth opening and closing as she tried to beg him to leave her be. But nothing was coming out of her mouth except blood.
Danny wondered briefly why he didn’t care about her, didn’t feel anything about her obvious suffering, then he wondered if anyone could place them together. It was like watching a scabby dog dying. And he was sure that she was actually dying. No one could survive the blows he had inflicted on her. But, as he tidied himself up, brushed down his overcoat and ran his fingers through his hair, he wondered at a girl who was so base she would give herself to anyone with the cash needed. Fuck her, and fuck all women like her.
The alcohol he had imbibed liberally earlier on was wearing off now, the shock of his anger and the consequent outburst was sobering him up. As the girl slipped into unconsciousness he stamped on her head repeatedly, making sure she wouldn’t see the light of the new day that was rapidly approaching.
Afterwards, as he walked home he saw the first rays of light, and marvelled at how beautiful the world could be, even though it was peopled with women like his mother and the nameless girl he had encountered that night.
He knew that by letting his father stay he would get more than a few Brownie points and he would concede that much to further his burgeoning career. That his mother was prepared to defend the man who had almost destroyed her family he found hard to digest. That she wanted him more than her children was a real eye-opener, a real learning curve. Even though he was still half-cut, the hurt he felt inside was still raw enough to bring tears of self pity to his eyes. He had worked his arse off to put food on the table and clothes on their backs, minimise the damage his father had caused, and his mother didn’t care about any of it. She was more interested in the ponce she had married than the kids she had birthed.
As he walked home, Janet Gardner, a sixteen-year-old runaway from Basingstoke, died all alone on the pavement, the imprint of Danny Boy’s shoe on her face as her boyfriend-cum-pimp was wondering where the fuck she had got to with his money.
Ange was still up when her son finally came home. Her biggest fear was that he would leave them to get on with it; she knew that would mean her once more working all the hours the good Lord sent, even though she was full of baby. As he walked into the flat she was standing in the kitchen doorway, her tubby body and thick greying hair showing her age.
They looked at each other then and, smiling gently, she went to this son of hers, this man who had emerged suddenly from out of nowhere, and she hugged him. ‘Where have you been? I was worried about you.’
Danny Boy shrugged gently. ‘I had a bit of business, Mum. Don’t worry, I am over the worst.’
‘Can I do you a bit of breakfast, son?’
He shook his head sadly. ‘Nah. I need a few hours of sooty and sweep, get me head together for the day ahead.’
‘There’s blood on your coat, take it off and give it to me, son. I’ll sort it for you.’
Danny looked down and saw that the girl’s blood had been sprayed all over the front of his overcoat. It was still fresh, deep-red in colour, and he felt the urge to vomit once more. He could smell her again, the rancid odour of an unwashed body that was never evident before he slept with them, but always seemed to linger afterwards.
He slipped his overcoat off and she gently folded it over her arm.
‘Try and see it from my point of view, eh?’
He didn’t bother to answer her, his brother had got up and was watching them closely.
‘Had your look?’
‘Fuck off.’
Danny was still laughing at Jonjo’s front as he went to his bed, all the while listening to his mother berating his little brother for swearing.
Chapter Eight
‘She’s got a heart that’s harder than a whore’s handbag and, let’s face it, I should know.’ Big Dan gave his usual shrug as if to imply his wife was the Devil Incarnate and then, craftily, knowing that what he was saying was tantamount to blasphemy because of his son’s reputation, and also knowing that the men around him admired his courage in sa
ying it all in the first place, said, ‘But keep that under your hat, boys. Remember the war, careless talk cost lives.’
Big Dan listened with satisfaction at the scandalised laughter all around him. He knew it was really more a case of sycophantic laughter. Knew that in the real world, their world, he was only tolerated these days because of his son. But he milked it for all it was worth anyway. That his son had no real interest in him wasn’t something he was inclined to dwell on, but the fact that his boy relied on his intimate knowledge of the local Faces and local folklore was what was really important. It was because of that that he still had a role in life of sorts. He was tolerated by Danny Boy all the time he was useful to him. So he made a point of gathering as much information as he could, in the hope that it would eventually be of interest to his son. This was what he craved though, the company of other men, the warmth of the pub, and the centre stage. He was still classed as a raspberry ripple, Danny Boy had seen to that, but on the upside he would never have to work again. He couldn’t, even if he’d wanted to, which, in all honesty, wasn’t an issue as far as he was concerned. He was not capable of any kind of manual labour any more, and that was all he had been fit for, even at his best. In fact, sitting in his local with the resident no-necks was as good as it was going to get for him, and he was sensible enough to know that. He earned his keep though, not only did he keep his eyes and ears open for any titbits that might be of interest to his son, he made sure that anything he heard was factual before repeating it. But he also helped enhance the boy’s reputation with skilful innuendoes and half truths. Over the last year, since Ange had lost the baby, he had made himself as indispensable as was humanly possible. It had been hard graft, but he had persevered and liked to think he had accomplished at least a mutual tolerance, if not respect.
There was no love lost between the two of them, but there was a truce of sorts, except for the occasional bout of unfriendly fire. Namely when his son came home drunk and took the first opportunity available to cunt him into the ground. He never rose to the bait though, he just sat back and waited for the boy to run out of steam. He knew that he was deserving of most of it anyway, and at least Danny didn’t bring it out of their flat and into the public domain. In front of people they were civil to each other, and he knew Danny Boy was respected for his treatment of a man who had, in effect, destroyed and abandoned his family. That Danny had gimped him good and proper was common knowledge, that Danny Boy had then welcomed him back into the fold had now become part of the local folklore.
It made him look big, look magnanimous when, in fact, he was just another vicious little fucker masquerading as a nice guy. He should know, the boy took after him. Big Dan knew his boy was going to be a Face, he was halfway there already: hence the welcome wagon wherever he went. No one wanted to antagonise the boy, and if he could find it in his heart to forgive his old man, then most people were willing to follow suit. After all, whatever Danny might have done to him in the heat of anger and retribution, it didn’t mean he would stand back and let anyone else get away with it. After all, he was still his father, and that counted for something in their world, no matter how useless the person in question might be.
He was earning as well, the boy was earning serious money these days, and he was on speaking terms with everyone who was anyone. No mean feat considering his tender years. He was a prince-in-waiting all right. A vicious, hateful, and devious prince who had the knack of making people like him. It was his open face; he looked for all the world like an angel, as if butter wouldn’t melt.
Well, they would learn and, when they did, it would be too late. That much his father knew, even if they didn’t. They would rue the day they gave this son of his permission to hunt on their territory, because hunt he would. It was second nature to him. He would take everything they had acquired away from them, one by one, piece by piece, that smug smile of his still on his face. He was a natural-born scavenger, fucking carrion.
If anyone needed a job doing these days, then Danny Boy was always available, and his sheer size, coupled with his quiet and respectful demeanour, had endeared him to everyone in the criminal community. He could handle himself, that much was evident. Even he couldn’t dispute that, and the fact that he had the knack of controlling his violence and, when it was deemed necessary, could even prolong it, was an added bonus. His youthful exuberance was part of his overall charm.
Danny Boy was becoming known for his drug dealing and also for his ability to sort out problems discreetly. He could collect a debt, arrange a firearm, or deliver a message when necessary. He could also charm anyone with an ounce of brainpower, while making sure they never forgot him. He knew instinctively how to manipulate any situation for his own benefit, and he was sensible enough to make it look like everything he did was for the good of whoever was paying his wages at the time.
This boy he had bred made Big Danny realise just how useless he had been for the best part of his life, and it made his current situation all the more apparent because he was now reduced to poncing drinks by trading on his association with his own flesh and blood. Forced into acting all the time, as if what had happened to him was of no importance, was insignificant in the great scheme of things. As if being crippled by his own flesh and blood didn’t affect him one iota.
As his elder son walked into the pub Big Dan felt the usual sickness in the pit of his stomach, felt the breathlessness as his heart started beating rapidly. He feared him more than most people; he had far more reason to.
Danny Boy walked into the warmth of the public house with his shoulders back and his head held high, as if he owned the place. He strode across the dirty floor of the bar, his youth and expensive clothing immediately marking him out as different. He had the polished appearance of someone twice his age, and he also had a presence that was reminiscent of the old-style villains. He looked what he was, a serious handful.
People made a point of acknowledging him, and he acknowledged them back; depending on their ranking in the world of criminality, he either nodded, shook hands or slapped backs. He knew the game, and he could already play it like a veteran. His handsome face, as always, belied his real emotions. He looked pleased to see everyone, made them feel as if they were important, had a smile and a wink for any females in his line of vision. The women loved him, he had the animal attraction that all seriously violent men possess. Certain women were attracted to it, loved the idea of being with someone so dangerous, even though it was normally the end of their lives as they knew it. It was once the men had been bagged that the real trouble started. Getting them was one thing, keeping them was another thing entirely. But the kudos of having them as their beau was enough to keep them interested, make them work overtime so they could reap the benefits of such an association. And the benefits were huge for a young girl with nothing more going for her than a good figure and a keen sense of fashion. Such an association was a passport to a life of ease and, in most cases, luxury, especially if the man married them. A few kids were the equivalent to money in the bank, providing the man in question didn’t get his collar felt of course. As most of the girls in the pub were still technically schoolies Danny Boy was in his element. He stood at the bar, all bravado and brooding good looks, and waited for the girls to approach him. As he ordered a drink he turned to where his father was sitting perched on a stool and said pleasantly, ‘Another one?’
Danny smiled as his father nodded nervously. He loved the stir he created wherever he went, loved the fact he was a someone now, a fucking handful, that he had a rep. The fact he was treated with respect by his elders was like a balm to his tortured soul. He needed it, and the more he experienced it, the more he craved it. He also loved the fact that it drove his father to distraction, he knew just how hard it was for him to keep up the pretence and live with the knowledge that he was only a part of their world because he, Danny Boy, allowed him to be. One word from him and the old bugger would be outed without a second’s thought. But seeing the respect his father go
t because he was his father was like a salve to Danny Boy. It was further proof of his own importance, and the old man was handy at times: he had a nose for the pavement that was spot on, so they both benefited from their public truce. He looked at his father with mocking eyes and then proceeded to ignore him: he could feel the atmosphere he had created with his presence and enjoyed it. He saw the way people glanced his way surreptitiously, afraid to catch his eye yet, at the same time, hoping he would single them out and, by doing so, enhance their own reputations. It was a powerful feeling, and he thrived on it.