Faces

by Martina Cole

  Lawrence Mangan was a man of few words. He was a quiet and seemingly inoffensive man who was friendly to the point of embarrassment, generous to a fault, and as mad as the proverbial hatter. He was tall, well-built, and had deep-blue eyes that were always smiling, and always on the lookout for a mark. He was a man who was known all over the Smoke, and who was respected by everyone and anyone. Even the Old Bill had a grudging respect for him because he was always in on everything that went down, yet they had never once been able to prove anything against him. He had never even had a caution, or a fine.

  Lawrence Mangan, Lawrie to his friends, had a loyal workforce who knew better than anyone how dangerous he could be. The few people who had been stupid enough to upset him had a habit of disappearing off the face of the earth. Never to be seen again.

  Lawrence Mangan knew how to keep himself out of trouble, and he also knew that his only chance of survival was to recruit the best of the best. He made a point of only dealing with people he trusted implicitly, people he then made sure earned a good wedge and who were intelligent enough to understand that he was not a man to trifle with. He had dispatched people without a second’s thought many times in the past, knowing that the only way to be really safe was to do his own dirty work. He was hardly going to grass himself up, was he? People, Filth included, could think what they liked about him, about his lifestyle, it was proving it that was the hard part.

  Now though, he was faced with a quandary. One of his oldest associates, a good friend, had been unfortunate enough to have got his collar felt. Not something that would normally bother him too much. What was bothering him was the fact that the man in question had been given bail. What’s more, the bastard was sitting right here in the same bar, looking for all the world as if nothing had happened.

  Jeremy Dawkins had been captured fair and square by the plod with a boot full of guns and enough ammunition to take on the British army, or at least give them a run for their money. In fact, a few of the guns had once been owned by said army.

  Now, to anyone in their world and, given his previous form, he should have had more chance of getting a wank off Doris Day than making bail. Hence Lawrence’s suspicious thoughts on the matter in hand. Jeremy was one of only a handful of people who were capable of doing him any real harm, and that meant he had to make sure Jeremy didn’t get that chance. If Jeremy was about to serve him up, and there was a good chance he was seriously considering that because another capture would guarantee him such a hefty sentence that he wouldn’t come back home till his great-grandchildren were in their dotage. That fact meant he had to make sure that Jeremy didn’t get the opportunity. If he had already talked the big talk with plod, and that was a given as far as he was concerned, then they would be on the watch. So he had to make sure that if anything did happen to Jeremy he couldn’t be implicated in any way. He knew he had to assume that Jeremy had already given them enough information to whet their interest in him personally. The man wouldn’t give them anything really important until he had brokered himself a decent deal. He had enough sense to know that when dealing with the Filth you never gave them anything too edifying until you had your guarantees in place. They were not known for being fair-minded when dealing with known and habitual criminals.

  There was a chance that Jeremy had indeed had a touch, and that he was telling the truth when he said his brief was a miracle worker, however, that wasn’t a chance Lawrence was willing to take. Jeremy was living on borrowed time, even though he wasn’t aware of that fact yet.

  As he sipped his glass of port, Lawrence decided he was more than likely living on borrowed time as well, thanks to this treacherous bastard. Though he couldn’t prove anything, he had found through experience that it was always better to be safe rather than sorry. Smiling happily at Jeremy he raised his glass in a toast, and watched as the treacherous bastard smiled happily back at him while returning the gesture. He needed to box clever with Jeremy, he was an old hand and would be on the lookout for anything remotely suspicious; that ruled out using anyone in their immediate circle to solve this problem once and for all. Not that he would feel comfortable with that scenario either.

  Jeremy was far too shrewd to let anyone he knew near him, he would have to be taken out by someone he wouldn’t suspect. Like now; Jeremy didn’t suspect that he had sussed him right out, knew that there was no way he would get bail, get a cab home from the Filth’s local hangout. He had done too much bird, had too much form: his only get-out-of-jail-free card was to put someone else in there instead. Well, that someone wasn’t going to be him.

  He needed a new Face, a young buck, someone looking for a chance to make the transition from a good living to a fuck-off way of life. Someone who would be sensible enough to keep their trap shut, yet who was also strong enough to take Jeremy on without too much thought. In fact, he had to find himself a brand-new Jeremy to replace the old one. The thought made him smile and, as he listened to the banter and talk around him, he was quietly planning his old friend’s demise. This was a job that needed to be done sooner rather than later. As his old Granny always said, either shit, or get off the pot. He knew just the bloke to solve this problem for him, and he decided to sort it sooner rather than later.

  As Danny watched his father giving it the big one at the bar, he wondered why he didn’t feel anything for him any more, not even anger. Didn’t feel anything for anyone, in fact. His mother he loved, on one level, but she had disappointed him too much: he looked after them all for no other reason than how it looked to the outside world. He was seen as the good guy and he wanted it to stay that way. People admired his loyalty, even though he didn’t really have any. Didn’t suffer from his conscience, didn’t have trouble sleeping at night. His life now consisted of making money and proving to the world he was a somebody. In fact, how he was perceived was of paramount importance.

  The smell of cigarettes and stale beer was assailing his nostrils: it reminded him of his father. The pub was overheated, exacerbating the stench of cheap perfume and even cheaper clothes. He wanted better than this for himself, much better.

  He saw Louie walk through the bar then, a welcome breath of cool air heralding his arrival, and he knew that tonight was going to be a watershed in his life. He swallowed his drink and went into the back room of the public house quietly, unobtrusively, all the time knowing that he was being watched by everyone in the place. Especially by the girls who frequented this shithole of an establishment. As he slipped through the door he felt the power of having all eyes turned on him.

  ‘You’re a fucking poser, do you know that?’

  Danny laughed at the accusation.

  The room was small, it had peeling wallpaper, a threadbare carpet and the universal stench of hopelessness that seemed to permeate even the nicer boozers in east London. There was money to be made, but it was not wise to advertise that fact.

  ‘You look well, Lou, what’s all this about?’

  Louie could see the difference in the boy and part of him was sorry at the change in him. He was a man now and, after tonight, if he took on the mantle being offered to him, he could never walk away from this life. If he did as requested, he would become a fixture, a permanent part of their society. In short he was going to offer him the credibility he knew this young man craved. For him it was a win-win situation: for young Danny Boy it would seal his fate once and for all. Be careful what you ask for, eh, you just might get it.

  Ange Cadogan was sipping her tea, and listening to Mystery Voice on the radio when her son came into the kitchen. As always, he brought in the smell of the pavement. It was peculiar to him and, even with his aftershave and his expensive clothes, she still associated it with him. He was opening the drawers and removing things, his movements precise and, as always, quiet.

  ‘What you after, son?’

  He looked over his shoulder at her and grinned. ‘If anyone asks, right, I was home in bed by eleven.’

  She didn’t even bother to answer such a ridiculous statem
ent. ‘What do you want that lot for?’ She saw her boning knife, bread knife and apple corer being wrapped in a clean tea towel.

  Danny didn’t answer her. Instead, he said, ‘When the old man gets in, tell him you saw me go to bed, right?’

  He placed the package inside his coat, and turned towards her fully. ‘He’s still in the pub, pissed out of his head. Don’t you dare let on about any of this, right?’

  Ange nodded at him, her eyes heavy with accusation.

  ‘There’s money in the top drawer of my dresser, take a oner and do whatever you have to, take the kids out, and stay well away from here until I tell you otherwise. OK? Just keep them away from here and keep your trap shut.’

  She didn’t say anything, and that annoyed him.

  As he left the flat a few minutes later, she sighed heavily, wondering what new trouble he had landed himself in now. She didn’t move from her seat: the truce was still in place, but these days she gladly overlooked her son’s behaviour, preferring to pretend that everything was hunky-dory. She was actually more interested in when her husband would finally arrive home, and what condition he would be in when he arrived. It was the only way she could cope with it all. If she didn’t dwell on it all too much and concentrated on the other kids, she found that her life was at least bearable.

  Michael knew that what he was about to do would catapult him into the real world; so far he had been the brains of the outfit. Now though, he was being asked to actually take part in Danny Boy’s quest to conquer their world. He knew that if he had refused, he would be finished. And that Danny was depending on him to make this night’s work go smoothly, without a hitch of any kind. He also knew that Danny was drawing him in, making sure he couldn’t back out of their partnership because, after tonight, he would finally be a fully fledged member of the criminal fraternity. This was serious business; this would ultimately make or break them. But, in his heart, he understood that nothing would go wrong, because Danny Boy Cadogan wouldn’t let that happen. And that there would be no going back after this. But he was not geared up for this kind of scam, in fact, he had made a point of stepping back from the actual day-to-day running of their little firm, even though said firm was only successful because of Danny Boy’s reputation. He was seen as no more than the partner, the mate. It was Danny Boy who had the real rep, and he had earned it. And, in fairness, he had made a point of enhancing it at every available opportunity. Michael knew how to work out the financial side, but it was Danny who made sure the money was available to them in the first place. Michael’s family depended on him now, as did Danny’s: he had made a deal with the Devil and that ponce demanded his pound of flesh.

  That was why he was sitting in a damp cellar off the Bow Road, waiting for Danny Boy to deal with his latest victim. Only this time, the victim was not going to be allowed to leave with a broken limb and a stern warning: this time they were being paid to make someone disappear.

  It was a daunting task, and only his fear of Danny’s anger, and his need to take care of his family, was keeping Michael from running as far away as possible.

  ‘He’s still out for the count.’

  Danny sounded relieved, even though Michael knew he was not going to renege on his promise to Lawrence. There was no way this could be stopped now, it had gone too far. The man lying on the floor would never let them get away with this, it was now a case of do or die. And he, for one, was terrified of what they were going to do: knew that if it all went pear-shaped it was the end for them.

  Danny Boy looked down at Jeremy as he lay on the cement floor. His hands were tied behind his back and his face was already a swollen wreck. He knew that once he came to, the pain in his shoulders and neck would be unbearable agony. He was also bleeding from his eyes and ears. None of these things bothered Danny; he had no sentiment any more, for anyone. If anything, he was intrigued by it, by the human spirit. And anyway, Louie had provided this safe haven for them; all the screaming in the world would not bring anyone knocking on this door. So, unlike Michael, Danny Boy didn’t fear the arrival of the Old Bill. Lily Law was the least of their problems. His fear comprised of not being able to execute the job he had been given properly, not displaying the correct amount of finesse. This was the decider as far as he was concerned.

  He lit a cigarette and pulled on it deeply. ‘You all right, Mike?’

  It was a genuine enquiry and Michael answered him with equal seriousness. ‘Not really, but I’ll survive as always.’

  His answer made Danny laugh.

  ‘Fuck him.’ He knelt down then and stubbed the cigarette out on Jeremy’s face. The burn brought the man back to consciousness and he groaned loudly.

  ‘Awake, are we?’ Danny spoke as if he was addressing a small child in his care; his voice was friendly, his open face devoid of any kind of emotion. Picking up the apple corer from the floor, he held it over the man’s right eye.

  ‘This is your last chance. Have you to talked to Old Bill about our mutual friend?’

  The man looked at the handsome young man leaning over him and, pulling his lips back over his teeth, he said angrily, ‘Fuck you.’

  Jeremy knew he was a dead man and he was determined to go with as much dignity as he could muster. He knew all of this would be discussed at length with everyone he had ever dealt with in his life and at least he wanted the satisfaction of knowing he went out with a bit of aplomb. A bit of respect.

  Danny sighed again and, looking at the man’s terrified face, he said sadly, ‘I am going to take out your eye in a minute, and then, if you still insist on being a hero, I’ll take out your other eye. I’ll dismantle your boat-race inch by inch until you tell me what I want to know. So don’t be a fucking mug, you’re a dead man anyway.’ Then, before Jeremy could answer him, he slammed the apple corer into his eye socket, wrenching out the eyeball, and a large percentage of his cheekbone. The scraping of metal against bone was sickening. The screaming seemed to go on for an age, and the blood was everywhere. Michael watched in horrified fascination then, feeling the vomit rising up into his mouth, he emptied his stomach over the floor.

  Danny stood up and, lighting himself another cigarette, he ignored his friend’s dilemma. Instead, he went to the small table by the door and poured himself a large whisky. He placed the apple corer onto the table, with Jeremy’s eyeball still stuck inside it and, picking it up once more he poked it out with his index finger, watching as it dropped on to the dirty floor. He stamped on it, grinding it into the dirt.

  Picking up his drink, he downed it quickly then, pouring another one, he took the glass over to Michael, who was still heaving. ‘Drink this, you fucking tart.’

  Jeremy was quieter now, the excruciating pain, and the realisation of what was actually going to happen had finally hit him. He was squirming in his own blood, and aware that he really was in trouble. He knew now that Danny Boy Cadogan was that rare breed of man, a sadist who actually enjoyed this kind of job. A man who enjoyed inflicting pain on people and was willing to do whatever was necessary to make sure that he had answers to any questions he deemed important.

  Michael swallowed the whisky in two gulps. The sweat was pouring off him, Danny could smell it, even though the stink of blood was heavy in the air. He could also smell victory, knew that Jeremy was going to tell him whatever he wanted to know.

  He walked Michael to an old typist’s chair and made him sit down, fussing over him tenderly. Michael was staring at the remains of a perfectly good eyeball and feeling the nausea once more.

  ‘You all right, mate?’

  Michael nodded eventually, his belly still determined to empty itself of its contents.

  ‘You’re so chicken-hearted, the bloke’s a fucking grass for fuck’s sake.’ Winking gaily, he went back to where Jeremy was groaning in agony and knelt beside him once more.

  Jeremy was babbling incoherently, trying to release himself from his bonds. He was delirious with pain and nearly insane with the knowledge that this boy wasn’t going to t
alk of his death with respect, he would joke about it, enjoy his final moments by making him beg for an end to the torture. He was beaten, and he knew it.

  Listening intently, Danny finally learned what he wanted to know. ‘See, you know it makes sense.’

  Then, smiling happily, he proceeded to torture Jeremy anyway, watching the way his body writhed in agony, studying the terror in his face, listening intently to the guttural groans he forced out when actual speech became impossible. Danny Boy was fascinated by this death. He knew he was going to see, up close and personal, someone leave this earth, leave not only all they knew, but also everyone they knew, behind them. He felt the power of his position, of knowing this man’s life was his to give back or to take away. Eventually he became bored with his games, and fed up with Michael’s pleas for him to stop what he was doing, and he finished the man off once and for all.

  It was a learning curve all right, but the recipient of the lesson wasn’t the dead man on the filthy floor, it was Michael. He knew this was the first of many such nights, and he also knew that Danny could never let him walk away now. He was as much a part of this event as Danny was, because he had allowed it to happen in the first place. As he emptied his stomach once more, Danny’s laughter at his friend’s obvious weakness rang in his ears.

  ‘Get a fucking grip, Mike, the cunt was a grass, he had this fucking coming.’

  Danny Boy lit a cigarette and poured himself another drink. His hands were thick with dried blood and, toking deeply on his Embassy, he said gaily, ‘Did you see Caroline Benson’s tits tonight? She is definitely on my to-do list.’

  Michael didn’t answer him, he didn’t know what to say.

  ‘No one will ever find him, Mr Mangan.’

  Lawrence nodded almost imperceptibly, pleased with the boy’s respectful demeanour and the aura of someone who knew they had done a blinding job.

  ‘Well done, son. Now I know what the treacherous cunt told the Filth, I can get it sorted.’