Faces

by Martina Cole

  Michael, who had already unlocked their car and was still reeling from the gun shots and Danny Boy’s complete easiness with death, swallowed down his fear of the person he loved more than anyone else in the world. He knew this night would make them or break them and, even though he didn’t really want any part of it, would have preferred to have stepped back and dissolved quietly once more into the obscurity he craved, he also knew he couldn’t do that. He had to see this thing through to the end, even though he wanted no part of any of it.

  Danny Boy snarled at the boys, knowing they knew exactly who he was, and hating them for knowing who he was, for wanting to be like him, as if that was an option. They were the cannon fodder he would use when the need arose. But he forced his anger away, they had heard the shots and were streetwise enough to guess what had gone down, so he walked over to them and said in a friendly manner, ‘All right, boys, any chance of a fag?’

  Michael watched as the young thugs searched through their pockets for cigarettes, all praying for the opportunity to be able to say that Danny Boy Cadogan had spent time in their company. Guaranteeing their loyalty and their silence.

  If it hadn’t been so sad to see, it would have been laughable.

  Ange was unable to sleep; her husband had gone out hours earlier and had not been near or by since. Usually this didn’t bother her, but as she suspected he had gone to see Donald Carlton she felt she had a genuine reason to worry for a change. Big Dan had gone to try and limit the damage that he might have caused with his careless chatter. It was her husband’s big trap that had seen to it that her son’s private dealings had somehow become common knowledge. Even though he had sworn to her that he had not talked to anyone of import, he had still not been able to resist talking about his son’s private and personals with people Danny Boy would have crossed the road to avoid. It was Danny Boy’s own fault; he had talked too much in front of his father, a man she had never once told anything of any import because he had what was known locally as a loose lip. Danny Boy, however, had not been able to resist rubbing in his new-found status, had enjoyed letting his father know how well he was doing, and how much he was earning. It was something she could understand to an extent; Danny Boy was still only a boy really and, as such, he was programmed to act like one. But, for someone who had carved such a unique niche in the world, she had been annoyed that he was willing to spoil it all just to make a point to a man he had already cowed years before.

  She slipped from the bed and pulled on her dressing gown; it had a pretty floral design that made her look fatter than ever. Not that she was bothered about that fact, what she looked like was something she had stopped worrying about many years before. As she went to the kitchen she heard whispering. And, walking into her daughter’s bedroom she was stunned to see her daughter, her beautiful but ignorant daughter, sitting on her bed kissing a young man with a ponytail and a degenerate look in his eye. His leather jacket was thrown casually across the wicker chair she had painted white so lovingly many moons ago. And his trainers, as they called them now, were unlaced and lying on the pale pink carpet she had hoovered only that morning. Annie was half dressed, her shirt was open, and her jeans were lying in a crumpled heap on the bedspread beside her. It took Ange a few moments to understand fully what they had actually been doing when she had walked in on them, then it was the realisation of what was so obviously going on between them that sent her over the edge. Like she didn’t have enough on her plate with a murderer for a son, she now had to deal with a whore. Turning on the light, she looked at the daughter she had adored and, seeing her as she was at that moment, her mouth smeared with pink lipstick and her heavy breasts rising and falling from her earlier exertions, Ange lost any hope of curtailing the temper that she knew was legendary to most people in the world she inhabited. As she launched herself at her daughter the young man was already off the bed and pulling on his shoes. He was not a local boy; if he had been the knowledge that she was Danny Boy Cadogan’s little sister would have guaranteed his refusal to step inside her home, no matter what she might have offered him. The boy was watching the mother and daughter as they rolled around the bed, all hair and teeth, their language shocking even to him. As Ange punched her daughter as she would have punched a man, the boy practically ran from the room, leaving his new amour to sort it all out by herself.

  Annie was already crying and the mascara she had layered on so thickly was burning her eyes out. She stopped fighting her mother then, she knew she was out of order, but she also knew this was something that was going to happen again and again. She hated the way she was kept locked up like an animal. Hated having to account for every second away from the bosom of her family. Loathed her mother who, she was sure, only curtailed her because she was jealous of her youth and her popularity. Ian Peck might not have been the answer to a maiden’s prayers, but he had made her feel like any other teenage girl with his kisses and his false promises.

  ‘Fuck off, Mum, and leave me alone.’

  She was attempting to disengage her mother’s hands from her hair. She knew that a lot of it had been ripped out in the mêlée. She was also aware that her lip was bleeding and, as she tried to sit herself up, she was surprised at her mother’s sudden retreat. Standing in the doorway Ange turned and looked at her daughter and it seemed to her that, for the first time ever, she could see the girl for what she really was.

  ‘You whore . . . Is that what you go to the night classes for, is it? To learn whoring. You even talk like one now as well.’ She was almost spitting out the words in her anger. Her heart was hammering so hard inside her chest she really thought she was going to have a heart attack.

  ‘You fucking bitch of hell, that you’d bring that scum into my home, the home I clean and polish so you’ll have a nice place to live, the home I try and keep safe for you, so you’ll never know the power of fear. And what do you do, eh, you sully everything with your fucking whoring . . .’

  She once more launched herself at her daughter, the blows flying fast, and with all the strength she could muster behind each one. She concentrated on her daughter’s face and shoulders, determined to leave her mark on her. Make sure the girl remembered this night as vividly as she knew she always would.

  As Ange felt her fists sinking into her daughter’s soft flesh she was aware of a hatred that was so intense she could almost taste it. Seeing her girl, her baby, with her jeans off and her top wide open displaying her breasts, while that little bastard took what he wanted, his cock hanging out of his trousers and her daughter’s hand caressing it, would never leave her. She would be reminded of it every time she looked at her daughter, no matter if Annie took to wearing a yashmak. That terrible image was now burned onto her memory and it had removed every other picture she possessed of her young daughter’s life. It was not only the fact she had brought a boy into her home, into her bedroom, it was more that she knew now that her daughter, her baby, was not a good girl; she knew instinctively that her daughter had done this before. She knew, as sure as anything, that this girl was happy to be touched and used by the likes of that young man. A greasy-haired stranger who had seen her precious daughter as nothing more than a filthy interlude in his quest for sexual favours and easy gratification. Her daughter’s complete ease with her state of undress told her mother that she had done this kind of thing many times in the past. It took a long time before young women felt confident about showing off their bodies and, as far as she was concerned, only whores were comfortable stripping off for complete strangers. Ange finally felt her anger wane and stopped the brutal attack that had left her daughter bloody and bruised. She stared at Annie as if she had never seen her before in her life then, shaking her head slowly, she hawked deep in her throat and gobbed into the face of the daughter she had once revered and adored.

  Lying on the bed, the spittle running down her cheekbone and the blood seeping into the cotton sheets, Annie cried like she had not cried in years. Unmoved by her daughter’s sobs, Ange left the room quietly
, shutting the door gently behind her. It was a symbolic act: she had shut her daughter out of her life already; never again would she look at her without seeing that grubby boy’s erect penis, and her daughter’s overflowing brassiere. She would always see the cheapness of the child she had tried desperately to keep innocent, keep pure. Had tried so hard to keep her away from the hurt of men like her father, and the knowledge of what they were capable of.

  Ange was heaving now, the urge to be sick was overwhelming, and she rushed into the toilet. She knew her daughter could hear her as she heaved, and she was glad about that. It was only when Jonjo brought her in a cold flannel and wiped her face with it, that she finally let go of her tears.

  Lawrence Mangan was lying in his bed, a smile on his face, and a fag in his hand, as he watched the woman sucking at his cock as if her life depended on it. The woman was a stunner, her good looks almost obliterated by the deliberate overuse of the war paint that only expensive whores managed to get away with. He assumed it was because they knew they were worth more than the average bird. They were well-versed in their trade, and their heavy make-up made up for the sexlessness of the actual encounter. They looked like women from magazines; they weren’t real and they weren’t there for any other reason than the money.

  This one though, for all her clever machinations, had no chance of getting him up again; he was ready for a hasty goodbye and a kip. He never let the working girls stay over, he believed that they were thieves, that the nature of their job made them amoral, until eventually, they looked at everyone in their orbit as a mark. They would lift a pair of cufflinks, a bottle of deodorant, it didn’t matter, but they would lift something. He had experienced it before, and punished the girl severely. She had been on her way out the door with his watch, a plain gold Bulova but, as far as he was concerned, it could have been a jewel-encrusted Fabergé egg. The point was she had been on the nick, and he would not let something like that go without at least a mention. He had blinded her. His anger at her audacity had caused him to go over the top, and a bottle had somehow been smashed into her face. As far as he was concerned, she had asked for it. He then had had her removed by two of his best minders, and they had taken her away in complete silence, never referring to that evening ever again. So, once bitten twice shy. He pulled the girl’s head up roughly and, pushing her away from him, he waved her away as if she was a troublesome fly.

  Linda Crock had been here before with punters; once they had what they wanted, they took their shame and guilt out on the girl they had used. Well, fuck him, she had got her money beforehand; Mangan’s reputation was of a useless lay, a man who would attempt to get his fun for free by intimidation and by using his reputation as a so-called Face. Well, she had been dealing with pimps since she was fourteen years old and it took a bit more than this bloke to rattle her cage. She had the money safe and sound, so she didn’t have to pretend an enthusiasm she didn’t feel any more. She also knew that men like him got their just deserts in the end anyway. As she dressed she replaced her usual sexy look with a haughtiness that told him he had just been had, and that she was an actress worthy of the West End stage.

  Her demeanour unsettled Lawrence, and he was quiet as she sorted herself out. She didn’t even say goodbye; he had assumed she had gone to the bathroom, and it had taken him a while before he had realised she had actually left. He knew he had been mugged off, and it annoyed him. That it was by a woman who sold herself to anyone with the correct amount of money regardless of age, weight or personal hygiene, hit a nerve somewhere. It made him see himself in a less than flattering light. Most of the working girls he came across knew of his past indiscretion and so played the game until they were at least safe and sound outside his front door.

  He was still seething at her arrogance when he heard the tap on the front door and, grinning, he got up to open it, wondering what the fucking loser had left behind and determined to make her sweat for it, whatever it was. She needed a reprimand; most women did in his experience. As he opened the front door, his expression one of inconvenience mixed with loathing, he realised too late that his worst nightmare had just come true.

  ‘You all right, girl?’ Jonjo’s voice was low, and his cannabis-loaded voice told Annie he was stoned out of his tree. He crept in and sat on the edge of the bed. In the light of the bare bulb from the landing he could see his sister was battered to a pulp. He didn’t feel an iota of sorrow for her though, she had let herself down badly and, when he had finally cottoned on to what was happening, he had been as disgusted as his mother at her behaviour. He still wanted to check she was OK though, his mother could really go to town when the fancy took her. She was a real brawler, as short as she was.

  He looked at his sister’s ravaged face and sighed, ‘I’ve talked her out of telling Dad or Danny Boy. All right?’

  Annie nodded, the tears spurting hot and salty from her eyes now, his sympathy making her more upset than she actually was. Feeling sorry for herself she began to sob, placing her right arm gingerly across her eyes and her left arm over her chest, as if to hide herself from him.

  ‘Who was he?’

  She was unable to answer him, her crying was so severe.

  He smiled sadly and, taking her hand from over her eyes, he looked down at her in earnest and said, truthfully, ‘If you don’t tell me, Annie, I will recount this night’s events to not only our dad, but to Danny Boy as well. So, make up your mind who you want to tell your sordid little story to.’

  She was bleeding still, her lips were swollen up and she could taste the blood that had dried on them, could feel the stinging from the bald patches she knew were now all over her head. Clumps of her thick hair were everywhere; she could see them lying all around her, and the sigh made the tears come hot and heavy once more.

  ‘I ain’t fucking about, Annie, who the fuck was he?’

  She was shaking her head, and he saw the extent of her beating. Even her ear was bleeding, one of her earrings had obviously been ripped out at some point during the fight and now she had a sliced lobe that, he guessed, wasn’t going to heal up in a hurry. His mother had really done a number on her, and so she should.

  ‘Come on, before I get impatient . . .’

  Annie sobbed and, holding her hand tightly across her mouth, she whispered brokenly, ‘I don’t know, Jonjo, I swear, I met him outside the café in Bethnal Green.’

  Jonjo sat back from her then, his back arched with shock and temper, and his sister noticed how much he had grown into himself the last few months. He wasn’t as big as Danny Boy, but he was still a fair old lump, and, when he pushed his face down into hers, she was reminded of just how violent this family of hers could be when any of them felt their world was being threatened.

  ‘You better be fucking kidding me. You mean to tell me that you brought a fucking stranger into your home, and you let him strip you off and almost fuck you?’

  She was aware that he was on the verge of killing her and she tried to calm him down, all the while wishing that her night had not ended in such a violent and frightening way. What had possessed her to bring the boy home with her, why had she not done what she usually did and let him take her to Vicky Park, or up an alleyway? Why was she doing this in the first place? But she knew why, she was rebelling against the regime that kept her locked up like a fucking nun and, because of the name she carried, the name that made sure no one ever came near or by her. She didn’t answer him, instead she buried her face in the pillows and cried as if her heart would break.

  Jonjo looked at his sister, who he loved, but any sympathy he might have harboured for her disappeared. Grabbing her arm he dragged her around to face him and said, once more, ‘This is your last chance, cunt, give me a fucking name or I’ll give you what the old woman give you, only I won’t stop until you’re dead.’

  Annie knew he meant every word, he was already bringing back his fist to carry out his threat and, before she knew what had happened, she said quietly, ‘He’s from Romford, his name’s Ian
Peck.’

  Jonjo lowered his fist slowly and, after looking her over once more, as if she was an overflowing sewer, he got up to leave. At the door he turned and said viciously, ‘Fucking Romford, you’re having a laugh, ain’t you?’

  She was crying once more as he closed her bedroom door none too quietly behind him. She was repeating the same words over and over again in her head, ‘I must get away, I must get away.’ But she knew that would be impossible, she would only go out of this flat feet-first in a box or on the arm of a husband. At this moment in time, the former was without doubt her preference.