Faces

by Martina Cole

  Arnold knew a serious money-box when he encountered one, and Danny Boy Cadogan was his passport to riches beyond his wildest dreams. He was also trumping said money-box’s sister, so it was double bubble as far as he was concerned. He wasn’t a mug, he knew this was the only chance he would ever get of playing with the really big boys. It was the only in he was going to get and he was going to take advantage of it, snatch the fucker’s hand off. He wanted the best that life could offer, and he was standing here, in broad daylight, with Danny Boy Cadogan, being introduced to people he had only previously heard of and, in extreme cases, glimpsed from a distance.

  This might be the eighties, and the government might pretend this was an equal society, but everyone on the streets knew that was a crock of shit. Even the drugs trade was controlled by a few choice people, and they were predominantly white. Arnold saw this as his chance to even the score. Bring it home. Make his mark and, along the way, settle a few scores of his own. So he nodded, he smiled, and he acted as if he was thrilled to be there which, of course, he was.

  The wake was in full swing and the Irish songs were threatening to drown out the conversation. The Shandon Club in Ilford had not seen the like for many a year; it was packed to the rafters and the drinks were free and copious. Jonjo watched his family partake of the alcoholic beverages with a gusto that amazed even him. His father was well and truly planted and he felt nothing, not even a smidgeon of regret. Slipping into the toilets he entered the cubicle and locked the door behind him then, sitting down, he removed his equipment from his suit pocket. He kept it in an old bicycle repair kit tin that he opened with a flourish. He took out a needle, a syringe, and a quantity of heroin. It was just a today thing, he needed something to take the edge off; at least that’s what he told himself, anyway. He was quite happy to use his father’s death as an excuse to get out of his brains, even though the day meant nothing to him. His father had ceased to mean anything to him a long time ago; it was Danny Boy he was worried about these days. As he burned the brown on a small spoon he felt the excitement begin to build up inside him. Pulling the liquid into the syringe he held his breath, contemplating the shit-coloured liquid that would be his passport to oblivion and a few moments’ respite, respite from the life he hated so much that just living in it for a few hours was too much for him to bear. Tying a length of leather around his forearm, he tightened it with his teeth, teeth that were now going green, were crumbling inside his mouth from the constant gritting, and that made eating anything even remotely crunchy impossible.

  Jonjo finally slipped the needle under his skin and forced the heroin into his body; he watched closely as he washed it back into the syringe, enjoyed seeing his own blood, red and thick, filling the vial and then, holding his breath again, pushed it all back once more, into his bloodstream and his brain. The rush was quicker than usual, and his euphoria was short-lived. But, after a few minutes, he felt able to function once more; he had allowed himself enough to get high, not enough to get wasted. There was a difference. As he sat there and felt the calmness envelop him, he sighed loudly. Uncaring, for a few minutes, who might be nearby, who might realise what he was doing, he was nodding, was relishing the feeling that was overwhelming him; was finally without thought or care for anyone else in the world around him. The brown had taken over, he was at one with the universe.

  Within minutes he had forgotten that he was at his father’s funeral, all he heard was the music and the deafening sounds of glasses being picked up and emptied by people he didn’t care about. The world was suddenly a reality of his own making and he felt the force of this reality with a vengeance. As Jonjo walked carefully out of the men’s room he heard the familiar words of Danny Boy, and they were far more poignant than they should have been. Especially as the real live Danny Boy had been looking for him for the last ten minutes . . .

  Ange sat with her daughter-in-law and her daughter and felt the heartbreak that her family had forced on her. Big Danny dying like he had was bad enough, but to see his funeral used as a platform for her elder son to further his career was not something she cared to dwell on. Her daughter was a whore in the making, but she was also as terrified of Danny as his own wife seemed to be. Ange knew her son was a bully, she also knew that she had never bothered with any of her kids really, not like she had her first-born. She had played at being the mother she felt was expected of her, what other people thought of her parenting skills had been important to her, as it had most of her generation. But, if she was honest, the only child to ever really get any of her attention and love was her Danny Boy. The others had never really stood a chance.

  Now, Danny Boy was standing there, a violent and vicious man, and she was the cause of his transformation from a kind, nice boy to the man he had become; devoid of any kind of empathy or care for anyone around him, herself included. She loved the approbation and the respect she garnered because she had birthed him, loved the way people who had once treated her with contempt now went out of their way to acknowledge her, give her the time of day, whether they wanted to or not. Until today, as much as her son’s influence had made her life easier, he had still known that her real allegiance was with his father, the man he saw as ruining all their lives. Now Big Dan was dead by his own hand, and she felt the guilt in every breath she took, and with every beat of her heart. Her mother had always told her that no woman could have her cake and eat it too, and that was a truth she had ignored to her peril. Her son provided the cake and they had eaten it, her husband included. Now it was time to pay for her folly, and pay for it she would. She knew that better than anybody.

  Ange felt the atmosphere around her acutely and knew that her son had seen this day as a triumph, had seen it as a means to an end. She also knew that the fight had left her, she was bowed down under the weight of what the man she had loved so much had left behind him. He had died as he had lived, without a care for her or any of his children, and that knowledge hurt.

  The room was crowded with the elite of their world, and her son was the main attraction, even she knew that there was no going back after today. It was as if this was the end of her life as she knew it, but it was also the beginning of the life her son would now force her to live. Her son, her golden boy, scared her out of her wits. She realised that his father’s death meant nothing more than as a social event, was just a reason for him and his business partners to meet, drink and talk among themselves. But she had lost the love of her life and, no matter what anyone said about him, he had been her husband. Someone there should have the decency to point that much out to this son of hers. He acted as if she was the enemy, even though he was giving her husband the funeral that most women dreamed of. No one attending could even pretend that this was all for his father’s benefit, or indeed hers, for that matter; the attitude seemed to be that this event was more a mockery of his father’s life than a celebration of it.

  The Irish songs were all part and parcel of the occasion, the drink was copious and of industrial strength, but the underlying sentiment was not one of sorrow at her husband’s death, it was more like a festival in honour of her elder son’s achievements. And Ange’s heart was heavy because, no matter what he had done, he was still her boy, and she would have to stand beside him and fight for him with the last breath inside her body, if needs be. That was expected of her, and that was all she could do to guarantee at least some kind of say in her other two children’s futures.

  Frank Cotton was walking towards him and Danny Boy plastered a smile onto his face. Frank moved with the grace of a man who knew he had a niche in the world, a man who had the confidence of his reputation to keep him safe, keep his head held high. Danny Boy shook his hand firmly, felt the coolness of the man’s skin, the smoothness of his hand; it was the touch of someone who had never known a day’s real collar in their life. Danny was catapulted back to his youth, to afternoons spent lifting scrap from one place to another, to the throbbing ache of his muscles screaming with pain in the bitterness of the winter cold. A
nd his dislike of Frank Cotton came once more to the forefront of his psyche. He looked smug to him, far too sure of himself, he felt as if Frank was laughing at him, that he saw him as an object of ridicule, as someone he could mug off in public, mug off at his own father’s funeral.

  Michael was watching the pair of them warily and he saw the change in Danny Boy’s countenance; it was, as always, a lightning change, and he closed his eyes for a few moments in distress before he stepped in and swiftly took over the conversation. It was done well, with the minimum of fuss and, to the untrained eye, it would have looked natural, normal. It was anything but.

  He knew that Frank Cotton himself was aware of his intervention and he admired the way he acted as if nothing was amiss. Michael appreciated that, warmed to him for making his life so much easier. In fact, he wished for a few moments that he was in league with him; he knew life would be much easier if that was the case. He also knew Cotton would be aware when he had been blanked, and he had just been royally blanked by Danny Boy Cadogan; that much would be evident to anyone with even a microbe of nous about them within a five-mile radius.

  As Michael watched his sister neck another large drink, at the same time as watching his friend of a lifetime intentionally turn his back on Frank Cotton, he wished he could disappear, just evaporate into the atmosphere once and for all. But he couldn’t, and what he had to do now was ensure that this public and deliberate insult didn’t encroach on their business dealings in any way. Danny was striding away from them all quickly, with the stiff shoulders and hard face of a man who saw himself as deeply wronged. He was acting the part as always, setting up his next move with his usual military precision. Sighing heavily, he followed him outside, hoping against hope that he could talk some sense into him.

  Frank Cotton was angry, and that was not an emotion he had felt very often in his life. In fact, he prided himself on his calm exterior and his composure where people like Danny Boy were concerned. He saw them as beneath him, a necessary evil to be endured, but never encouraged in any kind of way. That he was at the mercy of this thug was bad enough, that said thug was determined to call him to account for supposed war crimes was blatantly obvious to anyone within farting distance. Cadogan had the monopoly on the street and he accepted that, even admired him for it. But he wasn’t about to bow down before him like a complete mug. This was not the usual youthful arrogance, something he could shrug off as high spirits. This was a deliberate and calculated insult and he knew that he had no choice but to front Danny Boy up and retrieve what was left of his character before it was too late.

  Danny Boy’s father’s death was one thing, but he had only attended this funeral under duress in the first place; for no other reason than a financial motive. A good enough reason in their world. He was here showing his respect, nothing more, and certainly nothing less. Now though, his limited patience had run out and he wanted a serious showdown, and he wanted it sooner rather than later. His friends also knew that this was not something they should or could interfere with. The occasion itself, Big Danny Cadogan’s funeral, didn’t have enough kudos to rule out any kind of definite tear-up. In fact, the general consensus was now that this was a funeral that was, in actual fact, crying out for a tear-up. Frankie Cotton was suddenly the odds-on favourite to make this sad occasion into a memorable incident. A lot of the people there would enjoy Danny Boy’s fall from grace if Frankie Cotton actually managed to muller him. On the other hand, if Danny Boy was to get the upper hand instead, then none of those observing would be any the worse off. So, for the majority of the onlookers, this was a win-win situation and although most wanted Frankie to win this bout, no one would admit that out loud until after the event and, of course, only then with the sure knowledge that Frankie Cotton had actually trounced the young pretender once and for all. A death certificate would suffice, after all, they had to earn a living.

  Frankie walked from the club with a frown on his handsome face and murder in his heart. He knew this was make-or-break time, and he also knew he was a fool to have let it get this far in the first place. But it was too late to back away now, he had to teach this young pup a lesson and, truth be told, he was looking forward to it.

  Outside, in the cold night air, he felt the rush of adrenaline that was the forerunner to a real fight, and he wanted a fight, wanted to teach this fucker a lesson he wouldn’t forget in a hurry. He had tried to make some sort of working relationship with Danny Boy, but he knew now that it was never going to happen. Any kind of connection was out of the question, the boy wasn’t intelligent enough to put aside his personal feelings. Everyone worked the streets with people they didn’t like, often people whom they didn’t even trust. But they built a mutual and beneficial relationship for the sake of the wages that had to be paid out to their workforce. It was sound economics, but the boy had no real understanding of the real world and that was his main problem. Well, he might have the roids and the monopoly on all the other drugs, but that didn’t give him a fucking get-out-of-jail-free card. The boy needed a lesson, and he was going to get one, whether he liked it or not.

  As Frank walked over to where Danny was standing, he was already tensing his body up for a fight. His heavy-set build was intimidating to anyone who knew who he was and what he had been capable of over the years. He could hear the quiet chattering of the audience that had now gathered outside the club, waiting patiently in the freezing night air for the fight to begin. Danny Boy smiled broadly as Frankie approached; it was a big, beaming smile, as if he was greeting a long-lost friend. Frankie’s face was almost comical in its confusion. He saw Michael Miles shake his head slowly before stepping backwards into the shadows.

  Frankie was nonplussed for a few moments; he knew he looked like the aggressor and he also knew that, if he had any sense, he would have come out on to this pavement with a weapon of some description in his hands. The boy was a big one, and he was handy, that much was known by everyone. In fairness, Danny Boy Cadogan could have a row. But then, so could he; in his day he had been this fucking muppet. Unlike Danny Boy though, he had always given respect where it was due. He supposed this was a generational thing, the new generation thought the older Faces were all ice creams. Mugs, fucking wombats. Well, he had just about taken all he could take.

  As he opened his mouth to speak, he barely saw the glint of the claw hammer that was suddenly winging its way towards his face; the first blow took out his right eye and collapsed the socket itself, along with the main part of his cheekbone. Dropping to his knees he was thankfully unaware of the other thirty blows that followed in quick succession and that guaranteed his entrance into East London Cemetery.

  Danny was still hammering Frank long after he was unconscious. He was too far gone to even remember that he was being watched by what now amounted to a jury of his peers, and he was far too involved with what he was doing to realise that no one was saying a word. The silence was deafening, and the animosity he had caused almost tangible.

  Michael watched sadly as Danny Boy destroyed, once and for all, any goodwill they might have enjoyed. He had reduced his own father’s funeral to a fatal tear-up, and that was something Michael knew he would never live down.

  Frank’s friends and colleagues watched with quiet intensity as he was practically obliterated in front of their eyes, and not one of them lifted a finger to help him. That didn’t mean that they didn’t care about what had happened to him though.

  When Michael finally pulled Danny Boy away he saw, with a sinking heart, three of the most influential Faces in the Smoke motion to their minders to remove Frankie and take him to the nearest hospital. They looked at each other and Michael knew that Danny Boy was all but finished. Then Danny removed an envelope from his overcoat pocket and, waving it in front of everyone’s faces, he said sadly, ‘He asked for that. This is a statement he made to the Filth accusing me of all sorts.’ He then pulled the statement from the envelope and ripped it up into little pieces before throwing it on to the filthy ground. Walking b
ack into the club, Michael and Danny could hear the police sirens in the distance. They knew that others would follow suit.

  In the toilet Michael watched as Danny Boy washed his face and hands fastidiously before combing his hair and straightening his clothes.

  ‘Supposing someone decides to pick that paper up, Danny?’

  Danny Boy smiled his crooked smile and said, innocently, ‘So what if they do? His signature’s on it, not me old man’s, you don’t think I’d fucking be stupid enough to do something like that do you?’

  Michael didn’t bother to answer him. Danny stared into his eyes through the grubby mirror above the wash basins and said happily, ‘I told you I didn’t like him, didn’t I?’

  Michael sighed heavily then and, taking all his courage into his hands, he whispered, ‘You couldn’t let it go, could you? You couldn’t just try and get on with him. You had to cause fucking murders . . . You don’t need me, Danny Boy. For a start, you don’t listen to a fucking word I say, do you? Thanks to you we’ve just lost our biggest asset. You’ve not only accused him of being a grass but you’ve also compounded that lie with a false witness statement. You’re out of fucking order, Danny Boy, you’re out of the frigging loop.’ He was shouting now, his anger had finally surfaced, and he was beyond caring any more about how Danny Boy would react to his criticism.

  Danny Boy laughed, still watching himself in the mirror. He was acting for all the world as if this was a normal day, and they were having a normal conversation. It was almost surreal. ‘Shut up, you tart! I have spent ages laying the groundwork for today’s little fracas, and you better back me up on it, boy. There is no way in this world that cunt was seeing another birthday, at least not while I have a fucking breath in my body to prevent that happening. And you had better remember that I don’t suffer fucking fools or cunts gladly, Micky boy, ask your fucking sister. Now, calm yourself down and let’s get back to me dad’s funeral, shall we?’