Faces

by Martina Cole

  ‘Don’t talk about Mary like that, Danny . . .’

  Danny grinned the handsome grin that caused grown women to consider adultery and young girls to consider losing their virtue. He was like a devil in disguise.

  ‘What are you going to do about it, Michael? I am carrying the fucking lot of you and you had better keep that in mind for the future; you’d better remember who pays your family’s fucking bills and who you fucking owe loyalty to. I saw you slope away, you fucking snake, you slippery cunt. Well, after today, I am free of any restrictions and I am going to go all out to achieve my goals. So, stick that one up your pipe and smoke it, you fucking treacherous cunt.’ He carried on combing his hair carefully, all the while singing a quiet rendition of ‘Forty Shades of Green’.

  Michael Miles understood then that Danny Boy had finally burned his boats, and, unfortunately, he also understood that Danny Boy had burned his boats as well. He had always known that without Danny Boy Cadogan he was nothing; now it seemed that, even with him, he was actually even less.

  Book Three

  Charity and beating begins at home.

  - John Fletcher, 1579-1625 Wit Without Money

  Chapter Twenty-One

  ‘Jonjo, would you ever get up out of that fucking bed? Danny Boy will be here soon.’ Ange’s voice was almost at crescendo level and her panic was finally communicating itself to her younger son.

  Jonjo was rocking, still half-stoned from the night before, and also feeling the complete and utter fatigue that heroin seemed to wrap him in. It was a deep tiredness, it made his bones feel almost fluid, and he had begun to enjoy the luxurious sensation. The only thing that could normally tempt him away from this, tempt him out of his bed, was when he had to score again. Once the brown was gone, used up, he seemed to get a new lease of life; he was up, dressed, and round the dealer’s in a matter of minutes. Once he had purchased his drug of choice and returned home, the energy left him once more and he hated the intrusion the real world insisted on forcing on him again. Danny Boy was always ranting about it; that junkies were just lazy fucks who used the smack as an excuse not to join the real world. Danny argued that they were quick enough to score, so why was it that they were not as quick to earn a crust; they would rather mug an old lady for her pension or live off the green, a giro, and anyone who saw that as a viable alternative to a wage was classed as scum in his mind. No one in their right mind signed on the dole; why would you let anyone know where you lived? Skank off the government? Off people who were mug enough to pay taxes? The dole was for old people and hospitals, not for the able-bodied. It was a joke; there was a realm of opportunities out there without succumbing to government hand-outs. Danny wouldn’t even let his workforce sign on. He felt it brought too much attention to them and Danny Boy also knew that they were more liable to be grassed or watched if they were claiming the green. Also, he saw the pittance offered as a piss-take, and only worthy of people who were unlucky enough to be straight. In their game the dole amounted to beer money, fag money; it wasn’t worth the ag. In fact, it brought unwanted attention, as did a wife on the social security. Danny Boy saw anyone who signed on as a scrounger; he saw them as taking the bread from pensioners’ mouths. If more people signed off, the more money for old people and kids in hospital. For the real one-parent families and the people with disabled children.

  Danny Boy Cadogan had strong views on people he saw as scroungers and his younger brother knew that better than anyone. Danny provided for his mother; she had no chance of living meal-to-meal any more, or dreaming of winning the pools. She was set like the proverbial jelly. If Danny knew he was claiming the Jam Roll there would be murders but, like all junkies, he saw any money as drug money, no matter how small that amount might be. So he signed on and claimed benefits on the snide. He was terrible with money and he knew that. He was also shitting it in case Danny Boy found out what he was doing. He was getting a good wedge from him but, like everything else, it disappeared before he knew where he was. In fact, he was weighing out so much on drugs that he actually owed money all over the Smoke. The brown was bad enough, but he also had to buy the jellies, the Librium capsules that he combined with the heroin to mellow him out. They relaxed him, helped stave off the shakes and the trembling that seemed to be with him constantly these days. He also spent fortunes on amphetamine sulphate, which he needed to wake him up and give him the boost he required to get out of the house when Danny Boy demanded to see him. He wondered if Danny knew about his habit, and decided once more that he didn’t. If Danny Boy knew he was on the brown he would go ballistic. Jonjo also knew that no one was going to inform his brother either; no one would want to be held responsible for serving him up. He had already scratched a couple of local bully boys and they were not exactly champing at the bit to reclaim the debt. He knew he had a result because no one was about to threaten him or chase him for a debt that they knew was socially unacceptable in his circles.

  In fact, Jonjo knew they only let him have it on credit because he was Danny Boy’s brother, and he was quite happy to use that to achieve his ends. He also knew that he was fast running out of people he could scratch up. He would be forced to go to the Turks soon, and they were mad bastards who were capable of ignoring his family connection and breaking his legs anyway. He was getting agitated once more and, like all junkies, he had the annoying habit of constantly checking his stash, as if, without his regular monitoring, it would dissolve into thin air. He was feeling under the mattress as a matter of habit as his mother’s voice was once more hammering through his bedroom door and, jumping from the bed, he screamed out on to the landing, ‘All right! I heard you the tenth time for fuck’s sake, you silly old bitch!’

  As he walked back into the bedroom he heard his sister running up the stairs and he braced himself for the onslaught he knew was coming. She was getting on his nerves lately; she was determined to be Danny Boy’s blue-eyed girl, and he had a sneaky feeling she was going to achieve her goal. She had sussed out his little habit many moons ago, but he was confident she would keep it under her hat. He had enough on her to blow her out of the water and, as luck would have it, she knew that as well as he did.

  Annie might have the love of her big black man, but she also had the love of a big white one as well. In fact, since the old man’s demise, she had the love of anyone who was kind enough to buy her a vodka and blackcurrant or, in extreme circumstances, and times of crisis, a lemonade. She was a fucking slag-bag and, as she stormed into his bedroom he yelled, ‘Fuck off and leave me alone, Annie.’

  She was so angry, her breathing was loud and heavy. She could smell the sweetness of his sweat; it was heavy in the room and it had the heavy addict’s tang to it that caught in the throat of the unsuspecting. She kept her eyes on her brother, saw the emaciated body that was normally hidden by his baggy clothes and said nastily, ‘You’d better shut your fucking trap, if Danny Boy knew what you got up to he’d annihilate you, and he’s just pulling up outside ...’

  Jonjo was white-faced in seconds, and she laughed loudly as he started to get dressed quickly. Everything was forgotten now as the panic set in.

  ‘Joke!’

  Annie was laughing her head off at the terror she had caused, and he closed his eyes for a few moments before allowing his body to relax once more, then he chased his sister down the stairs to get his revenge. He saw his mother standing in the kitchen, and he stopped in the doorway to look at her. She looked so small, so dejected, her grey hair thinner than ever, and her eyes were sunken; she looked old, old and frail and the image scared him. He walked in and, opening his arms, he pulled her into them. Instead, she pushed him away roughly, saying, ‘I know what you’re doing and I’m ashamed of you. My son a fucking junkie. Well, if you don’t stop what you’re doing then I’ll tell Danny Boy meself, and he’ll kill you.’

  He dropped his arms listlessly and, shaking his head, he said loudly, ‘Oh, Mum, don’t make me laugh, does it really matter what kills me?’

 
Annie was saddened by his words and, putting her arm around his shoulders, she forgot their usual antagonism as she snapped at their mother, ‘Leave him alone, we all need something where that mad bastard is concerned.’

  ‘Whatever he might be, at least he ain’t on fucking drugs.’

  Annie shook her head slowly, her beautiful heart-shaped face was screwed up in consternation at her mother’s words, at her righteousness. ‘I wouldn’t be too sure about that, Mum, he’s had his moments. But then, you would score them for him if he asked you to, wouldn’t you? Well, he’s worse than drugs, he’s worse than war, he is a one-man fucking demolition unit. He is human cancer. He destroys everyone around him, and that includes me dad, your husband. So, bear that in mind when you’re vilifying us, eh, you two-faced old cow.’

  Ange was already pulling herself up to her full height which, compared to her children, was not much. And she looked her daughter over slowly, as if her eyes were disgusted by the sight she saw. ‘One of these days, you miserable whore, you will get your comeuppance, and that big mouth of yours will be shut up once and for all.’

  Annie pulled her brother from the kitchen, shouting over her shoulder loudly, ‘Oh piss off, you old bag, you can’t hurt us, no one can any more. We’re immune to it now. You made sure of that when you let your blue-eyed boy take the fucking whole house over, when you let him torture me dad, and ruin all our lives. I hope you’re pleased with yourself, hope you’re proud of your family. A junkie and a whore, oh, and a murderer, we don’t want to leave anyone out, do we?’

  Ange was fuming at the girl’s words, at the truth of them. She was trying her best to keep this family together, to keep them on an even keel. Why didn’t this pair understand that she had no say over Danny Boy, not any more. She was only trying to look out for them, stop Danny Boy from finding fault, from taking his annoyance out on them. Why did these two always see her as the bad person? She was only looking out for them, she was only trying to help. Why were they so angry with her; she had tried her whole life to make things easier for them, to protect them. They were the ones who caused all the grief, they knew what Danny Boy was like; they knew how he viewed the world. They knew she couldn’t control him. All she wanted was to see them safe and secure. All she wanted was to see them settled, see them happy. But even as she told all these things to herself, she knew that what she wished for was an impossibility, Danny Boy would see to that. Danny Boy saw to everything.

  ‘Oh, Michael, stop being a fucking tart.’

  Danny was striding around the office of the casino, his huge body encased in an expensive suit and his immaculate hair shining in the morning sunshine. Detective Inspector David Grey was watching him closely, and he was not impressed with the way he had taken the news he just imparted. Namely, that he was in the frame for the murder of Frank Cotton, among others. That he and his colleagues were having to use all their contacts and trust funds to keep a lid on this man’s fucking activities.

  ‘Excuse me, Danny Boy, but you are on the road to ruin. You can’t go around killing people and expecting to get away with it. You’ve got to sort this out, and you’ve got to sort it sooner rather than later.’

  Danny Boy looked at the man as if seeing him for the first time. He took in the thinning hair, the shiny fabric of his off-the-peg suit, and the ragged nails that made him look like a door-to-door salesman. He was beneath his notice in the real world, in his world. That this muppet felt he actually possessed enough power to question him and his actions was unbelievable. In fact, Danny Boy was now wondering what the fuck he was even doing letting this piece of Filth into his place of work in the first place.

  Recognising the signs, Michael tried to calm the situation down. He was terrified that the next person to go on the missing list would be an Old Bill. A bent Old Bill admittedly, but a Filth all the same. If Danny lost it with this prick, and he was a prick, his words and his attitude proved that much, they would then be in a position that all the money in the world couldn’t buy them out of.

  ‘Hey, come on, Dave, let’s get this in perspective . . .’

  Grey stood up; he was a big man, and he had a big personality. That was how he had ended up on the take in the first place. Gambling and women were his forte. He liked to be on the fringes of the criminal underworld; he got the best seats at the boxing and he got the money he required to live a little when the fancy took him. He was in possession of a nice big semi, a luxury car, and was in the process of buying a place on the Costa. But even he knew that Danny Boy could never be immune to having his collar felt unless he lowered his profile a bit.

  ‘You can’t go around fucking attacking people at will, no one has that kind of power any more. And I can’t fucking guarantee you won’t be nicked if someone ever puts your boat-race in the frame. I can only do so much, you have to keep your temper in check and do any fucking future sorting out in the privacy and comfort of your own home, or warehouse, or fucking concrete bunker. Anywhere, in fact, where no one can see or hear you. Do you get my drift?’

  Danny Boy stared at the man for long moments and Michael knew that this was either going to be the worst day of his life, or the last day of Grey’s life. He knew Danny Boy better than anybody; he had always suspected that his brain was wired differently to the rest of the world’s. He had no real care for anyone or anything, he did what he felt was expected of him, what he felt the world around him would expect him to do.

  Danny Boy saw himself as a maverick, as a thinker, an intellectual. He believed his views on everything were the only views worth pursuing. He was a fucking nut-bag and David Grey should know that better than anyone. He was paid to clear up their shit, to neutralise Danny Boy’s temper tantrums and sanitise him for the local judiciary; most of whom were in his debt in one way or another. He knew that Danny Boy was not someone you could talk down to, or reason with in any way. His behaviour was not up for discussion at any time. Danny Boy expected people to do as they were told, jump when he demanded them to; especially when he was the one paying their wages.

  David Grey was like most bent Filth, he thought he had the edge in the relationship he earned the majority of his poke from when, in reality, the moment he took a bung, he was relegated to lower than the shit on their shoes. A fair cop was one thing, no one really minded that; it wasn’t an ideal situation, but it was understandable. A bent Filth, on the other hand, especially one expressing an opinion that he had not been paid for, was something else entirely. It was tantamount to a mutiny, he was paid to ensure this didn’t happen, not lecture them on the laws of the land. Grey didn’t have the brains he was born with if he thought he could get away with this.

  Danny Boy was already pouring himself a large drink; even at this early hour alcohol didn’t seem to affect him like it did other people. He could drink a bottle of brandy and still drive his car, talk sense, and negotiate a deal with stunning precision. It was another one of his foibles, that, and the coke and amphetamines he snorted with impunity. Throwing the drink back in two gulps he turned to where Grey was sitting and threw the heavy cut-glass tumbler at him with all the force he could manage. It smashed into the side of the man’s head, and the force knocked him to the ground. As he lay there stunned, the blood seeping from a large gash behind his right ear, Danny loomed over him and said quietly, as if talking to a small child. ‘What part of “I own you” don’t you understand?’

  Michael was on his feet, and waiting to see what Danny Boy was going to do next. Grey was lying there, curled up in the foetal position, his arms covering his head, expecting another assault at any moment. He was realising for the first time ever exactly what he was actually dealing with. He was getting a taste of the Danny treatment and he was now fully aware of what his role was in the drama that was young Cadogan’s life. He was no more than a foot soldier, a means to an end. His dreams of using Danny Boy until he had achieved his financial goals receded into the sunset, along with any thoughts he might have had about leaving this operation of his own free w
ill. He was, he knew without a second’s doubt, finished. Even if he was lucky enough to leave this room alive, which was debatable, his life as he knew it was over.

  Mary felt sick, but it wasn’t the morning sickness she craved, it was the sourness of her hangover that was causing it. She stood up unsteadily and crept towards the coffee percolator. As she poured out a cup of the thick strong brew she inhaled the aroma and swallowed down the sickness once more. The kitchen was filled with bright autumn sunshine and, spooning sugar in her cup, she went back to the huge, scrubbed wood table and gingerly sat back down. In the three months since her father-in-law’s funeral her life had escalated out of control. She daydreamed about her husband’s death. It was with her constantly. As she washed up, made beds, or watched TV, the thoughts were always there.

  Mary’s favourite daydream, usually after her first drink of the day, was of getting a knock on the door in the middle of the night; it was the police, telling her that her husband had been shot through the heart and brain repeatedly. She liked to know from the off in these fantasies that there was no way her old man could survive; even in her dreams she wasn’t wholly confident he wouldn’t come back to life just to spite her. Her pretend sorrow, and her inner jubilation were there in abundance. These thoughts kept her going, stopped her from going over the edge completely.

  As she poured a shot of vodka into the coffee she felt the tension seeping out of her body, and the vision of her husband’s body lying in the mortuary was once more foremost in her mind. His face was gone, his lovely teeth, and the sensuous mouth that hid the cruelty behind his smile was shattered and broken. She sighed with contentment at the picture in her mind’s eye, enjoyed the momentary feeling of freedom these thoughts brought her.