by Martina Cole
‘Who was she then?’
Michael shrugged. ‘No one.’
They drove the rest of the way in silence.
Denise looked down at Danny Boy and grinned. His coming to her flat like this was almost a romantic gesture as far as she was concerned. That he used her was not something she let bother her for any length of time. She loved the fact he was here, with her, that he would be seen leaving her flat the next morning; she believed that he somehow needed her.
Denise actually loved this man, and she knew it. She loved his strength, his viciousness, and his name. That her friends and neighbours would see him jumping into a cab home from her place was like a balm to her. She had his fucking son and he acted like that meant nothing to him, but he knew where to come when things were going pear-shaped. That he came to her when he was out of his head, she saw as a compliment. She actually believed he cared for her but his wife was standing between them and their destiny. Well, she had given him something that bitch had never managed. A son. Danny Boy Junior. He was like him as well, big and heavy-boned with the deep-blue eyes and thick Irish hair that made complete strangers remark about how good-looking he was. Danny Boy had ignored her for months, she knew about his latest little escapade, the little secretary. Well, she still lived with her mum and dad so he knew he wouldn’t be welcome around there. This was his haven, his safe place.
As she kissed him she could taste the bitterness of his tongue, could taste the yellow coating that the brandy and drugs had put there. She pushed her tongue into his mouth urgently, flicking it around, pushing it in and out the way he liked. She could hear him groaning, and felt a moment’s euphoria at the knowledge he wanted her.
‘I missed you, Danny Boy.’
She was confident in herself now, thought she had the upper hand. He opened his eyes and looked around the room, the room he had paid for; he had given this girl a lot of his time and money. Through his jumbled mind he knew he had been out of order, knew that the demon he lived with on a daily basis had reared its ugly head again, but the feel of her hand inside his trousers as she rubbed his cock was good so he closed his eyes again and tried to enjoy it. But he was feeling so drunk and stoned that he was numb and, pushing her away roughly, he sat up and, realising where he was, he started to laugh. ‘Make me a drink, girl, I’ll cut us a few lines, eh?’
Denise grinned at him then, pleased he was finally coming round; happy he was livening up a bit. She went to the kitchen and got him a can of Tennent’s from the fridge. Denise, like a lot of girls in her position, always looked good. Even when going to the shops she made sure she had full make-up on, and that she was dressed as if going on the date of a lifetime. She went to bed with her hair perfect and her sexiest underwear on. She knew that this bastard could turn up at any time, and when he did, she wanted to look her best. As she poured the lager into a glass she glanced at herself in the mirror she had propped up on the kitchen windowsill. She thought she looked pretty good considering the lateness of the hour. She was a pretty girl, and she had burned her boats for the man who had given her a child and then promptly forgotten about them both. Like many a girl before her, she had mistaken sex and lust for love, and now her son was the reason she was starved of both. There were not many men who would venture into territory that Danny Boy Cadogan had conquered. In many respects, her life was over the day she had decided not to abort his baby. If she had been older and wiser, and knew what she knew now, she might have flushed the poor little fucker down the toilet. However, she had not done that, and he was with her, as was his father, though how long he would be there was anyone’s guess. But every time he did this to her, turned up out of the blue, he made her believe all over again that she might be in with a chance with him. That he might one day come and stay for good.
As she snorted a large, white fluffy line, she knew he was watching her, and she liked the attention he gave her at times like this. He fucked her rigid, and she knew she was wrong to let him use her like he did. But he was so seductive when he was vulnerable. She knew he was a looney tunes, knew he was a fucking cruel bastard when the fancy took him, but for her that was the attraction he held. She liked that she could tame him, not all the time, but sometimes, like now. When he would fuck the arse off her and then tell her how much he loved her, how she could fulfil his appetite for sex and companionship. He didn’t put it into those words of course; she read into whatever he said to her what she wanted. She was adept at conning herself that he wanted her as much as she wanted him, that it was his wife, his legal wife, who was the stumbling block where they were concerned.
She sat at his knee, and he ran his hand through her long blond hair, and the feeling was overpowering. The gentle touch was enough for her then. She had him now, she was his. He pulled her round until she was kneeling before him, the soft leather of the sofa creaking as he shifted his weight while he pulled his trousers down to his ankles. She watched him avidly, everything about him was electric now. He sat back in his seat and splayed his legs, his trousers and underpants around his ankles. His cock was huge, bulging with blood and she caught the smell of his sweat and his semen as he forced her head down hard onto it, pushed it into her mouth without any preamble whatsoever. And, as always, she sucked on him as if her life depended on it; she made such a meal of it he was entranced. But what he saw wasn’t Denise, he saw his mother, pregnant and penniless, but still allowing his father back into the house, even though he had sold them all down the fucking Thames. He saw Mary, another fucking slag-bag, another one who had had more cocks than Liz Taylor. He saw Michael’s new bride and, as he came, he forced his cock right down the girl’s throat, her choking sounds only making his enjoyment last longer. She was almost retching when he finally finished and, breathing heavily, feeling the pounding of his heart, the crashing sound in his ears that always reminded him that he was alive, he watched as Denise took a large swig of his lager to wash away the taste of him, sanitise her mouth, cleanse it of his cum.
Stretching, he suddenly felt tired, and as he watched Denise cutting up another few lines he said nastily, ‘You fucking mongrel, you’re like a fucking Electrolux, hoovering up the white and sucking off anyone with a wrap in their pocket.’
He saw the hurt in her eyes, saw the hatred there that always made him feel as if he had achieved his goal where women were concerned. They were all the same, they used you, they always had a hidden agenda. The more you treated them with kindness and respect, the more they fucking believed you were a mug. He was a mug; his mother had never had it so good and yet she had still blanked him for a man who had given her nothing except kids and grief. He hated it when he was like this, when he let things bother him. He hated that he had been cunted off by his own flesh and blood, that nothing he had ever done had been deemed good enough. Even his father had tried, with his last breath, to take him down with him. He knew that the majority of people in this world were takers, were users, and he liked the fact that the Denises and the Marys of this fucking dump were too thick to see that.
‘Don’t you fucking talk to me like that, Danny Boy, I ain’t fucking having it. No one talks to me like that.’
She stood up, a smudge of white crusted around one nostril, and she drew herself up to her full height, ready to fight with him to regain her self-respect.
He loved her then, knew she was a fit mother for his son, loved her anger, loved that she would fight him, and he grinned at her, his whole demeanour changing in seconds.
‘Where’s this son of mine, eh? Let me see this boy I pay through the nose for.’
She rolled over then, as he knew she would. As she always did if he showed the least bit of interest in their son.
In reality, he felt nothing, not for her, nor for anything she might have produced from her body. But she didn’t know that, and he was not about to inform her of it. She had served her purpose, and all he wanted now was a few hours’ kip and a cooked breakfast. Not a lot to ask in the grand scheme of things.
Chapter
Twenty-Three
Danny Boy looked down at his daughter and smiled. Mary had finally delivered a child, a full-term and lusty child. A child that was strong of limb and ridiculously healthy. After the other babies, this one seemed almost too perfect. He never thought she would manage it, would produce a living being. It had taken her long enough. That he had been the cause of each miscarriage Mary had experienced was conveniently forgotten about, he now saw himself as the wronged party in the play that constituted their married life, as the man bereft of children because his wife couldn’t manage even that much until now. Until this tiny scrap of perfection had been created by Him especially to make up for all the disappointments in the past. It was as if she had been especially ordained, somehow, to survive when the others had not. In his heart he knew a son would not be welcome, not really. Not for the first child anyway. This daughter had been just what he needed; a girl. He loved girls, females. He could control them.
As he looked down into the deep-blue eyes that he knew would become just like his own, he felt, for the first time in years, a twinge of genuine emotion. Real affection and love. This tiny bundle was all his; he almost could feel their kinship, as if it was a living thing, as if their bond was tangible. Her tiny body and perfect limbs were like some kind of amazing miracle that he had never known about until this moment. The feel of her was like nothing he had ever experienced before. Her little hands had him almost mesmerised as he gazed at them with genuine incredulity. So tiny, so perfect. Already grasping, she was grabbing at the air, he liked that about her. And he felt that, one day, there would be a lot for her to grab hold of. She was the only female he had ever felt any kind of respect for, the only female he knew would take precedence over his own life. It was a real eye-opener, and it frightened him; loving someone more than he loved himself was a novelty.
Her tiny mouth opened in a mewling cry that seemed to tug at the very heart of him, the noise creating inside his chest an almost primeval urge to protect her, and a feeling of ownership that was as powerful as it was frightening. He saw this child as he had never ever seen anything before in his life, as a perfect thing, a warm and innocent human being, a person that he had created, and who depended on him for everything. Unlike his outside children, this child, this baby born in the blanket of his marriage, he felt a real and a deep affinity for. Even Mary, lying there, devoid of make-up, tired out and exhausted from the difficult birth, yet still somehow looking better than most women in their prime, suddenly seemed to create an affection inside his chest that he had never felt for anyone before.
Mary smiled at him tentatively, and her nervousness made him feel bad momentarily, for the first time in years he really wanted to make her feel loved. Cared for. Make her feel better. But he honestly didn’t know how to do that, he had got out of the habit of being nice to her somehow. She was a good old bird, and he knew that, in her own way, she was an asset to him. But, unlike this daughter here, who already cried out for his attention and demanded his consideration, she had folded much too soon. Buckled under him without him even having to try very hard. So he looked back at his daughter and, as he hugged her tightly to him, he knew his life would never be the same again. This was real, this was something he knew he could do right, properly. This girl would never want for anything, he would make sure of that; she was the biggest thing in his world. He knew that he had finally found his Achilles heel, and it had turned out to be this tiny scrap of humanity, this noisy, demanding little person. From this day forward he knew that he had a weakness at last, and that weakness was this child and the need he felt to protect her from harm. He had built a wall up inside him, he had been neutered many moons ago by his father’s hate and indifference, but this child made him realise that kids were more than just an appendage. More than just a drain on your finances. He would not be his father’s son, he knew he would move heaven and earth for his kids, and for Mary; as the mother of his children she was now above reproach. This baby was the best thing in his life. Children, he realised, were all you had at the end of the day.
They were authentic, they were the only thing you could ever really call your own in this shithole that passed as a life. He had prayed for some kind of sign, something to prove to him that this existence was worthwhile, and he had been rewarded, given the answer all right. It was his little girl, with her blue eyes and her hypnotic stare.
His smile was wide and genuine as he felt the strength of her, this daughter of his, even though inside, he was terrified at the power this child held over him. That she had arrived at such a crucial time in his life was not coincidental, he was at the pinnacle of his success and this baby was the icing on the cake, as far as he was concerned. Grabbing Mary roughly, he hugged the two of them to his chest and, for the first time in years, felt utterly at peace with himself.
When Mary placed the child to her breast he felt a passion for her that he had not even known existed.
Mary Cadogan had wanted this man’s love, and now she had it, she had it in abundance. It was so powerful, and she was so grateful for it, that the consequences of her husband’s new-found adoration for her didn’t even cross her mind.
Arnold and Michael were both listening intently to Danny Boy as he sounded off about their new business partners in Spain. He was overexcited about this new venture; it would make them a lot of money. But, really, that was neither here nor there, what excited him was that this new deal would finally place them at the top of the tree in criminal terms. To be the person who controlled Marbella was on a par with running the country; he was like a prime minister, he would decide who got what and, more importantly, who got fuck all. He would head the company that decided on every aspect of the Spanish dream, from how much the expats paid for their cars, to how much they would weigh out on their villas. Villas that could not even be built without his express say-so. He would determine what went up their noses and what food they would purchase from the local supermarkets. Anything that they bought or sold would, in some way, be controlled by him and Michael. His arm would be so long it would stretch across the Med to Morocco and beyond. From drugs and guns to the produce on sale in the local markets, he would be the person who would be responsible for all of it. Fuck Sainsbury’s, he was better than Harrods; if you wanted it, needed it, or desired it, he would make sure you got it.
Danny enjoyed the power he held over everyone in his immediate orbit and beyond. No one could earn so much as a fucking peso without giving a percentage of it to him, it was the equivalent to having a licence to print money. It was real bunce, and the casino he owned out there was bringing in more poke in a week than all the London scams together. Michael had really surpassed himself this time and, with his acumen and Danny Boy’s natural animosity, the deal had been done with the minimum of aggravation on all sides. The removal of a few obstacles, namely the people who had previously been in control, was already forgotten about by the majority of the people living out there.
Danny Boy was determined not to make the same mistakes as they had, namely creaming off too much money from the legitimate workers. No one could survive if the actual grafters, the people who did the day-to-day fucking shite, the mundane and boring, the actual daily toil, were not happy with their end, their earnings. That much stood to reason, and Danny Boy was aware that goodwill was the staple diet of all dictators. Without it, they were completely fucked.
He was not going to make the same mistake as the Connors; they had let their power go to their heads, and made the fatal mistake of letting him get a foothold, it had started with the drugs trade. From that vantage point, he had watched and waited until, eventually, he had forced them out. Without the drugs and the gun trade, the Connors had ended up as nothing more than muppets. The equivalent of local bully boys. Without the backing of their Arab counterparts they were reduced to flying into Gibraltar like tourists, because no private carriers would entertain them any more. That meant, of course, that the Old Bill could easily track their movements. Especially as Danny Boy
had leaked their names to the relevant parties beforehand anyway. He had learned, many years before, that grassing could be lucrative. The Connors, who had somehow not been nicked or charged, had somehow disappeared, never to be heard of again. And, as no bodies had turned up, it had to be assumed they were on the run from the authorities. Minus their wives and children of course.
Spain was such a big market, and it was so lucrative that whoever was running it was accepted as the elite of the European underworld. Even the Krauts had not managed to get a toehold in Marbella, and it wasn’t for lack of trying either. The Spanish didn’t like them any more than the Brits did, and it wasn’t just over a couple of world wars and a few football games; the Germans just didn’t have the presence of mind that was required for this sort of venture.
The Spanish themselves had not been quick enough, had not predicted the British need for a safe haven and winter sun. In fact, other than the Arabs, no one had really understood its full potential. Even the Connors had never really expanded as they should have done, relying on too many other people to do the job for them. That was like giving a bank robber the keys to their local Barclays; eventually they were going to let themselves in and take whatever they could. Stood to reason really.