Faces

by Martina Cole

  He lay beside her, he could feel her dismay at his touch and, as he kissed her deeply, pushing his tongue into her mouth, feeling the warm texture of her tongue, he squeezed her breasts painfully. He felt the power she always engendered in him as he forced her legs apart and, even as she whispered to him about the pain she was in, as she begged him to wait a few weeks longer, until the doctor told her that sex was safe, as she cried bitterly because she was still full of stitches from the birth of their child, he pushed himself inside her roughly and rode her like a roller coaster. He knew that what he was doing to her was wrong, yet he enjoyed it all the more because of that. He was determined to make sure she knew who was her boss before he went to Spain. Determined to make sure she remembered him and what he meant to her and her child.

  When he finally finished with her, felt himself coming inside her, she was crying silently and, as he looked at her lovely face, then saw the blood all over the sheets, he knew that he had been right about her. Without this baby she had finally produced for him, she would have been kicked to the fucking kerb sooner rather than later. Her main attraction these days was that her brother was his best friend and partner. But Spain had worried him, because he would need to commute for a while, and this wife of his was far too pleased about that for his liking. She had needed to be reminded of what he was capable of when pissed off. Needed to be reminded of his wrath. She was lying there now, curled up on her side of the bed, crying softly, looking vulnerable, her lovely hair spread around her like a halo, and then he loved her again. For a few minutes he saw her as the mother of his only child. His only legal child anyway, a child who would be baptised, loved, and taken care of as if she had been born into royalty. Which, in many ways, of course, she had. He was criminal royalty and, as such, his children already had the edge over most of their contemporaries. But for him, now, Mary was still in some ways an unfortunate mistake, and he wished he had waited a while before he had lumbered himself with her for all eternity.

  But what was done was done, she was his wife, there was no divorce now, and that was that in their world. He could do what he wanted to do, with anyone he wanted to do it with, whereas she had no choice but to do whatever he decided she could do. And, if he dumped her, that was her lookout. No man would touch her with a barge-pole now.

  Mary knew he wouldn’t do that to her though, she knew he would still be hovering over her when she was in a coffin. He felt that, as her husband, he owned her and, to all intents and purposes, he did. She was desperate for him to abandon her and his baby, even as she knew that he would not leave her with this child. She would leave without her baby, leave this house alone. And Mary also knew that, without Danny, she would not last five minutes. He was not a man who suffered fools gladly; he was also not a man who would suffer anything he didn’t want to. She knew that his goodwill was more important that anything else in the world to her and to her child. He was also capable, she was convinced, of dumping her and this child if the fancy took him. She didn’t feel confident that even the birth of this little girl could guarantee this man’s undying affection or loyalty to either of them. Her or his daughter. Danny was capable of walking away from them both, dumping them at a whim, as if they didn’t exist, without any consequences whatsoever. Who, in their right mind, would dare to question his motives? Certainly not her brothers, she knew the truth of that better than anybody. She knew that if that did ever happen, no one would ever come to her aid. Without him, without Danny Boy, her husband, she was finished, and that knowledge hurt her more than anything else. This child’s birth had proved to her once more just how much power he had over her life. And now her children’s lives. He would make a point of running their lives as he did hers and everyone around him.

  This meeting with her husband had shown Mary just how much of a coward she really was, how desperate she was to stop any kind of confrontation. She knew it was a pointless exercise anyway. Danny Boy would wipe her off the face of the earth and laugh while he was doing it. He saw her as nothing more than the shit beneath his shoes, as the sister of his best friend. A friend he cared for more than he did any one else, even his own family. The knowledge hurt her because she still cared for him, and she guessed that he knew that, and that was why he made her feel even lower down the food chain than she really was. After all, as Danny Boy’s wife, she was literally guaranteed deference and respect from everyone who came into contact with her. If he didn’t give it to her in private, he made sure she was afforded it in public.

  Life was so hard for her and the birth of her little daughter, a daughter she was too frightened to name without her husband’s express permission, had just exacerbated her fear of him, this child had tied her completely to a man she knew hated her, as he hated all women. But he was the Face of Faces now. He was the ultimate Face, the main man.

  Danny’s name was whispered in certain circles, and his reputation talked about with awe by the people who dreamed of being him, even as they knew it was not an option, could never happen. They knew, as she knew, that they didn’t have the nerve to be a Face. A real, honest-to-goodness Face. It took a lot more energy and a lot more time than most people were willing to give. It was something that was ongoing, that was there twenty-four-seven. They knew that was only available to a few men; those men willing to do whatever was necessary to keep their reputations intact.

  The Danny Boys of this world were few and far between; they were one-offs. Scary fuckers who thought only of themselves, thought only of how others might perceive their actions and who were for the most part dangerous bastards with huge egos and a natural dislike for their fellow man. Men they would wipe out without any kind of remorse. Because, as far as they were concerned, they had asked for everything they had got. It was that simple, that easy for them.

  Mary was in agony, her stitches were broken, and the stinging sensation, the burning she felt was almost too much to bear. Blood was everywhere, and the knowledge that all she wanted was a drink depressed her even more than what had just happened to her. Danny Boy had achieved what he had wanted all these years. She was finally broken, physically and mentally. And they both knew that.

  Danny Boy was standing on the balcony of his suite. The hotel was not only upmarket but also very discreet. It was luxury such as he had never experienced before in his life. He was looking out at the sun-drenched beach, marvelling at the crystal blue waters of the Mediterranean. He could see a family sitting together, watching their children as they ran in and out of the gentle waves, and saw a life that he had never even guessed existed. He saw how a family could enjoy the sunshine, enjoy each other’s company for real. He felt happy watching them, felt that he was finally at peace with himself.

  Danny saw this new venture as something he could embrace with a zealousness that would shock his contemporaries. He knew, without a doubt, that this was the way to go. Knew that Spain and all it could offer would become a big part of the London scene. He knew, instinctively, that this was a scrumpers’ paradise.

  And he owned it; this was all his. From the timeshares to the bars and clubs making their mark from Marbella to Benidorm, Danny Boy was the main benefactor for the majority of people now hiding out here, people who needed a safe haven from the UK authorities. He was in his element, and he was treated like visiting royalty.

  Danny Boy liked the fact that, thanks to the new world they inhabited, Europe was waiting to be conquered. The screaming Ab Dabs and the Bubble and Squeaks were lining up to sell their wares to an unsuspecting public. From Morocco to Athens, thanks to British Telecom and British Airways, the drugs trade was thriving. In fact, it was reaching out to the rest of the world. South America had a lot to offer. Especially the Colombians, who had already conquered the American market, and were now ready to supply the rest of the Western world. Cocaine had become the designer drug of choice, snorted by movie stars and rock singers. It was seen as a stimulant that had no real downside. It had once been the domain of the very rich; now though, thanks to the miracle of
modern shipping and air travel, it was readily available to anyone with the money to pay for it. The eighties were the era of big hair and big borrowing. Even the wannabe dealers borrowed with a recklessness that left the Danny Boys and the Michaels amazed at their stupidity. They were willing to borrow out the money of course, it was good business. Unfortunately, unlike Barclays or Lloyds, they foreclosed on those loans quicker and with much more violence than was necessary.

  It was a great time for everyone involved, and it was also a time for reflection. Money was made overnight by people who had not got the brain capacity to deal with their new-found wealth. They tended to arm themselves up to the teeth and had the annoying habit of snorting their own product. This enabled Danny Boy to gradually get back his initial outlay, reap the benefits of his own personal lending rate then, when the fancy took him, take out the same people who were now, inadvertently, and through no fault of their own, his competitors. He loved it.

  His natural antagonism made this new venture an agreeable and very lucrative earner for him. He gave the people concerned the wherewithal, both the money and the access to the drugs needed, to ply their trade, and then he foreclosed on them when they least expected it, taking back not only his initial investment, but the future earnings they had coming to them. He liked Spain, but he didn’t like having to depend on other people for the product. But even he knew that he had no choice but to broker it, like everyone else in their game did. But it galled him nonetheless. He hated that he couldn’t produce the product himself. That he had to depend on others to do it for him. But he was determined to change that. As the end of the eighties approached, Danny decided that he would get a foothold into the suppliers if it killed him. He was determined to make a name for himself in as much as he would be the first outsider to finance his own crops. He would not only chase the fucking dragon, he would slay the bastard while he was at it. Never content with being on the periphery of life, and against all the advice he had sought so earnestly, he felt that he was within his rights to demand a percentage of the actual crop itself. He had done it with the Jamaicans for their grass and he had done it with the Turks and the skag. It was a buyers’ market now, the world. And it was so small that anywhere could be accessed in what amounted to hours. Danny Boy was not prepared to sit back and be a minor player any more. He was now prepared to invest so much money that he would be the main player in Europe.

  Against Michael’s advice he set the chain in motion, still believing, as always, that he had an inbuilt knack for seeing an earner when it reared its ugly head. As 1990 loomed, Danny Boy Cadogan was unaware of the animosity his actions had caused. He was the top dog, the Face of Faces. Unfortunately for him, he had not allowed for how his actions might be misconstrued by not only his workforce, but also by the very people he dealt with on a daily basis. Danny Boy thought he was invincible and, in many ways, he was, but he had the knack of making enemies where there should have been friends. He also had a knack of destroying people he felt were even remotely dangerous to him and his pursuit of happiness. His complete indifference to their plight did not make him any friends. In fact, it only gathered him enemies. Enemies who smiled at him, all the while waiting for him to put the final foot wrong. Danny Boy was more of a danger than he had ever been, and that was the opinion of everyone in his orbit.

  The Old Bill included. He knew that better than anyone, but he wasn’t about to let on. He heard a gentle knocking on the door of his suite, and he turned and walked back through the sitting room to open it. He was amazed to see Carole standing there and, when she walked inside without a word, he knew something terrible had happened.

  ‘What’s going on, what are you doing here?’

  She sighed heavily and said quickly, ‘Sit down, Danny Boy, there’s been a terrible accident.’

  Carole was holding his hand, and pushing him towards the plush sofa he had been admiring earlier. As he sat down he looked into her kind face, and was once more overwhelmed with affection for her. Which was precisely why she had been sent to tell him the bad news. Of all the people in the world, she was probably the only one who could impart it without fear of retribution.

  ‘What’s happened? Is it me mum?’ He assumed that was what had brought her over to Spain.

  She shook her head slowly.

  ‘It’s the baby, Danny. The baby passed away in her sleep. Sudden Infant Death Syndrome. SIDS. Or cot death, as it used to be called. It was no one’s fault, mate. I’m so sorry, Danny Boy.’

  Carole saw the look of horror that crossed his features, saw the terrible pain that was etched onto his handsome face, and wished there was some way she could make this all better for him. But she couldn’t. To finally have a child, and then lose it had to be the hardest thing in the world. Especially for poor Mary, who was inconsolable.

  Carole was as devastated as Danny Boy was, and he knew that, could see it, knew that she cared as much as he did. Knew why she had come to tell him the news. Knew that he would take it from her and from no one else.

  ‘You need to come home, mate, need to sort it all out. Mary is in bits. She haemorrhaged and is back in hospital.’

  He nodded almost imperceptibly.

  But the damage was done, and nothing could repair it. He felt appalling guilt, he had not even allowed Mary to name the child; he was going to do it when he got back. He had thought it was funny, seeing his wife squirm as she tried to refer to her baby without actually calling it anything. All because she was too frightened to ask him what she was to be known as, what he would decide to call her. Now, his little daughter had died without a name, and that bothered him. It bothered him a lot. He felt such a deep feeling of loss then, and the depth of the feeling surprised him. That he had done his daughter, a poor little child, a grave injustice was foremost in his mind. And, for the first time in years, he cried.

  Book Four

  Be a sinner and sin strongly,

  but more strongly have faith

  and rejoice in Christ.

  - Martin Luther, 1483-1546

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Jonjo was angry, really angry, and it showed. He was spitting as he talked, a sure sign of his terrible temper. Nowadays he had a reputation for his short temper and for his even shorter attention span. If he didn’t hear what he wanted to hear within a certain amount of time, he lashed out, and he lashed out royally.

  Jonjo was not the boy he had been all those years ago, and he was definitely not the same person who had depended on the needle for fulfilment. He was now a big, heavy-set man with an attitude that had already been remarked on by more than one judge. In fact, it was only his connections that had stopped him being put away for a seriously long time. He was a force to be reckoned with, and his past misdemeanours were forgotten about, much to his delight. He was ashamed of his past, ashamed of his weakness. But he now felt that he had vindicated himself. He had pulled himself together and left his junkie past behind him. That he was now, he believed, seen as his elder brother’s right-hand man was evident. And that he relished this position was patently obvious. Jonjo had grown up and, thanks to his brother, he had grown up quickly and with a kink to his nature that made him as unstable and as dangerous to all around him as his brother. He had no feelings whatsoever any more, it seemed they had died out overnight. He was now classed as his brother’s clone, as Danny Boy’s stand-in, as his stunt man, particularly when he had had a drink.

  What had once been Jonjo’s Achilles heel: his caring nature, his need to hide from the real world, had been replaced by a man who felt absolutely nothing for the people he was sent to threaten and collect money from. He was a bully and he embraced this new-found freedom. Embraced it and used it for his own ends. Jonjo had finally succumbed to his brother’s way of life and had been surprised to find out how much he actually enjoyed it. He not only enjoyed Danny Boy’s approbation, he also enjoyed the benefits of his brother’s way of life. He was proud of his reputation as a head-fuck, he loved that he was capable of instilli
ng fear into everyone around him. Jonjo had accepted that this was the only way he would ever get on in the life he lived in. The money was great, and the kudos was something he knew he would never again be able to live without.

  Jonjo grinned at the two men in front of him; they were minor dealers in many respects, but they had made a major mistake and overordered and he knew from experience that they had placed it out with their friends, expecting to coin it in. They’d served it up to people who they had believed, in their rank stupidity, were as sound as a pound. That they would bring them back the profit they were now depending on. It would be laughable if it wasn’t so tragic. He was sorry for them because he knew they had been tucked up. But that wasn’t his concern, let alone his problem. They had entered into an agreement and, even if the Filth had raided them and taken their stash, they would still be honour-bound to pay what they owed. How many of his friends had invested large amounts of cash in the belief that a shipment of grass would be forthcoming, only for that same grass to be captured by the Filth? They’d lost their investment, large or small, with a shrug of the shoulders and the relaxed acceptance that the deal could have gone either way. It was the nature of the beast. It was the world they had chosen to live in.

  Next time, these two would ensure that they only dealt out to people who they knew they could really trust. They would see past their greed, past their profit and, basically, they would finally understand what their financial commitment meant to the people involved. In effect, if they had any brains at all, the next time they dabbled in the drugs trade, they would have the sense to save him a journey, and themselves a lot of pain and aggravation by making sure that they had the money that they owed beforehand, to be paid bang on time, thereby avoiding a seriously dangerous occurrence, brought on mainly by Jonjo’s failure to listen to any excuses. He couldn’t listen to them anyway, even if he had wanted to. His brother didn’t want to hear them, so that meant neither did he. It was pretty basic really; if people had the sense to think about these things before they went into them feet first and all guns blazing, they wouldn’t get themselves into so much trouble to begin with. Greed had a lot to answer for. And the drug trade seemed to generate greed in everyone it touched, whether it was the dealers or the users. Seeing the fear behind these two eejits’ eyes, Jonjo was once again reminded of the folly that seemed to go hand in hand with get-rich-quick schemes. They were never thought through properly, never given any real consideration, except that they just might make the difference that most people needed to get on in life. To make people feel they were finally on a winning streak.