Faces

by Martina Cole

  Leaning forward in his own chair, Michael whispered, ‘In case you ain’t noticed, this is a pub, so you’ll have to walk up to the bar, mate. They ain’t got waiter service in here.’

  Arnold watched the little scenario with interest as he knew was expected of him. Michael had obviously brought him here to witness this and he was determined not to miss any of it. That this man was off his rocker was apparent, that he was a Filth was a given; he had the look of an Old Bill from the hair down to the thick-soled shoes. He was clearly a friendly one, and obviously here for the bad news.

  Michael’s body language at this moment was not conducive to a friendly chat and a cheery wave goodbye. He was coiled, ready to spring, and this man was so wired he had not even noticed. Standing up, Arnold said quickly, ‘I’ll get them in. What do you want?’

  Marsh looked up at him as if noticing him for the first time. Which they all knew was the truth of the situation. He was gone.

  ‘A Remy, large.’ He had finally lit his cigarette and this pleased him no end. He held it up to Michael’s face as if he had just worked out Einstein’s theory of relativity on the back of a matchbox.

  ‘Monkey see, Monkey do, eh? We have a few of them in the force nowadays. Good to see you’re an equal opportunities employer. Everyone needs cannon fodder, eh?’

  As Marsh spoke, he was picking imaginary pieces of lint from his suit jacket, the fingers holding the cigarette were yellowed and burned, and he had the exaggerated movements peculiar to addicts.

  ‘That monkey, as you called him, is Danny Cadogan’s brother-in-law, and one of my best mates. I don’t know what you’re fucking snorting, Marsh, but I hope there’s a painkiller in there somewhere, because you’re going to fucking need it with your big mouth.’

  Jeremy Marsh was sobering up by the second. His brain had taken on board the fact that he had just insulted his hosts; and it occurred to him that he might not be making the best of impressions. That he had been up all night, and was still on the sniff, was now making him nervous. His coke-induced arrogance was dissolving by the second and being replaced by coke-induced fear. Everything around him was heightened, from the noise of people talking to the colours on the fruit machines. This also pertained to his emotional state. Now, he was shrinking visibly, as the fear took hold.

  Arnold came back with the drinks and, placing the large brandy on the table in front of Marsh, he was surprised when the man thanked him humbly. The bravado seemed to have left him, and he looked dejected now, a broken man. He wasn’t surprised when Marsh necked his drink in two gulps. Arnold could see a cokehead from sixty paces; he had lived among them all his life. And this was a cokehead of Olympian standards. This was a man on the edge and something had been said since the man had come into the pub, sat down, attempted to light his cigarette and been the recipient of a free drink. Whatever this was, it had the desired effect. He was a shadow of his former self and Michael looked, for all the world, like a man willing to do murder at the drop of the proverbial hat.

  As Arnold sat down himself, he was surprised when Michael said to him seriously, ‘Bring the monkey out to the car.’

  Then he got up and left the pub without a backward glance.

  Danny Boy was upset and, as he waited patiently for his guest to arrive at the yard, he pondered this latest mystery that was his life. The girls’ reaction had thrown him, especially the baby, Lainey’s. It had made him realise that the loyalty he had instilled in them was working against him. That they saw their mother as a viable option over him and all he had to offer them was unbelievable.

  Yet he knew that, whatever Mary was, and she was a lot of things, a drunkard, slag, fucking pain in the arse, the girls worshipped her. He liked the fact that they didn’t want to stay at Michelle’s, he could see their point there; she was a fucking accident waiting to happen. Far too emotional for his liking. In reality, she was already dead in the water, an also-ran. She had the saggy belly and stretchmarks that generally heralded his retreat from them and their clutches. He would pay for the kid, he knew what he had to do, but other than that, she was already nothing more than a fading memory.

  He liked the girls, always had done. He didn’t love them though, except for the first few weeks. Then, once he had them, he lost interest in them. The only one to ever really get him going was Mary Miles, and that was because he knew, deep down, that she hated him. Hated him almost as much as she loved him. She loved him as the father of her children, the same children he had forced from her body with violence and intimidation and the same children he now worshipped and adored. It was strange really, that these two girls of his could engender such deep emotion inside him. Not just because he wanted them to prefer him over their mother which, he admitted, was a big part of his interest in them. But because, all that aside, he saw them as extensions of himself. Little Danny Boys who would one day be grown women, would one day produce children that would have his blood in their veins. Like Methuselah, his house, his bloodline would go on for generation after generation. For maybe nine hundred years. It was a sobering thought.

  God knew what he was doing; he knew that when He created a dynasty, it needed strong bloodlines, and he was strong all right but, in many ways, Mary was the stronger of the two. She needed to be to cope with him and everything that came with him. And he was honest enough to admit that, of all the Michelles and other young girls he came into contact with on a daily basis, none of them could hold a candle to her really. She had something they would never have, the strength needed to cope with a man like him. She was still there, drunk as she was, she was still there when he came home and it was this loyalty that kept him from destroying her, even when he felt like it.

  Mary was actually a lot more with it than people gave her credit for, and she was a good-looker, a class-dresser and, more to the point, she knew when to keep her nose out of his business. He had seen the way she reacted when one of his paramours was within her vicinity. She didn’t even glance in their direction, she acted as if she was too good for them, that she had too much pride to even notice their existence. No wonder the girls had so much heart, they were their mother’s daughters, all right. Danny felt a sudden nostalgia come over him, and remembered his Mary when he had plucked her like a flower from the man she had been so unhappy with but who she had been so determined to marry. She had opted for money over love, and who could blame her? The men in his world found love cheap and cheerful; they kicked wives to the kerb without a second’s thought, women who had stood by them through thick and thin. It was the nature of these beasts and their women knew that when they took them on. It was why they kept themselves in good nick and were exemplary mothers and home-makers. It was also why it was preferable, for the men they snared, if they had a working knowledge of the legal system. Who wanted a wife who would be silly enough to let the Old Bill in without a fight?

  But, even with all that, he knew that Mary had got under his skin more than any other woman in his life to date. No matter what he did to her, or said to her, she kept it to herself. Even her brother, his closest friend, didn’t have an inkling about what actually went on behind the large double doors of their home. He treated her like trash, he knew that, yet she still let him into her bed. He had a good one there in many respects, and he knew that better than anyone. Though often it took events like this to remind people of just how lucky they really were.

  Danny saw the lights of a car approach the office and stood up expectantly; he could hear the dogs barking as they were rounded up and caged so his visitor could make his way inside without being ripped to pieces.

  A gentle tapping on the door brought a smile to his face. He liked good manners, had always appreciated people with the grace and common decency that seemed to be so lacking in most of the population these days. Opening the door with a flourish, he said jovially, and with a laugh in his deep voice, ‘Come in, my son. Make yourself at home.’ Danny gestured for him to take a seat.

  Donald Hart entered the room with obvious
trepidation and with his best clothes on his back. This was evident not only by their newness, but by his uneasiness as he sat down. They looked stiff and uncomfortable, and so did young Donald. He had made the effort though, and Danny Boy appreciated that, it showed respect, not only for him, but for the boy in question as well, because it proved that he had respect for himself. Something that Danny Boy knew would always hold him in good stead as far as he was concerned. After all, for all he knew, he was here to get a fucking larruping, a fucking smack for his cheekiness in knocking Jonjo out. He couldn’t have made a better impression if he had brought him the head of the Serious Crime Squad on a platter with his dick in his mouth for good measure.

  ‘All right, Donald?’

  The young man nodded nervously.

  Danny Boy liked the look of him; he had already proved he had heart and, from what he had gathered today, the boy had a good reputation around town. He was reliable and shrewd. He also had a menagerie of siblings to take care of. He had a Jamaican father who had gone on the trot, leaving him with three younger brothers who were all dependent on him for their daily living expenses. And his mother, a very nice woman who still had the looks if not the body, was, by all accounts, very well placed, thanks to this son of hers. She had a small business that she ran from her home that this boy had provided the initial money for; a cleaning operation, employing a lot of women who needed work. He also helped her with everything from their mortgage to their shopping bills. She was also known for her generosity to people down on their luck, or who might be in need of a safe house for a few days. And she was also not averse to having someone bailed out to her address if the need arose. She was an all-rounder who had passed on her values to her eldest child.

  Danny Boy was not only impressed, he was humbled by this boy’s determination to get on in life. He saw himself in him. Indeed, he saw his brother’s humiliation at his hands as fate, because it had brought Donald into his orbit. He would help this boy in any way he could. Like the Bible said, ‘Let those among you cast the first stone.’

  This boy had sinned, he had smacked his little brother. In their world that was a big sin. A seriously big sin. Well, he had no intention of throwing any stones at him; he was going to reward him instead for his guts. He understood the boy’s predicament and he also admired the boy’s front in how he had dealt with the situation. So many young men would have backed down, would have thought of him, Danny Boy, and not their own self-worth. Well, he was a sinner of renown, and so was this young man and, by the time he had finished with him, he would be a sinner of fucking outrageous proportions.

  Let Old Bill cast the first stone, Danny Boy was, as always, ready and able to deal with them. He had something no one else had, and that was a mental facility for knowing who he could trust and who he couldn’t. He could trust this kid, and he would shower him with glory because he knew it would come back to him one hundredfold.

  Marsh had not spoken for ages and Arnold was getting nervous.

  ‘Give him a poke, will you, make sure he ain’t overdosed or something.’

  Michael’s voice was full of laughter as he said it, he knew that a cokehead could go from having far too much to say for themselves to an introverted nervous wreck in moments.

  ‘He is all right, Michael?’

  ‘ ’Course he is. All that’s wrong with him is that he’s shitting it. He knows he’s out of order and he’s contemplating his punishment.’ Unlike Arnold, who was really worried about their victim, Michael was playing the game. He was talking for effect.

  Michael knew, from experience, the value of a threat over direct action. The thought of something happening was far worse than an actual physical assault; though Marsh would be getting one of those as well, naturally. After all, a threat on its own was pointless unless it was seen through to the bitter end.

  Michael agreed with Danny Boy that the laws of the land were not effective because they were never seen through in their entirety. Unless the crime involved money or property, the judicial system saw fit to let people have a pass. To allow burglars and suchlike to have an easy walk. It was laughable. No wonder there were no boundaries or guidelines for the young people any more. The fact they were young was seen as reason enough to let them get away with anything, including murder. Murders that had no place in the world, murders of complete fucking strangers for a few quid and a rifle in the victim’s fridge before they went home to Mummy and Daddy. It was fucking outrageous how these people managed to come out of it all as the wronged party. At least, if they had a grudge, it was with good reason, and the person involved knew the likely outcome of their fucking actions. Rob an old lady, terrify her, grab her little bit of pension, and you got probation; rob a fucking building society and you wouldn’t see the light of day for at least twelve years. It was wrong, and even the general public were seeing it from that point of view these days. A creeper, a burglar, was lower than the fucking low in stir. Unless it was a great big house owned by a lord, or suchlike, it was seen as an abomination by the criminal fraternity. The same with muggers and con artists who preyed on the elderly or the infirm. They were bullies who needed to be locked away from society, who, by their very actions, and their complete disregard for the weaker people in their orbit, had forfeited the right to be allowed out to prowl the streets.

  And here they were now, with a so-called pillar of society, a Filth who had a gambling habit that was only outweighed by his coke addiction. A man who had been introduced to them by his boss; another fucking waster whose only saving grace was that he agreed with them about the way the law seemed to favour the wankers in their society. This man was responsible for looking after the honest people in society. The people that Michael and his ilk had no interest in robbing at all. In fact, they would be the first ones there if they heard of such an occurrence. Yet it was them who were classed as the blight on society, not this man or the fucking gas-meter bandits who robbed their own. Bent Filth always gave him the hump, especially when they overstepped the mark, when they outgrew their usefulness. As this one had, because of his blatant stupidity, his drunken antics, and his unwavering belief that he was beyond their jurisdiction. Why did Old Bill always believe they were in control, even when they took money each week and, by that very act, they had given up any kind of regard they might been given as a straight Filth? They were lower than fucking second-hand lino; it stood to reason. After all, they were quite happily betraying the people they worked with, as well as the people they were supposed to be protecting.

  Michael turned the car onto a dirt road and, as they crept along it in the moonlight, Arnold looked around him with interest. ‘Where are we?’

  Michael pulled into a small driveway and parked the car under a huge oak tree before answering, ‘This is one of Danny Boy’s investment properties, it’s empty so we can make as much noise as we like.’

  He turned in his seat and said to Marsh, ‘You can scream the place down and no one will hear you.’

  Jeremy was already in mortal fear for his life, as Michael had anticipated. Pulling him from the car he dragged him into the darkness of the garages that lay behind the house. Inside, he put on the light and motioned for Arnold to go to the workbench and wait for him to give him directions. Arnold did as he was asked, but he was feeling nervous; pasting an Old Bill was one thing, taking him out of the ball game was something else entirely. Like Marsh, he was also looking nervously at the tools laid out so neatly on the old wooden bench. From screwdrivers to awls, everything there was more than capable of inflicting serious harm, and both Arnold and Jeremy believed that would be the case.

  Michael grinned then. Pulling an old kitchen chair up he sat down heavily before saying quietly, ‘You have fucked me off and you know that, don’t you?’

  Jeremy Marsh nodded his head furiously, his eyes bulging from his head with a mixture of fear and sleep deprivation.

  ‘People are talking about you and your new lifestyle. Horrible people, the wrong people, are asking question
s about where your money comes from. And that is not something I can allow to happen. You are now what’s known as a liability. A fucking albatross hanging around my Gregory Peck. I have had two calls from colleagues of yours warning me that you are bringing attention to yourself. So, what have you got to say in your own defence?’

  Jeremy Marsh was so frightened that he was almost struck dumb. He was sweating profusely, it was dripping down from his forehead into his eyes, making them sting. His clothes were stuck to his body and the smell was ripe even in the dusty, oily stench of the garages. He looked like someone from a horror film who had just seen the murderer approach him with a chainsaw. ‘Look, Mike, I’m sorry. I can see where you’re coming from, and this won’t happen again. But you know I can be really useful to you and Danny Boy . . . I have been. Danny and me, we have a rapport. Ask him. Talk to him about it. He’ll tell you how much I’ve helped him get things sorted. Ask him about what I’ve done for him.’

  Michael and Arnold were watching the man with a morbid fascination, he was almost stuttering with fright. Yet both men sensed that he was in possession of knowledge that he felt might get him out of this trouble.

  ‘And what the fuck have you done that’s so fucking important, eh?’ It was Arnold speaking now and, to push his point home once and for all, he punched Marsh hard in the head. Giving it all his considerable strength he watched in satisfaction as Marsh flinched, drawing his head into his shoulders as the blow landed heavily and noisily on the side of his head. His ear split immediately, the skin holding it in place tearing like rice paper and leaving it hanging there, the blood already soaking into his clothes. He was crying now, silent tears that ran down his face and mingled with the snot from his nose. He was broken and they knew it.