by Martina Cole
‘Come on, then, what makes you so fucking special to Danny Boy, eh?’
Jeremy Marsh knew that he was beaten, knew that he was in far deeper than he had ever imagined. He knew that if he was to come out of this alive he needed something to use as a bargaining tool. All he had was this one thing to help him out of this mess and he couldn’t understand why Michael Miles was acting like he was unaware of his usefulness. Was acting like what he did was nothing. Was worth nothing to them.
‘Don’t you know, Mike? You have to know.’
The question was there, and so was the realisation that maybe Michael Miles really was in the dark about his actual role in the Cadogan scheme of things. That he suddenly had a bargaining chip, a real one. Pulling himself up to his full height Marsh said loudly and cockily, ‘I took over from David Grey. I am Danny Boy’s go-between.’
Chapter Thirty
Danny Boy woke up in his own house; he knew that by the smell. It always smelled of perfume and bleach. As he opened his eyes he could feel his wife’s slender body tight against him in the huge bed. He had his arms wrapped around her, and he knew that she was only there because she couldn’t get away from him. That she was already awake was a foregone conclusion. She never slept when he was beside her, and that thought saddened him this morning. He had loved her the night before, had taken her and enjoyed her in every way possible. Her compliance spurred him on these days. He enjoyed her complete detachment, it made the act so much more exciting. He was like a director, directing her so she did whatever he wanted her to. She said what he wanted her to say, and so acted like she was having the time of her life at his command. Hugging her even tighter to him, he kissed the back of her head gently. ‘Make me a cup of Rosie Lee and a bit of Holy Ghost, eh?’
Her husband’s voice was so soft, so gentle, that Mary forgot for a little while how dangerous he could be, was grateful for this little kindness he was showing her. Slipping from the bed she pulled on a dressing gown and he sat up as he watched her. Leaning back on the pillows and surveying his surroundings with the practised eye of the bully, he decided to be nice. Decided, today, to overlook her shortcomings. She had been good lately, and he had unloaded another bird in the last few days, causing him to feel the need to be reacquainted with his married life. It was always the same, and Mary knew that. He came home for a while, gave them all the pretence of a home life until he felt the urge to disappear once more for weeks, sometimes months, on end. He’d leave her wondering when he was going to show up for more than a change of clothes and a shower and, more to the point, how he would be when he did finally arrive back into the bosom of his family.
Today Mary sighed with relief at his friendliness, at his decision to take it easy on them all. As she was pinning her hair up she could feel him watching her, knew that it was the little things like this that could either set him off on one of his tantrums or, just as easily, reduce him to tears. She never knew what was going to happen, and she felt the nervous tension gripping her belly like a vice. As he watched her pinning up her thick glossy hair the girls came into the room and, seeing him there, propped up against the pillows, a smile on his face, they stopped in their tracks. Then, a split second later, Leona, always the leader, ran into his arms, Lainey following her happily.
‘What are you doing here, Daddy?’
Leona’s piping little voice and her honest question caused her mother to hunch her shoulders and grit her teeth in terror as she waited for the onslaught. But Danny Boy was on his best behaviour this lovely sunny morning, as was sometimes his wont, and laughing, he said happily, ‘I wanted to see me girls, me babes; I’ve missed you.’
Leona rolled her eyes in mock exasperation, and that just made him laugh even more.
Carole was worried about her husband. He had come in late the night before and, instead of coming to bed as usual, he had sat in their living room alone and in the dark. She had heard him come in; she never really relaxed until she knew he was home anyway. When he had not come up to bed she had got up and looked for him. She wanted to know why he wasn’t lying beside her, why he had not even checked on the kids. He always looked in on the kids, and he always came home to her. She wasn’t stupid, she knew the life he led, and she knew she was lucky, because Michael wasn’t a chancer, didn’t need the cachet of a little bird hanging on his every word like Danny Boy. He was happy enough with her and his family. That was why his actions had frightened her, had worried her. He was bothered about something, and she needed to know what that was. Her fear was always that he would get a capture, be nicked by Old Bill. She knew it was a possibility even as she knew that he felt he was far too powerful for that to ever happen to him. But, by the same token, nothing was a definite in their world, and she knew that if the Old Bill wanted them bad enough, they’d get them. If only for no other reason than they were so powerful they might need knocking down a peg or two. Her husband’s business was not exactly kosher, and she was as aware as he was of the pitfalls. Unlike him though, she felt there was chance that, for all their might, and all their money, they would never be completely safe from prosecution. It only took one person to start the ball rolling, and that was that. Big sentences brought on big mouths. Michael had said that to her many years before and she had never forgotten it.
So his strange behaviour caused her to wonder what had happened to him in the last twenty-four hours, and why it had made him act so out of character.
She placed a pot of tea on the table and, sitting down opposite her husband, she asked him once more, ‘Please, Michael, tell me what’s wrong.’
‘I can’t, mare. I daren’t.’ He looked at her for long moments, at the heavy dressing gown that didn’t hide the roll of fat around her belly. At her open face, the large blue eyes that were now rimmed with black circles from her interrupted sleep. Her hair was all over the place, as always it needed a decent cut, and her hands were trembling with the worry he knew she was feeling. He wished he could confide in her as he always had done, but this was too important to tell anyone about. Even his Carole. If this got out it would be the cause of so much trouble its echo would reverberate for generations. No one would know who the fuck to trust and that would cause a lot of suspicion and a lot of threats both physical and verbal. It was such a dangerous supposition, leaving all the people involved in such a precarious position that everything they were involved in, from the Spanish angle to their everyday businesses, was now in jeopardy.
Michael still wasn’t sure he even believed any of it, even though he knew that it was true. He had always known there was something not quite right, that they seemed to lose enemies at opportune moments. That Danny Boy would take his usual umbrage and destroy an enemy, either real or imagined, on a murderous whim, was what had kept his secret from being revealed. That he had been in cahoots with the Filth all this time was such a devastating accusation that no one would accuse him; not anyone in their right mind anyway. For Michael to accuse Danny Boy of being a grass was unthinkable.
But, in his heart of hearts though, he had thought all along that there had been something a little off-kilter; people they had a grievance with disappeared a little too conveniently, he saw that now. They got captures and sent away just in time for them to take over their nefarious businesses. And, indeed, they were seen as life-savers by the men now in their employ, who saw Danny and Michael as their saviours.
That Louie had been the instigator of it didn’t surprise him one iota. Danny Boy had tugged him over his alleged grassing it all those years ago. And, knowing him, he had probably seen it an easy way out, an easy option; he had to have known that no one would ever have suspected him.
This was so enormous that Michael didn’t know how to deal with it. It affected them all; as Arnold had pointed out, if this became common knowledge, no one was safe from retribution. No one would be trusted any more. It would smash the very foundations of their daily lives.
Danny had never once even given him an inkling that he was not genuine; he had n
ever once had real cause to think otherwise. But, somewhere inside his head, he knew that there had been a small element of doubt concerning Danny Boy’s ability to literally get away with murder. For all their power, and all their wealth, Michael knew, deep in his gut, that no one could be that fucking lucky.
When Arnold had brought the subject up a while ago, he had not been willing to listen to him, he had brushed it all aside. He had known that if it was ever once said out loud, something would have to be done about it and he didn’t want that person to be him. He loved Danny Boy like a brother, in fact, he loved him more than his own flesh and blood. His own brother was as nothing to him, meant fuck-all in comparison. Which was why this revelation was knocking him for six.
All they had achieved over the years, all their businesses and all their power, had been built on quicksand and, because of Danny Boy’s treachery, they could sink without trace at any moment. They weren’t safe at all, if Old Bill was in the know, and they had to be for Danny Boy’s ruse to work, then each and every one of them were in jeopardy. They were in danger of losing not only their lifestyles, but their fucking liberty.
Michael was already working out what monies were accessible, what he had filtered away on his own bat, and what monies were best left alone. It stood to reason that their accounts were probably common knowledge to the Filth; they would be all over them like a cheap suit. He didn’t know any of this for a fact, but he knew he had to box clever for the foreseeable future if he wanted to come out of this lot without a tug, and with any kind of wealth left to him at all. There was only way out of this, as Arnold had pointed out to him late last night, only one way to guarantee they would be safe and secure, and he didn’t want to even consider that.
‘Drink your tea, Michael.’
He didn’t answer her, she knew that he had not even heard her.
Annie was already up and dressed, and she looked good. She knew she looked good. She felt good. The radio was blaring as always, and the house was clean but untidy, as always. The boys were ready for school, and the breakfasts had been consumed with the usual banter and the usual speed. Annie was a cereals woman, and she didn’t hide that fact. She believed that as soon as a child could pour their own Sugar Puffs, then that is exactly what they should do. The boys had caught on quickly, and she was left to drink her coffee and smoke her morning cigarettes in relative peace. She was quite happy to cook a dinner but breakfast, she felt, was too early in the day for all that fucking piss-balling around. She was not, as she told her sons at every available opportunity, a morning person. They loved her, and so that was taken on board, digested, and accepted. They were quite happy to see to themselves, and actually preferred it. They could have what they wanted, and their lovely mum provided every kind of breakfast cereal and pop-tart on the market. It worked out well for all of them.
Arnold had been sitting at the breakfast table when they had come down, but no one remarked on it because it was not unusual for him to be just arriving home as they left for school. It was the norm, the boys had never known it any other way.
Arnold looked at his family and listened to their banter, and knew that his wife, his lovely wife, was going to be devastated in the very near future. Because he didn’t care what Michael said, something had to be done about this terrible situation, and it had to be done sooner rather than later. The longer it went on, the harder it would be to sort it out. The thing was, how the fuck were they going to resolve this without arousing Danny Boy’s suspicion?
Danny Boy would wipe them out without a second’s thought if he knew what they had found out; he would destroy them quickly and cleanly, then go about his daily business as if nothing had happened. That was the difference between them, as he had tried to point out to Michael Miles last night. Danny Boy had no real care for anyone or anything; you only had to see how he lived, how he treated his wife and kids.
Michael’s loyalty was misplaced, because Danny Boy didn’t play by the fucking rules like everyone else. He played the long game, and he played it all by himself. He just gave people the illusion of his allegiance, of his loyalty. In reality, he offered them nothing unless it gained him something in return.
And Danny Boy was married to Michael’s sister, and he knew that if Mary had even the remotest inkling of what was going through everyone’s mind, she would take Danny Boy’s side without even having to think about it. She was like Danny Boy in that respect; she always looked out for number one. At least, that is how she had always come across to him, anyway. With her perfect house, and her perfect clothes, Mary was unreal, and she was also too quiet and far too fucking snooty for his liking. She was her husband’s fucking guarantee in respect of Michael Miles; all the time they were related he was beyond suspicion, and he knew that as well as Danny Boy did.
Well, Arnold wasn’t going to sit around and wait for that cunt to offer him up to Old Bill when he had lost his usefulness. He would strike first and strike fucking quickly; it was the only way to get this sorted. He might be married to Danny Boy’s little sis, but that cut no fucking ice where he was concerned. Danny Boy was a cancer that needed to be removed sooner rather than later.
They had burned their boats last night; the revelation about Grey had been bad enough, but what Marsh had told them had been unbelievable. They had also had the added aggravation of keeping the man under wraps until they knew what they were going to do about it all. It was a mess, a fucking disgrace, the lot of it.
Jonjo was eating his breakfast quietly and conscientiously, his mother was already placing more food on to his plate and he was grateful for that. Grateful for her kindness, for her unspoken loyalty towards him. His fall from grace had been as spectacular as it had been quick, and he knew he had a lot of work before him to repair the damage he had caused with his arrogance and his laziness. The public humiliation was a foregone conclusion; he had made far too many enemies for people not to enjoy his downfall. He accepted that; he was a realist in his own way, and he was also aware that he had not made many friends on account of his bad attitude and his arrogance.
That was the least of his problems, what he needed to do now was inveigle his way back into his brother’s good books, and the only way he could do that was to clean his act up. He needed to make a go of the club he had been given, a shithole that was so bad, that just making sure there was toilet paper in the crappers would raise its profile. The strippers were a bit too long in the tooth for his liking, and the décor was reminiscent of the old-style Indian restaurants; all flock wallpaper, purple carpets, chipped paintwork, and ornate coving. A relic left over from its days as a real earner. It stank of fags, spilled lager and lost hope and was peopled with punters who saw a giro as a way of life, and a win on the horses as proof of their innate shrewdness. But Jonjo determined to make something of it; he was already thinking up ideas to bring in a better clientele, and he was also waiting until the time Danny Boy spoke to him once more. He knew a hell of a lot more than any of them realised, and he now knew that knowledge was not necessarily power. In fact, a little knowledge, as a man once said, was a dangerous thing.
‘You all right, son?’
Jonjo smiled gently at his mother; she had been so good to him lately and he really wished he had been nicer to her over the years. She had stood by him through thick and thin; she had tried to tell him that he was heading for a fall, and he had ignored her, worse than that, he had abused her verbally. He now saw that she was, in fact, the only real friend he had in the whole wide world. And that knowledge depressed him even as it pleased him. He wished he had utilised his time more wisely, when he had the chance, but it was too late for regrets now. He hated Danny Boy for how he had humiliated him, even as he needed him to earn his daily bread. He had to get his head together, and sort himself out.
Father David Mahoney was, as always, pleased to see Danny Boy Cadogan in the church. He had not been at this parish long, but he knew the story behind this man and he also knew that, for all the talk about him, he was a d
evout Catholic. He often saw him at the six o’clock Mass, sitting alone, the early morning air clinging to him as he whispered the responses to the Mass quietly almost to himself. He took Holy Communion and always stayed for a while after the Mass, kneeling alone in his pew, praying quietly, his whole body in a gesture of utter obeisance to his Lord. He was an anomaly, his reputation as a hard man was left at the entrance to the church, and he was always very quietly spoken and very respectful, especially when he asked him questions about the Bible, asked his opinion about things that he had read. As he tried to understand the word that was God’s law.
Sometimes he would meet another man after mass, and they would exchange a few words; the man was not a regular churchgoer like himself, but they seemed to know each other pretty well. In fact, he often allowed them the use of the sacristy for their intimate chats. Danny Cadogan’s donations were so frequent and so generous that Father Mahoney didn’t feel he could refuse the man such a small request. Anyway, it was like his use of the phone, it was just something anyone would do for a friend. He didn’t feel compromised in any way. Still, he had never mentioned any of this to anyone else.
Now, as Danny sat down on the front pew and looked up at the cross of Christ, he sat beside him and, placing his hands in his lap, he said gently, ‘Nice to see you as always, Danny Boy.’
Father Mahoney’s Irish lilt was soft and gave his deep voice a velvet quality. His thick dark hair was already speckled with grey and his deep-brown eyes were, as always, filled with a deep sadness. Danny Boy liked him; felt he was exactly what a priest should be. Big, strong and gentle.
‘I’m well, Father. Just popped in to say a few prayers. You know me, I love this place, love the peace it brings me.’