by Martina Cole
Danny Boy wiped a hand across his face slowly, before saying in a gentler voice, ‘But you can help me, bruv, so wonders truly will never cease. Have you seen or heard from Marsh at all?’
Jonjo dropped his head on to his chest, he was biting his lip to stop himself from laughing in triumph. Then, sighing gently, he said sincerely, ‘Nah. I ain’t. But has Michael not said anything to you about him?’
He was gratified at Danny Boy’s look of shock and, if he wasn’t mistaken, a glimmer of fear was now in his eyes. ‘What do you mean? Why would Michael mention him?’
Jonjo stood up then, his whole body stretched out to its fullest. His face, if not exactly arrogant, was certainly devoid of its usual subservience. ‘I heard last night that he was on the North Pole Road with Michael and Arnold. I would have assumed they would have mentioned that.’
Danny was digesting this information, and Jonjo looked on with what he felt was well-deserved pleasure at his elder brother’s obvious confusion. For once, Danny Boy was not in possession of all the facts, and it gratified Jonjo no end to be the one who finally knew something this big, bullying bastard didn’t.
‘Who told you that?’
Jonjo shrugged. ‘Micky Johns. He was in there scoring, he knew Marsh because he’d had a run-in with him before.’
‘And he was definitely with Arnold and Michael?’
Jonjo didn’t answer him for a few seconds, enjoying seeing his brother so perplexed. So out of the loop, so baffled by his words and what they might mean to him. Danny Boy though, was not in any mood to wait for answers; he was on him in a flash and, grabbing him round the throat, he literally picked him up off the floor as he bellowed, ‘Answer me, you useless cunt! Was he with Michael? My Michael?’
Jonjo was nodding now, so furiously he could feel the muscles in his neck straining with the tension. Danny Boy threw him on to the floor as if he weighed nothing; as if he was no more than a small child. An annoying child at that. Stepping over him he left the room, slamming the door behind him.
Jonjo sat up, rubbing his neck where Danny Boy had grabbed him, knowing it was nothing to what he had done to him in the past. Jonjo was laughing though, gently chuckling to himself at his brother’s misfortune, when the door sprang open again and Danny Boy was there once more, laying into him with fists and feet. All the time screaming at him, ‘Fucking laugh at me, would you? Laugh at me, you fucking lairy little cunt? Funny, am I? Humorous? An object of ridicule? I’ll kill ya. You fucking treacherous bastard, I’ll fucking kill ya . . .’
Danny was out of control, and the last thing Jonjo remembered was his mother trying to drag Danny Boy off of him, her voice high and blurred with her tears as she took the full force of her son’s anger. ‘Leave him, stop it, Danny Boy. You’ll kill him.’ She was lying across her younger son now, her body had already taken a few blows, and Danny Boy looked down at her, knew she would take a hammering if necessary, and attempted to master his phenomenal anger. Tried to calm himself down.
‘Get up. Get up, Mum . . .’
She shook her head. ‘No. You get out of here. I want you out of here . . . Out of this house . . .’
Danny laughed at her front then. At her ridiculous demands. ‘But it’s my house, ain’t it, Mum?’
Ange looked up at the son she had worshipped and loathed in equal measure over the years and she said loudly, ‘Then you can stick your house right up your arse. I don’t want it any more. If it means I have to dance to your fucking tune for the rest of me days, I’d rather be homeless, Danny Boy . . . I’d rather be on the streets.’
Danny could see the hate for him in her eyes, watched warily as she pulled herself up from the floor with difficulty, needing to use the edge of the bed as leverage. He saw how old she had become overnight and the distress in her face as she said, honestly and humbly, ‘I can’t do this any more, Danny Boy. You’re a fucking maniac, a fucking looney tunes. I did the best I could for all of you, for all me kids. But you, Danny, I lied for you, lied to everyone, the Filth, the school, the priest, and I never cared about any of that until now. But this is the final straw, son. This is the one that broke this donkey’s back. I know you better than you know yourself. I know you’re a fucking bully, that you even torture that poor woman who married you, and I know you bully everyone in your orbit, me included, because no one has any importance in your life except you. Well, it all stops now. Today.’
Ange was sobbing, her heart was aching with the knowledge that this man who she had loved with all her heart, was never going to change. He would only get worse, and she knew that she couldn’t let him do this any more. She couldn’t take the fear and the terror of wondering what he was going to do next any more.
She sank down on to the stool, her shoulders trembling with the strength of her sobs, her eyes running with salty tears that mingled with her snot. She covered her face with her hands and moaned in deep pain. The sound was so distressing and so valid, that, for the first time in years, Danny Boy took a mental step back from it.
Danny Boy was watching her; he had never seen her like this before. His mother telling him to go, telling him she didn’t want him, had hit him like a blast from a sawn-off shotgun. He put a tentative hand out, tried to touch her shoulder, but she knocked it away with all the force she could muster.
‘Get away. Don’t you touch me. I know all about you, even poor Michael’s had enough of you. Carole told me about your upset . . . Wondered if I knew anything about it. But I tell you something, when I heard, I was pleased he had seen the light where you were concerned. You’re like a disease, Danny Boy, a fucking plague, and I can’t be a part of it any more. I don’t want to be.’ She wiped her eyes, and knelt by her younger son, feeling for a pulse.
‘You took me fucking money though, didn’t ya? Used me when it suited ya . . .’
Ange waved him away from her, shaking her head at his words. ‘You crippled your own father and you know what he said to me once? You might have crippled his body. But you always have had a crippled mind, and he was right. You’re not normal, for all your church-going and your fucking confessions you are tainted and in turn you taint everything and everyone you touch. Now, fuck off out of here, and don’t let me clap eyes on you again.’
Danny belted her across the mouth with the back of his hand and watched as the force of it sent her sprawling across the bedroom floor. Her lip split and already swelling, she lay there for a few seconds, looking at him with tired eyes. ‘The hand that strikes a parent will wither and die. Well, you’re dead to me now, Danny Boy. Dead as a fucking doornail. So, get out, and leave me in peace.’
Danny left the room then, dazed by her anger, at her words. And he knew that if he stayed, he would hurt her, really hurt her. He knew that the blow he had delivered would haunt him for the rest of his life, but she had asked for it. Had pushed him to the limit. They all had at some point. What a fucking family to be lumbered with; from his father right the way through the card, liars and deceivers all of them. As he left the house, he saw the neighbours all out on their front steps and he held his head up as he walked to his car. The shame of his situation was burning into him like a cancer, and added to his already unstable fury; it stoked a fire that could only be quenched by somebody’s death, and he knew exactly who that somebody was going to be.
Arnold and Michael were at a warehouse in Dalston. They were nervous but accepting of what they were going to have to do. It was the lesser of the two evils and they both knew that.
Jeremy Marsh was staring at them sightlessly from underneath the tape they had placed over his eyes the night before. He was very still; he was dead and he stank like a polecat. Both men knew that, though neither of them wanted to mention it just yet. It was a lot to take on board; he had obviously choked on either his own vomit or internal bleeding from the kicking they had given him the night before. Either way, it had saved them a job. All they needed to work out now was where they were going to dump his two-faced, scheming carcass.
; As they looked at the dead man, his head almost covered with insulating tape, they knew they had burned their boats. The warehouse was full of clothes and handbags, they were all Jekyll and Hydes, snides. From Prada bags to Gucci shoes. Dior dresses to Wrangler jeans. If it was coveted by the masses, it was in this warehouse. The Jekyll market was worth millions in the right hands, and they distributed to every marketplace and every council-house trader in the land. Somewhere along the line, they collected a piece of that pie, and it was a really massive pie. Now they didn’t even know how much of their profits were already common knowledge in the police department. How much was being skimmed off by them, how much Danny Boy might be paying to keep them on his side. To make sure he was still the main man, no matter what, and that was without all the information he was passing on. Passing on to make sure no one could ever oust him. It was sickening, the mere thought of it was untenable. Yet it was a reality and they both knew that.
As they looked down on the inert form of Marsh, Arnold said inquisitively and without any rancour, ‘How did the fucker get away with this for so long? I mean, not being funny or anything, but I have to ask you, Michael. Did you never even suss once that he might not be legitimately on the rob? That there might be some kind of fucking con going on?’
Michael sighed and, sitting on a nearby crate, he said honestly, ‘I did a couple of times, things didn’t always add up. But you knew him, would you ever have believed he could do something like that? And I honestly believe now, after all this, that if he ever did have a capture, he would not have lasted five minutes in nick, and I think he knew that. Had always known it. Danny Boy could not have stood the day-to-day of prison; the fucking boredom and the sameness. Danny wasn’t cut out for the downside of our lifestyle; he would do anything to avoid all that. Nick itself would have destroyed him; the regime, the people, the fucking humiliation of it would have been too much for him.’
Arnold nodded, as if in agreement. ‘You sound like you understand why he tucked everyone up. You stand to lose more than anybody if this goes tits up. You were his fucking partner, you know as much, or more than, him about the day-to-day of your businesses.’
‘I know that, more than you realise. But, for the same token, all I am saying is that, in a funny way, I understand him, and I know him better than anyone.’
Arnold laughed then. Sarcastically. ‘You didn’t know him that fucking well, face it, look at where we are now. Look at what he fucking caused with his worrying about getting a tug. Didn’t mind everyone else getting a fucking tug though, did he?’
Michael held his head in his hands and, almost growling with annoyance, he snapped, ‘I never said I agreed with his fucking behaviour, did I? All I said was I understand it because I understand him, how he thinks, how he feels.’
Arnold was annoyed now, felt that maybe Michael was still capable of taking Danny Boy’s side in all this. He pushed his face towards his as he spat at him, ‘Yeah, I understand him and all; he thinks we’re all cunts, and feels we’re beneath his fucking notice.’
Michael shook his head in annoyance, his eyes were sad at the way Arnold was reacting to his opinions. Opinions he had asked for, requested. He was trying to educate him about the man they were dealing with, and he said as much. Arnold just shrugged, as if anything Michael had to say was beyond his ken. He didn’t care about Danny Boy’s fucking fears about prison, they all had them. It was part and parcel of the life they had chosen; an occupational hazard. In their line of work though, the sentences were hefty. They weren’t about a short sharp shock any more, they were about keeping them off the streets. The government wasn’t too worried about the thieves, the burglars and the car-jackers, they were too numerous to mention, let alone fucking bang up. They were in and out in a heartbeat. No, the government wanted the money-makers, the few men who earned a fucking real wedge, and they wanted them away for long periods of time. It was laughable. The fucking scum of society, the muggers, the creepers, the nonces, they were out and about in no time. People like them though, the real Faces, were put away for the duration. Even though by their very acts, by the businesses they were involved in, they actually had no real interaction with the public at all. Not unless it was to sell them something they needed, wanted or desired. It was a fucking disgrace to the nation if anyone ever thought about it properly. No government in the world could exist without a black market; it was the unwritten law, the unspoken truth. How the fuck was the working class expected to have a stake in the world without the likes of them? How the fuck were the Christian Diors and the Tommy Hilfigers supposed to become brand names for the proletariat without their products being cloned? It was the same people who bought their snides who then, suddenly, felt the desperate need to possess the real thing. Surely it could only be a good thing for all concerned?
Life was about learning how best to live it, how best to keep on the right side of a jail cell. It was about fucking doing what you had to and watching your back. Now Danny Boy had ruined all that for a fucking lot of people. He had moved the goal posts, and this man who Arnold liked and respected had better not keep on trying to justify his fucking actions, because there was no way he could defend his actions. Not to him, or anyone else involved.
What about the people he had already served up? How many of their contemporaries were doing bird because Danny Boy had decided they were suddenly not worth a wank?
‘Don’t try and make what Danny Boy’s done have some kind of logic behind it, make it seem like it was all right, because it’s fucking outrageous. An abomination.’
Michael was pulling his own hair, the pain bringing him back to reality. ‘I ain’t trying to make fucking excuses for him. All I am saying is, unlike you and everyone else, I know what drove him to do this. I was there when he was demolished mentally by his own fucking father. When he was threatened by the Murrays, and forced to take on the role of provider, breadwinner. All I am trying to say is, as big a wanker as he is, it wasn’t because he chose this life. He was forced into it. His father . . .’
Arnold grinned. ‘I am assuming this is the same father he had crippled, the same father who topped himself?’
‘I know how this sounds, believe me. What I am trying to say is, he was a product of his environment. As we all are in our own little ways.’
Arnold snorted angrily. ‘He’ll be a fucking product of his environment all right, either in the sea, if we dump the cunt in there, or the earth, if we decide to bury him. Either way, he is fucking already dead as far as I am concerned. How you can try and defend him after what he has done, is beyond my understanding.’
‘I do know what you’re saying, Arnold, I ain’t fucking stupid. But I am trying to make you understand why he is like it. Danny Boy doesn’t live by the normal rules . . . Look ... How about this for an example, eh? I heard he killed a prostitute years ago, when he was really young. He beat her to death. He doesn’t know that I know about it, that I knew he’d beaten her to death. I convinced meself for years that it wasn’t him, that it was just a coincidence. But I knew it was him, I knew deep down inside me. I also knew that Danny, being Danny, could never live with the hold she had over him. Because he had fucked her. He killed her because of his own weakness, not because of hers.’
Arnold was smiling now, and chuckling as if this was the funniest thing he had ever heard in his life. He answered him sarcastically and with complete disrespect, ‘And that makes it all right, does it? Shall we have a Kill-the-Brass party for him, like a wedding anniversary, only more morbid? Or, better still, shall we round up a few crump-renters and let him go for it? I mean, who cares about them, eh? Let’s declare open season on prostitutes shall we? In fact, it’s a shame they caught the Yorkshire Ripper, he could have given him a few pointers. Could have shown him how to use a hammer for the common good.’ Arnold was looking at Michael as if he was the equivalent of dog shit. ‘That is the most disgusting thing I ever heard. Some poor working girl got the red card because Danny Boy was ashamed of cocking her. C
an you fucking hear yourself, hear what you’re saying, Michael? Has it ever occurred to you that you have never felt once that Danny Cadogan’s actions might be, in any way, wide of the mark. That he might just be a fucking nutter, and a grassing nutter at that. My mother was on the bash at one time, and I love her for it; she kept us all. She sacrificed herself for her kids, made sure we were all fed and clothed. And you know what, I am so grateful that a fucking Danny Boy or one of his weirdo mates never decided that she was the culprit in their shitty, scummy lives. And so therefore didn’t feel the urge to batter her brains out to make them feel better about themselves.’
He was laughing now, laughing in abject disbelief. ‘Thank you, Michael, thank you so much for your insight into Danny Boy Cadogan. I am just amazed that Channel 4 ain’t doing a documentary on him. How about this for a title, “How a Nutter is Made”.’
Arnold shook his head in disbelief, his huge dreads almost alive with his annoyance, with his irritation at his friend’s utter stupidity where Danny Cadogan was concerned. ‘Look, Michael, Mother Teresa he ain’t, so you had better decide whether you can go through with the day’s events. Because, the way you’re talking, I ain’t sure I want you on board any more.’
Michael could understand Arnold’s anger; knew he was well within his rights. And he also knew he understood on some level about his loyalty to Danny Boy, about how hard this was for him. How hard he found it to believe in his friend’s duplicity. All those years he had wondered about him, all the times he had deliberately misunderstood what was going on. Danny Boy had been as aggravating as he had been loving towards him. Danny Boy had angered him and had also brought out the best in him where their friendship was concerned. Consequently, this was the hardest thing he had ever done. Had ever had to do. It was going against all he had ever believed in, all he had ever really trusted.
‘I ain’t defending him, Arnold, I am just trying to give you an insight into how he thinks, that’s all. I know him, I know him better than his wife does and she’s me fucking sister. I know him better than his mother, than anyone walking the earth. No one knows him like I do.’