The Faithless

by Martina Cole

  Then Jonny Parker was standing over him with a machete that made his own look like a penknife.

  ‘Sorry, Joe, but you didn’t honestly think I was going to negotiate, did you?’

  The first blow took off the top of Joseph’s head; the other blows were entirely unnecessary, but the brutality of the attack was what made the statement for Jonny Parker. When word got out about Joseph’s demise, and get out it would, he would be seen in a new and entirely different light, and that is exactly what this whole exercise was about.

  Linford Fargas watched the events with a nonchalant air; he prided himself on always backing the winning pony. Truth be told, poor old Joseph had never had a chance. He wasn’t fish nor fowl. Now he was nothing.

  Linford went inside the Portakabin and picked up his twenty grand – not bad for a night’s work. If Joseph had used his considerable loaf and paid out over the odds for his loyalty, he might have been in with a chance tonight.

  Now, though, Jonny Parker was king of the hill, and there would be no one capable of stopping him for a good few years. It would take that long for a new little crew to grow and develop, but he had a hunch that Jonny P, as he was now known, would still be a match for them. Jonny had what they called back in Jamaica the devil’s want, and he wanted it all. Well, he was welcome to it, and the problems that came with it. Because this first hurdle might be over but he now had to deal with Kevin Bryant, never a man to cross lightly.

  But time would tell; by tomorrow night one, or all of them, would be dead. That was Linford’s opinion anyway.

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Kevin Bryant heard the news of his business partner’s untimely demise with his usual closed features. His expressionless face was his trademark in his world. He never looked angry, rarely looked pleased and had never in living memory laughed out loud at anything. Hence his nickname, Kevin ‘No Face’ Bryant. He liked the moniker, felt it put him above most of his contemporaries. His countenance, coupled with the fact he never spoke unless it was extremely necessary, only added to his criminal mystique.

  His wife Sojin, a thirty-something living doll, told all and sundry that he was a different person at home with her and the kids, that he never stopped talking, but no one actually believed her, much to her chagrin. They thought Sojin was with him because of who he was; it never occurred to anyone that she might actually see a different side to him than everyone else. It grieved her that no one saw the ebullient, funny man she loved and adored, because adore him she did. From his size twelve feet, to his balding, endearingly ugly, head.

  Kevin’s second-in-command, a tall, frighteningly skinny man called Bertie Warner, was trying desperately to gauge his boss’s reaction to the outrageous news that Joseph Makabele had been hacked to death by Jonny Parker and the Anthill Mob from Brixton.

  ‘Do you hear me, Kev? They fucking nutted him, he was chopped up like a fucking Friday night fish! Do you not have any interest in what the fuck I am telling you?’

  Shrugging disinterestedly, Kevin said quietly, ‘He’s dead then?’

  ‘Hello, earth to fucking Kevin! He is dead as a fucking dodo! For fuck’s sake, Monty Python’s parrot has more life in it than him! He’s a human fucking paper chase. Get onboard, for fuck’s sake!’

  Sometimes Kevin’s attitude could be severely aggravating, and this was one of those times. Their main supplier was now scattered to all corners of the country, loaded into bin bags and dumped like a fucking treasure hunt for the Old Bill, and here was Kevin unconcerned and, to add insult to injury, not even remotely disgruntled about it.

  ‘He had our protection, Kev, we fucking owe him, and everyone else who thinks we are watching their fucking backs.’

  Bertie was realising how this would look to outsiders; everyone, including that cunt Jonny P, knew that Makabele worked ostensibly for them – it was his ticket to the big time. That meant they had to be seen to be doing something about it – otherwise they could kiss goodbye to their stranglehold on South London, that much was a fucking definite.

  Kevin shrugged nonchalantly once more. ‘And?’

  It wasn’t a question, it wasn’t anything. It was annoying that’s what it was. ‘And! Fucking “and”? Is that all you’ve got to fucking say? We are fucking being mugged off like a pair of prize cunts, and all you can say is fucking and!’

  But Kevin Bryant wasn’t listening to his friend any more; he was already planning his next step, and he knew better than anyone that he had to box very clever. If Jonny P had made it this far then he was armed and extremely dangerous. Obviously he was being protected, and he would have made sure that this little exercise was going to work out in his favour. Anger was a fruitless exercise – not that Bertie would see it that way, of course. What was needed now was a long, hard, sensible think, and he wasn’t going to be able to do that with Bertie wittering on like a fucking old fishwife.

  ‘Bertie.’

  ‘What!’

  ‘Shut the fuck up.’

  Bertie did as requested, but he was seething inside. If Jonny Parker was allowed a walk on this kind of calumny then the London they knew and loved would be his for the taking. This was a direct affront to them and everything they had achieved, and if Kevin didn’t strike quickly it would be their turn for the machetes next. Fucking machetes! What was wrong with a common or garden sawn-off? Were these people fucking animals or what? Bertie shook his head in utter disbelief at the skulduggery of some people.

  Unlike Bertie, Kevin Bryant knew exactly why the man had been taken out with machetes. This was a statement as well as a killing. It was telling him and everyone else that Jonny P had the black vote of confidence. That meant Brixton, Tulse Hill, Norwood, et al, were happy to be on his payroll. He was carving up the city and, in fairness to him, he was doing it very well. Credit where credit was due, he had worked a fucking blinder, and Kevin Bryant admired a shrewd business head. So few Faces possessed one; most were daydreamers who never saw the big picture, were shocked and outraged when they were taken out by a more superior intelligence. Anyone could get a decent earn – it was keeping the fucker that took the time and the trouble. A good earn was like an unfaithful wife; you loved them, you fucked them, but you kept watch on them twenty-four seven. Otherwise they fucked you over in more ways than one.

  But Kevin Bryant wasn’t finished yet; he still a few miles to go on his clock, and when he retaliated, he would retaliate big time. But it had to be perfect, it had to be well planned, it had to be executed with the minimum of fuss and the maximum of aggravation. He could put on a show as well as the next man, and he was determined to do just that.

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Jonny P was euphoric. He had taken out Joseph without any real resistance at all. But that was all well and good – now he had to either take out Bryant completely, or try to negotiate some friendly terms with him, whatever seemed the most viable option.

  Personally, he felt it was best to take the man out. Kevin was a loose cannon. He was a hard fuck in his own way, and that was to be taken into consideration. No one ever knew what Kevin Bryant was thinking, so it was difficult to negotiate with him. No one played cards with him any more either, he had a legendary poker face. Years ago, Jonny had watched Kevin take a twenty-grand pot on a ten high. He had also been playing those cards with some very naughty boys, the very same bad boys they had both overtaken on their quest for the pavements of their youth.

  It was important to run your own neighbourhood. It meant a loyalty that was almost guaranteed, providing, of course, you looked after your own, and they had both done just that. But, whereas Jonny was a likeable fellow, Kevin Bryant wasn’t. Respected, yes, but liked? That was a different kettle of fish altogether. No one approached Kevin, he wasn’t that kind of bloke, whereas Jonny was accosted wherever he went. He always made sure people had a few quid in their bins, and was known for paying for the endless rounds of drinks his hangers-on and supporters expected. He mediated between warring factions, and was known to give out
rough justice to the less salubrious of his neighbours – burglars, nonces, liars and the like. He was a hard taskmaster with his workforce, but paid them well, and they understood he would not, under any circumstances, tolerate bullying, thieving off him or their own and, most importantly of all, he would not countenance slackness in either word or deed. He paid well, and expected the best they could offer him, and he saw to it that he got just that.

  But this latest deal he was going after was as audacious as it was dangerous. It could either bring him untold riches, and untold power, or it could mean he was on his last few hours on God’s good earth.

  Jonny took a deep breath and exhaled slowly; he had read somewhere that it calmed the nerves and, despite appearances, he was actually as nervous as fuck. He looked up as his new best friend and confidant on this latest scam, Linford, walked into the small office quietly.

  ‘Any news?’

  ‘Not a fucking murmur anywhere on the pavements. News has got round, of course – you’re the hero of the hour. No one liked Joseph anyway. But nothing yet from Kevin Bryant and nothing from his mouthpiece Bertie.’

  So they were scheming, and that was to be expected. Jonny nodded and sipped at his whiskey. They had paid off the best part of Bryant’s workforce, guaranteed them a bigger and better earn and, more to the point, they had put the fear of Christ up half of London with their antics this night. He had done all that could be done.

  He could hear the riotous laughter coming from the pub he owned on the Mile End Road. He was surrounded by his best workmen and his most trusted friends. They were tooled up and ready for anything. All he could do now was wait, and he had a feeling on him that the wait was going to be a short one.

  Kevin Bryant was a lot of things, but a mug wasn’t one of them.

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Bertie was fast getting the raging hump.

  Kevin was so laid back he might as well be in a fucking coma for all the good he was doing at this moment in time. Bertie’s old woman had made more noise in the sack and that was saying something. His Deirdre was a lovely girl, an exemplary mother, and an all-round decent bird, but she wasn’t exactly what you’d call a live-wire in the fuck department.

  Bertie, on the other hand, was a doer by nature; if anyone fucked him over, he done them, simple as that. It was a credo he had lived by and which had kept him alive and kicking this long in a very dangerous game. All his instincts were telling him to go after Jonny P mob-handed, guns blazing, pickaxes swinging, and maybe even a few fucking machetes thrown into the mix just for the irony factor. And that was exactly what he was going to suggest to Kevin. He couldn’t sit here like a fucking Victorian mistress any longer. It was, in effect, doing his head in.

  Bertie liked Kevin; he probably knew him better than anyone else, and he respected him, and saw his good points as well as the bad. But this fucking silence was deafening; he could almost hear his own brain turning over, and at every little noise he expected to be overrun by a mob wielding giant machetes.

  Kevin was watching Bertie placidly; he knew exactly what was going through his mind and, in a way, he could sympathise with him. Bertie didn’t have the patience of a three year old, and when a bit of chastising needed doing he was the man to call on. Unfortunately, he had the brains of a fucking gnat and, whereas Kevin had never been that loquacious, Bertie could talk for England. He never shut his fucking trap from the minute he got up till the moment he fell into a fitful sleep. Kevin would like to bet he was still talking even then.

  ‘Get your coat.’ As he spoke he stood up and his considerable bulk seemed to fill the small room to capacity.

  Bertie smiled, this was more like it!

  In the small outer office of his scrap-metal yard, Kevin opened the arms safe and, taking out a semi-automatic he had purchased from an old acquaintance, he proceeded to arm himself to the hilt.

  ‘Shall I call the boys?’ The excitement was already overflowing in Bertie’s voice. He was thrilled at this turn of events; there was nothing he liked more than a good tear-up, a serious fucking straightener was always something to be enjoyed. Violence as far as he concerned solved everything, there was nothing like a good fucking tear-up to sort out the men from the wannabes.

  Kevin shook his head. ‘Not yet. Make a cup of tea.’

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Jonny was half-pissed and he was annoyed with himself because of it. But it had been a very strange night so far, and he knew that if his calculations were correct it could only get fucking worse. Much worse. He glanced at his watch – it was twenty past one and no news yet. But there was plenty of time; he would sit and he would wait. He could feel the sweat trickling down his back, and he wondered at how this night would eventually pan out.

  Linford had poured himself a large brandy, and he downed it in one gulp. ‘I needed that, bwoy,’ he said reverting to his Jamaican patois.

  Jonny grinned. ‘You’re about as Jamaican as I am fucking Irish.’

  Linford laughed happily, he knew the truth of that statement. ‘I left Jamaica as a baby. My mother came here looking for me father – she still hasn’t found the bastard. But I grew up in a Jamaican household and, believe me, that’s as good as being brought up in the home country. A bit like the Irish, eh?’

  They laughed together, pleased that the change of topic meant that they were not waiting in silence any more.

  ‘Very much like us actually. I feel more Irish than English at times. Catholic school will do that to you.’

  Linford nodded sagely. ‘That’s the truth.’ He took a ready-rolled joint from his jacket pocket and lit it ostentatiously, as only a true Rasta could. Toking on it a few times, he breathed the smoke in deeply before saying seriously, ‘You know you’ve got to kill him, right?’

  Jonny sighed deeply before he said sadly, ‘Knew it from the off, mate.’

  Linford grinned through the thick blue smoke. ‘You know it makes sense. He can’t be left standing, he’s too proud a boy. Eventually he would have to come a-knocking.’

  ‘Shame though, Linford. I always respected Kevin Bryant.’

  Linford shrugged. ‘Don’t mean he ain’t a bad motherfucker. Mark my words, you don’t cancel him out this night, he’ll just wait for his opportunity. Stands to reason. Now Bertie has to go either way – holds too many fucking grudges for his own good, that one.’

  Jonny didn’t answer; there was nothing more to say, the decision had been made.

  Chapter Thirty

  Celeste felt ill with worry, and couldn’t settle at all. Why she had come to her sister’s she didn’t know – she just supposed that at certain times in your life, you needed your own. Even with family like hers. She couldn’t go to her mum’s what with her father muttering away about Jonny’s front and her mother offering endless cups of tea. Instead, she had found herself on her sister’s doorstep.

  Her sister seemed both amazed and pleased to see her, that much was obvious, even at this late hour.

  ‘Oh! Hello, sis.’

  Cynthia had taken to calling her ‘sis’ and it sounded more false each time she heard it.

  ‘All right, Cynth? I thought I’d pop in and give you a quick hello.’

  Cynthia’s eyes said ‘not at this time of night you haven’t’, but she didn’t question further. Instead she said brightly, ‘Come through to the kitchen, I’ll make a cuppa. Or I’ve a nice bottle of wine if you’d prefer that?’

  Celeste followed her sister into the pristine kitchen and asked frankly, ‘Got any vodka?’

  Cynthia turned to face her sister and, smiling sadly, she said sympathetically, ‘That bad?’

  Celeste nodded.

  Cynthia responded, ‘That’s why I’m still up and about too, James is on the missing list as well.’ She poured them both large vodkas and, gulping deeply from hers, she grimaced in a comical manner before saying, ‘I know you can’t tell me what’s going down, but I can guess from the fact you’re here it’s important. I know I done a wrong one, bu
t it was only because I was frightened for James. He’s a cokehead, you know that, don’t you?’

  Celeste didn’t answer her, she didn’t know what to say.

  ‘He snorts it up like it’s going out of fashion – out of his nut most of the time, he is. Now I know better than anyone that I’m not the greatest wife, or mother come to that, but I was jealous of you, and frightened for him. Does that make sense? I know now that what I did was wrong, was disgusting, and I’m paying the price for that. But you’re still my little sister and I can see you’re not right. You can confide in me if you like, or we can just sit here and talk about nothing. It’s your call, Celeste. Either way, I’m here for you, OK?’ It was said with honesty and humbleness.

  Celeste knew that her sister really meant what she was saying. Her time in the wilderness had obviously hit her hard, but she knew what Jonny would say if he ever found out she’d told Cynthia anything. ‘I can’t talk about it, Cynth, I wish to fuck I could. But I just can’t.’

  Cynthia plastered a smile on her lovely face and said in a resigned manner, ‘Fair enough. We’ll talk about something else. Have you seen the dresses in that new shop in Ilford? I treated myself the other day.’

  Smiling gently, Celeste listened as her sister prattled on, grateful for her company, and glad that they were back on some kind of even footing. But the worry was still there, and she wondered when this bloody night would ever end.

  Chapter Thirty-One