The Faithless

by Martina Cole

  It had been a great night; all the lags in there had reminisced about times past, about what they saw in their futures. And he had enjoyed listening to them as the Scotch loosened their tongues, and stories long forgotten had been told, and the laughter had been loud and free. That was the best bit – hearing that laughter, so uncontrolled and so natural. It was only then that he had realised that he had forgotten what laughter sounded like.

  Usually on the wing everything was subdued somehow and people were always on their guard. You had to be – it was the way of this kind of world. Men banged up together could get into fights literally over nothing at all, small offences were allowed to fester until they became huge insults, and only violent retribution could assuage the injured party’s ego. Men became different when they were isolated from family and friends; their children were growing up without them, and it was hard at times to deal with those kind of emotions.

  Occasionally a man would come on to the wing who was an enemy on the outside for whatever reason, but the rule of thumb was you patched up your differences in nick. It was you against the screws, and it worked most of the time. But there was always the man who could not forget past mistakes, and then the wing became a subtle battleground. Tempers flared, and no one was safe. The main thing was learning to look after yourself. You had to watch your back constantly, watch what you said, and exercise a little diplomacy. He had seen the big mouths arrive, all bravado, with stories of how hard they were, only to become gofers within a week.

  Gofers were the mugs who ended up doing the shit work – cleaning people’s cells, making the tea. It was ‘Go for this’, or ‘Go for that’. Vincent had found himself a niche there; it was well known he had been captured and had kept very quiet – not landing anyone in it but doing the time for them all. That had earned him a great deal of respect, especially as he had been so young. He had worked up from there, proving himself in small ways, and gaining a reputation for being a hard little fucker as well as a good companion. It was not an easy life, and it was hard for them all, but he had managed to overcome it. He had kept his head down, served his time and, now he had repaid his so-called debt to society, he was finally going home.

  As he stepped out of the prison, he felt a rush of panic because, right up until this second, he had believed that it would go wrong somehow, and he would be stuck in there for good. As he acclimatised himself to the natural light, he saw a large black Bentley and, standing by it waving at him, dressed in a short black dress, was his Gabby.

  He ran to her and picked her up in his arms. Her body fit into his perfectly as if they had been made for each other and, kissing her deeply, he felt at last like he was out. He was really on the other side of the wall.

  ‘Oh, Gabby, you fucking gorgeous girl, this is like a fucking dream!’

  Gabby was nearly speechless with happiness. ‘Come on, mate, get in! We’re finally going home.’

  Vincent could feel her tears mingle with his as he kissed her over and over, afraid to let her go in case it all was a dream.

  In the car, she handed him a bottle of Champagne, and said shyly, ‘You’d better open that, mate, it’s from Bertie Warner. He’s waiting for us – there’s a big party, and it’s all for you!’ She was beside herself with excitement.

  The driver, a large, usually dour man called Peter Bates, turned and shook his hand saying jovially, ‘I am going to put the glass up. Nothing personal, but I think you two might like a bit of privacy.’

  Two minutes later the glass divide was up, and the curtains were drawn. Looking at his Gabby, at how nervous she seemed, Vincent knew then that this would be the happiest day of his life. As he slipped her dress over her head, he felt how shy and timid she was, and he would always remember this moment. Because she was, without doubt, the love of his life, and he knew that she felt the same way about him. All his fears about them finally being together were gone. It felt as natural as walking or talking. He also knew that if anyone ever hurt her, he would kill them without hesitation. He had left behind a schoolgirl, and had come out to find a woman, his woman. His Gabriella.

  Chapter one Hundred and Nineteen

  ‘The motor’s here, it’s just driven into the car park.’

  The pub was packed with people, and little Cherie was the queen of the night and loving every second of it. Her daddy was coming home at last, and she was thrilled at the prospect. It was like a dream to her; the noise, the people, the dancing! And it was all for her daddy.

  Her great-nana Mary and her great-granddad Jack were sitting at a table proud as punch, and she picked up on the way people deferred to them. Nanny Cynthia though looked cross and she didn’t know why. Her daddy’s family was also there, and she sensed that they were not as welcome as everyone else. It was a wonderful night, and everyone was telling her how pretty she looked, and how lovely she was. It was a great feeling being so important, so special. Her daddy must be somebody to have all this done for him, and she was proud to be a part of it.

  As Vincent walked into the pub with his arm around Gabby’s shoulders, Cherie ran to him, and he picked her up and threw her into the air. She hugged him tightly, her slim little arms locked on to his neck, and he kissed her hair, savouring the clean smell of her, and the feel of her slight little body in his grasp. For the first time ever he felt that he had a family, a real family.

  As he looked across the room he saw his father and brothers standing up toasting him, raising their glasses with everyone else and, passing his daughter to her mother, he walked straight over to the table that held his family.

  ‘Welcome home, son.’ Paddy O’Casey extended his hand to Vincent, but his brothers all hung back, shy now that he was finally home, and aware of how far he had come up in the world. They knew they had not been as good to his little girl as they should have been, and they were nervous.

  Vincent sensed all this in a heartbeat and, ignoring his father’s proffered hand, he grabbed the man by the scruff of his neck and, in front of everyone, physically dragged him across the small dance floor and out into the car park. There he proceeded to hammer his father with his fists until he was pulled off by Bertie Warner and Derek Greene.

  Looking at his father lying in the dirt he said quietly, ‘You robbed me, you treacherous old cunt. You took money that should have been for my Gabby and my baby. If I ever clap eyes on any of you I’ll fucking kill you, you got that? And that goes for you lot as well,’ he said to his brothers, who had followed him out to the car park.

  The men nodded their heads, humiliated and ashamed.

  Turning to Derek and Bertie, Vincent then said jovially, ‘Come on, lads, we’ve got a party to go to!’

  The two men followed him inside, acutely aware that a young boy might have been sent down, but a very dangerous man had returned in his place.

  Chapter One Hundred and Twenty

  ‘You must be mad, Gabby!’ Cynthia was beside herself with anger and it showed. That her daughter could be pregnant again so quickly was a source of irritation to her.

  ‘Thanks for the congratulations, Mum, really appreciate it.’

  Cynthia stopped herself from retaliating, instead saying levelly, ‘You’re only young, why tie yourself down again?’ But she didn’t mean a word of it; her daughter’s happiness was eating away at her, and the fact that Vincent was making a great name for himself was galling.

  ‘My Vincent and me want another baby – he’s missed so much of Cherie’s life, and we want to be a family, a proper family.’

  The inference was not lost on Cynthia and she seethed with indignation. Vincent, however, was not a man to fuck, as the Jamaicans would say. He had already put the hard word on her, told her that if she pushed her luck he would come after her without mercy. He had explained in a quiet and patient voice that if his Gabby did not get the respect due to her, he would hunt her down like a dog. Those had been his exact words, and it had been hard swallowing, but she knew she had to. If she wanted to see little Cherie she would really
have to restrain herself, and she was willing to do that for the child. She adored that little girl, and she knew that Vincent saw this love as her only redeeming feature.

  The social worker was well off the scene now that Vincent had got his little garage, and was a productive member of society. She couldn’t tattle in the social worker’s ear any more about rumours and stories of her daughter’s wild ways, and how worried she was about her granddaughter’s moral welfare. Those days were long gone, and she knew it.

  She forced herself to smile. If Gabby was pregnant she would need more help with Cherie, it stood to reason. This might actually work in her favour.

  ‘I just don’t want to see you losing your freedom, love, that’s all. Old before your time.’

  That made sense to Gabby, and she smiled faintly, her eyes softer now. ‘It’s what we both want, Mum. Vince is thrilled.’

  Cynthia didn’t answer; instead she put the kettle on. ‘Well, why don’t you leave Cherie with me, and have the weekend off to celebrate, eh?’

  Gabby nodded. It was what she had hoped her mother would say, and she felt a hypocrite in many ways; after all, it wasn’t that long ago that she didn’t want the child anywhere near her mother. But that was before, when she didn’t have Vince by her side, and was at this woman’s mercy. Those days were long gone.

  It would be nice to have a weekend alone with Vince. Cherie was a handful, constantly wanting her father’s attention. But that was to be expected – he had not been in her life properly until now, and Cherie, the little madam, was making the most of him being there. For his part, Vince loved his pretty little daughter, and she knew he was happy at the prospect of another baby.

  ‘Thanks, Mum. I’ll pick her up on Sunday afternoon.’ Gabby walked into her daughter’s bedroom which her mother had decorated to perfection, and hugged the little girl to her. ‘You be a good girl for your nanny, OK?’

  Cherie nodded happily. She loved it here; she was the centre of attention from the minute she opened her eyes until she fell asleep. For a child like Cherie that was heady stuff, and Cynthia indulged her shamelessly.

  ‘Go on, get yourself away. I’m sure that man of yours is champing at the bit to see you.’

  ‘He is, he always is.’

  Gabby left the flat and walked to her car. As she unlocked it, she saw her brother standing at the corner of her mother’s road, and felt troubled. After all, her Cherie was in the flat with her, and she didn’t want James going there and causing trouble in front of her.

  She drove to the corner and, stopping beside her brother, she said, ‘What you doing here, James?’

  He smiled absently at his sister, then he said, ‘I hear your Vincent is doing well for himself.’

  She ignored him and said again, ‘What are you doing here, James? You know Mum doesn’t want to see you.’

  He shrugged and she saw how emaciated he had become. Vincent had heard he was an addict and, seeing him now, she believed it. He looked thin, drawn, and very run down. The weather was just turning cold and all he had on was a thin jacket over an even thinner T-shirt.

  She looked into his face and was heart-sorry for the way his life had turned out. If he had not been her brother she certainly wouldn’t have approached him. If she was honest, she had avoided him like the plague since he had been back on the scene. She had seen him from a distance a few times, and she had driven past him without stopping to even say hello. He made her nervous; anyone looking into his eyes could see that he was not quite right. He could easily be mistaken for a rapist, or a serial killer from a film. He was dirty, unkempt, and basically just odd. The trouble with James was that he was literally capable of anything, and she had to make sure he wasn’t going near her mother’s house while her daughter was there.

  ‘My baby’s in that flat, my Cherie, and if Vince finds out you’ve been near there, or that you scared her . . .’ She left the sentence unfinished and she saw her brother’s eyes widen. ‘You are taking your medication, aren’t you, James?’

  The question threw him, and she could see it had also annoyed him.

  ‘Are you?’ she repeated.

  He shuffled his feet for a few seconds, unable to meet her eyes. ‘What do you care?’

  She sighed then, a sad, drawn-out sigh. ‘You’re still my brother, James . . .’

  He didn’t answer her so she tried again.

  ‘Where are you living? Locally?’

  He shrugged. ‘Why the interest suddenly?’

  Gabby could smell the foetid breath of the junkie and she felt her stomach heave.

  ‘Because you are hanging round Mum’s street, and you aren’t exactly her biggest fan, are you?’

  He looked awful, like he had been sleeping on the streets, and she wondered at how her father would feel seeing him like this. Seeing what had happened to them all, for that matter. She wondered if, had he known what their fates would be, he would have left them like he had, at the mercy of a woman who had no real care for anyone except herself, and now also little Cherie.

  Neither Gabby or James had had the best start in life. They had been little children at the mercy of an adult who had no real care for anyone or anything but what she herself wanted. It was an abortion really, all of it.

  ‘It’s a free country, Gabby. I can go where I like, and I like to watch Mother. I can promise you this though; if I decide to have a word with her, I’ll make sure she’s alone, OK? I can’t be fairer than that, can I?’

  Gabby looked at this man who was still her brother despite the fact they felt like strangers and, shaking her head, she said sadly, ‘Please tell me where you’re living, James. I just want to help you if I can.’

  He didn’t answer her; instead, he gave her his usual enigmatic smile and walked away.

  She sat in the car for a while wondering if she should warn her mother about him. But she guessed that she knew he was there already. She wasn’t a fool – she would have noticed him surely? Yet, turning the car around, she went back to her mother’s flat anyway. While her Cherie was there she wanted to feel the girl was safe, and she made up her mind to tell Vincent about her worries.

  Chapter One Hundred and Twenty-One

  ‘I need a good earner, Bertie. I’ve got another baby on the way and, though the garage does OK, I need some real money to get a mortgage, et cetera.’

  Bertie Warner grinned laconically; he had wondered how long it would be before Vincent wanted more. It was indisputable that he was on a fucking good earn, but he would still never feel he was getting enough money – that was just this boy’s nature. He seemed to think the world owed him a living. True, he had done them all a big favour, but, by the same token, he had already been handsomely recompensed, and he had earned the respect of everyone into the bargain. It was too soon for Vincent to be out on the rob and Bertie said as much.

  ‘Calm yourself down, lad. If you go out too soon you’ll get another fucking capture. They will be keeping an eye on you for a good while yet. They will be aware of your known associates and they will even be monitoring your calls. Now, you remember what I told you about mobiles, don’t you? Never, and I mean never, use your mobile for work – you always talk business from a fucking public phone or an untraceable pay as you go. The Filth are using scramblers and all sorts to listen in on conversations, so be aware.’

  Vincent could barely keep the impatience out of his voice as he answered heavily, ‘You have mentioned that before, Bertie.’

  Bertie Warner, annoyed now, said sarcastically, ‘I’m sure I have, clever bollocks, but just in case you are a bit dense I thought I would mention it again. Only you lot seem to think you are technological wizards because you can fucking dial a phone number. Well, my technological wizards, who are shrewder than you lot put together and then some, have warned me of the pitfalls of tapping. The signal is winging its way through the air, and can be intercepted at any time. Now, I may not be Alexander Graham fucking Bell, but I know enough to listen to the people who do know about these
things. So if you ever ring me cold again like you did today, I will see to it that your fancy new mobile gets shoved so far up your jacksie you’ll have to shove your hand down your throat to answer a call!’

  He was bellowing now; he could be heard all over the scrapyard. And it took Vincent O’Casey all his considerable willpower not to knock the man on his arse. But he knew that for the mug’s game it would be – Bertie would have him sliced and diced without a second’s thought. Bertie was a lot of things, but even-tempered was not one of them. He could be moved to tears at the plight of a starving child in Africa one moment, only to become murderous if the noise of a child’s actual crying interrupted him watching the news. He was a mass of contradictions, and it was best to let him get his anger out of his system.

  ‘And for the fucking record, Mr Big fucking Earner, you work for me, and I say when, and if, you go back out on the street.’

  Vincent licked his dry lips, and bit back the retort he was dying to make. Instead, he bowed his head, feeling like some kind of errant schoolboy.

  Satisfied by the boy’s outward deference, Bertie lowered his voice and said amiably, ‘I done a lump and half, son, and I know how you’re feeling, but believe me when I say you have to lie low for a while. I mean, be honest, do you want to get captured again? Because this time, mate, it will be a lot longer than four years behind the door. Next time round you become what the courts call a serial offender, and they’ll throw away the fucking key, son. So, tighten your belt. You’re on a fucking decent earn – many men work a month to earn the poke you get a week – and the garage will pay off. Take my advice and stop giving it the large – you’ve plenty of time for all that when you’re properly established.’