by Martina Cole
Patrick’s car pulled up outside Dicky’s house in Bow and he was already in possession of a large Scotch before he had even walked inside. It was placed in his hand as he stood on the doorstep.
Like Dicky Williams, Pat was also going over the events in his mind once more. And he had to agree with Dicky. Who would be mad enough to take them on? Pat had sighed to himself when he had heard that gem of wisdom, there was nothing like stating the bleeding obvious, but then the Williamses were not renowned for their command of the English language or their intelligence, even as a group, so Pat had overlooked the idiocy of Dicky’s words and instead decided to concentrate on finding out what the fuck had gone down. Terry’s death had to be avenged and he wanted that vengeance as much as they did, even if it was for a different reason. Dwyer was not a big enough fish for them to bother about; he was a dealer, no more and no less, and he had no real muscle or respect except what he garnered through his relationship with them.
Pat believed that Dwyer was the catalyst for this day’s work, but whoever else the filth had brought on board obviously thought they were beyond reproach, and for that reason alone, Pat wanted to obliterate them. He had to think this through and he had to make sure that no one was topped off before they had some idea of what this was all about. Everyone was a suspect now, but he wanted the real suspect not a plastic one. The brothers, however, were on red alert; anyone could be wiped out on the smallest piece of evidence.
Like any soldier, Pat wanted a strategy and you couldn’t work one out until you knew exactly what you were dealing with. He would find out if it was the last thing he did on this earth and, the way things were going, that could be exactly his fate before this day was out.
‘Look, Dicky, no disrespect, but we need to find out who took out poor Terry, right? Find out the score.’
Dicky nodded solemnly. ‘They are fucking amateurs. I mean, think about it, if they had half a fucking brain they would have come after us mob-handed.’
Pat looked into Dicky’s open face and saw the pain and the uncertainty there. ‘I think Jamie the Book was a blind. I think whoever did it wanted us wondering what the fuck was going on. What we need to do now is open this fucking town up and get the answers we need. I have a few Faces I can talk to, you start getting everyone together, then wait till I come back and we’ll have a plan of action, all right?’
Dicky nodded once more, relieved that Pat was taking it all over. The reason the Williamses were happier working with Pat was because he was a rational thinker and they were unable to think beyond the last thought that might have invaded their heads, even collectively. They were shrewd enough when it came to earning a crust, no one disputed that, but Pat was the real brains of the outfit and he knew he had to try to sort this out before the Williams brothers started shooting first and asking questions later. Much later.
Lil was happy. Pregnant again, she was happier than she had ever been. Her life was everything she could have hoped for, and more. Patrick was fussing over her as always and, like her, his children were the focal point of his existence. Both had experienced such neglect and utter misery in their own childhoods that they wanted to make sure their children were happy and cared for. They were united in making their children the mainstay of their whole lives. Pat, thanks to his erratic working hours, was able to spend a lot of time with the boys and it showed. Pat Junior was his double; he emulated everything his father did, and at eight years old he was already a force to be reckoned with. His Holy Communion had ensured his place in local folklore because it had been such an event.
No one had ever seen the like of it, before or since, and Pat Junior had been like a little angel throughout. The party afterwards had gone on long into the night, and people had talked about it for weeks afterwards. Pat was a happy, popular child who was already showing signs of his father’s fighting spirit and his mother’s determination to get what he wanted. But his strength was tempered with an innate kindness that she knew his father saw as a flaw, even though deep inside he was pleased that such a generous and big-hearted boy had sprung from his loins. In their world men could not be soft, it was seen as a weakness and Pat wanted his sons to be seen as being strong and as reflections of himself.
Lance, however, was another story. At six he was a big boy for his age and he was still not what she would call normal. He was quiet and surly and he was also very temperamental, causing untold problems when the fancy was upon him. He would argue black was white and her mother, as always, would back him to the hilt.
Lily had regretted having her mother back in her life many times, and always because of Lance. Annie had been a pain in the neck where he was concerned and Lil was constantly on the verge of fighting with her, but her mother had always seemed to sense when she had gone too far, making sure her daughter had nothing to complain about. Annie also knew that her babysitting was appreciated by her daughter who, if nothing else, trusted her with her grandsons.
Pat, however, was a different kettle of fish. He had put her mother in her place when he had seen his son in bed with her, asleep in her arms. Lance had been naked and, for some reason, this had sent Patrick off on a roaring diatribe that had raised the roof and also ensured that her mother was no longer encouraged to stay the night. Now that she was big with her pregnancy, her mother’s uses were limited as Lil wasn’t working the clubs any more. Her sons were therefore benefiting from her being home of an evening insomuch as their behaviour was being monitored more than usual. Lance hated it, of course, because he couldn’t get away with anything and he couldn’t stay up with his granny, while his older brother was left to his own devices. Lil was shocked at just how much sway her mother had over Lance. Seeing him perform when he didn’t get his own way had been an eye-opener and she regretted letting her mother have such autonomy over him; it wasn’t healthy. They had a way of looking at each other that excluded everyone around them, but what really bothered her was that if she, his mother, asked him to do something, he looked first at Annie for confirmation before undertaking the task. It sounded so trivial and unbelievable when said out loud, yet when she saw it happening between them it was almost sinister. She consoled herself that she was home now, and she would keep everyone on an even keel.
Pat Junior, on the other hand, loved having her home all the time. In fact, she felt his relief when the nights drew in because she realised just how much of a hold her mother had over her younger son. She was almost pleased to learn that the school felt pretty much the same way as she did about Lance. They told her that he was not a sociable child and she had smiled and interpreted the words as they were meant to be interpreted. He was a bully and, if his father had been anyone else, he would have been taken properly in hand. Pat Junior, God love him, had been pushed aside to make way for Lance, the golden boy, the child she knew Annie saw as her own. The child her mother seemed to think was more important than anyone else in the world.
Yet no matter what happened, Lil couldn’t find it in her heart to push her mother away completely. Somehow she knew that the woman was experiencing love for the first time in her life and as she had such difficulty loving Lance herself, she knew she was guilty of letting her mother give it to him instead. Lance, God love him, gave her the creeps and the guilt she felt because of this was what kept her mother in her life. The new child would be born soon and she would reassess the situation then. At the moment though, she was tired and out of sorts. Lance and his problems would have to wait.
Annie placed a glass of milk beside her, and Lil smiled her thanks, noticing that her mother was being much more civil since Pat had taken her in hand.
The shriek that came from the bedroom brought both women running. It was high-pitched and terrifying; as they burst through the bedroom door they saw Lance cowering on the floor with Patrick leaning over him. It was a scene that neither mother nor daughter had ever experienced before. Pat was always the peacemaker, the good boy. Annie immediately shot across the room and slapped Patrick hard across the face. Li
l, for the first time in weeks, found the energy returning to her body. As heavy as she was with the pregnancy, she walked purposely over to her mother who was now kneeling on the lino hugging a screeching Lance and, taking back her fist, Lil slammed it with all her might into the side of her mother’s head.
Lance screamed even louder and, without thinking, she slapped him too, a stinging blow across his face. ‘Get out of my sight before I do for you, boy!’
Lil’s voice was deep and resonant, the force of the words penetrated the child’s brain and he ran from the room, the shock of the slap quieting him.
Lil pulled Patrick into her arms, hugging him to her. He still wasn’t crying, even though the blow from her mother must have been painful.
‘You and all, Mother, out.’
Annie looked into the face so like her own and knew that her reign in this house had come to an end. In just a few seconds all the good things she’d had whilst under her daughter’s protection flew into her mind. Money, prestige, warmth and companionship. She would rather lick this bitch’s boots than be parted from the child she adored.
‘Calm yourself down, Lil, think of the baby.’ Her voice was low, her face a travesty of hurt and sorrow.
‘Get the fuck out of my house.’ Lil was talking through her teeth, her anger causing her to pant, and it was this more than anything that warned Annie she was skating on very thin ice.
‘I am sorry. Lil, will you please calm down, love?’
Annie was pulling herself up off the floor by leaning on Pat’s bed, and Lil saw that she was a woman aged before her time, from her severe, pulled-back hair to the deep grooves around her eyes and mouth. She was mean; her eyes told the truth of her real feelings and, once more, Lil felt the urge to murder her where she stood.
‘Go home, Mother, before I do something I regret.’
Annie walked slowly from the room then and Lil didn’t expel the breath she was holding until she heard the front door downstairs close behind her.
Patrick stared up at her and said sadly, ‘It weren’t my fault, Mum.’
She squeezed him to her once more, realising how big he was growing and how sturdy he was.
‘What did he do, Pat?’
‘He hurt me, he grabbed me and he hurt me.’
He indicated his groin as he spoke and Lil didn’t question what he said, as most women would after hearing that said about their child; she knew Pat Junior was telling the truth.
‘Go and get yourself a treat and send your brother in.’
She sat herself on the bed and waited until her younger son slipped into the room. ‘Why did you grab him there? What have you been told about that?’
He stared into her eyes and, for the first time ever, she saw wariness and fear.
‘I didn’t . . .’ The whine was in his voice now. The poor-me whine that had Annie running around like a bluearsed fly.
She pushed her face close to his and had the satisfaction of seeing him flinch. ‘Don’t you lie to me, boy. Now, get the belt.’
‘Please, Mum, please.’ He was shaking his head, the shock and terror evident from the whiteness of his face.
She slapped him once more across his cheek, the force snapping his head to the side with a sickening crunch. ‘Get the belt, boy, and get it now.’
Lance stumbled from the room, his face already awash with tears.
She watched him go. He was heavier than Pat, similar-looking, but with a tendency to flabbiness. It was because her mother gave him whatever he asked for. Well, he was going to get what he was asking for today, she was determined on that much.
Pat was in Brixton. He pulled up outside a terraced house in Ballater Road and, before turning off the engine, he sat back on the plush leather seats and listened to the radio for a few minutes. He needed a second to calm himself down before he went inside.
The house was small, a three-bedroom semi, nothing to write home about; it blended in with the other dilapidated properties in the road. But Pat knew that inside this house was the information he needed.
As he walked up the small pathway, the door was discreetly opened by a tall black man with dreadlocks and bloodshot eyes. Spider Block was a mate, and they nodded to each other cautiously. ‘He expecting you, man.’
Pat grinned then. ‘He fucking better be, Spider.’
As Pat slipped inside the small hallway, he nodded a greeting to another large black man and walked straight into the parlour. The place was as dilapidated inside as it was on the outside. There were a few bits of furniture, no floor covering, not even linoleum; just brown tiles caked with years of grime and paint drips. The smell consisted mainly of Dwyer’s body odour and mouse droppings; the decay and stench of neglect was a familiar odour to Patrick Brodie. It was what he had grown up with, and it was for that reason he loathed it so much. It reminded him of what he had come from, reminded him of the hunger and the despair that had spurred him on to make something of himself. He breathed it in deeply to make sure he never forgot it because if he ever did, he would be finished in his world and he knew that. These people smelled weakness like other people smelled their own shit; it wasn’t nice, but it was a necessary part of life.
Dwyer had come from the same background so Pat had no respect for him still choosing to live like an animal. Pat knew his own children would never know this stench, and never know the shame of having to live like it.
At a scuffed wooden table sat three men. Patrick knew only one of them and, standing stiffly in the doorway of the room, he said harshly, ‘I take it you were expecting me then?’
Freddie nodded and sighed in a very nervous and exaggerated manner.
Pat decided he really did look like a rat; he had the long nose of his Jewish mother and the shifty mud-brown eyes of his Welsh father. Freddie was an ugly bastard, and, until now, that had not mattered one iota, but suddenly his ugliness spelt out treachery, hate, and underlying all that emotion was fear. Not just Freddie’s, that was hanging in the room like a net curtain; for Pat it was the fear of what Freddie knew, what Freddie could use against him if cornered.
Patrick’s head was reeling with all the information he had gathered in the last four hours. Some he knew to be true, some he guessed was gossip, gossip that had gained momentum as the day’s events had been discussed and dissected by the common herd. There was always an element of truth in gossip though, and he had tried to ferret it out as best he could. He also knew for a fact that at least one of the men at the table was a filth, and he decided to wait and hear what Freddie had to say before committing himself.
No one was more surprised than Lil when the police had knocked at her door. They were warrantless, aggressive, and they turned the whole place over in a matter of minutes.
She sat on her black and orange PVC sofa with the boys either side of her and watched as her beautiful home was systematically ripped apart before her eyes. As drawers were pulled out and emptied on to the beige carpet, she lit a cigarette with shaking hands and acted as if this was a normal day. She chatted to her two wide-eyed children and listened to the police conversations all at the same time.
’Are there any guns in the house?’
DCI Kent was a tall, thin man with halitosis and stooped shoulders. He had his usual comb-over hairdo and a cigarette constantly on the go. His grubby mac had a fine layer of dandruff all over the shoulders and Lil hated him.
‘What are you on about? Why would we have guns?’ She sounded scandalised and angry; she knew how to play the game. ‘Look at my house, you rotten bastards, what the fuck you got to wreck it for?’
‘This is nothing, Lil, this is just the start.’
She didn’t answer him, she just pulled the children closer to her as if protecting them from an invisible force.
Kent lit a new cigarette from the butt of the old one, breathing clouds of smoke over the boys. Lil looked wary and worried, and he noticed the brightness of the kids’ eyes as they watched the commotion around them. Already they were street-smart and th
e knowledge depressed him for some reason. He knew he was looking at the next generation of lunatics and psychopaths. This scene would become a normal occurrence to them; one day it would all be re-enacted with their own kids and so the cycle would go on. He had seen it so many times over the years and, the older he got, the more he noticed how futile it all was. Young Pat Junior had his father’s craggy good looks, he was also well set-up; even for a small boy he had the look of a fighter. He would be a lump in a few years and it went without saying that he would be a fighter.
The bigger of the boys though, Lance, would run to fat, he was already too chubby to be comfortable. He also had the furtive look that would mark him out all his life; it was the same look the little bastards who were already hanging around the estates causing trouble had.
Yet he had to admit that, in fairness to Patrick, he had provided for his family handsomely. But, as his father used to say, blood will out.
He smiled at Lil and said gently, ‘You better sort your old man out, Lil, he is making a lot of enemies lately.’
‘Get out and leave me and my children alone.’
Kent looked at her then and she saw the sadness in his eyes as he shook his head slowly.
‘You’re a mug, Lil, that old man of yours is living on borrowed time. If I don’t get him, then his so-called mates will; at least with me he is in with a chance of seeing his babies grow up.’
He nodded towards her belly and she felt the truth of what he was saying; this was not the usual Old Bill mug-bunnying. Her old man paid out too much money to get turned over without fair warning. This was serious all right.
But she kept her own counsel.
Chapter Five
Lil was bone-weary, but she tidied the place up anyway. Her home was everything to her; it made her feel safe, it was the place she felt she could finally relax in. It was important to her that it was a calm, clean and quiet oasis, especially now that she was pregnant. Even more so when her old man was on the missing list.