by Martina Cole
Spider had been a good mate to Pat over the years but he had made a life-changing choice this night: he had chosen Pat over the guaranteed protection of filth. If he had gone along with Dwyer, he would have been given a free rein to serve up his puff with no hassle whatsoever. But, like Patrick Brodie, he would rather take his chances in their world than live under the protective umbrella and sickening stench of Old Bill.
Patrick was filled with enthusiasm now: as he had showered the blood from his body he had relived the feelings of excitement that the night had created inside him. That he had enjoyed the violence so much made him question everything about himself; he had watched Dwyer die slowly and painfully and he had been fascinated by it. As the others had waited for their turn, he had observed their absolute terror, could smell the fear emanating from their pores. As he had remarked to Spider, it was absolute power; the knowledge that you chose whether someone lived or died was the greatest buzz of all. It was their horror and the realisation that they were in over their heads that had made him feel so good, that had made him prolong the agony of Dwyer so he could enjoy their fear, feed off it and make it work for him, for his benefit.
Now he was calming down he waited for the feelings to disappear, but they didn’t, and he knew that he had awakened something inside himself that had been waiting to escape for years. He was his father’s son, his mother’s child and he knew now that he had a hard streak running through him that made him immune to other people’s suffering; at least the people who thwarted him.
He was determined to use that to his advantage. After this little debacle he was going to make sure he was never again in a position of weakness; if extreme fear kept him safe then that was fine by him.
He had put the word out for information on the whereabouts of the shooter. Once he had a reliable lead and wiped him out, the whole episode would be closed once and for all. He was sending out more messages than the GPO, and anyone with half a brain would take heed. Patrick Brodie was not a man to cross, even filth had learned that lesson the hard way.
Lil opened her eyes and quickly closed them again. It was early in the evening and the sun was bright in the hospital room. She was still unable to relax, still worried about Patrick. Not a word, and no one seemed able to track him down. All through the delivery she had been on red alert for a message to say he was outside, a word from someone, anyone, to tell her that he was OK and still on the out. But no one seemed to have heard from him and no one seemed bothered about his disappearance.
A thin mewling brought her bolt upright and she smiled into the cot placed beside her bed; two perfectly formed little girls lay side by side, identical in every way. Despite being early, they were healthy, robust children with well-rounded limbs and thick curly hair.
Twins. The sheer enormity of their birth was overwhelming her. No one had detected a second baby, no one had been prepared for the second birth and no one could love them more than she did. It was a revelation that, even in her terror of what the next few hours might bring, a fierce determination to protect them was foremost in her mind.
Pat would be over the moon, she knew, when he eventually found out about them. It had been the most eventful night of her life and having to keep up the pretence that everything was OK, lying that her husband was working away and couldn’t be contacted, was taking its toll on her.
She had to spend ten days in this poxy bed but until she knew what was going on with her old man, she knew that the sleep her body was crying out for would not come. If and when he finally turned up she was going to launch him into outer space. That thought made her feel better for a while.
Laina Dawson was seventy-two years old and had moved out to Southend fifteen years earlier with the GLC and the slum clearance. Her two daughters and her youngest son were still in the Smoke and she saw them often, but to have her grandson, her Leonard, named for his dead grandfather, living with her was as close to heaven as she thought she was ever going to get.
His nerves seemed to be getting the better of him though and she believed, as did his mother, that the sea air would soon have him back on his feet. Good home cooking and a few weeks’ watching telly with his old nana would soon put the colour back into his cheeks.
‘Fancy coming to bingo, love?’
Lenny forced a smile and shook his head, his resemblance to his errant father all the more striking since he had shaved his hair off.
It was the only thing about this boy she found difficult to like, his looks, he was his father’s son in that department. He was that two-faced ponce all over again but, as luck would have it, that was where the similarity between them ended. Unlike his old man, he was a kind, decent lad with good manners and an amiable way about him.
The rumours going round that he was involved with criminals she shrugged off as nonsense. He wasn’t a violent thug and anyone who said otherwise was a liar; as she was always telling him, people were jealous. What they had to be jealous of she had never explained, but that had been her answer to all her children’s complaints since they were babies. It never occurred to her that they might have been at fault, it was always everyone’s jealousy of her perfect brood.
Now she had her grandson here, only because he was in some kind of trouble, and she was once more making up excuses for him. He was young and foolish, he would learn. The pungent tobacco he smoked made him almost catatonic and if it had been anyone else’s grandson, she would have sworn it was that new cannabis stuff she had read about in the papers. Not her boy though, he was above all that.
As she got ready to go to bingo she chatted to him, ignoring the fact that he hardly registered her existence. She was lonely since her old man had passed and even though she would die before admitting it, she was making the most of having someone to prattle on to. The boy did look rough though. He was white-faced, and he was sporting bags under his eyes large enough to fetch her shopping in. He was caught up in some kind of fuckery, she would swear to that, but what it was, she would not ask.
Overwork, that was his mother’s explanation for his condition and Laina had not questioned the fact that, to her knowledge, Lenny had never actually had a job. They must think she was in her dotage. For all her talk about how good they were to her, Laina knew that she only saw her kids or their offspring when there was aggravation afoot or money was needed.
Lenny was a bright boy though, he made a few quid and had slipped her a ton for his little sojourn with her, so that wasn’t too bad, was it? As her old man had always said, it would all come out in the wash.
As she bowled down Progress Road on her way to the bingo she heard the screech of tyres that was becoming more and more prevalent in the area. Southend was going to the dogs, and she didn’t mean the kind that raced at Walthamstow either.
As she crossed the road, Laina didn’t see the three men slip up her pathway and enter her home without even having the decency to knock.
And she didn’t see her grandson’s face as he heard a familiar voice say quietly, ‘Hello, Lenny.’
Even though he had known that this moment was inevitable, the shock still rendered Lenny speechless.
‘Nothing like a bit of sea air, a nice little holiday.’
Lenny looked into the eyes of Pat Brodie and knew without a doubt that all that was left for him now was to die with some dignity about him, with a bit of self-respect.
When they told the story of his demise, as he knew they would, in their cups, boys together, he wanted them to say that he took it like a man. That he had held his hand up, wiped his mouth and accepted the inevitable. He wanted them to give him credit for his bravery, talk about him with respect. He knew that a good death would earn him some kudos for the future, even though he would not be there to hear about it. He wanted his friends to know that he had not begged for his life or tried to talk his way out of it; he wanted to go with his pride intact, no matter how ruthlessly Brodie decided to eliminate him. This was what was left for him now: Brodie saying that he died like a man, and Brodie
would say it, would give him his due, and in their world that meant a lot. The fact that he was thinking about how he would be perceived after his death at twenty-five years old did not enter his mind; the fact that it was that kind of warped thinking that had brought about his early demise, did not enter it either. He had gambled, and he had lost. If he had won, he would not have any sympathy as the victor, consequently he expected no less for himself. He smiled half-heartedly, still the hard nut, the Face. He swallowed down his fear, a small part of him relieved that he would not have to wait for the knock on the door any more; the door had finally been opened and a peace was descending over him.
‘Not here, mate, me nan . . .’
The boy looked like a child, his chubby face was open and he was more than aware of his fate.
Pat grinned and said jovially, ‘What do you think we are, Lenny, fucking animals?’
‘Fuck me, Lil, a pair of brahmas there, girl.’ Her stepfather’s voice dragged her from the sleep that complete exhaustion and two Mogadon from a worried nurse had finally given to her.
Lil looked at him with dark-rimmed, tired eyes and Mick knew that she wished him as far away as was physically possible. He felt the urge to smack her across her smug face, but he didn’t, he was still playing the game. Still acting as if she was his daughter and he was a doting grandfather.
The twins though, they were beauties; even he was touched by their good looks and the perfect symmetry of their features. They were two peas in a pod all right, and he envied Brodie his family more at this moment than ever before.
The word had hit the street that Brodie had out-gunned the pretenders to his throne, hence this very public appearance at the hospital to welcome his new granddaughters. But as the man of the moment was nowhere to be seen, maybe the pavement talk was a bit premature.
‘You need anything, love?’
She barely moved her head in denial and the disrespect was not lost on him and he grinned.
‘I bet Pat is over the moon, eh, love?’
This was said with the confidence of someone who knew that her husband had not been anywhere near and Lil could feel the animosity coming off her stepfather in waves. There was an underlying sarcasm in his voice that told her he had heard something about her old man’s whereabouts. He was aware of the Old Bill turning the house over; her mother would have seen to that, so she kept her expression blank, unwilling to give him the satisfaction of knowing he had rattled her.
The silence between them was finally broken by Mick’s harsh cough. He broke eye contact and dropped his head on to his chest in a shamefaced manner and Lil knew she had unnerved him; for all his hatred and his bravado he was a coward, and like all cowards, he was also treacherous. She knew he would sell every one of them down the river without a second’s thought if it gained him anything.
‘Fuck off and leave me be.’ Her voice was deep from a lack of sleep and emotion, and she was pleased to note that he left without a word. She was shaking again. It was over forty-eight hours and she had still not heard from Pat. That in itself was not unusual, he often disappeared, but he had to have known that they had been turned over. That she had been left to sort it while her belly was nearly dragging on the floor. He had to have thought of her condition and his boys, surely? The fact he had not contacted her made her feel abandoned, frightened and lonely.
No one seemed to be answering their phones either, and that alone told her that something was wrong, very wrong. Even the club phones were off the hook, so she had nothing and no one to allay her fears. Once more she felt the enormous weight of her worries lying heavy on her shoulders as she wondered where the fuck her old man was and why he had not been in touch. The ache in her breasts was nothing to the tight band of tension that was slowly squeezing her head until she felt as if it was going to explode. In a strange way, she hoped he was banged up, because if he was still at large it meant that he had not been bothered about them all; that they had not even entered his head.
Dicky Williams was getting out of his car with his usual jaunty air when he was shot repeatedly in the head and body. Lenny was obviously not the culprit, and no one seemed any the wiser about who it might have been. It was a head-scratcher all right.
It was too late for his death, that was the sad part, because the whole debacle was over and poor Dicky had been taken out after everything had been sorted, but no one seemed to have any knowledge about it whatsoever.
It was a tragedy, more so because the other Williamses were not capable of keeping themselves together without his strength of character. It would soon become apparent that Dicky’s death, not Terry’s, would be the catalyst that would bring the whole lot of them down.
Chapter Six
Kathleen and Eileen were toddling around the room and Pat was laughing at their antics. They were his heart and everyone, including the boys, accepted that fact. The girls, as they were always referred to, were gorgeous; blond-haired, blue-eyed beauties who had never in their life been subject to anything except love and spoiling. At three, they were a mirror image of each other. They were also bright; early talkers, early walkers and they were already ruined by their parents and brothers.
Patrick watched his wife as she wiped noses, tidied up the house and cooked the dinner. Lil was a strong girl and she was still the only woman for him. As his daughters held out their arms to her and she reached down to hug them, he smiled at the picture they created and felt a lump in his throat.
She was a beautiful woman and four children had not diminished her allure in his eyes. If anything it had made her more attractive to him. But with the birth of the twins she had been forced to give up working with him, and even though she loved being a mother to them all, he knew she missed the excitement of being a part of his working life. She glanced at him and smiled sadly; she could see through him as if he was a pane of glass and they both knew it.
Guilt ate away at him. He had been on the missing list for two days when the girls were born, and the fact that his wife, his Lil, had not even mentioned it, spoke volumes. She had stopped asking him questions a long time ago, didn’t want to know where he had been, she no longer cared. All she seemed interested in was money, she was obsessed with money. She demanded it as her right and how could he deny her? Four kids cost money, a lot of money, but sometimes he felt that was all he was to her, a meal ticket, a pay packet, even though he knew that was unfair.
He was turning into his father and he hated himself for that. But the clubs called to him, he got a few drinks inside him, started mug-bunnying and, before he knew it, the night was over and the morning was there. The girl he had spent the day and night with wasn’t fit to clean Lil’s shoes, yet he had not cared about that. She had been young, available and fresh-looking. She had also been as thick as shit and up for anything. He had fucked her rigid in the back of his car and he couldn’t even remember her name. She had been in possession of a pair of firm tits and a nice smile and that had been criteria enough for what he had wanted at that particular moment in time. He had used her, as he always used the girls who hung around him, and who made him more grateful than ever that he had his Lil waiting for him at home. As soon as it was over and the drink wore off, he wanted shot of them and he was disgusted with himself, swearing it would be the last time.
However, it was becoming a frequent occurrence, even though it meant nothing. He stayed out even when there was no actual work involved, nothing to do, no reason not to go home to his family, and he felt a right ponce. He was taking the piss out of Lily and he knew it. More to the point, she knew it. If Lil had been out all night on the gatter he would have caused a fucking riot. If anyone even looked at her sideways, he felt a jealousy that was capable of causing him to murder. As she always pointed out, you judged people by your own standards. Because he was capable of taking a flier, he assumed she was, even though he knew she was better than that. The worst thing was that she had a natural, built-in shit-detector that told her when he was pulling a fast one.
Patrick was the king of the hill now, he had made himself a rep that was so solid, so concrete, that no one in their right mind would challenge him. In a strange way, this disappointed him. Patrick knew that to keep on top you had to put on a show of strength on a regular basis, not only to warn off any pretenders, but to keep your workforce in line. He had a lot of people working for him now, and a few of them were capable of being contenders if he was fool enough to give them too much leeway.
Even Dave and the other Williams brothers were pushing their luck lately, and it was getting to the stage where a straightener might very well be on the cards.
Spider and his cronies were still on his payroll, but as the Williamses and the blacks had never really mixed, it was causing aggravation. The Williamses resented the money that was going their way, not understanding that Spider was a good mate and that he earned fortunes off the blues, the grass and the firearms that he had a knack of sniffing out. Times were changing and the Jamaicans were the future for them. If Dave could only get his thick head around that fact, they would all have been the better for it. They had been offered a chance and they had knocked it back long ago. Now the money was rolling in and resentments were surfacing because of that.
Spider worked the front line and ran the whole shebang, from blues to birds. Blues were parties that went on for days; a derelict property was located, boarded up, cleared of debris, then a sound system would be installed and a bar erected. The party could go on for days and the money collected off the door and the bar was astronomical. The puff sales were always good and the police kept well away. All in all, it was a good earner and Spider had it sewn up. No one could have a blues, sell a bit of puff or pimp a woman without Spider’s express say-so. That meant of course, without his say-so. Spider didn’t care about that, he and Patrick had gone into it as a team, but it seemed that suddenly Dave and his brothers did mind. They had no foothold in south London and resented the money that Patrick was creaming off, but they had originally been offered an in and refused it. They had not seen Brixton and its potential, they had not weighed out for any of the original deals and they were going to have to swallow the fact they had made a big fuck up. There was no way at this late stage that anyone was going to cut the profits three ways just to keep the peace.