by Martina Cole
‘You all right, son?’ Patrick’s voice was sad and he was sorry that it had come to this.
He was also relieved that the struggle between the Williams brothers and Spider’s graft had not had to be resolved by him. He liked this boy and he liked his brothers; they were useful if not indispensable. They had a history together and that meant a lot to him. He knew it was Dennis who was the driving force for most of the aggravation the family encountered and he also knew that Vince Williams, being a decent bloke, would not exact any kind of retribution. At least, he wouldn’t once Pat had talked to him. This was an unfortunate turn of events and the best way to deal with it was to settle it sooner rather than later. This meet they were supposed to have had with Dave was not exactly what he had had in mind, but if it kept a turf war at bay then it could only be a good thing.
Cain and Spider were laughing as James McMullen, a large Jamaican with a permanent smile and an erratic dress sense, filled them in on what had happened to Dennis Williams.
James was feeling the buzz of the grass acutely and was in the process of building another joint of Olympian standards. The men fell quiet as the enormity of what had happened sank in.
Cain shook his head sadly, wondering what had caused the Williams family to implode so violently. ‘Poor old Vince, he is a really nice bloke. A really trustworthy geezer; what was that fucking Dennis thinking about?’
Spider shrugged. ‘Fucking scum, the lot of them. They think they’re better than everyone else. That Dennis would take out his mother if he thought a few pennies would come his way. They are sixpenny killers, they ain’t in the real world. Cheap and fucking nasty, the whole lot of them. No loyalty, no fucking respect for themselves or anyone around them.’
Cain nodded at the truth of his brother’s statement. ‘Imagine going for your own family though, your own flesh and blood.’
James licked the big bamboo papers he had rolled so expertly and said, matter-of-factly, ‘Jealousy, man. Plain and simple jealousy. Vince is still in the game, big time, has made a few quid and continues to make a few quid. That lot owe money everywhere and the fact they are under Brodie’s umbrella is the only reason they ain’t been forced to cough it up yet. Debts are mounting; I heard they can’t get any more credit from the fucking Cash and Carry, let alone anywhere else.’
Cain digested this bit of logic. ‘Dave should have finished him off. Dennis won’t let this go, he ain’t got the fucking brains of a lab rat. Dave would be well advised to watch his back.’
‘Where does that leave us though?’ Spider asked. ‘They want what we got and they will still be wanting it. It might take them a while to regroup, get back on track but, mind my words, they will still need poke. I think we should go in and finish them off, once and for all.’
James nodded in agreement but Cain wasn’t so sure. He honestly believed that this was a classic case of feuding and that the Williams brothers would be too busy in-fighting in future to do anything else and he said as much.
‘I don’t know. They will be taking sides even as we are talking about it; Vince will want redress at some point, he ain’t a cunt. He must know that if he lets this go, he will lose respect. Dave will be fighting to keep his position as head of the family because who’s gonna trust him now? It’s over for them, finished.’
James and Spider grinned at each other at the naivety of youth.
‘Listen, boy, when something like this happens you can only do one thing in their position. And that is to bounce back bigger and better than before. It’s like when the police get caught taking money; the others feel it as badly as their mates so they posse up and go out and feel everyone’s collars, whether they be guilty or not, to make the public respect them once more. We all the same, we need to overcome fuck-ups by making a show of strength. We haven’t seen the last of those fuckers, especially that Dennis. He is a hot-headed prick looking for something he ain’t got the fucking brains to see if it was lying in the gutter and whistling at him.’
Spider laughed at James’s words. ‘Wisdom like that is something you gather with age, Cain. You can’t buy it, no more than the Williams brothers can buy business sense or outside friendship. James be right, it’s not a matter of when they will be back, it’s more a matter of how. They are going to have to do something pretty spectacular to get the attention of everyone; they will need to be a talking point to regain their respect and, worst of all for us, it will entail stealing someone’s livelihood. So you watch your back, they still want what we got and we still got to protect our assets.’
James nodded sagely, his big, powerful body moving gracefully with the grass he had smoked. He was mellowing out by the second, but he was still capable of keeping his reputation intact, no matter how much dope he smoked. He was a big man who was stronger than the average, both mentally and physically. He was a strategist by nature and a womaniser through choice. He was about as dangerous as any one person could be.
He pointed a large and calloused finger at Cain; he tried to teach the boy about their way of life at every opportunity. ‘They be more dangerous to us now than ever before. Now they got to prove something to themselves as well as everyone else. You watch your back and you up your personal security, they be coming for us all, Brodie included. And they be coming sooner rather than later.’
Dennis was in agony. As he lay in the hospital bed he wondered at a brother who could have committed such a barbaric act against one of his own. The fact that he had attacked his cousin, a man who had stood by them in the past and lent them money on a regular basis, meant nothing to him. Dennis had always made a point of adjusting his morals to suit himself.
As he lay there, he could only think about how other people would react to what had happened, what other people would think of him, and the damage that had been done to his reputation.
That it should be a talking point, something to joke about, was driving him nearly insane. He would be discussed like a fool; he had done enough man talking to know exactly what the reception to his troubles would be in the pubs and clubs he frequented. He would be laughed at, stupid jokes would be made up at his expense and no matter how hard or how fast he sprang back, it would always be out there in the public domain. Whispered about, maybe, but still ingrained into the folklore of their world. It would have been bad enough to be trounced by a stranger, or someone he had a genuine fucking beef with, but to be humiliated by his own brother? The one person in the world he would have trusted above all others?
This was tantamount to mutiny as far as he was concerned and Dave would be made to pay for that: made to pay for his public humiliation and his loss of face. He was not going to rest until Dave had paid out for every fucking slight, real or imagined, that came his way over this debacle.
Dennis had already requested a mirror and as he looked at his badly swollen and stitched face and head, the anger once more overwhelmed him. Dave, his older brother, the person he looked up to and admired, had beaten him to within an inch of his life and he was not going to let that go.
And the fact that no one had been in to see him was also something to be addressed in the near future. His mother, the fucking poncing cunt she was, had obviously decided to take the side of who she thought was the victor. His brothers could fuck off as well, they should have been by his side, making sure that it never happened. Well, his memory was long and his temper was short, and he would pay them back with such fucking force they would think Hitler had been reincarnated and was back among them all, bombing the East End once again. Only this time, south London was going to get a turn.
Dennis knew how to play the long game and that is exactly what he was going to do. He was going to make a comeback that would shame Henry Cooper; he was going to bide his time and then, when it was all quiet and everyone thought it had blown over, he would strike with all the force he could muster.
He could hear his own breathing now; it was laboured and wheezy. He was seriously ill and, for the first time in his life, Dennis felt vulner
able and tearful, even frightened. It was an emotional time and something he would never care to repeat. Or ever forgive.
Patrick sat on the bed and watched Lil as she slept. She looked so young and so tired, even in her deep sleep, that he felt the urge to wake her and reassure her that everything was going to be OK.
He looked around the room; it was spotless. Even the bed was relatively tidy because Lil very rarely moved once she had crashed out. He tiptoed from the room and snuck downstairs to the kitchen. As he waited for the kettle to boil, he pondered on the recent events.
The Williams brothers had caused a shifting in position for all the main players on their very limited stage. They were never going to be taken seriously again; in fact they were more or less liabilities. Their debts alone put them at the bottom of the scale as far as the punters they dealt with were concerned, and he would have to reassess the part they played in his organisation. It was a difficult situation and he didn’t relish having to sort it out, but in a way he was relieved, because he was going to have to push them out eventually anyway. They were not cost-effective any more and their useless grasp of any outside business was making them a laughing stock.
In his heart of hearts he knew that he should have given them a few crumbs from the drug dealing; Spider would have swallowed. But in all honesty, they were already getting on his nerves by that point. It wasn’t Dave so much; he was a good guy. It was Dennis and the younger ones; they believed that they were the dog’s gonads and they were anything but. They were thugs, common or garden thugs, the same kind you could see in any local pub around the Smoke.
They were fucking local heroes who would only be remembered because they could fight. Maybe they would get a lump to add a bit of excitement to their reps, then spend the rest of their lives talking about the men they had mingled with while in poke. He had known this for a long time, and now he had the proof of it.
Patrick sipped at his tea, liberally laced with brandy, and sighing, he lit himself a Dunhill cigarette. The radio was on low and he could hear the strains of the Eagles and ‘Hotel California’.
He glanced around the brand-new kitchen and felt his usual sense of pride in the home he had created with his Lil. It had everything that a woman could want; every labour-saving device on the market and the freezer and fridge were always laden with food. Like Lil, he needed to be surrounded with luxuries; too much food was preferable to not enough, something they had both experienced while growing up. His children had fresh fruit and veg on tap, they had juices and sweets; they wanted for nothing. They were good kids and he was proud of them.
As Patrick poured himself out another cup of tea, the kitchen door opened and he turned to see his eldest son standing there in his pyjamas, his hair tousled and his tired eyes bright with pleasure at seeing his father.
Patrick smiled at the boy. Getting up, he fetched another cup and as Pat Junior went to get the biscuits, they both pondered on how many times they had done this before. Pat Junior lay on red alert at night, his ears tuned for the sounds of his father’s presence in the house. He was up within seconds of hearing him come in.
When they sat down together, it was with a congenial atmosphere; they were very alike and they both enjoyed the other’s company. As always, Patrick waited for his son to sip at his tea, scoff a few biscuits and then start off the conversation.
It was a ritual now, their special time together, and they both knew it was a memory they would keep all their lives.
‘How’s it going, son?’
Pat Junior shrugged. ‘You know, Dad, the usual.’
As he said that, he pulled a paper bag from inside his pyjama top. ‘It’s all there, Dad. I can go back next week as well if you want.’
He was deadly earnest and his handsome, boyish face was alight with expectation. A part of Patrick was proud of his son; the little jobs he gave him were worthless in many respects but he knew the boy liked earning his own few quid. Another part of him was sorry that he had taken to it so well. What he did was drop off a few bets at a friendly bookies; they were bets that were not worth much money, but Patrick took them personally because the men he dealt with were old and trusted mates. They still expected his personal touch, even though he was a busy man, but as most of them had helped his rise in one way or another, he gave them the respect they saw as their due. It had been a bonus that the bookie Patrick owned was within walking distance of his son’s school and he liked the way the boy had kept it secret from everyone. He had the Brodie genes all right.
Patrick smiled, a smile that crinkled up his face and was a rare sight outside of this house. ’All there is it, son? You didn’t have a dip?’
Pat Junior looked scandalised and was suddenly flustered as he said, with total honesty, ‘I wouldn’t, Dad, never...’
Patrick grinned again. ‘I was winding you up, son, don’t take things so seriously.’
He ruffled the boy’s hair and pushed the biscuit tin towards him once more. Taking out a chocolate digestive, Pat Junior dipped it in his tea.
‘How’s everything here?’
‘The usual, Dad. Mum is very tired lately and the twins are hard work. But me and Lance do what we can. Nanny Annie is a pain in the you know where, but Mum can sort her out. I make sure the rubbish is put out and any errands are done.’
This was all said with a matter of factness that made Patrick want to laugh, but he didn’t because he knew his boy had a lot of dignity.
‘What about school?’
Pat Junior was less forthcoming about that, as his father knew would be the case.
‘No more fighting?’
‘I wasn’t fighting for me, was I? It was Lance I was defending. For all his bulk he can’t really have a row and yet he talks a good fight, as you know.’
Indignation was threaded through the words and, once more, Patrick was reminded of his son’s total honesty.
Lance was a chancer. He was a nice enough lad, but he had the weakness of the Brodie grandparents running through him like a stick of Southend rock.
‘Did you talk with your brother about it?’
Pat Junior nodded. ‘Course I did, but he don’t listen, does he? But he don’t mean it, Dad, he just doesn’t know when to shut up. I ironed them out anyway, they won’t be going near him now.’
Patrick looked at his little son and felt an urge to hug him close but he didn’t; he knew the boy was trying to be a man and he knew that he had to treat him as such. It was a hard road to manhood and he wanted his boys to be well able for it when it finally arrived. Lance was going to need his older brother because he didn’t have the cunning this little lad had in abundance. Pat Junior was his father’s son and Patrick knew he had a worthy successor for his business.
‘You been to Mass this week?’
‘I am serving as an altar boy, Dad. I ain’t had much choice.’
Their quiet laughter was broken by a scream that was as terrifying as it was loud and they both sprang from their seats and ran upstairs. Kathleen was hysterical and her mother was trying to calm her down. Eileen was sitting up in bed wide-eyed and white-faced. Lance was at the doorway surveying the scene with his usual lack of interest.
‘What the fuck is wrong with her, Lil?’
Lil was cuddling the crying child to her and shook her head.
‘What did you see, Lance? You were first on the scene, so to speak.’
Lance shrugged nonchalantly. ‘She was dreaming, I think.’
Lance walked towards Kathleen but she shrank away from him. ‘Go away.’
Kathleen slipped from her mother’s arms and climbed into her sister’s bed. Eileen automatically made room for her and the boys looked at each other and shrugged. This was not an unusual occurrence for the girls; they often slept in each other’s arms, even though they went to bed separately. Everyone put it down to them being twins; they even talked to one another in their own language.
Calmer now, the girls snuggled down to sleep, although Kathleen still had the w
ary eyes of a frightened animal. The twins’ hair was now all tight curls and a bronze colour that enhanced the deep grey of their eyes. They had Patrick’s mother’s eyes but, unlike hers, the twins’ eyes held only love and innocence. His mother had the hard eyes of a woman who had known too many men and lost too many dreams.
Now the drama was averted, Patrick kissed his daughters and led his sons back to their bedrooms. He could hear Lil talking to the girls, reassuring them, and he smiled once more. This house was better than a theatre; there was always a drama of some sort or another. Four kids guaranteed that much but, all in all, they were good kids and he was inordinately proud of them.
He winked at Pat Junior as he tucked him into his bed. Pat Junior’s bedroom was messy; it had Boy’s Own annuals and Airfix kits everywhere. A real boy’s room, it was cluttered and smelled of football boots, Germolene and crisps. It had wallpaper that was covered in pictures of WW2 planes and tanks. Patrick loved this room; it was filled with everything he had never had as a child and he felt at the pinnacle of his success just breathing in the aroma.
He walked into Lance’s room. Lance’s fastidious ways made him smile. Unlike Pat’s room, it was all neatly folded clothes and horror comics. Lance loved the occult and anything to do with vampires. His walls were covered with posters from Hammer Horror films: women with copious amounts of bosom on display being attacked by vampires or werewolves; Vincent Price grinned down from alongside Peter Cushing and Lon Chaney Jnr. The room smelled of Parma Violets and Bazooka Joe bubble gum. Lance had also had a fine collection of porn that his mother had found and confiscated. It was odd, but if it had been Pat Junior with the copies of Penthouse, he wouldn’t have been so bothered but there was something wrong with Lance having it and he didn’t know why. Kissing Lance’s tousled hair, he closed the door quietly and went to the bedroom he shared with his wife.