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by Martina Cole

  He was not going to blow that. At least he had learned that valuable lesson and he had learned it well. Now he had to talk his brother down, and he was not relishing that at all.

  Dave lit a cigarette and pulled on it for long moments, breathing the smoke deep into his lungs. The shaking of his hands was evident, even to him, and he willed himself to relax, but he had no idea what Dennis was going to be like when he walked through the door. With Dennis, the unexpected was the norm.

  He heard a car pull up and stopped himself from leaping out of the chair and looking out of the window. He wanted Dennis to see him calm and controlled; it was important that he took the lead in the conversation and tried to salvage not only his brother’s love and friendship, but also his position as head of the family. Dennis was strong enough to take that from him and he knew that better than anyone.

  Vince had not forgotten, although he had forgiven. Dave had apologised profusely to him more than once and he was also on a promise to Patrick and Spider to keep Dennis on the straight and narrow for the foreseeable future. This first meeting was important inasmuch as he had to make Dennis understand that he was living on borrowed time until he could prove that he was not going to try to muscle in on anyone else’s business.

  He was aware that Dennis had not spoken to the police, who had questioned him in a perfunctory manner. Like him, they felt he had got his comeuppance at last and they would have known exactly what had gone down. They would have visited him because they had to, not because they wanted to solve any kind of crime. Dennis was hated by everyone in his orbit in one way or another.

  Dennis had been the driving force behind every failed deal they had invested in, he had been the instigator, the front man, and he had been the one who had blamed everyone else around him when it had all gone tits up. Everyone, that is, except himself. He had been the same all his life; everything was always someone else’s fault and he had always got away with it.

  All their big dreams and it had come down to this. They were skint, humiliated and back where they started; on a weekly wage and having to prove themselves worthy of future advancement. His younger brothers had been cleaned out financially and he knew he should have put a stop to it long before it had got this far. Dave knew they had placed their trust in him and he was aware that they knew Dennis had been allowed to call the shots and that he had more or less taken over the family business and finances. And he had allowed it all to happen. He had listened to his brother’s big talk and believed him when he insisted that they were shrewd enough and respected enough to overlook Brodie’s and Spider’s involvement in the drugs trade.

  He could only put it down to madness on his part. He had no excuse for his behaviour except greed. If it was anyone else in this position he would have found it laughable; somehow he didn’t find any of this amusing in the least. Especially since he could hear Dennis cursing and shouting as he got out of the car and limped slowly up the gravel path.

  This was, without a doubt, the hardest thing Dave had ever had to do, and he had done some harsh things in his time.

  Dennis came into the room and, even though he had lost weight in the hospital, he was still larger than the average Williams brother. His face was harder than Dave remembered and his shaved head showed the scars where the scalp had been sewn back together. Dennis looked like someone who had been in a plane crash and Dave had to remind himself that he had inflicted all the damage: the deep head wounds and the swollen bruises around his eyes and face.

  And the worst thing of all was that, if he was really honest with himself, he had enjoyed every second of it. In a strange way, he wished that he had finished the job; it would have made his life a lot easier. His nervousness had suddenly gone and he looked at his brother with a rueful grin and said quietly, ’All right, bruv?’

  Patrick was in his club, it was early evening and the girls were getting ready for the night’s excitement. They were like a flock of chattering birds, their heavy make-up and skimpy clothes belying the stormy weather outside.

  Patrick Brodie loved the West End when the days started to draw in. The tourists were long gone and even though the takings dropped off, he loved the feel of the real Soho. On nights like tonight he loved the clubs; when the girls were getting on with each other and not fighting over the least little thing. This club was the biggest of them all and he had bought it for a song, taking it as payment for a large gambling debt incurred by a man called Pierre Lamboutin. The French name had been an alias. Why he had chosen such a mouthful Patrick had no idea; aliases were supposed to be plain and dowdy, not something that drew attention to the person involved. But as Pierre was now as dead as a dodo and the club was his and, unofficially, the best earner in Soho, Patrick didn’t give a fuck. Keeping on top of the game was no mean feat, considering all the competition that was opening up around him. But he had taken Lil’s advice and as he treated the girls relatively well they were loyal brasses and he knew they made a point of not tucking anyone up on the premises.

  The club was situated in Frith Street, busy enough for passing trade, but not so busy it attracted the walkabouts, otherwise known as the weekend warriors or window shoppers. Patrick only wanted clients who could spend a few quid and would not tear the arse out of one drink while they watched the strippers all night and felt up a hostess in between acts. He made the men pay a stiff membership fee on the door, guaranteed to separate the men from the boys. It also guaranteed the punters a modicum of respectability; it was a real club with real membership and their credit cards said as much, if their wives got their hands on them. Lord’s Gentlemen’s Club was a byword in the West End and Patrick was proud of its reputation and glamorous decor. It was about as prestigious as a girlie club could be.

  As Patrick sipped a brandy at the bar he saw one of the new girls walk into the foyer. She was a stunner: tall and slim with long shapely legs. But it was her hair that set her apart from the other girls. It was a deep, natural auburn and, hanging down her back, it was thick and glossy like something from a shampoo advert on TV. She smiled at him and he frowned. The only flaw was her teeth; they were crooked at the front and even though they were white, it marred the illusion of perfection. She had pale-blue eyes and heavily arched eyebrows that made her look like a film star. Patrick also happened to know that she could drink like a sailor and fuck like a train.

  For the first time in years, Patrick was seeing someone on a regular basis and he knew that he was dicing with death because Lil might swallow a flier every now and then, but an actual bird would cause ructions. She would walk, he knew that. She would never allow him to disrespect her with a serious bird, a contender to her throne. Like most women, her biggest fear would be a child arriving, a son or daughter of his that would also be related to her own brood. It was unthinkable and he saw her point of view.

  Every time he saw Laura Doyle he told himself it would be the last time and then he found himself making arrangements to see her again. The thing was, she had no real interest in him and he knew that; he was like a punter to her. Why he found her so fascinating he had no idea, but he did. He had even put her up in one of his better flats so he could have her whenever the fancy took him, secure in the knowledge that she would not have any other men there.

  Laura was nineteen years old and she was a working girl through choice. She liked the night life, she liked the money and she had no qualms about sleeping with even the ugliest man for a fixed fee. The life suited her down to the ground and she saw Brodie as a step up, if only for a short while. He would tire of her eventually, she was sure, but until then she would milk him for everything she could get. She had a certain cachet with the other girls because of the relationship and she used it to further her own ends. For example, she made sure the head girl only gave her monied men and she also made sure that she was given her due. In fact, some of the girls had decided that she was stronging it a bit and she was not averse to letting them think that.

  Patrick Brodie could be her passport to ri
ches if she used her loaf and she was quite happy to use him for her own ends. If she could keep him interested, she could keep herself on the top rung and that was important to her.

  For some reason she interested him and she had a feeling it was her complete lack of interest in him as anything other than a fuck. Her coolness intrigued him and she was glad about that. She did enjoy the sex with him; he was expert at it and she was an expert in making men feel like they were King of the Kip.

  He passed her a small package and she smiled again. He always slipped her a wrap of speed, knowing that it was the staple for the girls who worked the clubs. It was always good gear, better than she could ever score on the street.

  As they chatted he saw Spider and Cain going up to his office and he followed them a few minutes later, telling Laura that he would see her later that night. This was Patrick’s way of telling her not to go case with any of her punters. He didn’t mind that she slept with other men, it was her job after all. He was not about to be her second dick of the night though. He liked his fanny neat, tidy, tight and clean as a whistle. The latter being the main criterion as far as he was concerned.

  He watched her as she sashayed to the meat seats and then he slipped upstairs to his meeting. His face was grim now and his demeanour that of a man expecting big trouble, and expecting it sooner rather than later.

  Trevor Renton was a gambler, and he was one of a very rare breed; he made a good living from it. Whether it was cards, the horses or the dogs, he made a decent living for himself. He lost of course: horses were unpredictable and cards were dealt at random; you could only play the hand that was given to you. Trevor Renton could bluff though. He had once taken a massive pot on a pair of twos, unnerving his opponent by raising him larger and larger amounts and with his quiet confidence in what was, in effect, a crap hand. Lessons had been learned and he had made his reputation overnight. When he sat at a table for a game he was treated like visiting royalty and, if he lost, he lost with good grace and paid up what he owed without a murmur.

  Tonight he was in a big game and he was very excited although his face betrayed nothing of his emotions. He had already had a couple of wins on the horses that afternoon and he was in the mood for a nice long night of poker. He loved the game, loved the feel of beating the odds and he loved the company of like-minded men. He also got a kick out of hearing the stories of other big games, even though he had heard them a hundred times before, and was often a character in the stories himself.

  As Trevor settled himself into a chair, he took out his cigars, his car keys and his wallet; he had a marker in there for fifty grand owed him by the evening’s hosts. Placing them all by his drink, he then removed his jacket, placed it carefully on a nearby sofa, loosened his tie and rolled up his shirtsleeves. He knew that as a regular winner he had to make sure that no one could ever accuse him of cheating, whether that was to his face or, worse, behind his back.

  Some people were bad losers, especially when they bet with money they didn’t really have. He could get credit anywhere; he was known for paying off his debts within hours of incurring them. Other men were not so sensible and tried to win back money they didn’t have any more. They tried to recoup one loss by gambling on with borrowed money, money that would be repaid no matter what the circumstances. He watched them sweating with fear, drinking to calm their nerves, the alcohol that was supplied free of charge making their judgement worthless so that they started signing IOUs all over the place; trying to win back their lives and their family’s lives. Then, at the end of the night, he saw their faces as the realisation finally dawned on them that they had just lost everything they possessed. Everything they had worked for gone in a few hours.

  Somewhere, a wife and children were unaware that life as they knew it was over, that they would soon be caught up in a world of debt collectors and midnight visitors. A nightmare of such enormity that the reverberations would be felt for years. People were not aware that gambling debts did not, by law, have to be paid. They were a gentlemen’s agreement, like a handshake. That was why the collection was usually guaranteed only with the help of violence and intimidation. The men who gambled away their lives were in fact putting themselves in a situation they could never escape from. The debts would be paid, it was as simple as that. The money was given with a smile and recouped with a baseball bat.

  Trevor had seen it so many times and it depressed him that these men didn’t have any self-control or any self-respect. At forty-eight years old he had been around the tables for over thirty years and he was still unscathed. There was not a scar on him and he had never been in a fight over cards or bets. Trevor was a gentleman and he knew his name was enough to get him into any game he wanted. He also knew that the younger men sought him out to play against him, hoping to get themselves a reputation as having beaten him. If that happened, and it was very rare, he shook their hands and gave them pointers and advice, making them friends for life. He had no problem with winners, it was a game of chance after all. Anyone could win and that’s what made every night so exciting for him. As he sat nursing his ginger ale and waiting for the other players to arrive and get settled in, he was more than ready for the night’s play.

  ‘He is already causing fucking ructions and he’s only been out of the hospital for a few days.’

  Cain’s voice was heavy with malice and Patrick listened quietly as he always did. He had found many years before that if you kept very quiet people filled in the silences themselves, offering more information than they had originally intended to give. It was a habit now and one he was glad he had cultivated.

  ‘What has he done this time?’

  While in hospital Dennis had attacked a doctor who was on his rounds and a porter who had not brought him the Scotch he had ordered. He had been as obnoxious as he always was and now he was out and about and determined to cause a ruckus. Dennis was making sure that people remembered just what he was capable of. Even though he was a laughing stock in some quarters, Brodie knew it would still be a brave man who had the nerve to laugh in his face.

  ‘He has been round and collected rents that were already ours. It seems that Dave hasn’t explained the new scheme of things to him and he still seems to think that he has some kind of fucking stranglehold over us lot. I have told my boys to go and request the money nicely. If he tips them bollocks then they are to slice him and dice him as they see fit.’

  Spider’s voice was cold and brooked no argument. Well, he certainly wasn’t going to get one from him. Dennis had been shouting his mouth off as usual; Patrick had been advised as to what Dennis had said about him, and it had not been what he would call complimentary. It was only a matter of time before someone shut him up permanently, so Patrick had decided to sit back and let someone else do any dirty work that was required. He knew that, in reality, Spider and Cain wanted his permission to out Dennis Williams and he was happy to oblige.

  ‘Fair enough, what can I say? He is a cunt to himself.’

  Spider and Cain relaxed at Brodie’s answer, it was what they had been hoping to hear. They knew that Dave was still part of Brodie’s firm and that was fair enough, unless it encroached on them of course.

  Patrick sipped at his drink and when the atmosphere was warmer, he said jovially, ‘Don’t forget my boy’s party. Bring the kids and everyone is welcome.’

  ‘Fucking hell, Pat. Ten, don’t the time go fast?’

  Patrick nodded sagely. ‘Wish I was ten again and knew what I know now, don’t you?’

  Spider laughed, his huge head going back on to his shoulders and reminding Patrick just how strong he was in all ways.

  ‘When I was ten I had just started nicking fucking motors with me cousin Delroy. You remember him, Pat, he was shot in Kingston about three years ago. He finally went back to Jamaica and got wasted over a fucking bird.’

  Spider shook his head in abject disbelief. ’A fucking bird. Only Del could die over a bit of pussy.’

  He looked at Cain and said with pride
and amusement in his voice, ‘He could sniff out pussy like a fucking bloodhound and it was always sweet, at least that was what he said anyway.’

  ‘He never got shot. He wore his cock out, Spider, and died of exhaustion. He got a hard-on looking at Fanny Cradock; he would trump anything. We used to have to hide our grannies if he was coming round.’

  Cain and Spider were roaring with laughter, the earlier atmosphere was gone now, and they were all boys together once more.

  Cain took a large gulp of his drink and, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, he said craftily, ‘You can talk, Pat. What is this I hear about you and a certain flat-chested redhead? Love, is it?’

  Patrick Brodie paled in front of the two men’s eyes and the shock on his face was almost comical.

  Cain realised immediately that he had said the wrong thing. Spider was looking at him with undisguised anger and Patrick was, for the first time ever, lost for words. Cain had just made himself look like a gossiping old woman, had alerted Brodie to the fact that he was being talked about and his name was being coupled with this girl, whoever she was. Brodie was a family man and very protective of his wife and his children, everyone knew that.

  Spider replenished their glasses while Patrick busied himself lighting a cigarette and gathering his thoughts.

  Cain spread his arms out in supplication. ‘I was only joking, Pat. I didn’t mean to cause offence.’

  Cain was remembering the stories he had heard about this man: the torture of people who tried to thwart him and the torture machinery he kept in a warehouse in Silvertown. Spider had said that he’d seen Patrick electrocute naked men, hard men, without blinking an eye. He’d heard them begging him as they smelled their own skin burning and he had watched as the current had marauded through their bodies and caused them to be thrown a foot in the air, their screams eventually muffled by the quick-setting cement Patrick had forced into their throats once he had heard enough to satisfy his curiosity. No one ever crossed him twice. That was why Dave was so terrified about Dennis and his loose-cannon status and this was why Cain wished he had kept his big mouth shut.