by Martina Cole
Still, he reasoned, if Louise breathed her last at least that would be one less cross to bear when he married. Pity no one had decided to do his mother and all. That could have been classed as a mercy killing.
He looked once more at the woman’s burned face and hands. She was bald, and as she had never been a Brahma to start off with, he had a feeling she was going to look like something from a Hammer Horror after this little lot.
And if she did survive, who was going to get lumbered with her? That’s what he would like to know before he was much older. In a way he wished he had left the engagement for a few more months. As his mother had already pointed out, Louise would need nursing and who was there to do it? Fucking silly Lucy, that’s who.
Well, not if he had anything to do with it.
‘Drink your tea, love, before it gets cold.’
His voice was its usual whisper and Lucy smiled for the first time that night. He was a good man, she was so lucky to have him and his support. She smiled again and sipped at the lukewarm tea.
He squeezed her shoulder and she rested her cheek gently against the warmth of his hand.
‘I love you, Mickey.’
He squeezed her shoulder once more.
‘I know, Luce. I know, love.’
Patrick walked the street without fear. People hailed him and he either waved or ignored them completely, depending on who they were. As he went into the club he was buzzing with excitement and adrenaline.
It was situated near Praed Street and was strictly Rasta, bad Rasta, frequented solely by drug dealers, pimps, or people who were a mixture of the two. It had a peculiar smell of white rum and grass mixed with cheap perfume from the women who popped in and out to weigh out money to their minders.
Patrick had loved this place from the first time he had set foot in it. He owned it now, though none of the patrons realised this.
Jacksy Gower, the original owner, ran it for him, took a cut and was happy to do without all the aggravation. Patrick made sure it ran on top form and that was good enough for him. Jacksy was going back to the Big J as soon as he could and he was going to retire with a good few quid, a nice white bird and a new apartment complex just south of Montego Bay, far enough from the shanties to make people think they were safe.
He put a vodka and Red Bull on the counter as soon as he saw Pat and, nodding discreetly, let him know they had important visitors sitting in the corner.
Patrick glanced over as he sipped his drink and even he was impressed with who he saw sitting there.
Malcolm Derby was six foot six inches of Rasta bulk and temperament. He was one of the new breed of Rastamen who had taken hold in the nineties. Primarily businessmen, their only concessions to their Rasta roots were in their hair and the fact that they didn’t eat pork or shellfish. Other than that they were pure capitalists, out to make a mint and live the life. But Malcolm also traded with the Yardies. He was the face of Yardie in London and anyone who was anyone knew that. He procured passports and he provided addresses, safe houses for his Jamaican friends. He was a dangerous man and he loved it. He had taken over clubs with a gun and a smile, had routed local bully boys and either destroyed them, shot them dead, or made them work for him. He was also untouchable. In fact he was so dangerous even the police gave him a wide berth. He was an advocate of black on black killings. Saw it as business, nothing more. As long as they killed each other he knew the heat wouldn’t be too bad.
Malcolm was rich as Croesus and used his money wisely. He lived with a beautiful black woman, pure Jamaican, listened to Bob Marley and no one else, and smoked the old-style twists. He also had a nice white wife, a good-looking, educated, middle-class social worker who allowed him free rein. He always wore, summer or winter, a big black sheepskin coat, and he dragged out his British passport every time he had a drink.
Patrick could hear him now, shouting about the Bosnians and how they were a drain on society and how we British should not get involved in other people’s wars.
‘They take the money out of the mouths of the children - they don’t work, not even a good scam, just live off the land.’ His voice was disgusted.
No one answered him and no one would ever dare disagree. That was how it was when Malcolm was around.
He saw Patrick and waved him over.
‘It’s the main man, Mr P.’
Malcolm’s mouth opened wide, displaying gold teeth set off by a large diamond that glinted in the subdued light. Patrick walked over nonchalantly and sat down. His hand disappeared into an enormous paw that was displaying its own strength as it shook Patrick’s whole body, spilling the drink from his glass.
‘You looking good, Bwana.’
‘You look pretty good yourself, Malcolm. How’s tricks?’
‘You haven’t heard?’ His voice was scandalised and incredulous all at once. Malcolm was a real drama merchant and Patrick knew he had to go with it. He shook his head.
‘Someone killed me blood kin. Shot him face off two days ago.’ He watched Patrick’s expression as he said it and then added in broad South London, ‘The cunt is dead, Pat, and you know where I can find him. A little bird warned him but he will get his hand slapped at a later date. I just want Leroy tonight.’
‘What you talking about?’
Malcolm looked scandalised once more. His broad face framed by three-inch thick dreads looked almost hurt as he shouted, voice growing higher and higher as he got more irate, ‘What am I talking about? You taking the piss? Leroy McBane, that’s who I am referring to, the black bastard. He shot me wife’s brother, ain’t you got no ear on the street, boy? How the fuck you do your business if you don’t know fuck all about nothing?’
‘All right, Mal, relax! I ain’t heard a fucking dicky bird.’
Malcolm stared at him as if he was an errant child.
‘That’s not Leroy’s style. He ain’t a shooter. What’s it all over?’ Patrick asked.
‘Someone shot me boy, one of me gun boys. Took his stuff. My brother-in-law was sniffing round, see what he could gather, and he gets topped at a party Saturday night in Peckham. Shot in the boat five times.’
He broke off and wiped his hand across his mouth. Patrick could see the animosity coming off him in waves. The man was demented with anger. His boys were usually safe as houses, as no one in their right mind would cross this man. Not deliberately anyway.
‘It’s no coincidence, Patrick. He was topped for a reason. That reason being I was after the cunt who took me boy out. Now I heard from Maxie James, your mate, that it was Leroy who scrounged me guns. And Leroy is on the missing list. Big coincidence again, don’t you think. So he must have put the finger on me boy, didn’t he? Fucking scumbag! I’ll pop his bastard eyes out and eat them for breakfast.’
He sat back and waited for Patrick to digest this information, his expression almost feral. Patrick felt the first tendril of fear creep down his spine.
‘Who was the gun boy?’
‘Jimmy Dickinson.’
He had known what Malcolm was going to say before he said it. He hadn’t realised that Jimmy was in such big company. Patrick forced himself to stay calm. He took another sip of his drink.
‘How long was he one of your boys then?’
‘Long enough to make me mad.’
‘You dealing with the white boys these days?’
Patrick sounded just surprised enough to get away with what he’d said.
‘I deal with anyone who got what I want, Patrick. Even fucking pimps.’
The barb hit home.
‘No one is so big they can bypass me. Remember that in future, won’t you?’
It was a clear warning.
Malcolm opened his sheepskin and Patrick saw a large machete in a specially made pocket.
‘This is Jamaican justice, Patrick. Leroy is getting a permanent fucking parting in his hair, and so is anyone who holds back information on me. So, I ask you once and for all, where the fuck is he?’
Patrick swallowed down
his drink and signalled for another round.
‘I’ll take you there meself, OK? He has a little place in Swiss Cottage near his mum’s where he hides out. He’s a piece of shit perve. Done one of me birds really bad, cut her and everything. I owe him a slap meself. It will be a privilege to see him get done over.’
Malcolm grinned widely.
‘You ever seen Jamaican retribution?’
Patrick shook his head.
‘Good. Give you something to look forward to, won’t it?’
Kevin was crying. His shoulders shook from the ferocity of the sobs. As he looked at the devastation caused by the fire he felt sick. Everything was gone, everything destroyed. The house was still smoking in places and as he looked at the blackened shell he thought of all the mementoes that had gone up in flames.
Someone put a hot mug of sweet tea, laced with Scotch, into his hand and he drank it gratefully. He sat on the kerb crying until someone pulled him up and helped him into their house. It was the Indian couple, the doctors, and he allowed himself to be settled down and ministered to.
As they poured him yet another large Scotch it occurred to him that this was the first time he had ever been in their home. He and Louise had been invited many times but she had always refused the invitations.
The man’s voice was gentle and kind as he gave Kevin the drink.
‘My wife works at the hospital, Mr Carter. Your wife is very bad, you know.’
‘Me wife?’
The shock was still setting in. Suddenly he realised that neither Lou nor his daughter were at the scene. He had assumed they were safe somewhere.
‘How’s me daughter Lucy?’
‘She’s fine. But your wife was in the house when they threw the petrol bomb and she is very badly burned. Let me take you to the hospital in my car. The police have been looking for you everywhere.’
Kevin had turned his phone off. He always did when he saw Marie. While they had been eating and chatting, someone had firebombed his home. And he knew who had done it as well. He knew exactly who had done it.
He knocked back the drink in one gulp.
‘Is she bad then?’
His voice was so low, Mr Patel had to strain to hear him.
‘Very bad. I was there when they attended to her in the ambulance. I went to the hospital with her.’
‘That was very good of you.’
The man nodded a dismissal. He would have done the same for anyone.
‘I will take you to the hospital.’
Kevin shook his head and stood up.
‘No, that’s OK. I’m not ready yet to face Lou. This is all my fault, you see.’
He was rambling and Mr Patel shrugged at his wife.
‘Mr Carter, you don’t understand. Your wife is dying.’
‘Dying?’
Kevin sat back down. He felt as if the breath had been knocked from his body.
‘What – Lou, you mean?’
The man nodded again, his expressive brown eyes full of sympathy for the shattered man before him. They left the house minutes later but Kevin did not speak another word.
Chapter Eleven
Malcolm and his cronies pulled up at the bottom of Leroy’s road in Swiss Cottage. They had followed Patrick’s BMW and now they were tooling up in case Leroy had a posse with him. He was capable of it, according to Patrick. The plan was for Pat to go in cold and see how the land lay. Leroy would not suspect him.
Before they had left the club Patrick had nipped into his office and grabbed a small cosh. He fingered the cold steel now as he walked up to Leroy’s flat and buzzed the intercom.
‘It’s me, Lee. Let me in, mate, it’s cold out here.’
Leroy answered him angrily.
‘Just the man I want to see.’
As he walked into Leroy’s flat Patrick received the full force of the other man’s displeasure.
‘You fucking tosser! You tucked me right up. Everyone knows you done Dickinson, and now, thanks to you, people think it’s me. I never touched Malcolm’s blood. I ain’t a fucking mental case.’
Patrick waited.
In a way he understood the man’s predicament. Who was he more frightened of, Patrick himself or Malcolm? It was hard on him and Patrick sympathised. But such was the life they lived and Leroy should have understood as much. If he had, he wouldn’t find himself in the position he was in now.
Now Patrick grinned, his face looking amiable, friendly even.
‘But, you see, he thinks you did. Now I think it was me who shot his boy’s face off, but I ain’t gonna say that, am I? So it looks like you have to be the fall guy, don’t it?’
He sounded so reasonable, so honest, that it was a shock when he removed the cosh from his pocket and crashed it into the other man’s face, breaking open his nose and mouth.
Leroy fell to the floor.
Patrick watched gleefully as Leroy tried to make his way to his desk where he had either a gun or some other weapon. He followed him, enjoying the other man’s helplessness. Then he cracked him over the head a few times, bursting the skull, but leaving Leroy just alive enough to keep Malcolm and his machete happy.
He trashed the place, made it look like there’d been a fight. Then he searched to make sure there was nothing he wanted before phoning Malcolm on his mobile and telling him the boy was ready to receive him.
There was no way Leroy was going to get up at any point, or be able to speak, so Patrick felt safe enough as he let them into the flat and told them how Leroy had attacked him when he’d remonstrated with him over what he had done to Malcolm.
He was the hero of the hour, and as Malcolm brought the machete down on his friend’s head Patrick wondered where he could purchase a really good one for his own use. He decided he liked Jamaican retribution, it was dramatic and bloody. The perfect weapon of fear.
He could also use this death to get back into Tiffany’s good books. He would tell her that Leroy had died for what he had done to her. Patrick felt she was getting too feisty by half. He used fear to control her but he also used psychology. A bit of guilt thrown in wouldn’t do her any harm either.
Nice then nasty. It worked with whores every time.
Kevin grasped Lucy’s hand but she shrugged him off.
‘Bit bloody late for all that now, Dad.’
Her voice had the same whine that her mother had perfected over the years and he closed his eyes against it. It grated on him.
‘Calm down, Luce . . .’
She shook her head in amazement.
‘Calm down? You want me to calm down? My mother is dying, my home is destroyed, and you want me to calm down?’
Kevin stared into his daughter’s face. It was tight with anger and like her mother before her showed no real interest in anyone but herself. Me, me, me, me. It was all he had ever heard. Along with I want, I think, I will.
Lucy watched his face, the changing expressions on it, and laughed nastily.
‘You really are a piece of work, do you know that? This is all your fault, Dad. Being the big I am for Marie by sorting out Karen Black has brought this on us. You would do anything for Marie, wouldn’t you? Even put me and me mother up for trouble. But as long as she’s all right . . .’
‘The Blacks kicked the shit out of her . . .’
Lucy held her hand up as if warding off a blow.
‘They had reason to, Dad. She battered one of their family to death. It’s called taking care of your own. They’ve brought up Bethany’s kids, taken care of their family, see? You should try it some time.’
Kevin had had enough.
‘Like your mother and you took care of Marie’s kids, you mean?’
Lucy narrowed her eyes. Trust him to bring all that up again. As if anyone would want anything that had come from her body.
‘That’s different and you know it.’
Kevin looked into his daughter’s face. It just missed being pretty because of the expression on it. She always looked hard done by and she real
ly believed she was. That was the saddest part of it all. She could never enjoy anything because she was too frightened someone else was enjoying themselves a bit more than she was. Had a better car, house, cardigan, whatever.
‘How is it different, explain that to me? How was turning our backs on two defenceless little kids the right thing to do? What had they to do with what their mother had done? Tell me, come on, know all. Like your mother you can’t answer that question, can you? Like her, deep inside, you knew it was wrong. I knew, and I did nothing about it. But I wish I had. I should have put your fucking mother out the front door and brought those kids into my home where they belonged. But I did what she wanted because she is such a difficult woman. I opted for a quiet life as usual.
‘I wish I had fucked off years ago and left her. Any other man would have, and if you ain’t careful, Lucy, Mickey will leave you because you’re just like her. You have the same vindictive streak and the same jealous way she has. Your whole life will be a mixture of hatred and pain, just like hers. It’s what people like you two do to yourselves.’
One part of Lucy knew that her father was talking sense. But it hurt, the truth always hurt, and no one knew that like Lucy Carter.
She was also incensed that this thoughtless man, her own father, could destroy them all. See his wife badly burned and still feel in the right enough to talk badly of her. Coupled with her natural jealousy of her sister, she felt rage take her over. She shook her head sagely.
‘Well, now we know what you think, don’t we? I hope Mum does die so you can finally be shot of her. But you’ll always know you were the cause of her death, won’t you? Enjoy yourself, Dad, with your darling Marie. Everything has to be paid for in the end, remember that.’
Kevin stared at his daughter sadly.
‘You are your mother’s daughter all right, Lucy, no doubt about that. For all Marie’s done she is still basically a good person. A better person than you or your mother could ever be. You remember that.’
He turned back to the bed and saw that Louise’s eyes were open. She was listening to everything that was being said. Even in the midst of her pain she had the strength to look at him with a hatred so acute it was almost tangible.