by Martina Cole
‘I’ve been looking for you, Tommy.’
His voice was quiet.
Tommy Blue felt his heart sinking. He tried to smile, his lips trembling.
‘I think me and you had better have a little walk.’
Looking around the table at the other men, Michael pointed at Tommy.
‘I’ll be waiting outside for you.’
Turning, he pushed his way to the door. Outside he leant against the wall of the pub. He bit on his lip, the feeling of excitement in his breast causing his heart beat to pound in his ears.
A group of Salvation Army singers were making their way along the road. Pulling a pack of Strands from his pocket, Michael lit one. The strains of ‘Onward Christian Soldiers’ gradually grew closer. He pulled hard on the cigarette. He would give Tommy Blue five minutes before going in after him.
Inside the Bramley Arms, Tommy was rooted to his seat.
‘How much do you owe, Tom?’ This from Dustbin Daley, a totter from Shepherd’s Bush.
‘Forty-five quid.’ Tommy’s voice was low.
One of his companions whistled.
‘I’d better get out there . . . otherwise he’ll come in after me.’ Getting up unsteadily, Tommy made his way to the door.
Dustbin Daley shook his head. ‘He must be bloody mad.’
The others agreed with him. Their earlier high spirits were gone now, out of the door with Tommy Blue.
Tommy shivered as the cold hit him. He was wearing a thin jacket, torn in places, and a thick multi-coloured scarf.
Michael threw his cigarette on the slush-filled pavement and ground it out with his boot. Pushing himself from the wall he grabbed Tommy’s jacket and pulled him along the road. The Salvationists were alongside them. A young girl pushed a tin in their direction. She smiled at Michael as she rattled it.
‘Merry Christmas, sir.’ Her eyes held open admiration.
Pulling his coat open, he pushed his hand into his trouser pocket, and taking out two half crowns dropped them into the tin. The girl flushed with pleasure.
‘Thank you, sir. Merry Christmas.’
Nodding at her, Michael resumed piloting Tommy Blue along the pavement. The tambourines and the singing faded into the distance. The two men walked in silence for five minutes. Tommy Blue could not feel the cold now. He couldn’t feel anything. Fear had completely taken over. Tommy Blue was on automatic pilot. All he could do was wait. The beer he had been drinking steadily all day was now weighing heavily on his stomach.
Michael slowed down in Treadgold Street. The laundry here was known affectionately as the bagwash. Michael himself had brought his mother’s laundry here on many occasions. Now it was deserted, shut up for the Christmas holidays. Taking a key from inside his coat Michael opened the double doors of the building and pushed Tommy inside. Pulling the doors shut behind him, he turned on the lights. Tommy stood immobile.
Taking out his pack of Strands, Michael lit one slowly. He pulled deeply on the cigarette and blew the smoke into Tommy’s face.
‘You’ve made me very cross.’ As usual Michael’s voice was quiet.
Tommy’s face seemed to come to life. He blinked his eyes rapidly.
‘Look, Mickey, I . . .I tried to get the money. I swear it!’
‘Shut up, Tommy. You’re beginning to annoy me.’
Dropping the cigarette he grabbed Tommy’s scarf, forcing him backwards until he was against one of the huge machines. Bringing his right fist back over his shoulder he punched Tommy in the face with considerable force. Tommy’s nose seemed to collapse underneath the blow. Michael let him drop on the filthy floor. Groaning, Tommy curled himself up into a ball, his hands covering his head. Michael kicked him in the back, the force of the blow sending Tommy across the dirt-strewn floor. Picking up one of the large wooden podgers the women used to push down the bagwashes, Michael prodded Tommy on the shoulder.
‘Hold out your arm.’ Michael’s voice held no emotion whatsoever. Tommy was blubbering.
‘Please . . . please, Mickey, I’m begging you.’ He looked up at Michael, his face bloody and awash with tears. ‘Don’t do this...I swear I’ll ge-get the money somehow.’
Kicking him in the legs, Michael brought the podger down on Tommy’s shoulders.
‘If you don’t put your arm out, I’ll break your bastard back for you. Now put your arm out!’
Michael’s voice echoed around the laundry. Slowly Tommy placed his arm on the floor, his whole body jerking with fear. Twice the ‘podger’ smashed down on his elbow, shattering the bone. Tommy screamed with pain. He was struggling to keep conscious as red-hot waves of nausea washed over him. He threw up on the floor, beer mixed with bile steaming in the cold.
‘Get up, Tommy.’ Michael’s voice was quiet again.
Slowly he dragged himself to his feet, his arm hanging awkwardly against his side, the sleeve of his jacket gradually staining crimson. Droplets of blood ran over his fingers and dripped on to the floor. He leant against the machine, crying quietly.
‘You’ve got seven days, Tommy, that’s all, to find the money. Now piss off.’
Michael watched Tommy stagger from the laundry. He checked himself over to make sure there was no blood on his clothes. Then, whistling to himself, he washed the podger clean and put it back where he’d found it, against the far wall. Then, still whistling, he turned off the lights and locked up.
Joe the Fish listened avidly to everything Michael said to him, nodding his head now and again and every so often muttering, ‘Good . . . good.’ When Michael had finished, Joe smiled at him. ‘The arm was good and broken?’
‘Yeah. Smashed to smithereens!’
Joe the Fish sighed. He had a distaste for violence, but in his business it was a necessity. He looked at Michael Ryan sitting opposite him. He liked the boy, could see himself in Michael. The boy had the same urge to better himself. That had been Joe’s ambition as a young man. Like Michael he had started out as a ‘breaker’ - a heavy - until he had built up his own business. Now he was a respected member of the community. He owned shops, clubs and market stalls, from Petticoat Lane to the Portobello Road. His most lucrative business, though, was the bets. Joe had been a bookie for over twenty years, gradually moving into loan sharking. He had realised as soon as he had employed Michael that he had found himself a kindred spirit. Michael was innately honest. If he said the punter had paid him fifty quid, Joe knew that was what had been paid. Most of the breakers kept a portion for themselves, knowing that the unlucky punter would eventually pay that portion once again. Michael Ryan, though, had his own set of principles. He might beat a man up so badly he needed hospital treatment, yet Joe knew that in Michael’s mind, keeping any money back would be tantamount to stealing. Joe liked him. He liked the way Michael looked at his home. He liked the respect that Michael afforded him.
He coughed and spat some phlegm into the fire, hearing it sizzle as it hit the coals.
‘From January I want you to take over the “breaking” side of the business. I’ll inform all the men that they’re to take their orders from you.’
Michael stared at Joe. Then a wide grin broke out across his face and he shook his head in amazement.
‘Thanks, Joe! Bloody hell!’
Joe, like most people, felt happy to see Michael grin. It was as if a blinding sun had emerged from behind a black cloud. Michael had the gift of making people want to please him, as if by giving him pleasure they were somehow indebted to him. Joe felt a rush of warmth go through him. He would enjoy working with this boy, teaching him the ropes. He let his eyes travel over Michael’s body. He certainly was a fine-looking boy.
Michael watched Joe’s eyes and a thrill of anticipation went through him. Joe the Fish was fifty years old. He had never married or had an association with any woman as far as Michael knew. What he did know was that Joe liked to be surrounded by young men. In the last few months he had consciously ingratiated himself with Joe, flattered him, let Joe think that he was grateful to him for
giving him the breaker’s job. He stared into Joe’s face and smiled at him, his deep blue eyes seemingly full of gratitude and admiration. He watched Joe heave his bulk out of the chair. A flicker of repugnance crossed Michael’s features, to be quickly replaced by the dazzling smile he knew caused Joe so much happiness.
Opening one of the drawers in his desk, Joe took out a small box. He walked around the desk and gave it to Michael.
‘Just a little token of my appreciation.’ Joe’s voice was low and husky. Leaning against the desk he watched Michael’s face as he opened the box. When he heard the deep intake of breath, Joe relaxed. He would not rush the boy, he had to let him come to him.
Michael stared at the tie pin glinting up from the red velvet lining. It was gold, in the shape of a large M, encrusted with diamonds. Looking up into Joe’s face, Michael felt a moment of terror at what he had to do. Then, seeing the softness in Joe’s eyes, he swallowed heavily. It was now or never.
Placing his hand on the top of Joe’s thigh, he gently brushed his knuckles against the man’s groin. Joe stared down at the large, rough hand gently rubbing against him. Closing his eyes momentarily, he felt a rush of ecstasy pulsing through his body. He opened his eyes and stared down into Michael’s face. In the firelight, he looked like a dark angel. His blue eyes held an amber glow that caused Joe’s heart to somersault inside his breast.
Dropping heavily on to his knees, he placed his hands on Michael’s thighs, rubbing and kneading them, his breath coming heavily. Watching him, Michael smiled to himself. He thought Joe looked ridiculous, and noticed that he had a film of sweat above his lips which he licked at nervously.
As he felt Joe begin fumbling with his trousers Michael stifled an urge to slam his fist into Joe’s head. He couldn’t go back now, not after all the planning and scheming of the last few months. Joe was his ticket out of Notting Hill, his passport into the world of real villainy. Gritting his teeth he lay back in the chair and forced himself to relax. Outside, in the muffled stillness of the snow, Michael heard a lone voice singing ‘Silent Night’. Looking down at the top of Joe’s balding pate, Michael listened to the haunting childish voice and could have cried.
Sarah was basting the turkey when she heard Benjamin come in. The front door was slammed as loudly as possible, causing Sarah to wince. Putting the turkey back into the oven, she sat back in her chair. Benjamin stumbled into the kitchen, his hair and clothes still laden with snow. He grinned his wide toothless grin at her and made his way unsteadily across the room to her side.
‘Hello, Sarah, my darling!’
As usual when drunk, he spoke to her as if she was at the other end of the street.
‘Will you keep your voice down! You’ll have all the bloody kids up!’
Benjamin stared down at his wife, blinking his eyes as he swayed unsteadily before her. The more he tried to concentrate, the more blurred she seemed to become. Finally seeing two Sarahs, he staggered into the seat vacated by Pat Johnstone not an hour ago. Lifting up one of his legs he broke wind loudly, causing Sarah to purse her lips. He sat in the chair smiling amiably at her, his clothes beginning to steam with the heat of the fire.
Wordlessly she pulled herself from her chair and swiftly began making him some ham sandwiches. She looked at the clock and noticed it was twenty-past one - everyone was in now except Michael. Placing the sandwiches on a plate, she gave them to her husband. She was bone tired. She had been working since seven in the morning.
Going through the scullery she pulled on an old coat and went out into the tiny back garden. Squatting down, she took a plate from the top of a large glass bowl. The snow had drifted up the sides and on to the plate. Carefully she wiped it clean. Then, touching the green mass inside the bowl softly, she smiled. The younger children loved jelly. That was one good thing about the snow, it kept everything nice and fresh. Replacing the plate, she stood up and went back inside the house, banging her slippers on the step to get rid of the snow.
Back inside the kitchen she heard her husband snoring loudly. He was sprawled in his chair, his long legs outstretched, his hand holding the plate of sandwiches away from his body. Taking the plate gently from him she placed it in the sink, then checked the turkey one last time, turned the gas down as low as it would go and made her way up to bed.
As she undressed in the bedroom she saw her daughter had climbed into their big double bed. This was Maura’s first real Christmas. Slipping into the bed Sarah looked down on the white-blonde head and felt the familiar tightening in her guts. The child stirred and burrowed deeper into the bed. Placing her thumb in her mouth, she sucked on it furiously for a few seconds before settling down once more into a deep sleep. If Benjamin had given her nothing else in their life together he had given her this child, and for that Sarah would forgive him anything.
Michael woke up and glanced at his watch. It was three-fifteen. Shaking his head to clear the fustiness he noticed a fat arm around his waist. In the dying firelight he looked down on the sleeping face of Joe the Fish. Somewhere inside himself he felt disgust at the events of the previous few hours. He was acutely aware of everything that had gone on in front of the then roaring fire. Mixed with his revulsion was also a tiny feeling of excitement. He now had Joe the Fish in his grasp, as he had sworn to himself that he would. A cruel smile played at the corners of his mouth. He would play Joe like a musical instrument. He would slowly become the focal point of his life. Then, when Joe had served his purpose, he would dispose of him. Michael knew what he had to do. He had been planning it long enough.
Gently, he brought his face down on to Joe’s and kissed him on his lips. Joe’s watery eyes opened and he smiled, displaying discoloured teeth.
‘I’ve got to get going, Joe.’
Yawning lazily, the older man stretched his plump arms above his head.
‘All right, Michael love. Try and get around tomorrow. I’m always alone on Christmas Day.’ His voice sounded sad.
‘I will. Don’t worry.’
Joe watched Michael dressing in the firelight, his heart bursting in his breast. In his mind’s eye he relived their love-making of a few hours before and the picture of Michael lying underneath him as he penetrated him rose in his mind. He couldn’t quite believe he had found himself such a beautiful animal. As Michael slipped on his overcoat Joe felt a wave of loneliness wash over him.
‘See you tomorrow then.’ Michael’s voice was gentle and caressing. He favoured Joe with one of his blinding grins. Pulling himself up from the floor he stood before the dying fire, his short fat legs and large stomach making Michael feel sick inside.
‘Haven’t you forgotten something?’ Joe’s voice sounded like a young girl’s - high and breathless with anticipation. Michael frowned at him, bewildered. Then seeing Joe’s lips pucker, he walked over to the fireplace and embraced him. Joe pushed his tongue into Michael’s mouth, kissing him with an energy that startled him. Breaking away gently, Michael smiled at him and quietly left the room.
The picture of Joe’s doughy white body seemed to be imprinted on his mind. As he walked out into the silent white world Michael was glad of the freezing cold that seemed to cut down into his lungs. A light snow was falling and he raised his face to allow the soft flakes to fall on his skin, willing it to wash away the disgust he felt inside.
The street lights gave the pavements a glittering glow as if thousands of diamonds were lining his path. Picking up speed, Michael began to smile. He shook his head and shrugged in the stillness of the night. The worst was over now. He knew what he had let himself in for and he was glad. Let the fat old queen use his body. It had put food on his mother’s table. It had brought the kids clothes. It would eventually bring him untold riches. Never would he allow himself to feel bad about it again.
He looked up into the black sky and waved his fist at the stars. This was a new beginning for the Ryans. He was going to pick them up out of the gutter and establish them in the monied world where he knew they belonged. Shoving his hands
into the pockets of his overcoat he felt the little box that contained the tie pin. He grinned. As soon as the shops opened after the holidays he was going to go out and buy himself a tie!
When Michael saw the happy faces on Christmas Day, the food that seemed inexhaustible and the merriment his gifts had brought, he finally came to terms with himself. Anything, however bad, was worth all this. After a large, noisy Christmas dinner, Michael sat with his sister Maura asleep on his lap. As he looked down at her sleeping face, sucking contentedly on her thumb, he swore that he would commit murder if it kept his family as happy as they were now.
It was a promise he was to keep many times.
Chapter Three
1955
Garry and Benny Ryan were playing on the bombsite that was once Testerton Street. The day before they had noticed while coming home from school that an enormous mound of sand had been left there. That meant one of two things - the remaining houses were either being patched up or demolished to make way for pre-fabs. Either way they knew that their playground was going to disappear. Both boys had been up and out by six-thirty. If they timed it just right they could scavenge for a few hours before going to the Royalty in Ladbroke Grove for the Saturday morning minors.
They had played in the mound of sand for over an hour. Benny, at nine, was already a true Ryan. Big for his age, he towered over Garry who was eleven. Garry had a long thin body, giving him a waif-like appearance. He was the only Ryan to wear glasses, which he was forever pushing higher on his nose, the thick lenses giving him an owlish appearance. Where Benny was dark-haired with the characteristic Ryan dark blue eyes and full-lipped mouth, Garry was the opposite. He had light brown hair and a feral quality about him that made people do what he wanted. Garry was the acknowledged genius of the family, forever reading. His room was strewn with books and papers. He also fancied himself as an inventor - a pastime that had his mother caught between maternal pride and an almost uncontrollable urge to murder him.