by Martina Cole
She absent-mindedly touched her husband’s ravaged face and went back to the kitchen. Then, taking the scissors, she carefully cut out the article about her grandsons to add to her scrapbook. They would come looking for her one day, she was sure, and, when they did, she wanted them to know that she had never forgotten them. Then she got ready for church, rosary already in her coat pocket and missal in her handbag. She set out, as she did twice a day, to pray for the destruction of the girl who had brought her family so low. How, she asked her God, could He let that whore prosper, knowing the evil and the damage she had done? But the wheels of God grind slow, and one day He in all His glory would see fit to punish that bitch of hell. All Lesley had to do was be patient and wait.
Chapter One Hundred and Thirty
Micky and Jack were happily reminiscing about the old days, and Jack had forgotten what great company Micky could be when he was in a good mood. Micky Biggs had a wonderful, warm personality that Jack was sure accounted for his success with the opposite sex.
‘Then, Jack, fucking Petey Brewer vomited – projectile vomited – all over the poor PC’s fucking shoes. I was on the floor! Anyway, suffice to say he couldn’t wait to be rid of us, and we walked off towards Vicky Park with all the poor fucker’s takings from the betting shop!’
Jack was nearly crying with laughter.
‘Foolishness of youth and drink. We took the money back next day and apologised. Nice old fucker he was. Jewish. Forgave us and then let us pick out some sweets!’
Jack was laughing again.
‘Couple of years later I used to sell chorred fags to him!’
Jack poured them both more whisky and Micky sipped his gratefully, savouring the smoky taste.
‘Anyway, Jack. As nice as this has been, I want to ask you a favour.’
Jack nodded.
‘I hear you have access to a man who can settle scores for a price.’
Jack smiled. ‘I have. And it ain’t cheap, Micky.’
Micky sighed as if to say that he wouldn’t expect it any other way. ‘It’s that cunt George Thomas. He has been on my fucking case for ages to bring him in on a deal, the nature of which you don’t need to know. Anyway, I did as he asked and now the cunt has not only tucked me up, but he has also earholed me out. So, as you can imagine, I am not a happy bunny.’
Jack nodded once more but his face was very serious now. George Thomas was not a man to cross unless you had a mob handy, Jack knew that much.
‘I don’t want to go to war with him. As you know, my old woman’s just given birth and I realise that I might be better off disabling my opponent. Which is what brought me to your door.’
Jack was nodding his head once more. His grizzled old features looked concerned but, in reality, he was wondering how much Micky would be willing to pay to disable a Face like George Thomas. He took a large sip of his Chivas Regal before saying quietly, ‘As I said, it ain’t going to be cheap, Micky.’
Micky Biggs grinned widely. ‘I had a feeling it wouldn’t be. I will pay whatever you want. And up front too, to show my goodwill. I want him fucking maimed – unable to carry out his business for at least a year or eighteen months. I also want his eye out. Not both, I ain’t a vindictive man, as you know. But I want one eye popped, that is a certainty.’
Jack looked at Micky and then said, ‘Old saying, Micky. “In the kingdom of the blind, the one-eyed man is king.”’
Micky laughed delightedly. ‘Fuck that, Jack. In my kingdom I am the fucking ruler and I rule that that ponce needs to be taught a severe lesson. Of course, I had nothing to do with it. Which is why I am coming to you humble and with an open fucking chequebook.’
Jack smiled. ‘Leave it with me and I will see what I can do. I need to discuss it with the person concerned.’
Micky Biggs was happy enough with that and he said as much. ‘You’re a diamond geezer, Jack. I will leave it all in your more-than-capable hands.’
Chapter One Hundred and Thirty-One
Sharon was lying in bed with Ray, listening to him snoring softly. She wondered if she would ever be able to sleep alone. Knowing he was beside her made her feel safe and very happy. He made her feel secure and the love she had for him was so colossal in its intensity that, at times, it frightened her. She had been let down by Lenny; it was hard to accept that your husband had another woman, but another man put a completely different complexion on things. You could fight against another woman, but another man? It was the ultimate insult; it had made a mockery of everything she had held dear. That was something she thought of on nights like this, when she was awake and sleepless.
The baby was moving around inside her and she smiled. Definitely nightclub hours with this one. She caressed her belly and felt a rush of love for this new child.
She could not wait to meet it. That was why she didn’t want to know the sex – she wanted a surprise.
She thought back to earlier in the day and Ray’s words. He had been sincere, she was convinced of that. He wasn’t a good liar, her Ray – not to her anyway. She knew when he was being honest. But his words had chilled her. What was he doing that she was better off in ignorance? Oh, she wasn’t a fool. She had grown up in the world they lived in, and she accepted that world. But there had been something in his eyes that had filled her with dread. It was like he was telling her to step away as if there was a bomb in the room.
He turned over in the bed, pulled her into his arms and kissed the top of her head as she snuggled into him. She would not think about it any more; she had him and that was what mattered. Why look for worries where there weren’t any?
No matter how much she tried to reassure herself there was still that very real prickle of fear inside her. But, like many a woman before her, she forced it from her mind. Life was good and she had a terrible feeling that knowing the truth might cause her more troubles and pain than forgetting they had ever had that conversation. Finally she slept.
Chapter One Hundred and Thirty-Two
Sharon watched as Ray packed an overnight bag. She was looking at what he was putting in there, to see if he was packing a clean shirt or anything that might make her think he was meeting another woman. She hated herself, but she couldn’t help it. Of course he could easily purchase clothes and aftershave if he required them – indeed Ray would be far too shrewd to give her any cause for alarm. But still she found herself watching what he was doing and she knew that he was picking up on her suspicions. That fact alone embarrassed her.
He turned from the bed and smiled at her lovingly. ‘Had your look? Want a photograph?’
She forced herself to laugh lightly; she was a fool but she couldn’t help herself. She wondered if it actually was pregnancy hormones.
‘I will miss you, that’s all. How long did you say?’
He shrugged. ‘Two to three days, depending.’
‘Depending on what?’ It was out of her mouth before she could stop herself.
He shrugged again. ‘Please, Sharon. Not this again, eh? I hate leaving you like this. Upset and suspicious.’
She could hear the underlying annoyance in his voice and that saddened her more than anything. He was rarely impatient with her and, when he was, she knew it was generally for a good reason. She smiled sadly and went back down to the kitchen. She busied herself making a pot of tea and some sandwiches for their lunch.
Ray sighed, and continued to pack his overnight bag. Sharon thought he was going up to Scotland when in truth he wasn’t going to leave the county of Essex. But she didn’t have to know that, did she? If she guessed the truth, she would be wishing it had all been as simple as another woman. The truth, he had found, did not necessarily set you free. The truth at times could make a prisoner of people.
He walked slowly down to the kitchen with his bag deliberately unzipped as if he had nothing to hide. Which, of course, he didn’t. Not where the bag was concerned, anyway.
Chapter One Hundred and Thirty-Three
Jimmy Carter and Jason Palmer were t
wo friends who were as close as they were dangerous. Ray had met them during his stint inside and they had immediately recognised a kindred spirit. Both large men, they were also quiet, close-mouthed and trustworthy. These were the main reasons that Ray had recruited them to work for him on his special jobs. Another was that he genuinely liked them. The Two Js, as they were known in the nick, wouldn’t give their names unless they had to. It was apt. They were so very tight with information, especially anything personal. Someone had once said that to Ray and he thought it summed them up perfectly. Though they were hard, they were not affiliated to anyone, and they took jobs on doors and did a bit of collecting as well.
Thanks to Ray, they now had a very lucrative sideline. It was well-paid work and it suited their personalities. They planned each job meticulously as no one could know they were involved. The Two Js loved the element of danger involved and thrived on it. Now, they sat in a white Transit van and waited patiently for their quarry to arrive.
George Thomas was a fool. He was what was known as a creature of habit, and that meant they could watch and wait and plan in peace. Every Monday night, while his wife was at her mother’s, he visited a little bird on the Thamesmead Estate. He arrived just before seven in the evening and he left just after midnight. He always parked his car well away from the little lady’s block of flats, and he walked back to his car sure in the knowledge he was George Thomas and as safe as houses.
The blow to the back of his head brought him to his knees and the injection in his neck knocked him flat out. He was in the back of the transit within seconds and, just minutes later, was trussed up like the proverbial kipper. All in all a good night’s work for the Two Js, who were sensible enough not to spark up a big fat joint until they were well out of London.
Chapter One Hundred and Thirty-Four
Ivy was staying with her daughter while Ray was out of town. She lived for these visits; seeing the boys doing well and knowing her daughter was settled with a decent man did her heart good.
Del loved Ray with a passion that bordered on mania. He thought he was the greatest living human being since Muhammad Ali and, in Del’s world, that was praise indeed. But Ivy had to admit the man was good. Her daughter and her grandsons were living a near-perfect life and that was thanks to Ray’s dedication. She had worried for those children even before Lenny had passed on. They were almost out of control, but Ray was so good with them, so kind and patient, that the lads had responded well to him. They adored him as he did them.
But her Sharon was looking a bit peaky and Ivy was worried about her. She knew she fretted about Ray when he went away on business. But Ivy reasoned that was to be expected, after what had happened with Lenny. Here one moment and dead the next – murdered. Sharon had been the one to identify the body. He had been so badly tortured and beaten he had been almost unrecognisable and that had to affect her girl. It would affect anyone, something like that happening. There had never been a whisper of who might have been behind it all, but that was not too unusual in the world he had lived in. Unexpected violence was part of the price you paid for the life you chose.
‘You all right, love? Can I get you a cup of tea?’
Sharon smiled tiredly. ‘I’m fine actually, Mum. This baby is lying on my bladder and I am going to the loo every ten minutes as it is.’
Ivy laughed. ‘I remember it well! Still, it’ll be worth it once it arrives.’
Sharon nodded, but Ivy could see there was something ailing her daughter.
‘He will be back before you know it, Sharon. Stop worrying. Nothing bad is going to happen.’
Sharon sat up in her chair and said, smiling, ‘You are right, Mum. Go on then – I will have that cup of tea after all!’
Pleased to have allayed her daughter’s fears, Ivy trotted off happily to put the kettle on. Alone, Sharon let her mask slip. She wasn’t even sure what exactly was bothering her; all she knew was that something wasn’t right.
Chapter One Hundred and Thirty-Five
George Thomas woke up and felt a stab of real fear shoot through his body. He had some kind of blindfold on, though he wasn’t gagged or duct-taped. He was clearly in deep shit. The question was why? He racked his brain to come up with anyone who might have wanted him outed and could think of no one. All right, he had fucked Micky Biggs over but that didn’t warrant this, surely? He had not seen Micky as that serious a problem. He was, after all, a loner, old Micky.
George felt dry-mouthed and realised he had been drugged. He could not move his arms or his legs; he was certainly well tied up, wherever the fuck he was. His mounting panic only added to his anger at not being able to see who was fucking holding him. He could hear a door opening and someone moving around; it sounded like he was in a fucking dungeon or something. He took a few sniffs and he could smell dampness and mildew. This was not making him feel any better about his situation; in fact he could feel himself starting to panic.
Someone took hold of his hand and he felt a fingernail being removed with what he could only assume was a pair of pliers and he screamed at the shock and the fear of what was happening. Whoever it was did not say a single word. That frightened him more than anything.
‘Tell me who you are, you coward! You fucking cunt!’
Whoever had him trussed up was not saying a word, but George could hear him humming quietly to himself between bouts of extreme violence. This was a nightmare, except he was more than aware that he was wide awake and this was only just starting. He swore to himself there and then that if he survived, he would hunt this cunt down and pay him back tenfold. It was all that kept him going.
Chapter One Hundred and Thirty-Six
Ray was impressed by the man he was dealing with. He was screaming all right, but he was also cursing and threatening retribution. Most people begged for mercy or offered to double what he was being paid so he would leave them alone. He had a grudging admiration for George Thomas. But a deal was a deal.
He was hot and sweating so he left the man and made his way up from the cellar to the small kitchen above. He had bought this place for a song, and it was perfect for what he needed. A tumbledown old farmhouse and twenty-five acres of arable land, worth fuck-all in the present climate. Still, there was a chance it might change. If he ever got planning permission this lot would be worth the national debt. Whatever happened, it was perfect for his little earner.
He washed his hands clean of blood and made himself a sandwich – a thick doorstep of ham, cheese and pickle. He was starving. He poured a mug of tea and sat at the table, looking through the holiday brochures he had picked up a few days earlier. The boys would love Disney World again, but he fancied something a bit more exotic. The Maldives, maybe. He would book for when the baby was one year old – Ivy could look after it while they lounged in the sun and his Sharon could have a proper rest. She would need it by then, he was sure. From what he had heard, babies were a fucking nuisance for the first twelve months, then they got interesting. He was excited to think he would have a child in the world, his own flesh and blood. His old mum was over the moon; she had never thought it would happen.
He had bought her a little house nearby so she could move down South, or use it for her visits – that was entirely up to her. But he owed her a great deal and he always paid back his debts. Old Annie had really been good to him, and he had had a great childhood because of her constant grafting. OK, she might not have been there when he came home from school, but she had made sure they had a clean house, good food and all the love he could handle. She had tried her best to put him on the straight and narrow and she had given him the work ethic. He hated it when people tried to portray the Irish as feckless fuckers; they were real grafters. They were all over the fucking world because they had hunted the work down. Did that sound like a race of shiftless fuckers?
He finished his tea and carefully washed up the crockery. Then he went down to the cellar and started round two. He was in a good mood; this time tomorrow he would be at home with his Sh
aron and the boys. He would be especially attentive to her, and he had told Jack to hold off with any more of these little jaunts for a while. That might placate his Sharon. After all, she was having his child, and he didn’t want her or that baby upset.
He knew that George Thomas could hear his approach because the man was once again vocal with his threats. No doubt about it, he was a game old fucker; he had to give him that. As Ray picked up the sulphuric acid he was sorry in a way that he had to blind him, even partially. He knew the pain would knock the fucker out, and then he would give him a quick shot of liquid oxycodone and Bob was your uncle – as the Southerners said – and Fanny was your fucking aunt. The Two Js could dump him, and then Ray would get the bleach out and scrub his workplace clean. He liked a clean workspace; there was nothing worse than people who left too many clues behind them. It was a fool’s game, and could lead to nothing but trouble.
George’s screams died down to a faint moan and, when he finally lost consciousness, Ray Donovan was actually relieved. He liked the man, and had nothing whatsoever against him. His final job was to shatter his right ankle and basically hobble him. There was no getting away from it: George Thomas had fucked off Micky Biggs royally. But his was not to reason why, as his old mum used to say.
He rang the Two Js and set about cleaning his instruments. Once George had been taken away he would concentrate on the cellar itself. He checked his watch and was pleased to note that if he got his arse in gear he would be in time to catch News at Ten. He liked the news; he felt that people should keep up with current events. It was the sign of a lively mind.