by KERRY BARNES
Cassie wanted to pinch herself. Was she dreaming or had he just asked her out?
“Yeah, that sounds a good idea. I thought you’d never ask!” She was surprised that those last words came out of her mouth.
He laughed. “Yeah, about time.” Dan had surprised himself. He had kept Cassie at arm’s length, knowing she fancied him, as he hadn’t ever seen her as his type, really. He was more into a quick shag, and he knew that Cassie wasn’t like that.
*
Fred and Sam agreed to drag Farley around the back and kick the answers out of him.
The door was quiet. Only a few drunken stragglers came along, and they were refused admittance. Farley had been true to his word and hadn’t allowed any gypsies entry. So, when Sam and Fred summoned him to join them at the rear, he was confused. As he hadn’t seen his cousin Kizzy flee the premises, he had no idea that the plan had been blown.
He now had to face the Vincent brothers and he turned cold. He was on his own and they were after his blood. Their expressions said it all.
Fred flicked his head and he knew then he had to follow. There was nowhere to run.
“What’s up?” Farley was so calm it must have been the first time he wasn’t jumping around on cocaine.
“So, when’s the raid supposed to take place, then?” asked Fred, who was ready for a brawl.
Farley felt the heat rising up from his feet to his head. He couldn’t believe their plot had been rumbled.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” answered Farley, trying to look composed. Inside, he was shitting himself.
“Yeah, you do. Come on, tell us why, and we might let you go with your bollocks intact.” Sam’s voice was gruffer, more menacing.
“Oh, come on, guys. Give me a break. I’ve already said, I have no idea what you’re on about!”
Fred threw the first punch, which cracked Farley in the side of the head, sending him to the ground. Sam booted him hard in the ribs. He curled into a ball as both men kicked and punched. They stopped for a few seconds and watched to see if Farley was moving. The blood was seeping from Farley’s nose and a nasty lump was growing from his chin, but he didn’t move.
Fred grabbed him by the arm and tried to stand him up but his feet gave way; he was barely conscious. Sam grabbed a chair from inside the club and they plonked Farley on it.
He slowly opened his eyes and stared at Fred. “You cunt, Fred, I don’t deserve this!” The blood seeped from his nose into his mouth, one eye was closed, and he could hardly move his jaw.
Fred kicked the chair away and Farley fell to the floor.
“Who’s behind it? Cos it sure ain’t you, ya fucking little weasel!” Fred lifted him up by his collar and shook him like a rag doll. “Tell me now and I’ll let you live.”
Farley was suffering. Gripped by pain, he drooped his head and whispered, “Please, Fred, believe me, I don’t know!”
Fred dropped him like a sack of shit and watched as he squirmed around on the floor.
“Don’t fucking lie, you little shit! Now fuck off, back to ya campsite, and make sure you, and your scummy pikey gang, don’t come here again. That little beating was a taster. Come back – and you’ll get the real thing!”
Farley hated Fred, for many reasons: he was rich, a looker, had respect, and had beaten the crap out of him. The only thing that kept Farley going on the way home was the thought his brothers and cousins would trash the club once they saw the state of him. He imagined truckloads of men, tooled up with flame throwers, taking down the Vincents, torturing Fred and burning the Palace to the floor.
The evening’s takings were over and above expectations. While Fred and Sam locked up and paid the wages, Cassandra helped Dan to count up the money. It was a cosy affair. Fred was pleased to see Dan opening up to Cassie and letting her have more responsibility. It was a sign that they were starting to trust others.
As the club emptied, the doormen left for the night. The cleaners came in. It was an unusual arrangement, but one that Dan was a stickler for. He never wanted to walk into any of the clubs the next day and see it untidy. That was how it had always been.
The cleaners were taken on through an agency and Dan paid them well – as long as they did a good job.
Fred and Sam checked the toilets and store room for drunk strays. As the cleaners began vacuuming, Fred smiled and they grinned back. The hairs on the back of his neck stood on end – he noticed the Creole earrings, the dark creased skin, and the thick gold around their necks. More fucking gypsies.
“’Ere, Sam, do us a favour. Get rid of those gypos. I don’t trust any of ‘em.”
Sam laughed. “They’re all right, Fred. They’ve been cleaning up the clubs for the last five years. That’s old Daisy and Maggie.”
Fred smiled. He let them carry on but kept a close eye as he continued checking over the place.
When the clearing was done and the money counted, the brothers sat down and enjoyed a glass of champagne. Cassie got up to put on her coat, and was on the verge of leaving when she was invited to stay by Dan. “’Ere, babe, have a glass of plonk. We took more than last week, and I’m fucking happy!” Cassie sat as part of their family and enjoyed the fuss. The cleaners looked over and smirked, but only Fred clocked them.
Chapter Seven
The campsite was only a bus ride away from the club. It had been there for thirty years, no matter how many times the council tried to house them, or move them on. They came up against human rights’ acts and then appeal courts. So it became a permanent fixture. There were roughly thirty caravans in all; some were so big they couldn’t be towed. Dotted, here and there, were new 4x4 cars. It would look odd to anyone not understanding the gypsy way, but it was almost customary to have a caravan and a luxury car today. Even their horses were worth a great deal of money. They had land. Half of Kent was owned by travellers, but they lived their life differently and didn’t care how the outside world, or gorgers, as non-gypsies are known, viewed them.
Kizzy was still in shock as she fled the club and got up the road. She managed, with a struggle, as her hands shook so much, to put her jeans and jumper on. She fumbled through her bag for her phone to call a taxi but it had gone, so she assumed she had lost it when making a mad dash to escape. She jumped on the night bus and tried to sort herself out before she reached home. Her mind worked overtime, trying to think of how she would tell Ocean what had happened. Again she cried. The thought that the Vincents had threatened to chop her fingers off conjured up all those images in her mind of her sitting in that club, and it made her feel sick again.
As she headed for the site, her stomach spontaneously emptied its contents and, before she could brace herself, half of it covered her clothes. She stood at the entrance and gazed around. Tiny lights from some of the caravans gave a cosy feel to the site but, as the dark enveloped her, she shuddered. In the distance a fire burned and she could make out a group of men gathered there. They always had a fire – it was tradition. She loved to sit there as a youngster, listening to the stories, and watching the women tie ribbons on the lucky heather or making lucky bead necklaces. The orange flames burned high and bright. She saw the silhouette of Ocean, there with the men, some dogs, and a few wandering cockerels. A tear stung her sore cheek.
She loved him so much, but he played such a cool character and didn’t rush to her side when she appeared. He didn’t visit her at the club either, and sometimes it seemed as though he only wanted her when he felt horny. She struggled to understand why he was so cold towards her. She knew she was good-looking. She earned more money at the Palace than any of the other girls. She had to – so why didn’t he pay her attention like most boyfriends would? He never said she was his girlfriend, but he often shagged her when no one was around.
Kizzy grew up in a caravan. When her father went to prison and her mother ran off with a gorger, she was left with her Uncle Johnnie, her father’s brother. Her father, Albi, refused to have anything to do with her, as he was convin
ced she wasn’t his. He had black hair and green eyes and his wife was fair with brown eyes. So where did the blue eyes come from? He tried to bond with the child but, in the back of his mind, he believed she belonged to someone else. When his wife ran off to Spain with a gorger, he realised then that she was a slut and probably screwing everyone. Albi, and probably half the campsite, knew it but Johnnie O’Connell continued to raise her and no one dared argue. Johnnie’s wife had died of pneumonia and so he raised Kizzy alone. It was difficult, though, because he only had sons and they were older. Although he treated her well, he was also hard on her and so she grew up being tough. She had her own tiny room and, being the prettiest girl on the site, she got away with a lot, especially with the boys. It was not a matter of opinion but fact that Kizzy was a beauty. The younger men all tried it on but she only wanted Ocean.
Ocean, an Irish gypsy, was not into the boxing game like the O’Connells. He was more into horses. What he didn’t know about cobs and shires wasn’t worth knowing. He rode before he walked and he never went to school. His mother, a hard-faced woman called Moira, raised her three daughters and her son the old ways, and that didn’t include mainstream education. “I’ll teach me chavis what they need to learn.” Moira was softer on her boy than her girls and so he often got away with murder. They were an old travelling family, going back generations. When her father got sick, they had sold the wooden caravan and bought a modern six berth van. He died shortly afterwards and took with him some of the traditions. In the 1960s their ways changed. A gypsy was not a gypsy unless he owned a horse and that horse was, at one time, a vital part of his family. But, when lorries and trailers took over, it affected not only their culture but how outsiders viewed them. Back in the old days, before they would move on, the caravan would be scrubbed down, the harness cleaned and the horses groomed. It was a beautiful sight as the sounds of the hooves and the wooden vardos painted in very striking colours, passed through a village. Moira’s father, a proud man, enjoyed sitting up at the front of his wagon, trotting through the country villages in Ireland. It was not so much the lung damage which killed him but more the dismal existence without horses which finally finished him.
The farms relied on the gypsies working the fields – hop picking in September, apples and pears in late autumn, and potato harvest in early winter. But, with the introduction of motorised machinery, farmers didn’t need their help anymore so they had to source other means of income.
The tradition of storytelling around the camp fire, which helped to keep the gypsy ways alive, also changed. Now it was full of plots and plans of deception – of how they would rip off the next person.
With the scrap metal business dying a death, the younger gypsies dealt with some of the big London boys, selling drugs. Cocaine could be easily hidden on a camp. The Ol’ Bill, or gavvers, as the travellers called them, never entered a gypsy site, not unless they were mob-handed. It would cost a fortune to arm so many police in riot gear, and they would need protection. Even the kids, as young as five, would pick up a brick and launch it at the police. After all, the gavvers were the enemy. The children, taught from babies not to talk to any strangers, didn’t give their real names and told no one where they lived. The old ways were dying and the younger men, finding ways to make a living, didn’t all sell drugs. Many turned to landscaping, new driveways and patios. Johnnie missed the traditions. He never sat by the fire and listened to the bullshit. He hated the idea of serious wrong doings, so he stuck to scrap metal and the odd bit of fencing and made enough money to look after Kizzy and himself.
Moira loved her son, Ocean. He was the image of his father who was serving a long stretch over in Ireland. But she feared her son would end up like him. She hoped, though, he would soon settle down with Kizzy and start a family, and show an interest in the horses again. His born talent could make money, but his dealings with the O’Connells dragged him down the wrong road. Her heart ached when she saw him sneaking around, late at night, up to no good. It was hard enough when Joey, her husband of twenty years, got locked away for armed robbery. The kids, all under ten, were stranded with her on a site in Ireland with no way of earning money. The horse business took off again in Kent so she moved out to the London campsite, where she knew a few folk. When she needed to she would travel down to the county to buy and sell her horses. She still went over to Ireland every month to see Joey, and dreamt of the day he would be home and curled up in her bed again. It was funny because, although the London site was gypsy only, she was Irish and they were Romany. It took a while before they understood her accent because the O’Connells were mixed. Johnnie’s grandmother, Rose, was a strong-willed Romany. She married Mikey O’Connell, an Irish tinker and a quiet, placid man who had four sons, but they lived the Romany way.
Kizzy stood watching Ocean in the distance until a tiny voice called her name. “Kizzy, girl, where you been at, you look poggered?” A real Irish accent. It was Shirley, one of Ocean’s sisters.
Kizzy’s blue eye makeup had smudged into her cheeks, giving the impression of her having two black eyes.
Shirley had a Celtic complexion, with her light skin, freckles and green eyes. At thirteen, she looked up to Kizzy because she acted and dressed like a twenty-year-old.
“What you doing out so late, Shirley girl?”
“I was watching out of the window and I saw ya there.” She held Kizzy’s hand and walked with her back to her van.
“Come in, Mam’s still up, she’ll make you a cup of tea.” Shirley, a sweet girl, could tell something had happened, and she wanted to sit in on the gossip. They didn’t have a TV in the trailer, so a good chat was their entertainment. Kizzy was nervous. She would have to tell Ocean she had ruined the plan so, tired, sore, and stinking of vomit, she tried to escape.
“I’m gonna go to me own trailer tonight. I’ll see ya muvver tomorrow.” She hoped to sneak away and leave all the grief until the next day, to give herself time to figure out how she would tell Ocean.
“Ocean! Kizzy’s back. Looks like she’s been mullered!” shouted Shirley, very loudly, so more lights came on around the site.
“Shut ya fucking mooi, Shirley girl.” Too late, though, the damage was done.
He and four other men ran towards her. Some of the travellers opened their caravan doors, all wanting to get a look at the commotion, which set the sleepy dogs off barking. Once awake, they were off in unison. The campsite sprung to life. Ocean stopped in his tracks and looked her up and down. He saw the mark on her cheek, the makeup all over her face, the vomit down her clothes, and the fear in her eyes.
A crowd gathered and Kizzy hung her head in shame, and then she heard Ocean ranting.
“I swear, on me muvver’s life, I’ll muller whoever’s done this to you. Just give me their name!” Ocean shouted, louder than he needed, to let everyone hear he was a hard man, protecting his own. Some smirked, others smiled, proud of him anyway, defending his girl. It shocked even Kizzy, he was publicly announcing her as his girl – a serious acknowledgement. So, from now on, whatever Kizzy did or didn’t do, would go back to Ocean and not her Uncle Johnnie. It was the gypsy way.
She looked up and into Ocean’s eyes, hoping he meant it. She was ready to cause a storm; an Oscar-winning performance.
“It was the Vincents. They tried to cut me fingers off!” she lied through her back teeth, and once she started she couldn’t stop. She loved how he threatened to kill to protect her, proud to be his girl. The ahhs from the audience spurred her on to give more. “They held me head down, and was gonna slice me tongue off, but I kicked that Fred Vincent hard in the bollocks. I swear, if I didn’t fight back, they would have cut me up into little pieces!”
Ocean put his arms around her, proud his woman was a fighter, and she revelled in the euphoria. She was too caught up in the moment to admit she had let the cat out of the bag.
“Get the chavi a drink. Poor thing’s had the shock of her life!” Kizzy was led to the fire and sat next to fat Billy. The gyp
sies gathered: men, woman and children. On went the pots, out came the sausages, and they sat ready for a story and grub. She went over the details again and again, exaggerating every version until they visualised her being stripped naked with torturous instruments poked over her body. The women gasped and the men planned to wage war on the Vincents.
Kizzy was now the Queen bee, perched on a stool, sitting higher than anyone else. Any more idolising and she would have been wearing a crown. The younger girls admired her. She looked classy despite her smudged makeup. The fire lit up her face and her thick mass of black hair fell about her perfect frame.
Some of the older women were sceptical but, if their men were taken in by it, then far be it from them to open their mouths and upset the apple cart.
“They will never get away with this. Cowards, is what I say! Taking our dear little harmless Kizzy, a tiny chavi, and torturing her like that,” declared Billy O’Connell. He hated the Vincents and had a deep, burning desire to have them all killed. After all, Sam had left him for dead all those years ago in that prison cell. That attack gave him epilepsy and deafened his left ear, so he would do anything to see the Vincents dead.
The travellers sat talking until the early hours. It was the best evening they’d enjoyed in a long time. Kizzy’s story led on to another tale of violence and torture. By the time they’d called it a night, there had been more tortures and brutality amongst the gypsies than in the Second World War. The young men wanted in on the action, and it was that kind of bravado that fired them up, and made them eager for war.
But not one of them asked why they beat her, or why they threatened to cut out her tongue, until Farley crawled onto the site.
Most of the woman and children had gone back to their beds. The old folk had returned to the trailers for a warm cup of milk or cocoa, leaving the youngsters to continue fighting the world. Kizzy was still perched on her stool, enjoying the attention. Ocean was getting half-cut when Farley’s dog, Duke, an old Lurcher, started barking. Billy looked over and saw Farley a short distance away, dragging his leg.