by Martina Cole
Michael sighed heavily - no wonder Gerry Dooley had been paid fortunes to train up other people’s fucking idiot kids, after all, he had plenty of experience with his own. Those two fucking morons, plus Jackie Martin, equalled fucking aggravation.
For Michael Hannon though, this was also a bit of a poser, as he was the reason why Jackie Martin was even employed and he was the reason Mary Dooley was being taken seriously by those in the know. He was, to all intents and purposes, the business.
He was also not exactly known for having a gentle streak, especially where business or fucking wankers were concerned. So he knew that he had to make sure that Mary Dooley was prepared to go that extra mile, even when it concerned her own workforce. Jackie Martin needed a serious talking-to, and he had to decide whether or not he thought Mary Dooley was capable of delivering it.
Chapter Seven
Gerald Junior and Brendan were both sitting at the kitchen table with their heads bowed low as they experienced their mother’s wrath. She was almost in tears as she berated them, as she finally realised that they were never ever going to be any good to her. She knew that she needed to find another number two, needed to replace Jackie Martin sooner rather than later, and she needed to make sure that whoever she chose would have the nous to work with her.
That Jackie could have been such a fool was beyond her comprehension. That she could not give him a second chance was something she had understood very early in the conversation. He had stepped over a very fine line, and she had to make sure that she resolved this terrible situation quickly and cleanly. She would cut that fucker out like a cancer, and she would do it without a second’s thought. The real dilemma for her was who she could get to replace him.
Michael Hannon had been very vocal about Jackie Martin’s position, and she had understood his point of view. She was more annoyed because she had not heard about Jackie’s blatant stupidity earlier; if she had, she might have been able to nip it in the bud. She might have been able to salvage something of their business.
Brendan was his father’s double physically, yet he had no real personality to speak of, and his brother was no better. Gerry had forced his opinions and his personality on to these boys with such force that they were incapable of any kind of originality, or indeed, anything even resembling a conscious thought. They waited for someone to tell them what to think and, as she looked at them as they waited for her anger to subside, she felt the full force of her situation. She admitted to herself that never before had she felt so alone, or so isolated. She swallowed down the panic inside her, and forced herself to be calm.
‘Didn’t either of you think that Jackie’s gambling was something that I might have needed to be told about?’
Mary’s voice sounded reasonable, even to her, and she marvelled at the difference it made to her two sons’ attitudes. They finally looked directly at her, and she could have cried with frustration at their identical expressions of relief.
It was Brendan who answered her. ‘Come on, Mum, he’s always liked a flutter, you know that. Dad never said anything about it.’
She knew it was the nearest he would ever get to an accusation of any kind. ‘Your father monitored his gambling, surely you both knew that? And what about his bad-mouthing of Michael Hannon? Surely that should have been something you felt I needed to know about, after all we are only in business because Hannon has given us his backing.’
She was pleading with them to tell her something of import, something that she could use for their benefit.
Gerald Junior shrugged. ‘Look, Mum, all we have ever done is what the old man, or Jackie, told us to do. We can’t be expected to police him, everyone knows what he’s like. And he has a point, why should Hannon get the lion’s share, when we’re the ones who do the fucking dirty work.’
As Mary listened to his voice, heard his words, she accepted then and there that they were never ever going to suddenly come into their own. God help her, they were her sons and she loved them, but they were of no real use to her. If she wasn’t careful they would all be scratching a living, and she was determined that was not going to happen.
Taking a deep breath, she steadied the hammering of her heart. The boys were so fucking stupid that they were willing to believe Jackie’s rhetoric, they didn’t even have the fucking sense to work out the situation for themselves. Why had she never seen just how fucking useless they were before now? Why had she never before seen them for the spineless fucking imbeciles they were? She had single-handedly saved their jobs, their livelihoods, and their reputations. They had then sat back and allowed Jackie Martin to jeopardise all that she had worked for and the worst thing was that they couldn’t even see any of that for themselves. She needed to find herself someone with ambition, someone with loyalty, someone who needed the good life as much as she did. That she would be bringing in someone over her sons’ heads would be remarked on, she knew that. But after the last few months she had a feeling that no one would be very surprised at her actions. These two boys were never going to be anything more than heavies. That, she knew, was something they were good at.
Smiling gently, Mary said with as much sincerity as she could muster, ‘Well, boys, Jackie has burnt his boats. Hannon has more or less insisted that I out him, and that is something we have to do. But we can’t just let him go, Hannon needs to be placated. Jackie needs to be taught a lesson, taught that you can’t bite the hand that feeds you. Now, you both know that your father, God rest him, would tell you both the same thing if he was here now. So, can I trust you both to do what’s necessary, or do I have to go to an outside agency?’
Brendan and Gerald Junior looked at each other then, and Brendan opened his arms wide, as if accepting the inevitable. Then he said with a quiet confidence, ‘How badly do you want him hurt, Mum?’
Imelda was listening quietly to her mother’s harangue of her brothers; that it had taken her mother all this time to finally realise that they were a couple of fucking morons gave her a small flicker of satisfaction.
As she pulled deeply on her cigarette she felt the child inside her kicking and, rubbing her distended belly, she wished the whole experience was over and done with.
She had decided that once the child was born she would give it to her mother, that way she could get shot of it and, at the same time, she would earn herself a few brownie-points into the bargain.
None of her friends had lasted the course and, even though she consoled herself it was because of her situation, she knew that the reality was because she had treated everyone like dirt.
When her father had been alive, Imelda had not appreciated just how much his name had carried her through her most formative years. She had not understood just how much he had influenced her life, and the way people reacted to her.
That her mother was attempting to re-create that world for them once again, and that she was actually succeeding, annoyed her even though she craved those easy-going days again. Unlike her brothers, Imelda had always known that she had more than her fair share of brains, and she had always used them to her advantage. She had learnt as a small child how to manipulate the people around her. She understood now why her father had always favoured her over her brothers. It was because he had sussed out that they were borderline fucking retards at an early age. In fact, he had been a major factor in the arresting of their developments.
The thought made her smile, and the smile changed her whole face. Imelda looked, as always, like an innocent, her smile was really beautiful. It made her look like an angel, and it belied the anger and the resentment that she nurtured. She held on to every slight, real or imagined, that she felt had been directed her way. She kept a close grip on any insults or any maliciousness that she felt had been directed at her personally and would go over and over in her head what had happened, how she had felt at the time, and what she would do to the person concerned when she was given the chance to repay them for their wickedness.
She felt she had been badly used, not only by
her friends, but also by the men she had been foolish enough to fall for. Imelda Dooley saw herself as a victim, and the role of the victim was now something she actually relished, actually enjoyed. That her bitterness was destroying her more and more, she refused to accept. As Imelda’s belly grew, so did her discontent, and the depression that washed over her only added to her feelings of persecution and isolation. Her childhood home was now more like a prison, and her father’s absence was like a constant reminder of what she had caused, what she had lost. His betrayal when he had found out that she was pregnant had been worse than anything that had ever happened to her before in her life. She had wanted him to make everything all right, instead he had made it worse. She had kept her mouth shut, had waited for Jason to come for her, to make it better. Like her father, he had only succeeded in making it all so much worse. And now she was left with a bellyful of arms and legs, and she was also left with the stigma of her actions, and the devastation they had caused.
She felt the child quickening once more, and as it settled itself into a more comfortable position she pulled back her arm and then she felt the sharp pain and the satisfaction the punch she delivered to her own body engendered.
She had taken to punching the child when it moved inside her because she had a real belief that if she could catch it at the right moment, she would maybe be lucky enough to lose it. She had an image in her mind of her as the poor girl who had lost her child as well as her father, she pictured herself looking forlorn and sad. Then everyone would forgive her because she had suffered such a dreadful loss. But the child seemed immovable.
She read in the papers, and heard stories all the time about women who could not have babies, who could not keep their offspring in the safety of their accommodating wombs. She had seen women who were so desperate for a child of their own that they made a point of being the first in line to hold a newborn baby, believing the old wives’ tale that if you were the first to hold someone else’s baby, you would be blessed with one of your own. Blessed. What the fuck was that about? Why didn’t anyone warn her about just how much a baby interfered with your life, and this was before it was even born. Why was her body swollen and distorted when there were women who would give anything to be in her position and yet they couldn’t conceive for love nor money? Who prayed for this to happen to them, who would have seen it as something good, something to celebrate? What woman did not feel complete because they could not do something so fucking easy, so fucking fundamental, that they deemed so fucking necessary to make their lives happier? What was God thinking of to let those women suffer like they did? Then there was her, who was still pregnant after everything that had happened, after all the fucking upset and heartbreak this bloody child had caused.
And her mother, like a bloody vampire, awaiting its arrival, believing that this child would make everything all right, was convinced that this baby was her last chance to do things right.
Imelda felt the familiar terror that accompanied these thoughts and she attempted, as always, to quieten them down. She knew that if she even once gave vent to them, she would not be able to control herself. She knew that she was capable of losing it completely. She knew that if she didn’t control her thoughts, and control her reactions to her thoughts, she would lose the last remaining shred of sanity she possessed.
So she took more deep breaths, and she punched herself in the tummy once more. The pain she inflicted on herself felt almost therapeutic, made her feel that she had some control over her body at least. As she heard her mother’s heavy footsteps on the landing above her, she sighed and, lighting another joint, she smoked it in silence.
Michael Hannon was very pleased at the quick response to his request. That Jackie Martin had been given a serious hammering in full view of a number of prominent citizens had gone a long way to assuage his anger.
Mary Dooley was a surprise, he had only helped her out at first because he knew that she needed a few quid. After all, it was common knowledge, thanks to Jackie Martin, that she had no idea where her old man had placed his not inconsiderable fortune. Michael had felt sorry for her because, like his own mother, she had been shafted by the one person she should have been able to trust above all others.
Gerald wasn’t a slag, he didn’t stalk prey, young girls with long legs and the attention span of a gnat. Unlike his own father, who had pursued anything with a pretty face and an accommodating smile. No, Gerald Dooley had done something much worse, he had left his family to wonder where his money was, where he had stashed it in case of emergencies. Michael knew that Mary had, in all probability, like his own mother, been a bigger part of her husband’s life and work than anyone realised. She was, he would wager, the real brains of the outfit. So her complete destruction of Jackie Martin was, as far as he was concerned, the only outcome he would have been happy with. She had complied with his wishes, quickly and ruthlessly. Now, though, he knew she would be looking for a new Face to front the business. He also knew that would not be an easy task as her boys were no use, and the men that Gerald Dooley had trained up in the past were not renowned for their brain capacity.
Michael liked that Mary was causing a stir among the old Faces, liked that she was doing a better job than her old man had and he liked the fact that she was willing to orchestrate everything from behind the scenes, that she didn’t feel the need a man would, to make her part in it common knowledge.
He felt that Mary Dooley was going to be an asset, that she was capable of a lot more than she was letting on, and he liked the fact that he knew it before anyone else did. But mostly, he liked the fact that she would be the last person anyone would think of as a partner in his money-lending and money-laundering scam.
She needed someone to front her collecting business, and he needed someone to run his loan-sharking business. He needed somebody who no one would ever suspect in a million years, who the Filth would not even contemplate. Who the people he had to deal with on a daily basis would never suspect of any kind of involvement whatsoever.
Michael felt the excitement that always accompanied a new score. Unlike his contemporaries, he understood that the seventies were almost over, and once the Labour government were out and, thanks to the three-day week and the fucking constant strikes, that would not be too long now, the Conservatives, and their usual promises of borrow, borrow, borrow, would be the catalyst that would enable him to open up a whole new world of skulduggery. Mortgage companies, money-lending disguised as loans, and the inevitable laundering of the profits he had accrued from his other, illicit, ill-gotten gains through such companies.
It was a win-win situation. Mary Dooley was the last person anyone would credit him as employing, and that was exactly what he was banking on.
Mary was sensible enough to know that she had a few weeks’ grace before she had to replace that fucking eejit Jackie Martin. She was racking her brains trying to think of someone who she could not only trust, but who was in such a position that her proposition would not only be welcomed, but would also be seen for the long-term earner that it was. She didn’t want a youngster who saw her as a stepping stone, or an older man who wanted a quiet life until he retired. She wanted someone who could see the big picture, who appreciated the long-term aspects of the business and could see that there was room for expansion. She knew that all the years of helping Gerry were paying off and she also knew that if she didn’t get this sorted sooner rather than later, then the business would be taken from under her nose. The frustration that Mary felt at her husband’s fucking stupidity still rankled. If she had access to his poke she could call the fucking shots as and when she liked. She sipped her tea, but it was stone cold.
Imelda came into the kitchen then, and Mary looked at her daughter with ill-disguised contempt. She saw the heaviness of her belly, emphasised by the thin cotton dressing-gown she was wearing, and saw how emaciated her arms and legs were, and she realised, with horror, just how much weight her daughter had lost. She felt a stab of fear inside her, not for her dau
ghter’s plight, but for the child she was carrying.
‘Are you eating?’
The question made Imelda laugh. ‘Not really, I can’t seem to keep anything down.’
They both knew she was lying, but neither wanted to admit to that. This was a game they had played out many times in the last few months.
Mary sighed and, for the first time since her husband’s murder, she spoke to her daughter with genuine concern in her voice. ‘Look, Mel, are you really all right? You look rough.’
Imelda opened the fridge and took out a bottle of Coke; unscrewing the lid she took a deep draught of the black liquid. ‘I’m fine, Mum, I swear. I just feel sick a lot that’s all.’ She took another deep draught of the Coke and, burping loudly, she smiled that angelic smile of hers. Then, holding up the bottle she said gaily, ‘I mean, the vodka helps.’
As she waited for her mother to explode she was disconcerted to see that her mother was just staring at her, her deep-set eyes full of a sadness that was so powerful it was almost tangible.
‘I can understand your need to hurt me, Mel, and I can take it, I can take anything you want to dish out to me. But to hurt that child, the child you lay down and conceived without any kind of force whatsoever, that you waited for Jason Parks to acknowledge for weeks in this house, and that you used as a weapon that caused fucking murders, literally. I do not understand your determination to hurt your own child. Your own flesh and blood. Well, fuck you, Mel, drink, smoke, do what you want. It’s like you keep telling me, it’s your baby, not mine. But remember this, at least I wanted it, which is more than its own mother can say.’
Imelda looked into her mother’s face and she saw the usual anger, the genuine bafflement that she did not want her baby. She knew that to her mother that was tantamount to a mortal sin. She knew that her mother saw her as unnatural because she couldn’t love her baby, because she didn’t want it, or anything it might entail. She also saw, for the first time since this had all started, a flicker of compassion, sorrow, for her.