The Business

by Martina Cole

  As she watched her daughter disappear down the path Mary felt an overwhelming urge to fell her bodily to the ground. To attack her, and hurt her like she hurt everyone around her.

  But she didn’t, she knew that was exactly the type of behaviour that Imelda would be hoping for. It would just garner her more sympathy, and give her more reason to stop her access to the child.

  As Mary closed the door to make sure her daughter had actually departed, she looked at her little granddaughter and sighing heavily she said softly, ‘Jesus Christ, that’s all I need, another bloody child to fight over.’

  The charges against Imelda were dismissed a few weeks later, and she took up residence once more in her council flat. That it had been the scene of a horrific death was not something she was that bothered about, in fact she seemed to revel in her new-found notoriety.

  And, as her belly grew, her interest in her daughter diminished even further. The new child was her only real interest, but the pregnancy did not do anything to stop her lifestyle in any way. If anything, it just seemed to increase her capacity for self-destruction.

  Mary had Jordanna to herself at last, but that did not settle her mind, because she now had the new child to worry about, and she had to wonder at how this new little grandchild of hers would fare under its mother’s tutelage.

  Chapter Eleven

  Kenneth Dooley was a lovely child, and his mother seemed actually to like him in her own haphazard way. She seemed interested in him, at least as much as she could be. In comparison to how she felt about her daughter, her interest in her son could be construed as over the top. She had no real interest in the children’s day-to-day lives, in fact she was so self-obsessed and disinterested in Jordanna that the fuss she made of her son was so unusual it was seen as her only saving grace. It made people believe that she could not be all bad, after all, she loved her son. The fact that she had no time for her daughter, and that her children lived with their grandmother because she was not deemed fit enough to take care of them, and that she had no intention of caring for her kids anyway, was miraculously forgotten about. Kenneth was the love of her life, and because of her feelings towards him, her sins were nearly forgotten.

  Imelda was surprised but she actually did feel some real emotion towards her son. He was big, and he was handsome, and he attracted people’s attention on the rare occasions she went out with him in public. He had a head of thick, curly blond hair and long, powerful-looking legs; he would be tall, that much was obvious, and he was a sunny-natured child who smiled at everyone who came into his little world.

  Mary Dooley felt such love for her grandson that it amazed her; with Imelda as his mother he would need all the love and help that he could get. Jordanna had known from day one that Imelda was not to be trusted, and she had had every reason to think that, but Kenneth had not been on the receiving end of his mother’s frustration, or her phenomenal anger yet. So he had not seen her as she really was, he had not yet wondered why she didn’t live with him, or look after him, like other mothers did their children. He had all that to come, and Mary hoped that, like his sister, when it did become clear to him, he would understand that it was not about him, or Jordanna, it was about her, their mother, Imelda, and the abortion that was her life.

  Jimmy Bailey was good, he always asked after the children and Mary appreciated that. He had also taken over the role of surrogate uncle to them both.

  When her two sons had informed her one afternoon that they were going into partnership together in a scrap yard she had been both upset and hurt at their obvious defection from the family unit. She was shocked by their announcement but, after Jimmy had reminded her that they would never be an asset to her, or anyone else for that matter, she had got over her initial annoyance and given them both her blessing. She had done that because she knew that nothing she could say would change their minds or make them stay in her life. She accepted that they were distancing themselves, not only from Imelda, but from her as well and from the kids, and she loathed them for that, even as she understood the reasoning behind it.

  Neither of the boys seemed in the least bit inclined to give her a few quid, help her out financially; not that she needed it, but it was the principle. They were quite willing to take from her, on the other hand, as and when they felt the need to.

  But, more to the point, neither of them even bothered to seek out her company any more, and that hurt her, that had really cut deep. Even though she understood their actions to an extent, she could not forgive them their treachery. They were both snides, were both fucking useless.

  She had no one to rely on, and they had made it more than plain that she never would. It was a real eye-opener for her, their father’s death had left them all adrift. But instead of feeling a measure of loyalty towards her, they had both taken a step back. They had not felt even an iota of loyalty towards her personally, their own mother, the woman who had birthed them, who had raised them, fed them and wiped their arses.

  That she could take on both of Imelda’s kids was way beyond their comprehension but, as she reassured herself, where those two treacherous bastards were concerned, so was long division. They were not exactly the most intelligent of lads, or in any way the most caring, they had not even offered her a shoulder to cry on since the death of her husband, their father.

  So she was content to throw herself into her new family. She knew these children needed her and, more to the point, she needed them.

  So she waved them off, her sons, with the warning that she expected to see them at least once a month, and to her sorrow they were quite happy with that. It suited them all, they kept up the appearance of a united family, but did not have to put up with each other on a daily basis, and Mary could concentrate on the two children her daughter had produced, and their immediate needs.

  Imelda was the only fly in an otherwise perfect ointment. She did not want the children at all, not on a permanent basis anyway, but she would turn up on a semi-regular basis and make herself busy with them for appearances’ sake. Imelda no longer tried to take the children away from their nana by brute force, though she was still capable of delivering the threat when the fancy took her. But Mary now knew that the threats were as empty as her daughter’s purse, as she knew that if she gave her some money she would bugger off once more and leave them alone.

  Mary was still tracking down people who owed money around and about, and she was still doing it without any real effort; her network of women was large, and it was reliable and growing by the year. They could track down anyone within days, and Mary paid the women well for their information. She knew that was enough to ensure their loyalty and their continuing support; Mary was the equivalent of a pension plan for many of the women she dealt with. Thanks to her, they had a few quid in reserve and were able to see themselves through the seasons. They did not have to rely on their children for handouts then, because as they had all eventually realised, their kids were no better off than they were. It was a different world now, and even though they had all looked after their parents, they soon came to understand that the same courtesy was not going to be extended to them. Mary was their lifeline, and the reason they still had a modicum of self-respect.

  For Mary Dooley, life was good in many respects, and though she was lonely sometimes, she knew that her grandchildren had to be her main priority. The boys came every month, and she enjoyed their visits, but she was always glad to wave them off. They usually came with a catalogue of disasters, and with the want of more money to tide them over. They were not what she would call businessmen. She would weigh them out, and when they left she would heave a secret sigh of relief that she was once more left with her surrogate babies; the children she loved more than she had ever loved any of her own.

  Little Kenneth was as bright as a button, and twice as handsome. Whereas Jordanna was a tiny thing who loved her brother with a passion.

  But the only worry for Mary was that while Jordanna was not enamoured of her mother, and that was som
ething anyone would understand, considering how she had been treated by her, Kenny Boy, as they called him, seemed to adore her.

  Jordanna had never spoken to anyone about the fateful night that had culminated in Lance’s death, and Mary wondered sometimes at how Kenny would react when he heard, as he surely would, that his sister had shot his father and killed him stone dead. Even though that was something no one in their right mind would believe.

  Mary would watch Jordanna sometimes as she slept, and she would try to picture her with a gun in her little hands, but she just couldn’t envisage it somehow. She had a problem seeing that poor little child defending her mother, the mother who had done nothing all her life except use her as a convenient stick to beat everyone around her with. But the police had been forced to accept her daughter’s statement as fact, because they had no other statement to use against her. Like Mary, they knew there was something seriously wrong about it, but like her, they had no way of proving it. Mary would watch her granddaughter as she slept, would watch her as she tossed and turned, as she moaned in pain and terror, and she prayed then to the Holy Mother that the child would find some kind of peace, would find some kind of happiness.

  Imelda still stuck to her story that Jordanna had been the culprit and, as everyone now knew that Lance had fathered Kenny Boy, it was well known that Jordanna had killed her brother’s daddy. It was something the child would one day have to live with. The children would both have to live with it, and as they were so close, as Mary was determined to make sure that they were, she hoped they would be able to cope with it, would love each other enough to understand that they were nothing more than victims of their mother’s lifestyle, their mother’s neglect and her selfishness. It was a terrible situation for everyone involved. But, like everything else that had happened where her daughter was involved, Mary tried not to dwell on it too much because if she did, it just broke her heart all over again. But she still wondered at what the future had in store for these two children, and she worried about how they would cope with what had happened on that fateful night so long ago, and if the bond they shared would be strong enough to keep them together once the truth was finally out.

  Imelda was looking good, and she knew that. It was strange how, even though she was now on the skag, she still did not look that rough. She had a natural glow to her skin and bone structure to die for, so her beauty was always protected somehow. Even she knew that much, and she was just pleased that nature had seen fit to give her an edge over most people.

  She was wearing a short black leather skirt, a matching waistcoat with a sheer top underneath it, and her trademark high-heeled black boots. She was every inch the sexy babe, and she was charging for her services accordingly. She had been on the bash for a good while now, and she found that the life suited her disposition. She liked the money, the hours and, best of all, she liked the fact that she could score all over the Smoke as she was cabbed to her different destinations.

  She had no qualms about her customers, they were so under her radar as to be almost invisible. But she smiled in the right places, pretended that they were the best fuck she had ever had, and she made sure that they wore a condom. If they wanted to ride her bareback then she charged them extra. It always amazed her that there were men who were quite happy to put their lives and their marriages on the line for a naked fuck. She never injected herself in her arms, she had learnt many years before that track marks made you a target, for the Filth, for bullies; they showed you up for what you really were. She had always made a point of injecting herself in her groin area, her ankles, anywhere that was not visible to the average person, or could not be hidden from view, hence her trademark boots. Men did not pay out for junkies and they did not pay extra for bareback from anyone they thought might be diseased. Imelda had never shared a needle in her life, not since her initial introduction into the world of heroin, anyway. She might be a stoner, but she was still sensible enough to know that you had to keep yourself to yourself; it was about self-preservation, no more, no less. She had altered her behaviour to make sure she could earn the most money. And she did earn it, and she intended to carry on earning it.

  She had a good few quid, a nice supply of the brown, and she had a reputation that preceded her wherever she went. And she liked that, she liked being notorious, she loved that people talked about her, and pointed her out.

  She played up to it and, with a few drinks in her, would sometimes re-live the night her daughter had killed her own brother’s father. Sometimes she embellished the story so that Jordanna came out a little heroine who had stopped her mother from being beaten to death, other times she would describe a tragic accident that had deprived her of the love of her life and her son of his father.

  Either way, she was not about to tell the truth, and though more than a few people had their own version of events, they were sensible enough to keep them to themselves. After all, Imelda Dooley was not someone you would deliberately pick a fight with; she was more than capable of looking after herself if the need arose, as had been proven.

  Imelda liked the cabbing around town, she liked the feel of travelling to an unknown destination and, as she was a real looker, she was often asked for by name so she had a lot of regulars and a lot of money. Unfortunately, like most women of her persuasion, she spent her money without much thought, always with the belief that it would be there again the next day. Which it was, only inevitably the day would come when her youth and her wide-eyed beauty would start to wither and fade, and that was when she would wish that she had been a bit wiser with her money when she had been earning it in large amounts. Then she would understand how hard the business was for the women who were getting older, and she would suddenly notice that every few months a whole new batch of young girls would emerge on the scene. Then she’d wish that she had put a few quid away for the inevitable rainy day.

  But, for the moment, Imelda was on a roll, was loving it, and she was still frightened enough about what had happened to Lance to guarantee that she would keep a lid on that famous temper of hers for the time being.

  She had once done nearly three months on remand for a GBH charge, and that had been enough for her, she was not about to make that mistake ever again. She had got away with murder, and then nearly been sent down for a fight with a fellow worker. It was bloody laughable.

  Imelda often wondered if Lance was actually Kenny’s father. She knew that it was not something she would ever know for sure, not that she was going to admit that out loud of course, but sometimes she looked at little Kenny and saw Georgie Boy, the owner of the gun that had been used against Lance because of his stupid fucking antics. Lance had asked for everything he had got, she was convinced about that much. No one spoke to her like that and got away with it. But when she looked at her Kenny, she saw Georgie Boy, not Lance. He was like the spit out of Georgie’s mouth as they said in East London society.

  Imelda felt no regret; in fact, she would do it all again if she felt the need to, and she was happy about that as well. She felt that people were too quick to swallow in this day and age, and if they had any real sense they would know that some people needed taking out, and for their own good at that. She also knew deep inside that she was not like other people, that she was in a different league. Imelda Dooley felt that she did not have to live by other people’s standards because, after all, she had literally got away with murder. That thought made her smile and, as always, her smile made her look like a young girl, not someone who had produced two children and who had a heroin habit so big and of such duration that anyone else would have been dead long ago.

  The cab driver was a married man called Arnold Dukes and he was in his early sixties; he had taken to cabbing after he had taken his retirement from the docks. He was watching the girl in his rear mirror, and her beauty had captured his imagination. She looked new to the game, and that, as always, was her greatest asset. She did not look battered yet, she did not look what she was: a junkie, a whore. She still looked fresh f
aced; she was one of the few people who could abuse their bodies with drink and drugs, yet it didn’t seem to leave a mark on them. She looked like any other young girl; her skin was bright, and her body taut. She offered the men that she serviced the illusion of extreme youth, and that alone was enough to make them believe that she was still new to it all. She knew that and she played on it, used it to her advantage when necessary.

  Arnold was the possessor of a grey comb-over, and a spectacular set of rapidly decaying teeth, and his idea of personal hygiene consisted of a bath every couple of weeks and the daily changing of his socks, though that was actually a necessity because the cab was so confined. He had been pulled up over the stench on more than one occasion.

  He smoked Capstan Full Strength, and he had a penchant for hand-knitted cardigans and Ben Sherman shirts. He had all but given up on the sexual side of his life until now, until he had seen this girl. He knew she was a brass, but she was stunning. She was built like the movie stars of the forties, big-breasted and possessed of a certain innocence that he was attracted to. He wanted her desperately, and as he knew that she was for sale anyway, unlike most of the women who might have frequented his taxi, he felt that she could be within his reach.

  Imelda saw Arnold Dukes looking at her in the mirror, and she smiled seductively, opening her legs slightly so he could get a quick glimpse of what she had to offer. Arnold was over the moon at the way she was coming on to him. He actually thought that she might even fancy him.

  ‘How much do you charge, love?’

  She grinned at him then, and laughing huskily she answered him in such a way it could almost have been mistaken for embarrassment at his cheeky question. In that moment she made him believe that he was the only man she had ever wanted in the world, and he swallowed it hook, line and sinker.