by Martina Cole
Mary had to admire her at times, she knew how to fucking con everyone; she looked for all the world like a young girl on her way to work.
‘Come here, Kenny, come to Mummy . . .’ Imelda was holding out her hand towards him, her whole body stiff with annoyance, and Mary saw the bewilderment on the boy’s face.
‘I said come here, Kenny. I’m your fucking mother, whatever she might try and tell you. Now, come to me this minute.’
She was still holding out her hand, and Kenneth was still standing with his sister wondering what he was supposed to do for the best.
Mary pushed her daughter towards the kitchen. ‘Stop it, Mel, I ain’t having it any more, I told you that the last time.’
She was still pushing Imelda away from kids and, as she approached the door that led into the kitchen, she pushed her daughter through it with all the strength that she could muster.
As Imelda stumbled out of the room, Mary looked at the two dumbstruck children and gesturing with her eyes towards the ceiling, they both took the hint and went up to their bedrooms. Jordanna was visibly shaking at her mother’s presence, and Kenny was, as always, unsure about who he was supposed to be pleasing this time round.
Imelda, however, was fuming now. ‘Fucking push me like that, you’re lucky I don’t fucking lay you out, you old bag.’
Mary ignored her words, she was used to her daughter’s vitriol and she sighed heavily before saying sadly, ‘Leave the girl alone, Mel, what has she ever done to you, eh?’
Imelda lit herself a cigarette slowly and with exaggerated nonchalance, before saying loudly, ‘What has she ever done to me? You ask me that, after what she did, after what she caused . . .’
Mary had listened to this same harangue about the child so many times before, and today she threw all caution to the wind as she shrieked in anger and frustration, ‘Oh fuck off, Mel, no one believes that she did it, only the fucking no-necks you slob around with. She kept you from getting a fucking serious lump, because I know in my heart that you shot him. I also know that if it had not been him you would have killed someone eventually. You are a great big fucking accident waiting to happen; you caused your father’s death, and Jordanna’s dad’s as well. You cause trouble without any thought for who might be caught up in the abortion that you call a life. That little child, that lovely, dear little girl, has never done anything to hurt anyone in her life. And I swallowed you blaming her for Lance because I’m your mother, and I didn’t want to see you go down for years and years. But I tell you now, I wish they had banged you up. Because at least then I would have been spared the knowledge and the public humiliation of you being on the fucking bash, on the game. You leave her alone in future, Mel, or me and you will really fall out. I know you fucking think you can treat people however you want, well, you can’t.’
Imelda was, as usual, completely unfazed at her mother’s words: nothing affected her unless she chose to allow herself to be affected by it all and then she would act either outraged, deeply angered or, at a push, she was also capable of acting out being desperately hurt.
Mary likened her daughter to a robot; she had no genuine feelings at all, and where that knowledge used to worry her, now she just saw it for what it was. Her daughter’s natural personality, if you could call it that. She was a strange girl, and she lived a strange life that consisted of her, and her alone.
Mary had stopped caring about that a long time ago. She loved her, but she had never really liked her. But she was lumbered with her, and she had to accept that.
Imelda was in her outraged mode today, and Mary watched her daughter as she pretended to feel emotions she knew deep inside she was incapable of really feeling. It was all an act, her whole life had been an act of some sort.
‘I hate you, and I hate her. You two are so alike, Mother. She might look like me on the outside but inside she’s just like you, a bitter and twisted old fucking witch.’
Mary laughed at her daughter’s choice of words, she never ceased to amaze her.
‘Oh, Mel, I wish you would listen to yourself sometimes so you could see what a fucking eejit you really are!’
Imelda was laughing with her now, and Mary knew that once more her daughter had experienced another of her lightning changes of mood.
Mary shook her head in despair, why did no one else see her daughter for the fucking maniac she was? Why did they always fall for her lovely face, and for the act she would put on for them all? She remembered the psychiatrist in Holloway, he had been deceived within minutes of meeting her daughter, and she had sat back and watched it happen, powerless to do anything about it. She had watched her daughter as she played the victim, then the coquette, and finally, she had played the innocent who was openly enamoured of the man sitting before her. He had not had a cat in hell’s chance, and she knew that he probably still patted himself on the back at his success with Melly, as he called her.
‘Oh come on, Mum, let’s not row any more, eh?’ Imelda was almost pleading with her now, beseeching her mother to let it go.
Mary shook her head again slowly, her troubled face showing her absolute incredulity at her daughter’s utter disregard for morality, for decency. She put the kettle on and then, sitting at the kitchen table, she opened the paper and concentrated on the crossword.
Imelda chain-smoked and sat casually beside her, giving her the answers to some of the clues as if nothing had happened.
Jimmy Bailey was sitting in the Crown and Two Chairmen pub in Dean Street. He had a large Scotch on the rocks, and he was nursing it with more care than Florence Nightingale. He liked this pub; like a lot of the places in Soho it had a nice atmosphere about it, but then he also knew that unless you were a Soho person, these places could seem like the arse end of the world. It was about knowing where you were, and who was who. As he sipped his drink, his eyes were watching the door. Every time it opened he felt his heart stop in his chest, and when it wasn’t Imelda coming inside he would relax once more. He annoyed himself when he waited for her like this, for just a glimpse of her, just to satisfy his need. He just had to see her sometimes, not to touch her, or talk to her even, just see her face, nothing more.
Jimmy knew that if he wanted her, he could line up with the rest of them and pay her, and he knew that she would give him the same service she gave everyone else. But he also knew that she had somehow got under his skin and, even knowing everything that he knew about her, he still couldn’t shake her off. So periodically he did this, he sat and waited in one of her regular haunts, just so he could look at her.
He knew that his obsession with her was not healthy in the least. But he also knew that he could not do anything about it. He would look at her for a few minutes and then he would leave, his thirst for her slaked for a short while.
Jimmy loved Imelda in a strange way, not her as such, but the image he had always had of her, the image that she represented to him, and to everyone else for that matter.
With her long, blond hair and her wide-spaced blue eyes, she looked like the girl next door, only she was a better, newer, more improved model. And he wondered over and over again why she was the only person ever to make him feel like this. Why it took a whore, and a dangerous whore at that, to make him understand what real love felt like. He hated her for what she was, and hated himself for still wanting her, even though he knew she had been under more men than a public latrine. But no matter what he told himself, the fact remained that he still wanted her, ached for her, in fact.
As he was drinking the last of his Scotch she came through the door. She was alone, as always, and she was already well gone, her eyes told him that much, though to the layman she just looked sexy. Her stoned eyes just made her look even more desirable, they were softer somehow, a much deeper blue. It was the dilation of her pupils, they gave her the look of innocence.
Jimmy saw every man in the place give her a once-over, and he chastised himself for the spurt of jealousy that coursed through him, and reminded himself that any one of the
men in here could possess her body if they paid the price required. And he even got a cut when they did. She would do whatever they wanted, and she would do it willingly, and with a good measure of experience; she would see that they had the time of their life.
He hated himself for waiting to see her, for being reminded that she was only in here between jobs, and that at any moment one of his cab drivers would pop his head round the door and beckon her outside to take her to her next punter.
As Jimmy placed his glass on the table he saw that she was watching him now and, sauntering over to where he was sitting, she lowered herself into the chair opposite him. ‘Long time, no see. How are you, Jimmy?’
He smiled then, and Imelda saw how good-looking he actually was when he wasn’t scowling. ‘I’m all right, and yourself ?’
She shrugged. ‘I’m always all right. I am lucky really, I take every day as it comes. I just go with the flow.’
She was laughing at her own wit. ‘What you drinking, Jimmy? I’m buying.’
Jimmy watched her as she got the drinks in, saw her natural femininity at work. She had been graced with a poise and a dignity that was somehow all her own. Providing she didn’t open her big trap, of course, then the whole illusion disappeared in seconds.
But as she was now, he saw only perfection. Her long, slender hands, her wonderful bone structure, her lightness of movement, the fluidity of her limbs as she walked back towards him. Placing the whisky down on the table, she raised her own glass at him as if in a toast. ‘I knocked the Jack Daniels on the head. I drink vodka these days.’
He nodded at her, unsure how he was supposed to answer, like her he was remembering their last encounter. Which was why she had felt the need to bring up about the Jacky D.
‘I feel awful about that time, you know, when we went to your flat.’
Jimmy shrugged dismissively. ‘It’s in the past, forget about it. I have.’
She grinned then. ‘I wish I had forgotten it. Fucking hell, you aimed me out that door so fast it’s a wonder I never burnt a hole in your carpets.’
‘Look, Mel, I was out of order that night, I was rude and a bully, but it had been a bad day all round, you know. And you fucking skagging in me toilet didn’t help.’
Jimmy gulped at his drink, feeling the burn as it went down his throat, wishing he was meeting her for the first time ever, wishing that she was just a girl, a normal girl.
Imelda was laughing now. Her nasty side was always there, underneath the surface, waiting to come out. ‘Your face! It was a fucking picture. But I was so nervous I needed something to calm me down. You know, I actually believed, right, that we were on a date or something. How fucking mad is that? I went into the john to sort me head out. Because in your car, as we drove to your place, it all went quiet, do you remember? And I felt as if we were, I don’t know how to explain it, I felt as if we were, you know, like a proper couple or something. I don’t know why I’m telling you all this, but I just wanted you to know that I understand why you lost the plot with me. And of course, if you remember properly, that was the night Lance died, wasn’t it?’
Suddenly Jimmy had the distinct impression that what Imelda was saying to him was somehow loaded, like she was accusing him of something. She was still smiling at him with that wide open smile of hers, the smile that made her look like a normal person. Like a nice girl. A girl you would be proud to bring home to meet your mum and dad. But he knew that the smile was like everything else about her, a sham. The smile was not even real, she used it for her own ends. He was heart-sorry for her then, sorry that her life consisted of sly digs, innuendos and the constant pursuit of drugs. He was wondering why he had made the mistake of talking to her, why couldn’t he just be content with looking at her? It was so much easier if she didn’t get the opportunity to actually open her mouth, or air her opinions.
‘I can’t help wondering at times, you know what I mean, Jimmy? I wonder sometimes, especially late at night when I’m on me own, that if you had not lost it like you did, and if you hadn’t dinged me out on to the street like you did, I wonder if maybe, just maybe, poor Lance might still be alive.’
Jimmy felt his face freeze, felt the controlled hatred that was the real Imelda, and he knew that she had enjoyed every second of his attention, and was revelling in the obvious discomfort that her words had caused him.
Pulling himself together, he smiled lazily and, picking up his drink once more, he said with as much revulsion in his voice as he could muster, ‘Correct me if I am wrong, but are you saying it was you who topped him then, and not your little girl? That if I hadn’t slung you out like I did, but decided to go slumming for the first and only time in me life, are you saying you would not have gone home and, ergo, Lance would still be in the land of the living instead of being well planted?’
Jimmy could see how the pupils of her eyes had widened, and he knew that was caused by fear this time, he saw the way her jaw tightened as she gritted her teeth. He knew that he had struck a chord somewhere inside her, and he also knew that whatever thoughts he might have harboured towards this woman, they were gone now. Were over with. Finished.
Imelda Dooley was fucking poison, and a dangerous poison at that. But he was well able for her, and she knew that now almost as well as he did.
‘I knew you were fucking lying all along, knew that only you would have been cunt enough to blame your baby, a little child for crying out loud, for your mistakes. Even the Filth had their suspicions, didn’t they? Your mother told me that herself.’
Jimmy shook his head dramatically, laughing at her with a mixture of derision and disgust. ‘You are scum, and even though I’ve always known that, until now I had always tried to give you the benefit of the doubt.’
He leant forward in his chair until his face was inches from hers. ‘Now, fuck off. You’re a fucking slag, and if you ever approach me again in a public place, I’ll break your fucking neck, lady.’
Imelda knew that she had done a wrong one, knew that Jimmy was not as soft as she had believed, that he did not have a secret crush on her any more and, worst of all, she knew that he was capable of doing exactly what he had promised.
She saw the naked hatred in his eyes and knew that he saw the truth of the situation with Lance as if he had been present in the room with them. It wasn’t often that her instincts were wrong, but it seemed that this time they had been seriously wide of the mark.
As she was attempting to rise from her seat Jimmy grabbed her arm roughly. ‘And, by the way, you are out of the business. If all my girls came down with fucking galloping crutch rot overnight, I still wouldn’t give you the time of fucking day. You treacherous fucking whore.’ He slammed her back into her chair with as much force as he could muster, then standing up, he looked her over once more as if she was so much dirt.
Then he walked out of the pub, his back straight and his head finally clear. She was like a fucking disease, and he had cured himself of her at last. He felt a lightness come over him as if he had just been let out of prison.
And it felt good.
Really good.
Chapter Thirteen
‘I used to worry about you at one time, did you know that?’
Jimmy Bailey laughed at Mary’s seriousness. ‘What on earth for?’
Mary felt embarrassed suddenly, but she knew she had to finish what she had started. So, taking a deep breath she said quietly, ‘I honestly believed that you had a soft spot for my Mel. I know it sounds mad but I really did believe that for a long time. I hoped you might have been the man to sort her out, even while I worried that she would destroy you.’
Jimmy felt himself starting to flush, knew that Mary was more than aware that she had guessed rightly and he also knew that she was aware that somewhere along the line, Imelda had fucked it up for herself as usual.
‘Me and Imelda? Are you fucking sure?’ He was laughing, was pleased that the laughter sounded genuine. Wondered at who else might have sussed out his secret. ‘No disres
pect, Mary, but I ain’t that fucking hard up.’
Mary didn’t answer him. She just looked at him with those deep-blue eyes that seemed to have been passed down to all her children, and her grandchildren. He wondered briefly if she ever saw her own eyes looking back at her, if she noticed that she had given them all her finest feature.
‘I don’t know where you get some of your stories from, girl. But I can tell you this much, Imelda and me have more chance of getting a dose of clap off the fucking Pope than even sitting in the same room together without fighting.’
Mary smiled, but she was sad at his vitriol and she could not disguise that fact. She also knew that it was pointless trying to make anything even remotely sensible come from this conversation. So she took a mental step back, and sighed knowingly; still, she knew that she had to let him realise that she knew the score, no matter what he might say to the contrary. ‘Well, I’m glad we got that sorted out anyway.’
He didn’t laugh as she had intended him to, and she didn’t laugh about it either. In fact, they were both left out on a limb. They were both embarrassed by her words, and even more so by the truth that lay behind them.
Jimmy wished he knew how to make everything better for Mary. He wished he could take her in his arms and comfort her for all the losses she had endured, and for all the sadness she had been forced to confront. She had started swearing like a merchant seaman these days, curses speckled even her most mundane of conversations and he knew her bad language was nothing more than a form of self-preservation. She used the foul language that she hated as a way of keeping people at arm’s length. She had a cross to bear that Jesus himself would have been hard put to carry for as long as she had been forced to.
He admired her, he really did admire her. She was just an old dear to most people, and to the majority of men he knew that meant she was beneath their radar. Once a woman reached a certain age they became invisible to the male population. What they didn’t know was that Mary Dooley had the knack for finding people who did not want to be found. She was fucking phenomenal, she had a network of old dears who she had known for years. She knew the mothers of every major Face in the Smoke and beyond and she would find out from them where their sons were, who they were working for, and then she would casually sneak in the name of interest to him or his associates and, if the name was someone they knew, she would be given the full SP on them. She never wrote anything down either, kept it all in her head, even the phone numbers that she procured for him. She knew she could be raided at any time, and she made sure that the Filth would find nothing at all, not a fucking brass razoo. So when Jimmy saw some of the newer, younger Faces unwilling to even give her the courtesy of a nod, he would feel his blood boil, and he would then take it upon himself to give the little bastards a lesson in criminal etiquette. Namely, that she was not only the widow of a man who they would all aspire to be, but she was also one of their most respected and distinguished collectors of interesting information. He would then ram home how she was respected by the hardest of men and that she was on an earn of Olympian standards. He loved to see the looks on their faces when he revealed that to them. He would watch the recipient of his wrath as they digested his information, and if they were shrewd enough to listen carefully, and change their attitude, he knew he would keep them on. If, on the other hand, they looked at him as if he had just shagged a fence panel in broad daylight, he knew they were not worth a wank. Then he knew that they were just biding their time till they saw what they would eventually perceive as the big time. That consisted of either drug-dealing or bank-robbing, neither of which they would go into with any kind of finesse at all, therefore guaranteeing that their eventual capture would be sooner rather than later. He was sorry to see a good lad go to the bad because they were too stupid to see that respect had to be earned and that the game they were in would not be learnt overnight. But a lot of lads were susceptible to quick earners.