by Martina Cole
But what really bothered Basil was that he had found out that Jamsie was still involved with his girls; little girls, fucking schoolies, in fact. Children, and they were all getting lessons in how to deliver the ultimate high.
Worse than all that though, was that he had heard a whisper that the teacher of these girls was none other than Imelda Dooley. She and Jamsie went back a long time. He dealt her a good wrap, and she made sure his little girls were more than equipped for the trials and tribulations of a young tom’s daily life.
Jamsie was watching him closely, he knew Basil was suspicious of him, knew he had some kind of information that could be used against him. Jamsie was a fool in that way; greed would get him every time. Greed was a bastard, people would chance all sorts for the big jackpot. Jamsie, it seemed, was no different.
‘Have you heard the news?’
Basil shook his head and shrugged. ‘What news, Kenny?’
Jamsie grinned, that easy grin that made Basil want to break his face open with his bare hands.
‘Jorge is in the club, I am going to be an uncle.’
Basil congratulated them both, saw the closeness between them and knew he had to tread warily because of Jamsie’s association with Jordanna. Kenny Boy had a vested interest in his sister’s happiness, would ensure that, no matter what it might take to secure it, she would be allowed any happiness she chose for herself.
But he could wait, he was a master of the waiting game. Jamsie thought he was living in a protective bubble with Kenny Boy, but people like Kenny Boy should never be underestimated. Basil would wait, and would gather his information and, when he had enough to ensure Jamsie’s complete annihilation, he would pounce.
But he had to have it sewn up before he opened his trap and queered this cunt’s pitch once and for all. Then Jamsie would realise that Kenny Boy would even take out Jordanna if he thought she was having him over, so what chance did anyone else have? Oh, he could wait, all right, it was what he did best.
Chapter Twenty-Four
‘I’ve lost the baby, Jamsie, I’m sorry.’
Jamsie nodded, he didn’t trust himself to speak. It wasn’t until Jordanna’s first miscarriage that he had realised just how much he wanted a child with her. Until then, he had given women children without a second’s thought. He had kids all over the Smoke; he visited them when the fancy took him, shoved a few quid in the mother’s hands and then, when they got on his nerves, walked away without any real emotion. They were his kids, allegedly, and he loved them, but they had been produced by women he had no respect for. Anyone could have given them the kids, eventually someone else would have. Jamsie had given them the children because, deep down, he had wanted to leave his mark on them. Make them remember him, it had amused him. He had seen their swollen bellies and secretly enjoyed the knowledge that, no matter what happened to them in the future, they would always have his baby, his mark, that would be there for the rest of their lives. Every man who came after him had the proof that he had been there first. Women were like Mount Everest; he climbed them because they were there.
It had been like a game; knock them up, then move on to the next one. He had enjoyed their insecurity when they realised that he had done this before, that they were not the first women to be planted by him. He had always seen them through the pregnancy, always made sure they wanted for nothing. But the actual connection between them had never materialised. He had made the appropriate noises, held his kids, but none of them had ever really registered. He had a certain pride in them, but not the urge to keep them close by. He knew he should have felt that, especially about his daughters.
Now he finally had a woman who he wanted to have his baby, and she couldn’t do it. She had lost two babies already, and he knew that was not going to change. Jordanna could fall pregnant in a heartbeat, that was not the problem. It was keeping the child inside her for any length of time that was the bugbear. Within three months the child would be expelled from her womb, and with its departure it would take another slice of Jordanna’s happiness.
As he held her in his arms he felt the overpowering sorrow that was not only for the loss of his child, but more so because he knew this woman felt that loss a thousand times worse than he did. She was a real diamond. He could see the deep sadness in her eyes, and it occurred to him that this was her attraction. It was her vulnerability that he needed. If she had produced a child, he had a feeling that she would have lost her allure overnight. Jamsie struggled with that knowledge for a few moments, knew he had just been the recipient of a devastating truth, and it had really thrown him off-kilter.
She was trembling in his arms, and he held her tighter, felt her heartbeat against his body. He wondered how he was going to look her in the face after this. She was a real heart, and she was desperate to give him a child. She wanted a child, she needed a child.
He hated himself for his brutal honesty, but he had always prided himself on that. He still loved her, he had never in his life felt like this about anybody before. He knew though, that it was her inability to grant him what he wanted that kept him interested in her. He knew he was beyond disgusting, he also knew that the truth needed to be faced. He had felt the consequence of abandonment, knew that was how Jordanna often felt; like her he had suffered at the hands of the one person who should have been the staple throughout her life. He didn’t trust mothers, they were overrated.
His own mother had left him with a neighbour when he was four years old. She had laughed and joked with him that day, and the neighbour, a very prim and proper white lady who was prematurely grey, and spent the majority of her time at Mass, or shaking her head at the young women around her, had produced a bag of plain crisps and a glass of lemonade as per usual. She had watched him a few times before, and his mother had picked him up after a few hours, paid her a few quid, and carried the sleeping child back to their flat; he had always woken up in his own bed.
That night he had finally fallen asleep on the sofa and he had enjoyed a boiled egg and soldiers for the first time in his life the very next morning. By the second night of his mum’s no-show, he had already sussed out that his mother was not coming back, but he had a shrewd feeling that Mrs White had not been as quick on the uptake as he had. She had brought him to church with her and he had quite enjoyed the feel of it. She had let him clasp her hand tightly for the duration of the Mass and had not let his hand go even after they had arrived back at her flat. Even she had worked out by then that no one was coming for him. His mother was a very pretty girl from Edmonton; she had given birth to him like she had done everything else in her life, without thinking it through. All these years later he had a sneaking suspicion that she had no idea who his father might have been; she was a very friendly type of person and men were always coming round to see her. It was two weeks before Mrs White contacted the social services about him, and by then they had fallen into a pattern of sorts. She would not let them take him to a home, arguing that he was all right where he was. She had eventually fought for him tooth and nail, and she had been really shocked when she had got him. When they were legal, they had sized each other up; he liked her, and she seemed to like him. They had an understanding; she was willing to let him live with her and, for his part, he was willing to live there. It worked out perfectly.
He had started school in September, had become a Catholic overnight. He had, for the first time in his life, eaten regularly, and eaten food that was not fried or been purchased already cooked and dripping with grease. He was suddenly living in the world of routines and he thrived on it. He had called her Mrs White for months then, one day, she had told him to call her Aunt Bee. Her name was Beverley, and he had done as she requested. Within two years they were tighter than a duck’s arse. He had found out many years later that the Mrs was an honorary title, she had never been married. They had made an incongruous couple, the big black boy and the tiny, birdlike spinster of the parish. Her sister, a large, robust woman with red cheeks and mottled legs, had never really c
ome to terms with her sister’s charge, or the eventual adoption that had been celebrated with a rare visit to a Wimpy Bar. But Jamsie had loved her, and she had loved him in her own way. He had done very well at school, gaining seven O-levels, and he knew she wanted him to go on to higher education. Unfortunately, he had already begun his higher education; he was dealing by fifteen, and had walked his first brass out by twenty-one. Aunt Bee had chosen to believe that her Jamsie was in possession of a good job and a good legal income even though she had to have known that was complete shite. But he had admired her for choosing to believe the best of him.
He had paid her back a thousandfold for her kindness and her love, and he had held her hand as she gasped her last breath; breast cancer had stolen her away from him before any of them had even had the time to digest the news.
He was twenty-two and alone in the world, but Aunt Bee had been his main yardstick for women. His mother had been a good-time girl, and he knew that she had walked away from him without a second’s thought for what might happen to him. She had dumped him on Mrs White and walked out of his life. Jordanna was precious to him because she was like Aunt Bee, she would always be there for him, no matter what.
People were complicated, and he was the most complicated of them all. He didn’t really want any babies with Jorge, he liked it most when it was just them. Just the two of them, happy together. She cooked for him, she cleaned for him, she was happy just to be near him. He would give her the world on a plate if he could, but he knew she wouldn’t want it. All she wanted was a baby, and that was not going to happen, not that he was going to air that opinion out loud.
He wasn’t faithful to her, that was beyond him, but he loved her. That, as far as he could see, should be enough. He knew he was a treacherous bastard in many ways; he would use anyone for his own ends. He saw every situation from ‘a what’s in it for me’ point of view. He had been determined from the day his mother had dumped him, never to let himself be that vulnerable and that broken again. Life itself, for most people, was a crock of steaming shit. He had no real loyalty to anyone, but Jordanna had somehow given him his first inkling of how love could change a person.
He had also heard rumours that he was seen as being softer than a virgin’s pussy, and he knew the rumours were very much going in his favour. He had a real earner going for him although he knew that some people might not see the situation in quite the same light as he did. Well, he had always been a law unto himself, and that was not about to change now.
Imelda was feeling wonderful, she had the languorous feeling that always followed a good hit. She could feel her whole body relaxing, knew it would not last for very long, but it was heaven while it was washing over her. She yawned widely, and settling back in her chair, she enjoyed the moment. This was what she lived for. This feeling of ease, of being at peace with the world. Enjoying her own company, feeling the temporary relief that the skag always gave to her. It was a pyrrhic victory; she knew it wouldn’t last long enough. She won and she lost every time. But that was the whole idea of it. Heroin was a loner’s dream. Eventually all heroin addicts craved being by themselves, it was the only way they could justify their existence. If they had to interact with others it ruined the buzz, it was much easier to be by yourself. That way you only had yourself to think about. Eventually no one mattered: not your family, especially not your kids, they were far too needy, not friends, nor personal hygiene, nothing. It was all about the moment.
She could see the mess around her, the place was rotten. But she had never cared about things like that. Why would she? She kept herself clean and tidy and she took good care of her clothes and her hair. Her scars had faded over the years, and the wrinkles that had arrived also helped to mask them. It was amazing really, though her face was older and harder, she still got a few second glances from men. Certain types of men anyway. For her, that was a real ego boost.
She knew she had to start getting herself together, the day was wearing on, and she had to get to her job. She liked her job, it was what made her feel that she was still useful. She was out of the business in a personal way, but she was now paid very well to introduce others to the business. It was a good feeling knowing she was doing something she was very good at. And, at the same time, she was paying back a few debts that were well overdue as far as she was concerned.
Jamsie was nervous about her being involved in it, but he was like a fucking old woman. She had made him employ her, and made him keep her on. Her daughter would not be impressed if she knew the score about her old man. But the earn was what really interested Jamsie, he would sell his own fucking cock if the price was right. He was a pimp by nature, and a ponce by trade.
Young Dexter was about as much use as Karl Marx on Family Fortunes. He had no idea at all, he was a fucking idiot. He looked good and he dressed well, better than Jamsie, but then so did most of the male population. But Dexter had no interest in what he was doing. To run a business with any degree of success, you needed to be interested in what you were doing. It was a given, if you knew the game you automatically knew the pitfalls. You were tuned in to the people you were dealing with and you could see trouble before it arrived. Dexter was a fucking earhole. A complete twonk; he didn’t care what was going on, the girls could be dressed in gorilla suits and he wouldn’t notice, he just turned up to collect the poke. Other than that, he didn’t give a toss. Well, she knew, after all her years in the business, that if your protector didn’t give a monkey’s, then no one else would. It was bad for morale, and the girls on the bash were not big on self-worth anyway. If they were, they would not be doing the job in the first place.
She was the only person who bothered to keep the girls in check. She was enjoying her status; after all, no one knew the business like she did. She was now running it single-handedly, and it felt good, like the old days when she had run a much bigger outfit than this one, and she had done it without even thinking about it too much. Which had also been her downfall, she had not thought anything through in those days. She had believed she was beyond anyone’s reach, whether it was the Old Bill, or the enemies she had made through her own arrogance. Imelda Dooley had finally learnt her lesson, and she had learnt it the hard way.
The game could be a real earner; it was also a business that you either understood from the first day, or you ran from as fast as you could because, after all, it was also a fucking dangerous occupation. Every punter was a prospective nut-bag, and there were plenty of those about. You had to have a built-in shit detector, and that was not something you could acquire overnight. You either had it from the off, and used it to your own benefit, or you sank without trace. Imelda had seen real lookers fuck up because they couldn’t work out the real Looney Tunes from the general riff-raff. Imelda helped her girls to understand the business and taught them to look after themselves. Dexter was very appreciative of her help and her acumen, he was quite happy to let her do it, and she was skimming the take like nobody’s business. She was back on the earn and loving it. She was back where she liked to be: in charge, on the take, and without anyone to oversee what she was doing. The girls were a little young, but they were game, and although they were not what she would describe as the cream of the crop, they were grafters, and they were quick learners. She had helped them get into the needle, it enabled them to settle into the life. They were at the lower end of the food chain so the needle was a fucking big bonus when you had to walk the pavement night after night. They had been given a set amount to bring to the table and they stayed there, on the street, until they had that money for her. She knew how to encourage them when the need arose, and how to frighten the crap out of them so they did as they were requested.
It was late summer and the nights were just starting to draw in; it was the best time of year for the girls. Men who had to pay did not like broad daylight, darkness was their forte. In fairness, the majority of the girls looked better in the twilight anyway. They were young, but not exactly raving beauties. She had drummed into the
ir heads the importance of not fighting amongst themselves. It was most brasses’ biggest failing, after a while they became very aggressive and started to see another girl’s earner as theirs by right. They would convince themselves that they had a priority of sorts, that they were more entitled to the punters available than the other girls. That was not just a working girl’s natural instinct, it was exacerbated by the needle. The girls embraced the needle to get a false courage to go on the pavement in the first place. Eventually they would pound the kerb to pay for the drugs. It was a win-win situation for someone like Imelda. And the younger you got them, the easier it was. There was a new batch of girls arriving in the Smoke every day, and that made them all the more indispensable.
She had always turned up for work on time, she knew her son had an obsession with timekeeping. He was a bastard for punctuality, bless him. She loved that about him. He was a right little Face and she was proud of him for that. His burgeoning reputation also helped her get a swerve when she wanted it. He treated her like family and that meant everyone else had to as well.
The knock at her door was a welcome sound, it was the start of her working day. She opened the door happily to three of her newest girls. All three of them were on the wrong side of legality, and between them they had more blackheads than a school disco. But they were very new to the business, and she was still pretending she had their best interests at heart. She welcomed them inside with her usual fake smile, and the promise of a spectacular high. She always had her kit on show, after all, she lived alone, and actual bona fide visitors were few and far between.