Serious People

by Shea, James A.

  “That Mickey the Bag, I fucking hate him!” Billy screamed suddenly. “I’ll teach him to embarrass us like this. He can come to our bar, and we’ll get people in to do this to him!”

  John looked back at his brother; now was not the time to argue with him. John knew it was pointless to say that they barely had enough friends between them to fill a car let, alone the family pub.

  “We need to get you home Billy, let Auntie Mary sort out your face,” John said, trying to shepherd his brother towards the exit of the park.

  “Promise me John, you’re going to help me settle this score!” Billy shouted. “We’re still brothers; it’s not too late for you!”

  John looked at his brother. It’s not too late for you! He could hear Emma saying those words. It wasn’t too late, despite what they’d done, get his brothers home and safe. So he could start a new life too.

  “You listening to me?” Billy continued. “Are you with us?”

  “Billy, you’re delirious, we need to get you home,” John replied.

  Billy pushed John away and stood uneasily on his feet. “Promise me brother!”

  John didn’t reply; he’d had enough of Billy’s shit for one night.

  Chapter Thirty Eight - Charlie O’Neil

  O’Neil leant over the railing above the dark waters of the River Thames; it was early, really early. He was barely aware of the time though these days as he hadn’t slept for so long, he gazed into the waves, his life seemed every bit as murky as the water.

  Pete watched him from a few feet away. The bodybuilder had a sawn off shotgun inside his jacket and Charlie knew Pete wasn’t going to wait for instruction if he felt he had to use it. Pete was not a safety net O’Neil was proud of making use of, but seemed a necessity at the moment.

  As soon as he left the house now, Pete was by his side; the man had all but moved into O’Neil’s since Jackie had been admitted to hospital. It had started as a convenience for O’Neil, having a driver whenever he needed one. The relationship had evolved though, Pete was now the bodyguard.

  Charlie looked around at the early-morning horizon; he had always loved the docklands area of London. When he was younger, it had been a mess of yards and boats that he walked through with his father. He used to love watching everything about the area; the different people going about their daily lives, the boats, and the views of the tall buildings that made up London.

  Even at this early hour, there were people hurrying down the path—probably bankers trying to make it in for the start of trading, O’Neil thought. If he had led another life, he would have wanted it to be something here, where it was happening.

  O’Neil looked across at the One Canada Square building as the sun rose over it; it was his favourite building. He had always enjoyed architecture, although it was a love he had never shared with anyone, not even Jackie. People in his world would view this type of passion as a weakness.

  He especially admired the powerful structures that made up the building. People sometimes said that One Canada Square was an ugly monstrosity of a building; but O’Neil loved every part of it. In particular, the pyramid roof that seemed to permanently glow a shimmering golden colour, as if it was surrounded by sand.

  Charlie’s father had educated and nurtured his love of buildings. He had been a builder, and his earliest memories of his dad had been of the times they had spent together admiring buildings. His memories as a young child were full of their many walks, his father telling him what were the distinguishing factors that made some buildings great.

  O’Neil could remember the day One Canada Square had opened. He wished his father had been there to appreciate it with him. Instead he had attended the opening with Robert, along with eight hundred others who had investments or different interests in the building.

  O’Neil had been one of the first few through the doors that day; he still had a picture of Payne and him in front of the building in pride of place in his hallway at home. Jackie had always assumed it was in some way a homage to Charlie’s friendship with Payne; he’d never corrected her on this. He also never mentioned the Canary Wharf Group shares he had that held pride of place in his share portfolio. He knew his father would approve of this; more than likely it would have been one of the few things his dad would approve of.

  His father was born Charles O’Neil in August nineteen twenty-five and had lived in relative squalor in Galway for every day of his early life. This was until, through his intelligence and will to better himself, he started to train as an architect in Galway’s Irish National University. And as fate would have, where he met Ellen Minogue, Charlie’s mother.

  It had been love at first sight. Ellen Minogue had been at the university studying theology, but was at the time engaged to marry the son of a well-known politician, whom her father had hoped would help the expansion of the family shipping yard.

  They then started the type of secret affair that evoked thoughts of Romeo and Juliet between them; their love remained a secret until the day Charles’ father caught them. They were in McManus’ Bar, and Charles’ father on seeing his son’s girl recognised her immediately. He demanded that the couple be honest and sit down with Mr Minogue and explain themselves. Charles, who was always one to be guided by his own father, of course agreed.

  Charles O’Neil was not to know what a ruthless businessman Mr. Minogue was. His future father-in-law had plans for his daughter’s beauty. He wanted to use her spectacular looks to connect his family within the Irish political powers of the time and banned the young couple from ever seeing each other.

  The couple met secretly the following night and made their plan for a new life together. Ellen would steal money from her father’s safe, and they would then sail to England—and freedom. Charles had a plan for what they would do when they got there; he would go to the nearest university and sign on to complete his education. He even thought he could get a job around his studying commitments, which would allow him to work all hours to keep food on the table.

  So this is what they did. On the second of February nineteen forty-eight, they got off the boat from Ireland and landed on English soil, with enough money to pay for a bed and food for a week.

  So it was with steely determination that Charles O’Neil walked to Kingston Technical Institute and asked to speak to someone who dealt with admissions; but he was met with laughter when he asked if he could continue his education there. He was told, in no uncertain terms, that his Irish education was worthless in England and to stop wasting their time.

  Later that afternoon he got a job on a building site. Charles O’Neil would then spend the rest of his working life building mundane houses and flats, to keep his wife and young son with food on their plate and a roof above their heads.

  His father worked from five in the morning until late into the night, with barely a day off. Charlie’s mother would later tell him she thought his father worked so hard through guilt towards her, for what she had walked away from, and it was his way of trying to make amends.

  She told Charles, until the day he died, that she would have swapped all the bread on the table for more of his time; but he refused to slow down, and continued his punishing schedule until his last breath. His only guilty pleasure was his long walks with his young son, admiring the fanciful buildings London had to offer.

  This all came to an end when he broke his neck after falling from a scaffolding not six feet off the ground, on the fourth of June nineteen seventy two. Charlie was ten years old.

  Charlie could vividly remember the foreman. A brute of a man, called Nathan Parkes, he came around their house that night, saying he couldn’t understand how it had happened. All the checks were in place and, even if they weren’t, Charles should never have been killed by a fall like that; it must have been an act of God.

  That was the day when Charlie decided he would never let anyone take anything from him.

  In nineteen-ninety, Charlie bought his mother a country mansion that reportedly had been part desig
ned by Isambard Kingdom Brunel. At that moment, he liked to think of his father looking down on him, and giving him an approving nod. His mother lived in that house until the day she died, ten years ago.

  He never forgot that foreman though. Charlie needed someone to blame and that blame fell on Nathan Parkes. It took him ten years, but he found his father’s foreman. It was in a pub one night in Tottenham. He had heard rumours, since his school days, that the site his father worked on was a death trap. Parkes had deliberately operated it under manned, so he could take a higher profit.

  Charlie walked into the bar; he was twenty years old only just becoming a man. By now, Parkes was in his mid-forties and still the size of a beast; he was one of few men who towered over O’Neil.

  “You’re Nathan Parkes, aren’t you?” O’Neil asked.

  Parkes ignored him and downed the jug of ale he had in front of him. O’Neil kept his cool and asked the barman for two pints of what Parkes was drinking.

  This got Parkes' attention and he gave O’Neil a nod. “Thanks son, do I know ya?”

  “Not really, but you knew my dad. I figure that you kept him in work for enough time to be owed at least a beer from me,” O’Neil said, smiling and passing him the pint.

  Parkes grinned and took a quick glug of his new drink. “Sounds good to me.”

  O’Neil coolly took a sip of his drink. He took in the people in the rest of the bar. It was near last orders, and those who remained looked fairly well lubricated; there were no good witnesses here.

  O’Neil smiled. “I remember this thing my old man used to tell me. It always had me in stitches; it was about something that happened on one of your sites…” O’Neil suddenly broke into laughter.

  “Come on lad, share the joke,” Parkes replied, looking annoyed.

  “Sorry, it was about this man who managed to fall off scaffolding that was only six feet high and popped it!” O’Neil said, forcing more laughter. It was like a knife in his soul laughing at this, but it would be worth it.

  “Oh yeah,” Parkes laughed. “Shit I remember that; that was years ago. Well, we hadn’t set the plank up proper. It was something I should have really checked before we started that day. But fuck it, he was just a stupid Paddy—who really cared!”

  Parkes started to laugh at this and O’Neil joined in with more forced laughter. Parkes only stopped to drain the rest of his beer. “I told his old lady it was an act of God!”

  O’Neil had stopped laughing and held an icy stare at Parkes. The ex-foreman didn’t notice and continued laughing.

  “So what was your dad’s name then son?”

  This was the cue Charlie had been waiting for; he calmly took the small revolver out of his jacket, and raised it to Parkes's forehead.

  “My dad’s name was Charles O’Neil,” Charlie said, holding the gun steadily.

  Parkes’ eyes widened and he looked at O'Neil. He seemed to quickly take in the similar facial features. “I was joking, it…”

  “No more lies,” O’Neil said, raising his first finger to his mouth in a hushing motion.

  “Oh shit, it wasn’t my fault—please! Please forgive me.” Tears started to run down the large man’s face. “You don’t have to do this!”

  O’Neil shrugged. “You’re only a fat cunt; who’d really care?”

  Charlie pulled the trigger and became a murderer for the first but not the last time.

  “Nice view.”

  O’Neil turned to see the man he’d been waiting for next to him, leaning against the rail enjoying the view of the Thames.

  “Jesus,” O’Neil said, greeting the man.

  “It never fails to surprise me, how an intelligent man like you finds it so fucking difficult to pronounce my name,” Jesus replied.

  “It helps your rep around here,” O’Neil said, returning his gaze to Canary Wharf.

  Jesus lit a cigarette. “Hey-zeus. My name is Hey-zeus.”

  Jesus had been O’Neil and Payne’s main link to Mexico for the last fifteen years. The relationship had assured their firm a constant feed of cocaine, which had become the largest single stream of income their business had. It was the foundation to their rule over London.

  Jesus had not always been their link for the cocaine; originally their contact had been a mob boss called Carlos. But in the city of Juarez, empires did not last long. After a brutal war, Jesus’ uncle had taken effective charge of the city, and Jesus was quickly installed as the new conduit to London.

  The one thing O’Neil had an unending respect for was that the drugs never stopped coming, even during the grimmest point of those battles in Mexico. The shipments were never interrupted. You could say a lot about the Mexicans; but their reliability and value for money was unrivalled.

  “You can’t expect a poorly educated Irish kid to understand that,” O’Neil said turning to Jesus. “Anyway I like having a deal with Jesus; makes me feel closer to God.”

  “You’re all crazy fucking hijos de putas cagaderos in this city,” Jesus replied.

  “OK Jesus, tu chueco chinga tu madre!” O’Neil smiled.

  Jesus threw his finished cigarette butt into the river. “Please Charlie. Your Spanish is so shit I may have to jump into this river to clean my fucking ears out.”

  “Well you’re the one who called this meet; what’s on your mind?” O’Neil asked hoping it wasn’t more bad news.

  “It is not, what is on my mind; it’s what should be on yours,” Jesus replied coldly.

  O’Neil looked into the water again. He was used to controlling his reaction to bad news; it was one of the things that had kept him alive for the last twenty years.

  He took another moment before replying, though he was desperate to hear what Jesus had to say. “Yeah and what should I have on my mind?”

  Jesus looked at O’Neil. “I think someone is going to try and kill you.”

  O’Neil turned to Jesus, to give him full eye contact, and made his poker face. “Just some-one?”

  “I’m talking about fucking dangerous people ese; there’s some trippy arse shit going down. Now you fucking know me ese—I just look to deal with the person that can talk for London. My business just follows the green; no fucking sympathetic shit. But I like you—I like our chats. I prefer you come through this. But we take no fucking sides, we follow the green.”

  This had been the news O’Neil had been waiting for. It was unsurprising but still somehow shocking at the same time. O’Neil knew everyone who was somebody in London, and he’d surely know if there was anybody significant who wanted to make a move on him.

  He had a sudden urge to ask Jesus more questions, but knew he couldn’t—it would reveal his weakness and concern, and that wouldn’t be sensible. Also Jesus wouldn’t talk; they weren’t friends there were no loyalties here.

  It was best to play the hard man like he’d done all his life. “Fuck ‘em Jesus. I'll kill whoever this is; and then find his family and kill them too.”

  Jesus smiled. “You fucking vato loco. Be prepared for the worst, you’re facing serious fucking people.”

  O’Neil looked at Jesus again, holding his stare unflinchingly. “Are your people feeding me to the sharks?”

  Jesus looked back at the river, clearly not wishing to hold O’Neil’s stare after the previous statement. “My people have no time for petty shit here in London—no offence.”

  O’Neil gave Pete a nod that said to start the car, and he started to walk away from the Mexican. “None taken. Appreciate the heads up, I'm touched by your concern.”

  “You know I don’t get involved in these local disputes; but we do good business. It could be in my interest that you stay alive,” Jesus said, watching O’Neil walk away.

  O’Neil got into the back of his four by four. Pete got in the driver’s seat and locked the doors; he looked back at his boss. “Everything cool?”

  “Yeah, take me to the hospital,” O’Neil replied.

  “Sure thing boss,” Pete said and pulled the car away at speed he
ading for the hospital.

  Robert was dead.

  Robert was fucking dead.

  He wanted to scream. He wanted to kill someone. Anything to take the pain out from within him.

  O’Neil kept his cool as his mind was racing; he had to think, remove the emotion, focus on the business. His fears had been confirmed and someone was making a play against him—but who?

  He started to run through the different characters, he knew who might be capable of making such a challenge. But as soon as the names came into his mind, he discounted them, either due to their age or their ability to put a worthwhile crew together. The thought of being at war seemed unfathomable; there had been no major turf wars on his patch in London for more than ten years. And in that time real money had been made as a result of the peace.

  Of course, there was always some new group coming along, like the Russians or the Serbs. But up until now everyone had always made deals and cut things fairly. Sure, there was sometimes bad feeling; but the taste of money had always ultimately put an end to such sentiment.

  What about the Serbians—could it be them? O’Neil had never had a great relationship with the Serbs and there was no question they could get their hands on some serious hardware, in terms of weaponry. But no, even this didn’t stack up.

  A few months ago he had met the local boss of the Serbs, a guy called Belic, and helped them out with a link into South America; any move Belic made would jeopardise this. It couldn’t be them.

  Chapter Thirty Nine - John Blake

  “Are you awake?”

  John thought he was dreaming before he recognised Emma’s voice. His mind was still in Mickey the Bag’s club with his brothers, all there waiting to die, watching Billy being punched into a bloodied mess.

  “Hey, seriously, wake up!”

  He started to come round, his body still telling him to return to sleep. He hadn’t got in until after two, and though he couldn’t be sure what time it was, he figured it was far too early to be awake.