Mickey looked at the name on the screen; it was Leroy.
“Leroy.” Mickey said, answering the phone.
“What up bad man,” the familiar Jamaican voice replied. “Boss man tell you ‘bout the shit I’d be checking for him?”
“Yeah, he might have mentioned it,” Mickey said, remembering the rules of phone conversations. Keep it short—to the point.
“Well something’s come up, bad man. I need you here double quick times,” Leroy said.
Mickey’s heart started beating harder. “Where?”
“I’ll text you the detail,” Leroy replied. “Be quick.”
The phone went dead.
Chapter Fifty Two - Charlie O’Neil
Charlie stood outside, Our Lady of Peace. It was the church where he had been baptised, served as an altar boy, then confirmed and finally married in by Father Declan. He had not been inside for years; in recent times he’d become uncomfortable with religion.
It was not that he had lost his religion. He still had his belief in God; his Irish Catholic roots, which had been nurtured through his childhood, were hard to shake and had been the real reason he couldn’t walk through the doors of the church. If his faith were shallower he would have been able to shoulder the hypocrisy of where his life had taken him.
The nineties had been dark years for Charlie. He had poured more blood onto his hands that any repentance could gain forgiveness for. Part of him was convinced, had Father Declan remained at the church, he would have been able to continue going on a Sunday, attend confession and talk through his deeds. At times, he even thought this might have helped him to carry the burden of his sins; but he never had that option.
Soon after Charlie and Jackie’s wedding, Father Declan returned to Ireland to a small diocese as a form of retirement. In the years which followed the church had gone through many priests—all good enough in different ways—but O’Neil could never trust them sufficiently to go to confession. He subsequently drifted away from the Sunday morning ritual.
He of course kept up his monthly payments to the church and received regular newsletters. And whenever new priests arrived, they would eventually come knocking at his house to meet their rich benefactor; but Charlie left such encounters to Jackie. He didn’t want to have to answer the inevitable questions that a non-attending financial supporter would attract.
He walked towards the church entrance, looked up at the cross on top of the building, and faltered for a moment. He had tried to walk inside many times over the last few months, since Jackie’s diagnosis. He had so many questions that only a priest could answer. But he had never summoned the strength needed to walk through the doors; his sins carried a heavy weight.
Charlie took a deep breath and walked in.
He was immediately hit by the familiar musty smell of incense. He looked across at the rows of seats and the Stations of the Cross that covered the walls between the stained-glass windows. His mind was suddenly full of long forgotten memories.
Charlie looked to the floor so that his eyes didn’t meet the Christ on the cross; his new-found strength only stretched so far.
He saw an old man kneeling near the front of the church. He had hoped the church would be empty, though in some ways he was pleased he wasn’t alone.
He was about to move his eyes away from the old man, when he felt a sudden urge to come closer to him and examine who the old man was further. There was something about him that seemed familiar.
Charlie moved slowly closer. He could now see an old looking rosary in his hands; the beads were a dark-brown colour and seemed larger than most he was familiar with. As he got closer, he could see the man had thick white hair and old thick framed glasses. The man looked like he must have been in his eighties.
Charlie stopped and stared. He knew the man—how could he not. It was Father Declan.
“Father?”
The old man looked up and let a small smile form on his crinkled face, “Charlie.”
Charlie sat down on the bench next to the old priest. “Father, what are you doing here?”
“Busman’s holiday,” the priest smiled. “I try and get back here every so often. And—Mr O’Neil—often enough to know that the church has not been seeing you much these days.”
Charlie looked down at his hands. A slow tremor started to run down his left arm to his hand. He briefly tried to move his body to shield the tremor from the old man, but the priest was already inspecting it grimly.
“Would you like to take confession Charlie?” Father Declan asked.
Charlie sat uncomfortably in the small confessional booth. It had been a long-time since he had had this experience, but to his surprise, a feeling of relief began to sweep over his body and he could already feel some of the weight leave his shoulders.
“My son, what would you like to confess?” the priest said, speaking from the other side of the booth.
“Father, there is so much I want to say,” O’Neil replied nervously.
“When was your last confession my son?” Declan asked.
“I don’t remember Father. I feel… ” Charlie said—he had to stop himself, as he could feel the emotion flooding over him. “I think I’m paying for my sins.”
“You are never completely lost from the Lord, Charlie. He is always near your side.”
Charlie wasn’t sure how to reply. He grabbed his left hand with the other to stop it shaking. “Charlie the Lord will forgive you for your sins,” Declan said.
“Really? I don’t think I could have travelled further away from the Lord, Father,” Charlie said, gripping his left hand tighter.
He suddenly wished he hadn’t come. How could this help? What could this old man do to make him feel better? All he was doing was putting Father Declan in a situation where he had to keep his terrible deeds quiet.
“I have spent my whole life as a criminal, Father. I make money out of other people’s misery, and, on occasion, I’ve had to even kill people, Father. How can I ask God to forgive me that?”
Charlie waited for the priest to say something, but no reply came.
“I can’t complain about how my life is turning out,” Charlie continued. “I have earned my retribution. But Jackie—why Jackie Father? She hasn’t doesn’t anything to anyone!”
“I’m sorry my son. I was planning to go and visit her as soon as I could,” Declan replied.
“I would give everything up if it made her better Father,” Charlie said, disturbed by the emotion in his voice.
“I know you would, my son,” Declan said solemnly. “But you can't. People depend on you.”
“No they don’t, Father,” Charlie said shaking his head. “They die because of me. Once I wouldn’t have let anyone touch my crew. But now—now I have no fight left in me. I have nothing left Father. This is my retribution for my actions; everything is being taken from me.”
“You think you’re the devil?” Declan asked.
Charlie didn’t know how to reply; he was aware that some people thought he was.
“You think a priest would spend time talking to the devil?”
“Robert’s dead Father, they killed Robert, and now they’re coming for me,” Charlie said, his voice quieter than ever. “And I’m not even sure if I care anymore.”
“Did you know I came here on the same boat as your father, Charlie?” Declan asked.
“Yes, that’s half the reason my dad never moved us away from here. He always had to stay close to the church,” Charlie replied.
“He was a good man. When he came here, he had nothing. He risked everything for the love of your mother,” Declan said tenderly. “Do you know that when he first arrived, they wouldn’t allow him to drink in the local pub, because he was Irish. It was one of the reasons why I set up the Irish Social Club, so that he and the other Irish lads had somewhere to drink.”
“I know all this Father…”
“Do you know that the only job your poor father could get at that time was on a building si
te—despite the fact that he was a qualified man,” the priest said, raising his voice. “He worked every hour of daylight, but never missed a day’s mass. And he always made sure you were in the finest clothes money could attain. I never even heard him moan; he never questioned what life had given him!”
Charlie straightened on the bench; he’d never heard Declan raise his voice in all the years he had known him.
“I know, my father was a better man than me…”
“The only thing he would ask of the Lord—” the priest continued, ignoring Charlie’s words, “—was that you would not live the life that he had to; that the Lord would give you a path to something better! To give you a different life!”
“Father, I don’t think this is what my dad meant…”
“Your dad wouldn’t have cared. He would have been proud of you, Charlie. And as for our Father, he has a plan for us all, Charlie, and believe my words when I say, your father would thank the Lord every day for all that you have,” Father Declan said, his voice quiet but intense.
“But my life recently has been just as hard Father,” Charlie said, knowing he sounded pathetic. “Every day I’m on my guard, making sure that none of my guys step out of line or that no one else is making a move.”
The priest didn’t reply.
“I think my penance has started, Father, and it’s overdue. Jackie is—” Charlie said, a tear falling down his face. “—And Robert, they killed Robert!”
“I watched your Da in tears one day; all he had was a loaf of bread to feed the three of you for a week!” the priest said, his voice full of anger. “That is a hard life Charlie; working all day and night and having a loaf of bread to show for it!”
Charlie sat quietly, not sure what to say, or if he should even say anything at all.
“Let me tell you something, Mr. Charlie O’Neil,” Father Declan continued, anger resounding in his voice. “Your father was a gentle man but I will tell you, he would have fought anyone who tried to take something from his family. And if someone had dared to touch a hair on you or your mother’s head—”
“But Father, I don’t think I have any energy left,” Charlie said, hearing the self-pity in his own words.
“So you are going to let someone take everything from you? Without even a fight or…” Father Declan snapped. “You know what your mother said on the day you were christened?”
“No?” Charlie replied quietly.
“Your mother said she was here to christen her boy the name of her husband—” The priest’s voice was now hoarse, as a result of the loud words he had spoken, “—because he has the heart of a lion and the strength of ten bears.”
Something burned in Charlie’s stomach. It was something he hadn’t felt for some time. It was anger. It was pure anger. They had killed Robert; they were going to ruin Jackie’s party.
“She said that this boy, this boy will become the Charles O’Neil my husband could have been. He will have everything this world has to offer,” the priest said, his voice now almost a growl. “He will have everything me and his Da have ever dreamed of; and he will never have to take an instruction from anyone.”
Charlie could almost hear his mother’s voice; they were words of the type that had been repeated to him, time and time again, when he was young.
“You think you’ve become the devil my son? You are just a product of the world our Lord created.”
Something felt different in Charlie. He suddenly felt like the most feared kid in the playground once more, the man that could have whatever he wanted, the man that would crush anyone that opposed him. They were going to try and ruin his Jackie’s party. They were going to try to take everything from him.
The priest waited for a moment before continuing. “Would you like me to give you prayers for your absolution my son?”
There was no reply from Charlie’s booth.
“My son, are you still there?” Father Declan asked.
“Thank you Father,” Charlie replied. His voice now sounded different. Deeper, stronger.
Father Declan cleared his throat. “Five Ave Marias and ten of Our Lord’s Prayer… Ok, I understand, you may not be ready for absolution, just yet.”
O’Neil nodded and stood up.
“Be aware though, Charlie O’Neil, I believe the devil may well be knocking on your door,” the priest continued.
“I can make the devil quake, Father,” Charlie said with a smile.
He nodded to the priest and strode out of the church. His body felt strong again. There was no tremor in his hands, just anger, anger and strength.
Pete was waiting for Charlie outside the church and nodded a greeting as he approached.
“Where to boss?” Pete asked.
“The office—I’ll drive,” Charlie said firmly.
Pete stared back at Charlie for a moment, a little shocked by the response and tossed him the car keys.
“How you feeling?” Pete asked.
Charlie ignored him and got in his car. There was no time for talk; he had to be ready for his next visitor.
Chapter Fifty Three - Mickey the Bag
Mickey looked across at the Blake brothers’ bar. “What a hole.”
“Yeah, it don’t look that happening,” Seamus nodded.
“Right, before we go in, I need to bring you up to speed on a few bits and pieces,” Mickey said. “Mr. O’Neil set Leroy on a little task for the business and the reason we’re here is because it seems he’s come up with something.”
“I was wondering,” Seamus replied. “This Leroy just snaps his fingers, and we come running.”
“Leroy Elkins is a someone, Seamus. If he asks for a meet, we go to the meet. He’s serious people and when you’re serious people you get more respect than your average Joe. Understand?” Mickey said. “And secondly, he’s a friend of the firm.”
“I’ve heard he has a mixed reputation…” Seamus started.
“Shut the fuck up Seamus,” Mickey snapped. “If Mr. O’Neil heard you say that you’d have a proper problem.”
“Sorry Mick, I didn’t mean anything by it,” Seamus said.
“You’ve got to learn to shut your mouth sometimes Seamus,” Mickey said, stopping to glare at him for a moment. “I fucking mean that. If I’m gonna start vouching for you to have some more responsibility, maybe starting working on your own, you have to understand when to just keep stum.”
If he was going to start empowering Seamus with some of his work, Mickey knew that he needed to further his apprentice’s education. He certainly wasn’t going to agree with Seamus about Leroy, even though he understood the Jamaican’s mixed rep. Leroy was one of Charlie’s best friends and there was a question of respect at play here; O’Neil clearly trusted Leroy. However, Mickey had heard all the rumours about the Jamaican, about a bad job in Manchester and, more significantly, he'd seen the cowardice of the man first hand.
It had been sometime near the end of the eighties or early nineties. By this point, their bank job gang had racked up enough money so that all of its members could now begin to think about their retirements. Leroy, though, always had one more plan, one more easy job to do.
And the other fellas always had time to listen to Leroy’s one last plan, a characteristic that Mickey found highly irritating. All they should have been thinking about at that point was what to do with the pound notes that they already had between them.
Mickey had always felt strongly that the gang members should bow out while they were at the top of their game. Their bank jobs had become infamous in all the red top tabloids, and bank staff were now falling over themselves to hand money over to the crew. This was largely down to the staff being well briefed on the opportunity for the potential good press that would follow from making the bank robbers go away quickly, without hurting their customers. Also, on a couple of occasions now the customers had started to threaten the staff themselves, urging them to get the money to the gang immediately, so as to ensure their safety. There had been at leas
t one rather unfavourable tabloid story, when a customer had said he’d been exposed to unreasonable danger because of how slowly his bank had responded to the robbers.
So, all in all, it was easy money; the result of good sound planning mixed with the perfect tactics.
But life was never meant to be this sweet—the trick was to end the raids then before someone else ended them. Mickey had begun to see the early signs it was time to stop.
In the last few jobs, for starters, the gang’s planning had not been so sound. Leroy had become more reckless; he had said it was so the gang could progress to another level and that you always needed to keep challenging yourself or you lose your edge. But both Robert and Mickey had not been so sure.
One night, late in Mickey’s Irish Club, when it was just the three of them, Robert tried to speak to Charlie about the situation with Leroy. It was one of the few fallings out Mickey could ever remember between the two men.
At the time, Robert was playing pool with Mickey, whilst Charlie was nursing a glass of whiskey and reading the paper. Robert leant down on the table and concentrated on a difficult shot. “Last time shouldn’t have happened Charlie. That's all I’m saying.”
The ball went straight into the corner pocket. Robert looked up at his friend for a response, but Charlie ignored him and continued to read his paper. Robert looked across at Mickey, to gage his thoughts on the statement. But Mickey knew far better than to choose sides in this type of debate and now started to focus solely on the pool table.
Robert leant into the table again and readied another shot, looking up at Charlie before he moved the cue. “You know the guy’s just a fucking adrenaline junkie right?”
Robert forced the cue through the shot far too quickly, taking his annoyance out on the pool table. The white ball rebounded aimlessly two or three times, thus giving Mickey two shots because of the foul. It had felt like divine intervention for Mickey at the time; removing any need for him to get involved in the conversation.
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