by Julie Thomas
When he was four, Tom volunteered to be the one his father hit if he was angry. His older sisters cried when they got thrashed with Dad’s belt, and the younger ones were still babies. He knew what made his dad mad – if he was caught looking at a book, or if he made a sandwich without permission, or if the babies made too much noise. It might start differently, but it always ended the same way.
‘Come here, ya little shite!’
His dad dragged him across the room to the small wooden stool. Tom didn’t resist – it was better to get it over with quickly. Usually by now he could hear the belt being pulled off his father’s trousers, but today that sound was missing.
‘I’ve got a surprise for ya.’
One arm forced him down over the stool and he could see the pattern on the carpet. Once again he started counting the brown roses that intertwined with the green branches.
Thwack!
It was a different sound and it hurt a lot more. He swallowed the shock and the reaction that rose up in his throat. Tears sprang into his eyes, and he couldn’t see the flowers.
Thwack!
The second one wasn’t so bad, not such a surprise. If he tried very hard, his body wouldn’t jump much. Five roses and two branches.
Thwack!
After three blows his dad released his grip and Tom stood up. It was a piece of wood, about half a broom-handle length, round and heavy.
‘That should teach ya. Stay out of me way.’
His father stumbled off towards the door. ‘I’m going to the pub,’ he mumbled as he passed Dorothy, who was watching from just inside the doorway. As soon as the front door had slammed shut, she went to Tom and gave him a hug.
‘I don’t know why you’re always upsetting him. Would you like a cup of cocoa?’
Just before Tom’s fifth birthday his father had a windfall. It was a job that should have gone to someone else, but the usual muscle had been shot in the leg the night before, so Monty Joe rang Stuart one autumn morning and asked whether he could collect a debt.
‘Nothing to it. He owes £1000 and the debt’s three months overdue, so now its £5000. Rough him up, scare him, take something valuable as collateral, and give him twenty-four hours. Usual story.’
When Stuart got there, the door was open and the man was dead, shot in the back of the head, execution-style. The flat had been turned over, but he found a tin, wrapped in plastic and hidden in the toilet cistern. It contained £150 and a key. Stuart took the money, and was about to leave the key behind when he saw it had a card attached with a series of numbers written on it, so he took it, too. When he was far enough away, he called Monty and told him what had happened.
Monty was furious and took the £150. Stuart didn’t tell him about the key, and was about to bin it when instinct told him to check the numbers. They looked like a bank account number, so he started at his local Lloyds branch.
Three hours later he burst through his own front door.
‘Dot, ya in there?’
She looked up from the shirt on her ironing board in the kitchen. He didn’t sound angry, but you could never tell for sure.
‘In here, love.’
He was framed in the doorway, his muscles obvious under his shirt, a stupid grin on his face and a piece of paper in his hand.
‘Want some good news for a change?’ he asked.
She smiled at him, carefully. ‘Course.’
‘I found a key with numbers on a wee card. The bank told me it was a key to some box at a Morgenstern bank. All I needed were the numbers I had – one’s an account and the other’s some sort of ID thing.’
‘Sounds very posh. Have you had a look in the box?’
He nodded and walked towards her, still grinning.
‘What do ya think is in it?’ he asked.
She frowned. ‘I haven’t got a clue, Stuart. Stop playing games.’
He hugged her. ‘Money. Lots of bloody money.’
Stuart waited a sensible amount of time to see if anyone would talk about the missing money or if it might belong to someone he didn’t want to cross. But no one said a word on the street, in the pub, on the phone. He staked out the flat, but no one went near it, and Monty seemed none the wiser. So, eventually, Stuart withdrew the money and bought a nice house and started a collection of classic cars. Dorothy gave up doing other people’s washing. The children still went to Williams Street School, and Stuart insisted they went on the bus. Life was challenging and they had to learn that lesson at a tender age. He considered it his duty to teach them, and their new wealth didn’t alter that obligation.
Tom liked school. It gave him a chance to pass on the anger inside. When he was feeling frightened about going home, he bullied the weaker kids at school, and that made him feel braver. His three friends were Rory, Mikey and Marcus, and together they formed the WSS Gang. Whenever they passed Jimmy Richardson in the corridor, they glared at him, and he whimpered and tried not to cry. That was a fatal error around someone like Tom, and it took just seconds to decide that this kid was their first victim. Tom declared they would wait for Jimmy beside the shortcut he used across the back field and ambush him.
‘He deserves a beating,’ Tom announced and looked hard at the other boys.
‘Why?’ asked Marcus.
Marcus was unconvinced, and that annoyed Tom. He didn’t like being questioned on his patch.
‘He breathes – that’s bad enough. Think about it: either you’re with us or you’re not part of the gang anymore.’
Marcus had a certain status for Tom: he was Norman Lane’s son, and Tom’s dad had been very impressed when Tom had told him he was friends with Marcus. The last thing he wanted was to have to deliver on his threat to ban Marcus from the gang. As he saw his friend rounding the corner of the janitor’s shed, he knew everything would be all right. Marcus was on board.
Before he had time to react, a fist punched him square in the solar plexus. The pain radiated out in a sharp jolt, like an electric shock, and bent him over at the waist. Another fist appeared from nowhere, hurtling up towards his unprotected chin. The force sent him sprawling on the ground, and he hit his head, hard.
He heard Rory’s voice, full of panic, demanding to know why Marcus was doing that. He wanted the question answered, too, and he pulled himself to his feet, rubbing his aching jaw. Marcus stood, hands on hips, glaring at him, daring him to punch back. Then his best friend delivered the knock-out blow: the declaration of the change of leadership.
Marcus taught Tom everything he knew: how to punch more effectively and how to receive a punch, how to lie with a straight face, and how to kick someone when they were on the ground. Tom was a fast learner, and had a deceptive amount of strength in his small body. Rory and Mikey were their acolytes and did what they were told: gave up their superior sandwiches at lunchtime, shoplifted chocolate bars from the corner shop and retrieved balls when Tom and Marcus kicked them out of range.
Tom asked his mother if he could invite Marcus home to play. She said ‘yes, but not when your dad’s here’. He knew why and didn’t argue, because he had no desire for Marcus to see what his dad did. Marcus had undoubtedly seen the bruises but had never commented, and Tom felt sure that if he was thrashed, too, he would have said something. At a subconscious level, Tom had no desire to see his dad fawn over Norman Lane’s son, just like everyone else did.
The first few afternoons went well. Then one Saturday they were playing in the garage when they heard a murder being committed by two men on a third. Tom had never seen anything remotely like that, and his main concerns were that his dad never knew he had been there and that Marcus never knew that one of the men was Tom’s father. Something deep in his child consciousness told him that his father’s response would be more terrible than he could imagine. Marcus had seemed fascinated by the body and was happy to keep their secret, but he never accepted another invitation to visit.
CHAPTER FOUR
RACK AND RUIN
Unbeknown to Vinnie, Tobias La
ne had made his father an offer Bert couldn’t refuse – five times his former salary. Lane had worked for the Kray twins in the 1950s, but when their rivalry with the Richardson gang escalated into murder, he had struck out on his own. The Krays imprisonment in 1969 left a hole to fill. As well as the usual roll-call of lucrative activities – armed robbery, bookmaking, loan sharking, extortion and protection rackets, drugs, arson, prostitution and fencing stolen goods – he had just begun to branch out into people smuggling. He used secret compartments in his trucks to bring illegal workers into the country and create an underground workforce.
His last chief accountant had suddenly disappeared, and he needed a new one to keep his different sets of books in order, to launder his money offshore, and to make sure the authorities were satisfied with the sanitised accounts. His front as a law-abiding businessman was crucial to his freedom.
Bert told himself, as he listened to Lane’s persuasive pitch, that this was a temporary solution, until something else came along. He knew Mary would be horrified, but he didn’t need to tell her about the seedy underbelly that resided behind the cover of ‘prominent businessman’, hidden in the violent shadows. He had no way of knowing how addictive the salary, and the lifestyle it afforded, would become.
Lane’s only child, Norman, Marcus’s father, was a hugely ambitious man. He hid his desire to take over the reins of the organisation and make changes, especially to the systems used to collect monies owed, but Bert was a sharp reader of people and he could see the signs. Norman was a strict believer in pecking orders, and he made sure Bert understood the consequences of failure. Men in key positions, like Bert’s, were paid extra for their discretion and loyalty.
On Vinnie’s third visit, Marcus showed him his hidden den in the hollow trunk of a huge tree. The earth floor was covered by sheets of old newspaper, and dried bird carcasses were hung from the spurs inside the trunk. Marcus displayed his treasures, sealed in a variety of metal tins. They represented the loot from his growing career as a thief, and he offered to teach Vinnie the tricks of the trade.
They began by sneaking into the pantry and stealing handfuls of chocolate chips and tiny marshmallows from the baking jars.
‘Never take all of it. That way they won’t notice, and they’ll just think they’ve used more than they thought.’
Vinnie nodded his understanding and held out the tin he had taken from his mother’s sewing basket. Marcus took a small handful of chocolate and poured it into the tin: ‘Carrying it out by hand is no good – it melts.’
Then they moved onto taking pound notes from Cookie’s petty cash tin in the kitchen. Once Vinnie felt comfortable doing that and had got over his nerves, Marcus showed him where the key to his grandfather’s gentlemen’s wardrobe was hidden. It was a small key in a tiny lock, and Vinnie’s hands were shaking as he tried to insert it.
‘Here, let me! You’ll take all day.’ Marcus pulled the key away and opened the carved walnut door. The space was filled by a series of drawers.
‘This one has money, coins and notes.’ Marcus took a few coins, put them in his pocket and shut the drawer. ‘And this one has old cigarettes. Shall we try one?’
Vinnie nodded silently. Marcus gave him two, and Vinnie stuffed them into his trouser pocket.
‘And this one has his dirty magazines. Look at this!’
Marcus took the top magazine off the pile and opened it at the centre spread. He turned it around so Vinnie could see the naked young woman sprawled across the double page. She had a magnificent set of breasts and a come-hither smile.
Vinnie burst out laughing. ‘Put it away, idiot.’
Marcus glared at him. ‘Don’t you want to look at one? Grandpa does. I’ll take something from the middle and we’ll hide it in the den.’
‘I’d rather have cars or motorbikes, or some great paintings.’
Marcus shook his head. ‘You’re strange – you’re not normal.’
The next important lesson was how to lie effectively. Marcus passed on what his father had shared with him. Most people don’t lie well, they have a ‘tell’ that betrays them, but a few can look you straight in the face and look as honest as the day is long. To have a good career as a criminal, it was important to be able to lie convincingly and to be able to tell when you were being lied to. Vinnie liked the idea of being able to tell when people were lying, but he decided to leave the lying part until he found someone in his life he wanted to lie to.
One visit, which he remembered for years, began innocently enough when they took fishing rods and a net down to the lake. Marcus insisted that there were fish in there, but after half an hour of sitting with their feet dangling in the water flicking the lines into the middle of the lake, Marcus got bored.
‘Let’s take the net and see if we can catch something down that end.’
He pointed to the far side of the lake. As usual Vinnie agreed, so they left the rods on the bank and took the net in search of bounty. It was early summer and there were ducklings swimming among the shallow reeds. Marcus caught one almost immediately. Vinnie wanted to pat it and let it go back to the distressed duck watching them from the lake, but Marcus instructed him to hold it and wait while he caught another one. The second proved a bit harder, and for a moment Vinnie thought the duck was going to attack them. Marcus dropped the net and turned to run back towards the bridge.
‘Come on, slow coach!’ he yelled.
They carried their fluffy cargo in both hands out in front of them, around the lake to the foot of the bridge.
‘I’ve invented a new sport,’ Marcus said breathlessly. ‘Duck racing!’
And so the new form of pooh sticks was born. Marcus caught the ducklings in the net and they took them to the bridge and dropped them over the side, then raced to see which duckling emerged first. Vinnie let his go as carefully as he could, whereas Marcus threw his at the water. The drop wasn’t very far and the little birds appeared unhurt by the experience, but Vinnie was very glad when the ducklings grew too large for Marcus to catch.
As far as Vinnie was concerned, for the next three and half years he accompanied his father to the Lane house on a regular basis and played with Marcus. He knew his mother wasn’t particularly happy, and she never came with them, but, with the innocence of youth, he just accepted it.
‘Do you still want to be a pilot?’ Marcus asked.
They were lying on their backs on the freshly mown lawn, staring up at the clouds. It was the summer of 1976 and the massive garden around them was in full bloom. Vinnie could hear bees and insects nearby. His tummy was full of fruit pie and cola and he felt content.
‘I think so,’ he said, as he traced a pattern in the air with his finger. ‘You get to see lots of exciting places. I want to travel to all the places in the atlas you gave me last Christmas.’
He rolled over and glanced at Marcus. The boy’s eyes were closed. That meant he was thinking.
‘Or I could go into space instead. Do you still want to go into the family business?’ Vinnie asked.
Marcus shrugged. ‘I guess so. Dad says one day it’ll all be mine.’
‘All what?’
The boy waved his arm in the direction of the house. ‘All this. And whatever it is they do. Granddad says they’re businessmen, but I … Maybe you should become an accountant and you could work for me.’
Vinnie pulled a face. Sometimes Marcus assumed too much. ‘Why would I want to work for you? Unless you set up an airline.’
Marcus opened his eyes, turned and grinned at him. ‘Maybe I will and you could fly us all over the world.’
Vinnie made swooping motions like a plane with his hand. ‘Lane Airways. Or you could put a P in front of it and make it Plane Airways.’
Both boys laughed, and the sharp, happy sound echoed around the empty garden.
‘If you become a pilot, then I promise I’ll set up Plane Airways and you can be the chief pilot.’
Vinnie was delighted. Marcus always made such sense, and his conf
ident way of treating people – other children, staff and shop assistants – thrilled Vinnie. They did as Marcus demanded, even the adults. No one ever bullied Marcus, and he would have thumped anyone who tried.
‘Vin?’
The familiar voice made him roll over, sit up and then get to his feet. His father was standing on the drive with his briefcase in his hand.
‘Time to go. Come on.’
His father sounded impatient in his good-natured way. Vinnie looked down at Marcus, who hadn’t moved. ‘See ya next time,’ he said.
Marcus nodded. ‘Remember what we say: don’t take no shit from nobody.’
Vinnie laughed happily. ‘No shit.’
He turned and ran across the lawn to his father. Bert put his arm around Vinnie’s shoulders and they walked off together towards the car. Glancing back, Vinnie saw that Marcus had pulled himself up on his elbows and was watching them.
A week later Vinnie had been out shopping with his mother. He needed new plimsolls, and she had given in to his pleading for some records and books. Life had changed in the past four years – they lived in a much nicer house and held regular dinner parties, and he was used to getting quality toys for his birthday and Christmas. Two years ago Marcus’s grandfather had given him remote-controlled cars on a racing-car circuit for Christmas.
Today they had stopped for ice cream, walked beside the Serpentine in Hyde Park, and come home on the tube. He loved these outings: his mother was a fun person to be with, and he hadn’t reached the age where it was naff to hang out with your mum. He drew the line at holding her hand, but they had sung their favourite song as they walked down the street from the tube station to the house.
She unlocked the door and went in first. He was just inside when he heard her scream. It was a sound he had never heard before, a shrill, scary noise, a mixture of terror, shock, despair and rage. She was frozen in the doorway to the front room, and behind her he could see his father’s lower legs lying at a funny angle on a plastic sheet and bright red blood on the wall.