I recalled what Desmond Richards had said about Big Man. It sounded as if he’d also done his best to avoid fights, but to his ultimate detriment hadn’t quite been able to manage it. I suspected that he and Patrick weren’t a million miles apart in many ways. But here was Patrick in a souped-up silver Mercedes, and there was Big Man in a crappy blue jacket. Was it down to the choices they’d made? Or just luck …
Oh well, in for a penny. So to speak.
‘How did you make your money?’ I asked.
‘I stumbled across the stolen haul of Lefty Barnes, notorious East End gangster, who’d fallen foul of the even more notorious Slasher Briggs and taken the secret location of his stash with him.’
‘Ha, ha.’
‘You’d be amazed how many people would actually buy that.’
I waited. ‘Well, go on!’
‘It’s not exciting,’ he warned. ‘Dead boring, in fact.’
‘I’ve never found a story boring yet,’ I told him.
And it wasn’t. Young Patrick, pre his brains-versus-fists epiphany, had been a parent’s worst nightmare. Dropping out of school at fourteen, he had fought, thieved and vandalised his way in and out of juvenile court. To start with, he served mainly community sentences, but the older he got, the more jaundiced became the eye of the judiciary. Being, as he put it, ten foot fucking tall and bulletproof, young Patrick ignored the warnings, and it was to his shock and amazement that, at nineteen, he was banged up for six months in an adult prison.
‘Fuck me, that was terrifying,’ he said. ‘I’d always fancied myself as a fighter, but fisticuffs with a few boys my own age is cat-lick compared to what a bunch of hard grown men can dish up. I was convinced, every single day, that I was going to die. So when I got out, I decided enough was enough.’
Trouble was, work opportunities for an uneducated nineteen-year-old with a criminal record didn’t exactly abound. And Patrick’s family, by this time, had reached the end of their tether.
‘Uncle Jenico took me aside and told me that they were tired of my arrogance, and had decided to let me sink or swim on my own. As I recall, I did quite a bit of snivelling. But as you can imagine, Jenico’s not a man who’s easily swayed …’
I could imagine. Tyso’s dad could hold up one hand and stop a freight train.
‘I moped for ages, until I got sick of being broke and started to put some real effort into job hunting. Which is when I had my first bit of luck. I got a job working for an old bloke who owned a cleaning firm. Cleaned office blocks. We got on well. He was struggling with the paperwork, and though I never finished school, I had a head for figures. I helped him make that business ten times more profitable. He had no family, and so when he died, he left it all to me. I built it up, sold it for what seemed a shitload at the time, and bought my first commercial property.’
He slid me a glance. ‘See? Told you it was boring.’
I smiled. ‘And now you’re going to be a dad.’
‘Yeah,’ he replied. ‘And that, let me tell you, is a fucking sight more terrifying than having the shit kicked out of me by psycho crims.’
The wedding venue was a listed mansion, set in the middle of an expansive deer park. Both setting and decoration were standard wedding fare, attractive enough, neutral and tasteful, nothing to offend. No Gypsy violinists, no dancing bears, and certainly no painted caravans in the car park. If it had not been for a little too much sequinage among the women and ear jewellery among the men, it could have been the wedding of any well-to-do British family.
‘This is quite posh, isn’t it?’ I said to Patrick, as we walked up to the main cluster of relatives on the lawn. I could see Jenico. But then, satellites in space could probably see Jenico Herne.
Patrick gave me a sideways look. ‘You mean for a bunch of thieving Gyppos?’
‘I suppose I do. Sorry.’
‘I’m not offended. You’re right. My family has made good.’
‘Anselo told me about his grandfather–’
‘Did he?’ Patrick asked. ‘The boy must like you.’
‘Why must he like me?’
‘He talked to you,’ Patrick replied. ‘Anselo doesn’t talk to anyone if he can help it.’
Jenico was moving towards us, beaming, arms outstretched. He was wearing the same dark kind of suit as Patrick but with a waistcoat and tie that gleamed so brightly in the sun that they looked woven from pure gold. He greeted both of us with a robust embrace and a smacking kiss on both cheeks.
‘Welcome!’ He threw his arms open again, as if not only the venue but also the whole world belonged to him. And, I suppose, in a way it did. Then he grasped my hand in both of his huge ones, and said, ‘We are so glad to have you part of our family!’
‘Don’t worry,’ Patrick murmured in my ear, as he led me away to make room for the next lot of greetees. ‘I’m pretty sure he’s not expecting you to get hitched to one my cousins. Not today, anyway.’
Speaking of which …
I looked around, but while I spotted young Tyso in the midst of a gaggle of girls – he grinned and gave my dress the thumbs up – I could not see Anselo. Perhaps he was coming later? After his girlfriend’s dinner party?
A champagne flute was thrust into my hand, and Patrick steered me towards the group around Tyso.
‘Meet the Tyso fan club. His sisters, Nadya and Myfanwy. And his cousins, Mirela …’
I lost track as he reeled off a list of exotic names. The girls were all delightful, and doted on Tyso so much that he practically purred. No wonder he was a naturally happy boy. He received more positive affirmation in ten minutes than Miss Flaky could read in a year.
‘I love your dress,’ one of the girls said to me.
‘I was worried it would be a bit over the top,’ I replied.
Every one of the girls laughed, as if I’d cracked the best joke in years. Fair enough. I’d been so self-conscious about my dress that I hadn’t really stopped to compare. These girls were all decked out in variations on the theme of short, tight and sparkly. Next to them, I looked about as risqué as Mrs Thatcher.
‘People give us Gypsies shit about being trashy,’ said one of Tyso’s cousins. ‘But fuck ’em, I say. What girl doesn’t want to wear rhinestones and glitter and fuck-me shoes?’
Her Gypsy sisterhood loudly expressed agreement.
‘Yeah, why choose a dress just because you’re worried about offending people?’ added another. ‘Every woman I’ve met who wanted to look–’ she made inverted commas with her fingers in the air ‘–tasteful – fuck me, you couldn’t pull a needle out of their arse with a tractor! When I wear a dress,’ she went on, ‘I want to feel like the fucking Queen of the May!’
Tyso, glancing anxiously around, said, ‘You shouldn’t swear so much, Nady. If Dad catches you–’
‘I’d smile sweetly,’ replied his sister, ‘and he’d let me off with a warning – cos I’m his little girl.’
‘Personally, I’d put you over my knee,’ remarked Patrick.
‘Oo-oo!’ wolf-whistled all the girls.
Nadya gave him a look from under her eyelids. ‘Promises, promises.’
‘Jesus,’ Patrick muttered as he steered me away towards the chapel. ‘There’s a jail sentence biding its time for some poor unsuspecting sod.’
I looked around again for Anselo. Still absent. The blonde goddess must have put her foot down. Blood, in this case, was obviously not thicker than viognier.
And then, there he was. He’d been roped in as an usher. His expression suggested that he was taking it exceptionally seriously – or that he was dying to be somewhere else. He didn’t see me until Patrick and I were right in front of him.
He and Patrick were in almost identical outfits. Anselo’s tie was also scarlet, but the fabric a smart weave rather than Patrick’s glossy silk. His dark grey suit was beautifully cut, wide on the shoulders and narrow at the waist. I had a sudden vision of the muscled torso I knew was underneath, which caused me nearly to stand on Patric
k’s foot.
Anselo, in return, gave me only a cursory glance. ‘You’re in here.’ He gestured to the middle of the row of chairs. And then he looked quickly past us to the people behind.
‘Man with a mission,’ murmured Patrick, as we sat. ‘He really should learn to lighten up. He’ll have a fucking stroke.’
The ceremony was wonderful. And Tyso was right – the only person at risk of upstaging the bride was Elton John in his ‘Crocodile Rock’ days. Or Lady Gaga in one of her less restrained moments. The dress must have cost Jenico a bomb.
‘Fuck’s sake,’ muttered Patrick. ‘I can feel my retinas sizzling.’
‘It’s glorious.’ I nudged him with my elbow. ‘Shut up and enjoy.’
When the groom – a handsome young man who looked terrified from start to finish, as well he might – kissed his new bride, I heard Patrick sniff. This time, it was me who was able to offer him a handkerchief.
‘Thanks,’ he said.
‘Sentimental fool.’
‘Guilty. Thank fuck Clare’s not here. We’d all be awash by now.’
The reception was in an outdoor pavilion lined with white silk. By now it was early evening, but the heat was still punishing. Every man had his jacket off. Women were fanning themselves with menu cards. I was at a table with Patrick; Patrick’s mother, Consuela, who had obviously been a stunning glamour puss in her day; Anselo’s equally striking mother, Adrienne; and five middle-aged cousins, whose names I instantly forgot. Anselo was at top table, right next to Jenico. I smiled to myself. Poor bastard. He certainly had been soundly punished for his attempted betrayal.
During dinner I drifted away, content to let the buzz of family-centric conversation wash over me. Anselo’s mother brought me back with a thump.
‘You know, mi chava, my boy, I gather?’ she said. ‘How do you find him?’
I just stopped myself saying: I follow the sound of hammering. Instead, I replied, ‘I like him. Is that what you meant?’
Anselo’s mother fixed me with such a penetrating glance, I could understand why people believed in the evil eye. ‘My two older sons – they are content with their lot in life. I am not so sure about my middle boy.’
‘Oh!’ was the best I could manage. ‘I’m afraid I don’t really know him that well …’
‘Don’t grill the poor girl, Beebee Adie,’ said Patrick. ‘Anselo always was a sulky little bastard, pardon my French. But he’s hardly a boy now. If he’s not content, that’s his choice.’
‘Si covar ajaw. So it is. I know. But–’ Anselo’s mother wagged a finger at Patrick, ‘–and you will learn this for yourself very soon. They are our children ever-komi! They will forever cut us here–’ She slapped a hand on her heart.
Patrick rolled his eyes at me. ‘Gypsy melodrama. You have to love it.’
‘You speak the language?’ I was fascinated.
‘Not really. The older ones do, so you pick up words here and there.’ He grinned. ‘Anyway I’m not a full Romano rye. My father was a Traveller. In fact, I come from a fine long line of chories, thieves. The Kings weren’t the most law-abiding family. Suppose that’s where I got it from …’
‘Yes, Tyso told me you were nothing but pikey tinkers,’ I said slyly.
‘Did he now?’ Patrick raised an eyebrow. ‘I’ll be having words with young Tyso.’
‘Oh, don’t!’ I pleaded. ‘One big man on his case is enough.’
Patrick laughed. ‘Did you know that’s exactly what Jenico is called? Rom baro. Literally: “big man”. The leader. The head of our familiya …’
He was interrupted by the ding of a spoon on a glass. The speeches had begun. Most of it I didn’t understand. There was a lot of crying and kissing – mainly between the men – and it was clear that the unity of the family was all-important, particularly to Jenico. Coming from a family that was about as emotionally demonstrative as a dead spider, I revelled in the seemingly boundless warmth and affection. I could sympathise with Anselo, though. Too much of this would be like having your head held down inside a lava lamp. You’d suffocate slowly and very brightly.
My gaze travelled towards the top table. While the rest of the group was laughing and animated, Anselo was leaning back in his chair, staring into the middle distance. Probably wondering how the goddess’s dinner party was going. And wishing he was there.
At nine, the dance floor lit up. The music kicked in. The bride and groom did their thing, and then the floor was open to all.
‘D’you dance?’ Patrick asked me.
‘Very, very badly.’
Tom was a superb dancer. I used to try to imitate his moves but he had a limber, natural grace that I simply did not. But he never laughed at me.
Patrick was on his feet and holding out a hand. ‘That makes two of us. Clare insisted we take ballroom dancing lessons once. I tell you – if that DJ bloke plays any Chris de Burgh tonight, I’ll have no choice but to rip his spine clean from his body.’
I’m not really a small girl, but up against Patrick, I felt like Tinkerbell. He was mildly pissed, so we kept treading on each other’s toes and getting the giggles.
‘Thanks so much for inviting me,’ I smiled up at him. ‘It’s been so nice to just kick back and enjoy myself.’
‘Yeah, well – this is the last bit of freedom I’m going to have for a while. So may as well make the most of it. Within limits, of course.’
‘I’ll drive you back if you like?’ I offered. ‘If you trust me with your car?’
‘Yeah?’ He was genuinely chuffed. ‘Fucking fantastic!’
‘I won’t have a hope of lifting you, though. So if you pass out, I’m leaving you here.’
‘Can’t say fairer than that.’
The song came to an end. And up rose the unmistakeable opening of ‘The Lady in Red’.
‘Fucking hell,’ muttered Patrick. ‘Right. That’s it. I’m going out for a smoke.’
‘I didn’t know you smoked?’
‘I don’t. Chris de Burgh can drive a man to anything.’
Patrick had taken my elbow, to lead me back to the table, when I felt a touch on my other arm. It was Anselo.
‘Do you – um–’
‘Yes,’ said Patrick. ‘She does.’ And he left us together.
It was oddly nice, being in Anselo’s arms. He had one hand in mine, one around my waist. He held himself a little apart, and his eyes would meet mine and then dart away again, as if he were expiring with embarrassment. We moved somewhat stiffly and uncomfortably. But, on the whole, it was nice.
Finally, he spoke. ‘This really is a fucking awful song.’
I burst out laughing. And, suddenly, he grinned. ‘Do you want to go outside?’ he asked. ‘It’s stifling in here. I’m sick to death of the heat.’
Out on the front lawn, a path led down to an ornamental stone pool. We sat on its edge – not close, a good foot apart. There were no lights by the pool, but the lights blazing in the house meant we could just see each other’s faces.
It soon became obvious it would have to be me who opened the conversation. Oh well. May as well go for broke.
‘Your mother was grilling me about you.’
His eyes widened in alarm. ‘Yeah? Jesus. What did she say?’
‘She said she didn’t think you were content with your lot in life.’
He blew out a breath. ‘Did she …’ Then he added, ‘Oh well. Could have been worse. She could have grilled you about when I was going to get married.’
I felt a pang of – what? Regret? It shouldn’t have come as a surprise to me. He was the ideal marrying age. He had a beautiful girlfriend. Somewhere.
‘Did Vivienne not want to come?’
He shifted, as if uncomfortable. ‘I didn’t ask her.’
‘Why ever not?’
‘Because …’ He hesitated and then, quickly, defensively said, ‘Because I haven’t worked out how to get both parts of my life to gel. I still need to keep them separate.’
He leaned forwa
rd, propping his forearms on his knees. ‘I don’t know. With her, I suppose, I can pretend I am a real alpha male …’
‘Oh, sod it!’ I poked him crossly in the shoulder. ‘I didn’t mean that! I was pissed off with you because you were saying things I didn’t want to hear!’
He sat up. ‘It’s true, though! Jesus!’ He waved his hand towards the house. ‘That fucking room there is packed with men who achieve more in a day than I’ve achieved in my whole life!’
‘You mean Jenico? Patrick?’ I challenged him. ‘Why compare yourself?’
‘Wouldn’t you?’
Oh dear. He did have a point. And who was I to berate him about feeling inadequate?
‘When we were at the pub that evening,’ I said, ‘you seemed to dislike Patrick more than admire him. Did something happen between you?’
He bent his head and trailed his hand slowly along the surface of the water. ‘When I was a kid, Patrick was my hero,’ he began quietly. ‘My whole family used to wail and wring their hands when he was doing his “Wild One” impression. But I worshipped him. I wanted to be him. When he calmed down and started making money, I was in my teens. And I still worshipped him, for different reasons.’ He shook his head, in admiring disbelief. ‘It was incredible what he achieved. One day, he was this leather-clad hoodlum, the next he was wearing Armani and driving a Porsche.’
Pausing, he lifted his hand and watched the water drip off his fingers. ‘When I was eighteen, I went to him and asked him to make me his apprentice. He listened – and then he asked me why. Why did I want to learn from him? What did I expect to gain? I said – money, of course. But it wasn’t the truth. What I wanted most was to be close enough to him so that some of what made him rubbed off on me. I wanted to be him. But I couldn’t tell him that–’
He offered me a quick smile. ‘What he did then is still clear as day. He stared at me for an age, and then he said: “You need to be more of a man”. And he showed me the door.’
My heart went out to him. ‘That must have hurt. A lot.’
The Sweet Second Life of Darrell Kincaid Page 27