Revenge

by Martina Cole

Chapter Forty-Eight

  Declan was tired out. He had a new little bird and she was more than willing in every way possible. She was only twenty-two, and she was built for pleasure. She had a lovely little face, blue eyes, thick blond hair and creamy skin, coupled with a pair of thirty-six D cups. She was also gifted with a mouth like a docker, and that, unfortunately for her, coupled with her desire to be married, was her main drawback. Declan was already on the look-out for a new conquest. Deirdre, though, was not about to be sidelined.

  He had been here before – many times – and he had always managed to extricate himself from the lady in question. He wished they would listen to him from the off; he told them he wanted nothing from them other than a good time. He would always give them a nice parting gift – generally a few quid – or, if they were a bit posh, an expensive piece of jewellery. Deirdre, though, seemed determined to be around for the duration.

  As he stood by the bar in the nightclub he had just opened with Michael, he felt irritation wash over him. Girls like Deirdre were born to be used – it was their lot in life. He could see her out of the corner of his eye – she was wearing fewer clothes than a professional athlete, and she was giving him the evil eye as if he might actually give a fuck. He was glad to see Michael walking over to him and, as they shook hands, he turned his back on his offending girlfriend with relief.

  ‘What a fucking success, Declan! It’s fabulous. Well done.’

  Declan was pleased. He had worked hard on this place. He had acquired it as payment for a long-term debt. The man involved had a real passion for the gee-gees; unfortunately, the gee-gees didn’t have a passion for him. Declan had given him a good deal on the loans, and a generous time span for paying him back. Neither had been appreciated, of course, but that was a compulsive gambler for you. The man in question had eventually been given no other option than to sign the place over and walk away, debt-free.

  Declan had revamped it, renamed it, and now all he had to do was sit back and coin it in. It was a gold mine. It was located in East London with plenty of pubs and restaurants nearby and, best of all, it was now licensed for everything from live bands to boxing matches. The Costello firm, run by Michael Flynn, still owned enough Filth to guarantee anything they might feel they wanted. This was going to be a real earner; it had five bars over two floors, a huge dancing area, a glitterball that could pass for a spaceship and, like all their premises, the only people who could deal drugs were in their employ.

  ‘I think it will pay us well, Michael.’

  Michael grinned. ‘I don’t think you need worry about that, mate. I would worry about that bird behind you, though – I think she’s out for a fight.’

  Deirdre was tapping him on his shoulder, as if she had every right to be there. He rolled his eyes at Michael, who he could see thought this was absolutely hilarious. He turned slightly towards her and, opening his arms in a gesture of supplication, he said, ‘What now?’

  Deirdre looked at him with barely concealed malice.

  Michael could see that Declan was not in the mood for a drama; this was his night, and he was clearly embarrassed because it was happening in front of him. Since Patrick had gone, Declan treated Michael with the same respect he had always given his older brother. It was instinctive. Although he had refused Michael’s offer of a partnership, he still treasured his own place as a Costello, and the respect that demanded.

  ‘What do you mean by that?’

  Michael looked at the girl properly; she was a looker, but then all Declan’s amours were lookers. He wouldn’t bother otherwise – womanising was his hobby. This one had a mouth on her, though, and she wasn’t going without a fight. Declan was willing her to take the hint and go away. But Deirdre was far too drunk, and full to the brim with righteous anger. She was going to have her say publicly and as loudly as possible.

  Michael stepped forward and, grabbing her arm roughly, he said quietly, ‘If you don’t fuck off, you filthy little skank, I am going to get my blokes to drag you out of here and then I will personally see to it that you can never show your face within a ten-mile radius. I can do that. Declan can do that too but, unlike me, he’s a nice guy. Now do yourself a favour, and fuck off.’

  Deirdre was frightened now. This was Michael Flynn, and he was a Face, a real Face. That he had threatened her was something to be taken seriously, and she knew it. His words had sobered her up and, when he pushed her away from him, she nearly lost her balance.

  Michael put his arm around Declan’s shoulders, and she saw him pull Declan around till they were both facing the bar which meant they had their backs to her. It was the ultimate insult. Michael Flynn would not be in any company that reflected badly on him, or his world, he had made that more than clear. She walked away quickly; all she wanted now was to go home and lick her wounds.

  Declan watched her walk away in the mirrors behind the bar area and, shaking his head slowly, he said gratefully, ‘Michael, that was fucking priceless.’

  Michael laughed. He knew they were being observed, and he played the game, but was annoyed that the situation had ever arisen, especially on a night such as this. They were being watched by everyone, which was all part and parcel of the world they inhabited. People knew who they were, and they wanted to be a part of it, no matter how small that part might be. They were interesting because of who they were. They were the people who between them ran more or less everything around them, including this new nightclub. He certainly wasn’t about to let a slag like that make a scene, and show him up. He would cut her fucking head off first and ram it down her neck.

  He was smiling jovially though as he said, ‘You, my old friend, need to fucking grow a pair, and grow them fucking soon. Never, and I mean never, let a cunt like that think she has the right to cause a scene. It’s a sign of weakness but, worse than that, it’s a reflection on us. We are men who rely on our reputations – without them we are nothing. The fact she thought she could cunt you in front of me is fucking outrageous. Like I am going to swallow that, for fuck’s sake! I wouldn’t take that shit off my Josephine and I’m fucking married to her.’

  Declan didn’t answer for a while, he didn’t know what to say. But he knew that Michael was right. Deirdre would have caused the Third World War if Michael hadn’t stopped her, and she would have loved every second of it. He should have nipped it in the bud. ‘I’m sorry, Michael. You know me – I like the lairy ones. But you’re right. It will never happen again, I will make sure of that.’

  Michael gestured for two more drinks, and the barmaid was there in nanoseconds. ‘Good. I’m glad to hear it. Now, let’s enjoy the night. We have to mingle with the punters, give them their money’s worth, but I need a few more drinks first!’

  Declan laughed. ‘Welcome to my world!’

  Michael was pleased to see Jeffrey Palmer and his crew making their way across the dance floor. He felt himself relaxing. He knew that, by the end of the night, everyone who was anyone would make their way over to him, and he would give them free drinks, and listen patiently to their life stories. It would guarantee the club’s success, and he would have done his bit for public relations.

  The music was loud, the place was packed out, and his expert eye was making sure the bouncers were all where they should be, and the bar staff were fast and efficient. It was second nature to him now, making sure everything was running smoothly, looking out for flaws, and working out a solution to any problems he might encounter. Patrick Costello had taught him well, and as he listened to yet another tale of derring-do from a wannabe Face intent on impressing him, he realised just how much he actually missed him.

  Chapter Forty-Nine

  Jermaine O’Shay was a very large Jamaican – he was into body building, and he spent at least two hours a day in the gym. He was not a handsome man, but he was imposing, standing at over six feet tall and naturally big-boned. He was a man who looked dangerous. His size guaranteed that, as did his bald head, along with his permanent scowl. Women, however, loved him
. He was a man who knew the power he wielded, and who used it to his advantage. In reality, although he was capable of great violence should the situation merit it, he was actually a nice guy. Like Michael Flynn, he understood the need to exude a persona. And, like Michael Flynn, he ruled his little empire with a mixture of fear tempered with kindness. He surrounded himself with people he trusted, who he could relax and be himself with. Patrick Costello had offered him a partnership, and that had been a defining moment in his life. He had known how to import drugs, and he had made a good living from that. Patrick Costello had then entered his life, and shown him how, not only to utilise his contacts, but how to maximise his return. With Patrick Costello’s backing, he had become a big player almost overnight.

  Now, though, he was in a quandary. Michael Flynn was a perfect replacement for Patrick Costello, he could never refute that. Nothing had changed – it was as if Patrick Costello was still alive. Jermaine had dealt with Michael Flynn, as per usual, and everything had been fine. But now, Michael suddenly wanted him to deal with Jeffrey Palmer, and he wasn’t sure about that. He liked the way things were – he wasn’t a man who relished change.

  He was sitting in the bar of his private club, nursing a rum and Coke. His club was just off the Railton Road, and only accessible to certain people. It was small, but his clientele liked that. It was a place where people could relax without worrying about what they might say or who they said it to. He catered for people like himself, who needed to keep a degree of privacy, and who were also willing to pay for that.

  He heard Michael before he saw him. He was greeting the doorman as usual and, as he walked down the stairway into the bar, he was laughing. Jermaine stood up, and Michael shook his hand firmly. He then stood aside and Jermaine found himself shaking Jeffrey Palmer’s outstretched hand.

  There wasn’t anyone tending the bar so early in the day, so Jermaine walked behind the counter himself. ‘What can I get you?’

  Michael Flynn sat down on the banquette in the corner. It was newly re-covered in gold and green brocade. Jeffrey Palmer sat beside him, looking around him with interest. Jermaine was glad he had upgraded the place. He had a sneaky feeling that this wasn’t Jeffrey Palmer’s usual kind of drinking establishment.

  ‘A couple of whiskies, mate, and not any of that fucking knock-off either! I nearly lost the enamel off my teeth last time.’

  Jermaine laughed. ‘I told you, man, if you’re putting Coca-Cola in it, you don’t deserve the good stuff. My old dad would turn in his grave if I allowed a decent Scotch to be diluted with that shit.’

  Michael nodded. ‘He has a point, in all fairness, Jeffrey. But, when I come down here, I have to put something in the drinks – otherwise I would be flat out in no time.’

  Jermaine grinned. ‘Call yourself a fucking Irishman?’

  Jeffrey laughed with them. ‘Was your dad Irish then, Jermaine? I mean, with your name being O’Shay? It don’t get more Irish than that, does it?’

  Jermaine brought the drinks to the table and, sitting down beside them, he answered, ‘My great-granddad was Irish, but it’s been all black since then.’

  Jeffrey wasn’t sure how to react, and Jermaine could see that. He liked that he didn’t want to offend in any way. That showed him the man wasn’t racist – not outwardly anyway. Only time would tell.

  ‘If you go to Jamaica, everyone has some Irish in them somewhere. Some even have blue eyes. It’s fucking surreal. There are Patricks and Seans everywhere. We also like the Guinness – my mum used to call us the sunburnt Irishmen.’

  Michael laughed loudly; he had heard this before, many times. He knew that Jermaine was proud of his Irish heritage, and even more proud of his Jamaican roots.

  Jeffrey sipped his drink, and was pleased when he realised it was a good Irish malt. Like Jermaine, he had not been looking forward to this meeting; he had only dealt with the men who worked for Jermaine until now. A few keys here and there, mainly cocaine, and a lot of grass. When possible, he scored some Blond. Lebanese Gold was a really sought after product. Unlike the Black, that came from Afghanistan, the Gold always guaranteed a mellow buzz. There was a lot of Blond coming in from the States – Acapulco Gold – but it was the Lebanese that people were willing to pay for.

  Michael was quiet, watching the two men as they circled each other. He knew that neither man wanted it, but both these men would do their best to accommodate him. He supplied their wages because, without his permission, they basically couldn’t operate. He was in the wonderful position of allowing people to earn without hindrance. If he was involved, he could guarantee the minimum police interference, and the opportunity to work with like-minded individuals, giving them the chance to not only expand their businesses, but also their earnings.

  ‘Jeffrey, if you do take over from Michael, we will have to meet regularly, at least twice a week. I need to know everything at least a month in advance. I’m sure Michael has explained all that.’

  Jeffrey was surprised to find he was almost enjoying himself. Jermaine O’Shay was a man much like himself, aware of his own capabilities, and who disliked change. Like himself, Jermaine had no option but to work with whoever Michael Flynn told him to work with. That was a difficult thing for men like them, who were the head of their own firms, and respected by the people they employed. He was now on Jermaine O’Shay’s turf, in the man’s own drinking club, so he had to be the one who bent over. Like Michael Flynn, Jeffrey knew the value of humility, how it could be used to gain an advantage. It was a deadly weapon if employed properly. It could mask the violence that lurked underneath.

  ‘Oh, yeah, I understand how this needs to work, mate. I just hope you are OK about us working together. I’ve been in touch with some of your boys for a while now, as I’m sure you already know. Now that Michael has given me this opportunity, I just want to make a success of it.’

  Michael was impressed. He had hoped that Jeffrey Palmer would understand the situation with Jermaine, and work with him, but he had not expected Jeffrey Palmer, who could turn on a coin if the fancy took him, to humble himself for the greater good. It pleased him; he felt he had chosen wisely.

  Jermaine O’Shay walked back behind the bar and, bringing back the bottle of malt, he poured them each another large drink, before saying sincerely, ‘To us. The new order.’

  Michael grinned. ‘I’ll drink to that.’

  He was tired out. He had never completely understood just how much Patrick Costello had actually done until now. He had assumed that Patrick had given him the lion’s share of the work. Now, though, he realised that the real money was what Patrick had concentrated on, and that was a full-time job in itself. Michael was having to work day and night to keep on top of everything and, even though he was given the same respect as Patrick Costello, he didn’t have a Michael of his own, so he was having to gradually farm the lesser work out. He had not been too bothered at first, knowing that he just had to find the right people for the right jobs, and that might take time.

  Josephine being pregnant again had changed everything. He needed to get things in place as soon as possible so he could concentrate on her. She was a diamond, never complaining about his late nights, always ready to listen to him. He knew she would stand by him through anything life might throw at them. Now it was his turn, and he wanted to be there for her. He would do anything to see that this child came into the world. She deserved a baby so much, and her craving for a child of her own was painful to watch. He owed her this, and no matter what happened, he was going to be there beside her.

  Chapter Fifty

  ‘Michael, will you go out, please? I am OK.’

  Her husband was starting to get on Josephine’s nerves now. He was always asking how she was, staying in with her, offering everything from back rubs to cups of tea. It was wearing her out. All this attention was really irritating, and he watched her like a hawk.

  ‘I just want to help you, darling.’

  Josephine sighed. ‘You want to help me, do yo
u?’

  Michael nodded. He looked like a lost Boy Scout. ‘Of course I do.’

  ‘Then go out, will you? I know you have loads of stuff to sort out. I also know you want to help me. But all I want is a bit of space. I am OK! I feel good. But you’re making me feel nervous, like you’re waiting for this to go wrong.’

  Michael was devastated. He was trying to be the good guy. He was worried about her, and he was worried that she might lose the baby. It would obliterate her, as it always had. ‘Oh, darling, I just want you to know you are my priority. I spend so much time out and about. I love you. I want to be there for you.’

  Josephine smiled sadly. ‘I love you, Michael, you know that. But you are like a fucking bad smell lately, hanging around here. You’re normally out all hours of the day and night. I’ve never once questioned that, have I? I accept that it’s part and parcel of your job. Now, though, if I even fart, you’re standing behind me. It is driving me mad. I can call you if I need you.’

  Michael was looking at his wife, saw the way she was trying to keep as calm as possible, and knew he was getting on her nerves. He was getting on his own fucking nerves! But his real fear was that, if she lost this child too, she would not cope with it as well as she seemed to think. She was convinced this time was different somehow, but he wasn’t so sure. He felt it might be wishful thinking on her part, and who could blame her? She saw the doctor regularly, and everything seemed fine, but that was how it had been in the past. He would gladly give ten years off his life, if it meant she could have a child of her own.

  ‘Look, Josephine, I know what you’re saying, darling. But I care about you, and I worry about you.’

  Josephine closed her eyes in distress. Sometimes men were so thick! It was all about Michael really, but he couldn’t see that. He was waiting for her to fail again. Oh, he never said that, of course! But she knew him better than anyone else in the world. He was scared for her if this all went pear-shaped again.