by Martina Cole
‘Well, do you know what, Michael? Don’t worry about me, OK? Just let me be. You’re stressing me out, can’t you see that? I have sat here night after night, all on my Jack Jones, for years, and I have learnt to live with that, live with your work, and the odd hours. I even have a routine. Bet you never knew that. I watch certain programmes, I have a nice bath, I go to bed and I read. I’ve learnt to cope without you and I like a bit of peace in my own home. So I am begging you, Michael, please, will you stop treating me like a fucking invalid? I know that this child might not come to term, I know that better than anyone, believe me. Been there, done that, remember? Many times. Go out, do your job, and let me do mine.’
Michael could see that Josephine was serious, and she had a point. He was letting the business slide, and that was not good for either of them. He should be out there, sorting out the mess that Patrick Costello had left behind. But he also felt he should be there for his wife.
‘All night that phone has been going in your office, Michael, but you won’t answer it. You just sit here like a nun at a stag do. You make me nervous. Answer the fucking thing, and do what’s needed.’ She grabbed his hand tightly. ‘I know how difficult it’s been for you. Patrick left a big hole. You have a lot to contend with, so will you just get on with it? I feel like I’m keeping you from your business. I don’t want that, Michael, and, if you’re really honest, neither do you.’
The office phone was ringing again, and she could see that Michael was torn once more. ‘Answer the fucking thing, will you, Michael? Put us all out of our misery.’
He laughed despite himself. He knew how lucky he was to have her. She never asked anything of him, she just accepted him for who he was. She wasn’t a fool either, she knew the score – knew what he was all about. He stood up, and walked from the room to answer the phone.
Josephine laid back against the sofa cushions, and sighed in relief. She cupped her belly with her hands, content with the new life she had inside her, and the promise of some well-needed peace and quiet. Michael had to let her deal with this in her own way. She didn’t need a babysitter, she just needed to feel in control of her own life. She closed her eyes, tired out. She just wanted her bed and some sleep.
Michael came back into the room a few minutes later, and she could see he was worried about something.
‘I have to nip out, darling.’
She smiled gently. ‘All I can say is, thank fuck for that!’
Chapter Fifty-One
Declan was seriously worried. He had never had to deal with a situation like this before – his brother had made sure of that. Patrick knew the value of speed in these kind of situations. Michael was finally on his way, but it just wasn’t good enough. He should have been here ages ago, and he would tell him that as well. Michael was like a fucking ghost these days, drifting in and out at his leisure. It was a travesty. He was supposed to be the big boss now, and it seemed to Declan that Michael Flynn had dropped the fucking ball. He needed to up his game, because the people he dealt with looked for weakness and, if they found it, they went in for the kill.
He sat down. The Portakabin was too hot, stuffy, and it fucking stank. He lit a cigar, and puffed on it deeply. The smell of his big Churchill would mask anything and, as this place stank like a Turkish wrestler’s jockstrap, he welcomed the tobacco’s distinct aroma.
He could hear the swearing and threats coming from the other room, and he closed his eyes in annoyance. This wasn’t his gig – this was Michael Flynn’s territory. He didn’t like being dragged into it all, but he had no choice in the matter. Someone had to do something before it got out of hand. This was the kind of situation that could easily cause a war.
He saw the headlights of a car as it pulled up outside, and he waited patiently for Michael to join him. He was really aggravated, but he knew he had to keep a lid on it until this was all sorted out. One thing at a time, had always been Patrick’s mantra, and Declan chose to live by it.
Michael opened the door and, as he walked in, Declan saw that the man was already angry. ‘Tell me this is a fucking joke, Declan.’
Declan shook his head, nervous suddenly. Michael Flynn looked fit to be tied, and that wasn’t a good thing. ‘Like I’d bring you out at this time of night for a fucking laugh. I’ve been trying to get you all evening. This is your fucking business, Michael, not mine.’
Michael knew he was right. He should have answered the phone – no one rang the house unless it was important. Josephine was his only weak spot, his Achilles heel. He had fucked up big time.
‘So, come on then, what fucking happened?’
Declan realised that the man in the next room had suddenly gone quiet. He assumed that he had heard Michael’s voice, and was now rapidly sobering up and wondering how he could get out of the situation he had caused.
Declan puffed on his cigar for a few moments. ‘Jeffrey Palmer was in the new club having a few drinks, and who should turn up there mob-handed, full of drink, drugs and God knows what else? Only Kelvin McCarthy. He homed straight in on Jeffrey. It was fucking outrageous, Michael. Jeffrey was good in all fairness, he swallowed a lot. More than I fucking would have if it was me. But it got out of hand. Jeffrey was going to give him a well-deserved slap, and Kelvin pulled a gun on him – in full view of everyone. Thank fuck we were in the top bar. Most of the people there know the score. But it was fucking hairy, I tell you. He would have shot him and all, but young Danny Kirby wrestled the gun off him. He is worth watching, that lad. He saved us all a fucking serious nightmare tonight. Anyway, to cut a long story short, I have got Kelvin in there.’ He gestured towards the door that led to the other room in the Portakabin. ‘We bundled Kelvin out of there as fast as we could. But Jeffrey Palmer is not going to let this drop, and who could blame him? It was a public humiliation. It’s just that Kelvin’s father is a different kettle of fish as you know. Christie McCarthy is a fucking known Face, and he has a big crew behind him. He also has a son who is about as much use as a nun’s cunt. The bugbear is he is still his son.’
Michael looked around him quickly, his mind working overtime. This was a real problem in more ways than one. He admired and respected Christie McCarthy. He was one of the few people they didn’t do business with although they had requested his services on occasion. Christie McCarthy was actually the only person capable of taking him on. He was also one of the few people that Patrick Costello had genuinely liked. They had grown up together, and they had always had a good relationship. Christie McCarthy pretty much kept himself to himself. He had long-term businesses that were not just very lucrative, but were also specialised. He was the go-to man if you needed someone to disappear permanently but, for whatever reason, you couldn’t be seen to be involved. He was also a very experienced mediator who could not only solve certain problems between the warring factions, but who was also guaranteed to be without any bias whatsoever. That was his expertise. He had made his living from his ability to facilitate any kind of meeting, even between sworn enemies. He would then act as the mediator for their talks, and no one had ever dared to take advantage of him, use the meeting for their own ends or for payback. Christie McCarthy wasn’t a man who would allow anything like that to happen; after all, this was his bread and butter. He could also provide any service that might be needed, from a getaway driver to a bent barrister. His forte was his wide range of contacts and his reputation as a man who delivered.
But now his son had been the catalyst for a situation so serious it could easily deteriorate into a fucking war.
Michael walked into the other office. Kelvin McCarthy was sitting on an old typing chair tied up like a kipper. Michael could see the fear in the boy’s deep-blue eyes. He was his father’s son, there was no doubting that. He had the same arched eyebrows and thick black hair and, like his father, his face had the dark shadow of a man who needed to shave twice a day. He was Christie’s living image – a handsome fucker – but that’s where the similarity ended. Personality-wise, he was the antithe
sis of his old man. He was a weak-willed, vicious bully, who traded on his father’s name, and his father’s reputation. Well, he had picked a fight with the wrong people this time.
Declan walked into the room behind him, and Michael knew he was wondering, along with Kelvin McCarthy, what was going to happen. His incarceration had clearly thrown Kelvin off kilter. He had not expected to be treated so roughly, nor so carelessly. Never before had anyone ever dared to bring him to book. He had always been given a pass, and his father had smoothed things over.
‘How old are you, Kelvin?’ Michael’s voice was casual, even interested.
Kelvin could detect no real anger, and he felt himself relax a little. The fact he had been brought here worried him. He knew enough about the Life to realise that Michael Flynn wasn’t a man to be crossed lightly and that even his father would balk at a face-to-face with him.
As he was sobering up, and coming down from the pills he had popped like sweets, he understood for the first time in his life that he was in real trouble.
‘I’m twenty-six.’
Michael didn’t answer him immediately. He just stood there looking at him. Under the man’s gaze, Kelvin felt the first flush of shame wash over him.
‘Did you hear that, Declan? He’s twenty-six years old, for fuck’s sake.’
Declan Costello knew how to play the game, so he said nonchalantly, ‘I heard him all right.’
‘Fucking amazing though, isn’t it, Declan? Twenty-six, and a completely fucking useless cunt. That has got to hurt your old man – he has to be ashamed of you, Kelvin. Can I call you Kelvin, by the way?’
Kelvin McCarthy nodded his agreement. He didn’t know what else to do; he had never been in a situation like this in his life. ‘’Course you can. It’s my name, after all.’ He tried to lighten the heavy atmosphere that permeated the room, acting like he wasn’t bothered about being trussed up like a chicken and unable to move.
Michael Flynn stared at him for long moments. Kelvin McCarthy watched him warily. His eyes were ice cold; he looked capable of anything. Kelvin knew instinctively that he was. He possessed no fear of anyone or anything.
‘You can call me Mr Flynn.’
Kelvin McCarthy was suddenly feeling very frightened, and that was an alien concept to him. All his life, he had been cushioned by his name. Now he was feeling the terror that being at the mercy of a man like Michael Flynn could elicit. Kelvin McCarthy was a coward really. He had always traded on his father’s name, and that had been enough to get him what he wanted, and guarantee him a level of protection. He wasn’t so sure about that any more. But he still believed that, whatever happened, no one would harm him because his father was Christie McCarthy, and that alone gave him the criminal equivalent of diplomatic status. His father’s name and his reputation was like money in the bank. He had worked with everyone who mattered, from Jack Spot to the Krays and the Richardsons, and had carved for himself a unique place in the world of villainy. He provided a service that no one else could even attempt to emulate. His word was his bond. His whole business relied on his reputation as a man of the utmost integrity, who could be trusted without question. That was his father’s main strength, and why his father was so respected in his world. It was also why he felt that even someone like Michael Flynn would think twice before he did anything that might cause a rift between them.
Kelvin watched Michael warily. The man was completely relaxed, and that alone was unnerving. He was acting as if this was an everyday occurrence.
‘So, Kelvin, what do you think I should do with you?’
Declan Costello walked from the room, and busied himself pouring them both large whiskies. He had a feeling they were going to need them. Michael was baiting the boy, and he hoped that Kelvin had the brain capacity to give him the answers he expected. He didn’t hold out much hope though – he could see the boy was rattled.
Michael accepted the glass of whisky from Declan, and took a large gulp. He was enjoying Kelvin’s fear. He needed to be made aware of his actions. ‘I mean, think about it from my point of view. You came into my club, and you then caused a big fucking scene. You even had the fucking audacity to pull a gun on a very good friend of mine. I mean, think about it logically, Kelvin. I can’t let this go, can I?’
Kelvin McCarthy was hurting everywhere. He was bound tightly, and he couldn’t move his arms at all. He was also tired out. He had the hangover from hell, and Michael Flynn was treating him like a fucking no one. He was threatening him, and Kelvin McCarthy felt that he should remind the man of who he was actually dealing with. He was scared, but he was also aware that his father would not allow anything to happen to him. His natural arrogance was coming to the fore. He was safe as the proverbial houses. Michael Flynn wasn’t going to really harm him – he wouldn’t dare. His dad had always stepped in and smoothed everything over. He had stepped over the line, and he would have to pay dearly when his dad learnt the whole story. But that was the point – his dad would ultimately be the one to punish him for his sins, no one else. That is how it had always been.
He sighed theatrically. He could feign abject contrition in his sleep; he had been doing it since he was fifteen and his dad had found out he was a thief. ‘Look, Mr Flynn, I admit it. I fucked up big time. It won’t happen again, believe me. I have learnt my lesson the hard way. But this is dragging on too long now, OK? My joints are screaming with pain, and I can’t feel my hands. I’ve been tied up like this for fucking hours. My dad will be wondering where I am. The people I was with last night will eventually have to tell him what happened – that’s if he hasn’t heard already, of course – but I will explain to him that it was all my fault. I swear to you both, on my mother’s life, that I will walk away from this without any malice towards you whatsoever.’
Michael Flynn listened to him intently, but he showed no reaction to his speech.
Declan walked from the room slowly and, once more, seated himself behind the big old desk that his brother had bought at an auction years before. He picked up the bottle of Glenfiddich and poured himself out another generous measure. He knocked it back quickly, and immediately poured himself out another large glass. The dawn was breaking. He could hear cars in the distance, the sound of people going to work, to jobs that paid the same wage week after week, year after fucking year. It was completely alien to him, that kind of life. But, as Patrick had always said, without people like them, Britain would be fucked. They were the people who kept the country going, who worked in the industries that made Britain great. They were the backbone of the country; without them and the work ethic they possessed, Patrick had always said Britain would die on its feet. There was a beautiful logic in there somewhere, a brutal truth that couldn’t be denied. He sighed heavily, and looked at Michael warily. He was still standing there, not even a movement or a word to indicate he had heard anything that Kelvin McCarthy had said.
Michael could see the confusion on Kelvin’s smug face. He had expected a reaction to his little speech. But Michael knew, deep in his heart, that he was never going to give this ponce a swerve. He looked at the man once more. He had everything a man could want. He was big, handsome, he had a fuck-off head of hair, and a father who would have gladly given him the earth on a plate. But he viewed his own father as nothing more than a fucking weapon, used him as a guarantee so he would never have to pay for his mistakes personally. That a man like Christie McCarthy could produce such a fucking weak-willed, avaricious, lazy, vicious, useless ponce like this was beyond Michael’s ken. He would rather be childless than have to own up to fathering someone as heinous as Kelvin McCarthy. Even now, the man thought his name could excuse everything he had done. Michael was so disgusted, and so ashamed for Christie McCarthy, a truly great man. To know that he had produced such a fucking ingrate must be the worst thing a man could experience.
Michael went into the office where Declan was sitting quietly and, pulling out an old chair from the back of the room, he sat opposite him, and held out his empty g
lass. Declan filled it for him, and they both smiled suddenly.
‘Patrick would never have sat there like you. He just couldn’t have done that, Michael, you know? He had to be in the position of power always. This is the first time I have ever sat behind this desk! What does that say about me?’
Michael laughed. ‘I know that better than anyone, believe me. It wasn’t deliberate, Declan. It was just his nature. He had worked hard for his position in life, and it meant a lot to him.’
Declan could see the truth of that, and he was amazed that Michael had understood his brother so well, and what made him tick. ‘You’re right. Patrick always wanted more. Nothing would ever be enough for him. Like you!’
‘I suppose so.’
Michael got up and, walking to the main door, he picked up a crowbar that was always there in case of emergencies.
Declan shrugged. ‘This will cause a lot of trouble, Michael, but you know that, don’t you?’
Michael was busy feeling the weight of his chosen weapon, moving it from hand to hand. He grinned. ‘I know that, Declan. But even Christie McCarthy will have to accept that this time his boy has trodden on the wrong fucking toes. I can’t swallow this, and neither can you. It was a blatant fucking public outrage. I will sort Christie McCarthy out, if necessary. But, whatever happens, that cunt in there is on his way out.’
Declan shrugged. He had expected this from the off. It was why he had brought the man here, and sent everyone involved home. This was not going to end happily for anyone concerned.
Michael went through to the back office a few minutes later. He had finished his drink first.
The first blow split Kelvin’s head open, the second exposed his brain. He was dead almost immediately, so then Michael concentrated on the man’s body. He was going to make an example of him. No one was going to be in any doubt about what was in store for them if they dared to cross him.