Revenge

by Martina Cole

  Josephine was nearly in tears now. He forced himself to lower his voice, calm down. ‘I’ve got a couple of lads coming round today. They are going to move all the boxes into the garages, OK? I want this place clear when I get home tonight. It’s not a fucking depot, all right? It’s our home.’

  She didn’t answer him, just looked at him with those huge pained eyes.

  ‘I’m sorry, darling, but it’s arranged now.’ He stood up, playing with his little daughter, determined not to look at his wife and cave in as per usual. This time the house was being cleared, he was going to make sure of that. One of the rooms off the kitchen was a spacious old-fashioned larder. There were over sixty jars of jam on the shelves, forty jars of honey and, more worryingly, he had counted thirty-two tin openers in one of the drawers. Everywhere he looked, there was evidence of her hoarding, and it scared him more than he liked to admit. It wasn’t normal. He had seen her wiping the tins over with a damp cloth, and placing them back into the boxes they had arrived in. Who the fuck did things like that? He had to put his foot down. They had a child to look out for now. She needed to start getting with the program. He had hoped that her finally having a baby would have sorted out her eccentricities, but instead it seemed to have exacerbated them. He loved her more than life itself, but he knew that things were not right.

  ‘She’s getting to be a right lump, isn’t she?’

  Josephine nodded. ‘She is. Like I said, she loves her grub.’

  ‘Well, she won’t fucking starve in this house, will she?’ He laughed as he spoke, trying to lighten the mood, but Josephine didn’t react in any way at all.

  Chapter Sixty-Two

  Declan was extremely irritated – almost fuming, in fact – and that was a very unusual occurrence for him. He was a man who rarely let anything throw him off kilter. He saw that as a weakness, a character flaw – not that he had ever said that out loud. His brother and Michael were his polar opposite in that respect. Chasing the dollar was why people like them got up in the morning.

  Well, he liked the world he had created for himself. He ran a good business, and he ran it very well. Declan believed wholeheartedly that he had more than enough for his needs. He earned a good wedge, he had shagged more women than he could shake a tenner at, and he genuinely liked his life. He didn’t want marriage or children really. He was happy enough playing the eternal bachelor. What he didn’t like was discord, especially among the ranks. He was very easy going, but the people who worked for him knew that, if they pushed their luck, he was capable of great vengeance if the need should arise.

  But now Michael Flynn needed a serious fucking talking to and he was going to give it to him, please or offend. This should never have been allowed to go so far, and Michael knew that better than anyone. It took a lot to make Declan angry but, when he finally succumbed to anger, he could be a very dangerous individual. Michael would do well to remember that.

  He glanced at his watch. Michael was already over an hour late, and that added to his irritation. Tardiness was the greatest insult of them all; arrangements were made to suit those concerned – it was the height of rudeness to overlook other people’s needs.

  He heard Michael arrive; he hailed people as always with his usual bonhomie and smiling face, but Declan knew Michael Flynn was not the amiable, hail-fellow-well-met cunt that he pretended to be. He was a vicious fucker, who could pass in company as a well-heeled, well-dressed businessman. And that was fine, so long as he remembered that, while he had been playing happy families for the last six months, he had inadvertently dropped the proverbial ball. He had a fucking seriously damaging break in his ranks, and it needed to be addressed sooner rather than later.

  Josephine’s problems were common knowledge and as much as everyone felt for him – after all, no one wanted a fucking nutbag on the team – Michael needed to remember the golden rule: family life came second to everything else.

  As Michael made his entrance into the office, it took all of Declan Costello’s willpower to stop himself from smacking him one. If ever a man needed to be brought down a peg, Michael Flynn was that man.

  Chapter Sixty-Three

  Hannah was holding her granddaughter on her lap, amazed at the love she felt for the child. The only other person to ever make her feel such overpowering love had been her son, and where had that got her? But little Jessie had crept into her heart, and now the thought of being parted from her was a real torment. She had even tempered her usual sarcastic remarks, frightened that if she pushed too far the child would be taken beyond her reach.

  She could see herself in her, although no one else would admit that. She had her eyes, and her own mother’s cupid bow lips. It was unbelievable really, the child’s hold on her. Hannah adored her, and that was something she had never envisaged.

  Hannah watched surreptitiously as Josephine oversaw the removal of her boxes of crap from the house. Not before time either, as far as she was concerned; it was like an obstacle course to get in, and Michael should have put his foot down years ago. She could see the panic in her daughter-in-law’s eyes as the house was gradually emptied of her purchases. Despite herself, she actually felt sorry for the girl. Anyone would think she was being asked to give her family away. For the first time, Hannah realised that her daughter-in-law had a real problem.

  ‘Come and sit down, Josephine. I’ve hardly spoken to you since I got here!’

  Josephine looked at her in distress. ‘I’ll be with you in a minute, Hannah. I just need to make sure that everything is put away properly, where I can find it . . .’

  Hannah stood up with the child in her arms, and walked to where her daughter-in-law was standing. She was at the back door and, as she went to follow the young men out to the garage, Hannah grabbed her by the arm.

  ‘Leave it be. I don’t want to upset you, but you’re acting strange, love. These young men Michael sent here to move everything out of the house can see how strange you’re acting. People talk, love, you know that as well as I do. Don’t give them the opportunity for a story. If not for yourself, then for Michael. He can’t be seen as having any kind of weakness. Now, come and sit down, and I’ll make a fresh pot of tea.’

  Josephine knew that the woman was right; she wasn’t acting rationally. She shouldn’t care about what was happening. But it wasn’t that easy. She couldn’t help the way she felt. Watching everything leave the house was like witnessing the death of a loved one. She felt bereft and vulnerable.

  Hannah pulled her gently away from the door. ‘Sit down and nurse your baby. I can see how hard this is for you, Josephine, but you have to let it go.’ She passed the child to her daughter-in-law, and watched as her natural maternal instincts took over.

  Josephine sat down at the kitchen table and Hannah breathed a sigh of relief. Little Jessie was so good-natured, and she thanked God for that much at least. She wasn’t a cross child and rarely cried.

  ‘She is so contented, Josephine. I’ve never seen such a contented child in all my born days. That is all down to you, and your wonderful mothering.’

  It was the right thing to say. Josephine smiled with pleasure at her words, and Hannah Flynn finally understood the reason her son loved this girl so much. She literally didn’t have a bad bone in her body. She felt a moment’s shame at the way she had treated her over the years. She had never given the girl a chance. She had always resented the way she had replaced her in her son’s affections. It was only Jessie’s birth that had softened her up. Now she saw the girl as she really was – a frightened young woman, who needed her kindness and understanding. She was a troubled soul, all right, and she needed help. Her Michael knew that and if Hannah had not been so selfish, so bitter, he would have turned to her for help. Instead he had protected the girl from her, knowing she didn’t have a great opinion of her anyway. For the first time ever, Hannah felt truly guilty.

  Chapter Sixty-Four

  Michael held his hands out in a gesture of supplication. He knew that his late arrival would
not be overlooked by Declan – tardiness was his pet hate.

  ‘I’m sorry, Declan, but I had to sort some stuff out at home.’

  Michael looked immaculate as always; the man had clearly spent a long time on his appearance. It was Michael Flynn’s only vanity, he never looked anything other than perfect. Declan knew that his haphazard approach to life was the antithesis of Michael’s. Declan was getting larger by the month and he had never been what anyone would call a looker. Unlike Michael Flynn, however, he didn’t care about that. Michael, though, looked every inch the part of the well-heeled Face, from the expensive gold watch to his perfect haircut.

  ‘You know why I called this meeting, so let’s not fuck about, eh?’

  Michael laughed at his friend’s attitude; only Declan would dare to talk to him like that – only Declan could get away with it. He shook his head slowly in mock disbelief. ‘OK, hold your fucking horses! It’s sorted, all right?’ He was being deliberately contrite, apologising without saying a word.

  ‘I’m gonna need a bit more than that, Michael, and you fucking know it.’

  The smile was gone now, and Declan was reminded of just how hazardous confronting someone like Michael Flynn could be. Like Patrick, his late brother, the man was capable of literally anything if crossed. He would do well to remember that, even if he had the man’s respect and his affection.

  ‘I know what you’re saying, Declan. Believe me, I’ve tried to build bridges. I’ve given them every opportunity to sort the situation out between them. Jeffrey Palmer was willing to swallow his knob. He knew he had dropped a humungous fucking bollock from the off. But Jermaine O’Shay has been a real pain. He just won’t let it go – not even for me.’

  Declan sat down suddenly, and looked out of the large picture window that had a really magnificent view over the river. It was a cold day, overcast, a typical March morning. The threat of spring was in the air, and London looked like shit. He sighed. He could already see exactly where this was going. If Michael Flynn requested a personal favour, he expected the person to agree immediately.

  ‘So what are you saying, Michael?’

  Michael dragged a chair over to where Declan was sitting, and settled in beside him. Then, after a few moments, he said quietly, ‘I’ve thought about this long and hard. I even asked Jermaine, as a friend, to overlook Jeffrey’s faux pas, put it behind him. They are both good men. But he won’t.’

  Declan looked at Michael, saw the suppressed anger in his face, and the way that Michael was trying to hide it. But Declan knew him too well. ‘So what are you going to do about it?’

  Michael grinned amiably, all white teeth and stunning good looks. ‘What else can I do, Declan? I have been left with no fucking choice. They have to go.’

  It was as Declan had expected. He couldn’t change anything even if he wanted to. ‘I see. Both men are well connected. It will be noticed.’

  Michael smiled easily once again. ‘I should hope so too! This is a fucking warning, mate. It’s my way, or no way.’

  Declan watched quietly as Michael picked imaginary dirt from his trousers using his manicured nails, pretending everything was normal.

  ‘When are you going to do it?’

  Michael looked over the river; he loved this view, he loved these offices. They spelt success to him. His legitimate businesses were booming, and that was important. He knew that if you earned enough legit money, it made it so much harder for anyone to find a reason to investigate your finances. He paid a lot of money out to keep his life on track – not just to accountants and secretarial staff, but also to the police, and the people the police dealt with. But it was worth every penny spent. He had more Filth and CPS on his bankroll than the Metropolitan Police Force. He paid off people all over the country. It made good business sense.

  He looked at Declan, knew that the man was not sure about the latest developments. That wasn’t unexpected, but he knew Declan would go along with him as always. ‘We are going to do it tonight, mate. I’ve arranged a sit down at the scrapyard.’

  Declan nodded his agreement, as Michael knew he would.

  ‘I think I’ve been good, actually. Normally, I would have taken them out much earlier. But now I’ve had enough.’

  Chapter Sixty-Five

  Jermaine O’Shay was wary. He didn’t trust Michael Flynn as far as he could throw him. As far as Jermaine was concerned, Palmer should have been removed from the equation the minute he fucked up. But Michael Flynn had been determined to find a way to sort everything out. He had understood Jermaine’s problem – had agreed with him, sympathised – but he had still wanted him to let it go. He had even asked him to swallow as a personal favour to him.

  As if that was ever going to happen. Jeffrey Palmer wasn’t a cunt, but by the same token, he had tried to treat Jermaine like one. Palmer had a good rep, was well-liked, but then so was he. This was about respect, and Michael Flynn needed to understand that. His assurance that he had sorted everything out just wasn’t good enough. It had gone pear-shaped from day one. Palmer had tried to tuck him up and there was no way Jermaine O’Shay was going to back down. He was going mob-handed to this meet and, if it all went off, he would be prepared.

  Chapter Sixty-Six

  Jeffrey Palmer sipped his whisky, and felt himself relax. This had not been anything like he had expected. Declan and Michael were both friendly and chatty, making sure he was comfortable, asking if he needed anything else.

  The scrapyard was legendary, and this was the first time he had been there. Everyone knew that this was where Michael and Patrick had conducted their real business. It was also a big earner in its own right; he had been told that over a million pounds worth of scrap went through the place every year.

  ‘I hope we can sort everything tonight, Jeff. I don’t like discord within my workforce. It causes unnecessary aggro for everyone.’

  Jeffrey sipped his drink, savouring the taste of the whisky. ‘You know I don’t want it either, mate. I dropped a fucking big bollock, and if I could fucking take it back I would. I just got a bit overenthusiastic, that’s all. I was blinded by the earn.’

  Michael laughed at the man’s honesty. ‘Well, you will know for the future.’

  The headlights from a car played over the ceiling, and Michael got up from his chair behind the dilapidated desk, and walked to the door. Opening it wide, he said gaily, ‘Get yourself in, mate. It’s fucking freezing.’

  Jermaine got out of his car, and Michael saw he had two men with him. They were both close to Jermaine O’Shay, had worked for him for years. Michael Flynn ushered them into the Portakabin, before closing the door. Then, rubbing his hands together noisily, he said jovially, ‘It’s fucking taters out there tonight, all right. Colder than a witch’s tit.’

  The Portakabin was warm and inviting. Motioning to Jermaine with his hands, Michael watched as he sat down in the only other available chair. His two minders stood awkwardly by the doorway. The Portakabin was already filled to capacity; none of the men there were exactly small.

  ‘I thought I said to come alone, Jermaine?’ Michael’s voice was cold now. His face without his usual smile, without any emotion whatsoever, looked very different, like a mask.

  Jermaine O’Shay was not going to be intimidated. He had two of his best men with him and he was here to fight his corner, and remind Michael of who he worked with, and why he was so well thought of. He was partner to some of the hardest men who walked the earth. This was not a fucking friendly sit down, as far as he was concerned. This was him, making a point, once and for all. This had gone on too long now, and he was bored with it.

  ‘Well, as you can see, Michael, I didn’t. I haven’t come here to negotiate.’

  Alarm bells rang for Jeffrey Palmer – there was going to be trouble. He swallowed the last of his whisky quickly. He could see that Declan Costello was as nervous as he was. This was not going to end well, he knew that much.

  Michael laughed gently. ‘Do you know what, Jermaine? I fucki
ng knew you would come mob-handed. I said that to you, didn’t I, Declan?’

  Declan nodded his agreement. ‘You did at that, Michael. That’s why we made provision for just such a situation.’

  Jermaine O’Shay frowned. This was not what he was expecting at all.

  Declan got up and opened the door that led to the other office.

  Michael Flynn called out happily, ‘Come in, guys, your moment in the spotlight has arrived at last.’

  When Jermaine O’Shay saw the Barker brothers enter, he felt his heart sink like a stone in his chest. There were four Barker brothers, they were each born within a five-year period, and looked like clones. They were all over six foot, heavily built, with a natural penchant for extreme violence. Born from a Jamaican father, and a second-generation Dutch mother, they were handsome fucks, with coffee-coloured skin and dark blue eyes. They were Michael Flynn’s private army, and he paid them well. He had their loyalty but, more importantly, he had their friendship. They only worked for the people they wanted to; they were known throughout England as men of courage, men of good character who couldn’t be owned. They had always stood alone, and that was why they were so sought after. Now they were standing there with machetes in their hands, and smiles on their faces, eager to get down to business.

  ‘I think this is what is called in France, a fait accompli. Basically, mate, you’re fucked.’

  Jermaine looked at his men then, still expecting them to back him up. But they were both standing by the doorway, staring straight ahead.

  Michael shrugged nonchalantly. ‘I asked you to swallow, Jermaine, but you refused. Months of aggro you’ve given me.’

  Jermaine O’Shay was still not going to be intimidated. ‘You know I deserve better than this, Michael. Remember who I work for.’