Revenge

by Martina Cole

  Michael Flynn walked them out to a private car five minutes later and, winking lewdly at a very drunken Salvatore Ferreira, he waved them off gratefully. He had done his bit, and now he could finally concentrate on the other business of the night. He was being driven by a young lad called Davey Dawkins, a good kid, who drove the car without ever trying to start a conversation. Michael appreciated that tonight more than usual. He was so angry he was quite literally capable of murder.

  Chapter Seventy-Six

  Josephine couldn’t sleep – it was a long time since she had slept through the night. Even sleeping tablets didn’t work any more. She had her own bedroom now. When Michael was out all hours, she didn’t have to go to bed without him and pretend everything was OK. She could come in here and watch her TV programmes, sit in peace surrounded by her private things – her ‘knick knacks’, as Jessie called them. Though they weren’t really knick knacks as such. The boxes she kept in here were full of important papers and magazines. She also had all of her daughter’s school work from the first day she had attended – all her pictures, drawings, report cards. She even had the wrappers from sweets her daughter had eaten over the years. She couldn’t part with them. Michael didn’t think keeping everything Jessie had ever touched was normal. She didn’t care. He didn’t understand the bond between a mother and her child. She had every item of clothing that her daughter had worn. It was boxed up now, of course, washed and ironed. She knew exactly where everything was – every Babygro, every bib, everything she had kept she could find should she wish to.

  Her bed was a double, with an antique mother-of-pearl headboard, and crisp white linen. There was no other furniture in here now, except for her chair and her TV. She didn’t need anything else; she was quite happy to give the extra room over to her boxes of memories.

  Sitting in here she was surrounded by her whole life. Michael hated it. He felt she dwelt too much on the past, when she should be enjoying the present or looking forward to the future. It was hard for him to understand how attached she was to her treasures. He was different to her; his life was mainly lived outside the house – he was always off somewhere – and he wanted her to be the same. Her journeys out into the world were getting rarer and rarer; she preferred the comfort and safety of her own home. She didn’t drive much any more either, she only got into the car if she had to for her daughter’s benefit. She knew, deep inside, that she was gradually becoming even more of a recluse, but she didn’t care. She had all she needed here in her own home.

  She looked down at her legs; they were still shapely. She was a good-looking woman, and she took good care of herself – she always put on her make-up and dressed well. Michael still wanted her; he enjoyed her body as he had years before. She still wanted him, and loved the feel of his arms around her. But she had no desire to go out with him any more. She cooked him meals that a professional chef would be proud of, she always made sure the table was dressed with everything from the finest glassware to the best linen. She kept a home for him that was the envy of many a man. All she asked in return was that he allowed her to live her life her own way.

  She walked over to the French doors and, opening them, she went out to the small balcony. Sitting at the table, she looked at the sky. It was a clear night, the moon was full, and the stars were glittering above her. She shivered in the cold night air and, picking up the glass of white wine she had left out there earlier, she took a deep drink. Jessie was asleep, and she envied her daughter for a few moments. It had been so long since she had really slept, she had forgotten what it was like. She wished she didn’t suffer from insomnia, that she could get into bed and relax like everyone else. Just to lie down and drift off peacefully was a luxury she couldn’t enjoy any more. Instead, she was wide awake, straining her ears for the sound of her husband’s car crunching on the drive. Once he was home safe, she always felt better.

  It was when she was alone in the night like this that she couldn’t stop herself thinking about things she knew were better left alone. Michael’s lifestyle frightened her; she remembered late at night that the world he inhabited was a violent, bloody world. It was a world that she knew he loved, and one that she had never truly understood until the night she had seen him as he really was, covered in blood, and calmly washing it away without any emotion whatsoever. She had helped him – it had been instinctive; she had done what a wife in her position was expected to do for the man she had married. But it was a moment that changed everything. After that night, she had suffered from violent nightmares for weeks, and that was when her insomnia had begun. She was afraid of sleeping, afraid of the nightmares that would take hold, and she had never recovered. His lifestyle, what she knew he was capable of, terrified her. She’d thought she’d understood; seeing it first-hand was completely different.

  She knew he would never harm her or his daughter; he loved them more than anything in the world, but that, in itself, was part of the problem. She didn’t feel she could live up to his expectations of her, she hadn’t even been able to give him a child for years. Now she worried that he saw her need for staying at home as a flaw. It was, she supposed, but it was how she coped. Even though he never said anything to her outright, she knew that her refusals to accompany him anywhere hurt his feelings. She didn’t want to do that to him – she loved him with all her heart. But it was getting harder and harder for her to venture outside her home. Just picking up Jessie tonight had been so nerve-racking that when she had finally got back to the house, she had been sweating profusely.

  Every day, her world shrank a bit more. She could only ever really feel safe inside her own home, with all her things around her. This need she had to feel safe was powerful. She had to step away from the world that Michael inhabited. It was a world that had gradually crippled her.

  She just didn’t want to fight it any more. Tonight she had made her mind up, admitted the truth to herself at last, and made a firm decision not to leave her sanctuary again. She felt almost tearful with joy. Michael would eventually accept her decision. Michael would never risk her actually telling him the truth, the real reason why she was like this.

  Picking up her empty wine glass she went back into the warmth of the house. She would have another glass of wine, and watch a nice DVD. That was how she passed the hours away, because sleep was a luxury that all the money in the world couldn’t buy.

  Chapter Seventy-Seven

  Jack Cornel was drunk, and he was not a friendly drunk at the best of times. He was, in actual fact, a paranoid drunk, looking for problems where none existed, and willing to follow his hatred wherever it might take him. He was already looking for a row, a reason to kick off. He had been waiting all night for that ponce Flynn to arrive and now he was bored. He had come to London to take out Michael Flynn. Every time he thought about it he felt the excitement stir in his belly. This was going to give him and his brother the kudos that they craved. He wanted to step into the limelight, show people what he was capable of, convince the world that he was not a man to be ignored.

  Cecil was also drunk. Unlike his older brother, though, drink mellowed him out. He loved the world, and everyone in it. Jack watched as Cecil staggered to the men’s room, all smiles and camaraderie. He was disgusted by his brother’s antics – he was like a fucking big girl’s blouse, so gormless it was embarrassing to watch him. Jack Cornel had one thing in his favour: even as drunk as a skunk, he was shrewd, and he never missed a chance that came his way. He had an in-built cunning that copious amounts of alcohol seemed to bring to the fore; he was one of the few people who actually functioned far better while under the influence of alcohol.

  Glancing around, he noticed that the club was already almost empty. When he saw the doorman watching him, he knew immediately, without any doubt whatsoever, that there was something radically wrong. Years of living round two hopeless alcoholics had prepared him for the worst, and it had also taught him the need to have an escape plan at all times. He had not trusted the two young fellows who promis
ed him Michael Flynn on a plate. He had felt from the off that they were just stooges. But he had counted on them producing the man in question at some point. He would then have happily taken his chance and, as he was in possession of two firearms, he felt his chances were much better than average; all he needed was a decent shot. He wasn’t about to play games – he just wanted to get in there, take the fucker out, and then bask in the glory.

  Now, though, he felt the cold fingers of fear on his neck. There was something more going on here. He swallowed down his drink quickly, before turning to his young hosts and saying craftily, ‘I need a piss, lads, and I need to make sure that my little brother is still capable of cognitive thoughts and behaviour! Fill us up again – the night is young.’

  He walked towards the men’s room slowly and carefully, knowing he was being observed from all angles. Inside the toilet, he looked at his younger brother, who was trying unsuccessfully to drain his bladder without soiling himself and his trousers too badly.

  Cecil looked in the mirror at his brother and he grinned idiotically. ‘What a fucking great night, bruv!’

  Jack Cornel rolled his eyes. His brother was never a man who could hold a drink inside him – he either pissed it out, or spewed it all over the floor. It was a cross he always had to bear, but tonight it annoyed him more than usual. Ignoring his brother, he walked into the stall. There was a window in there. It took him two minutes to open it – someone had painted it shut, so he had to use his penknife to open it. Once it was open he stood on the toilet bowl and climbed outside, calling to his brother to follow him. They found themselves in a small alleyway. Scaling a three-foot wall that took them on to another level, Jack grabbed his brother none too gently by the arm and pulled them both up a flight of rickety stairs until, finally, they were out on the street.

  ‘What’s going on, Jack?’

  Jack Cornel didn’t even bother to answer.

  By the time they were missed, the two brothers were long gone.

  Chapter Seventy-Eight

  ‘What do you mean, Declan? How could you have fucking lost them?’

  Michael Flynn was genuinely perplexed. This wasn’t happening, surely? The Cornels were fucking idiots. How the fuck had they escaped?

  Declan Costello was mortified; this was like amateur night. ‘Look, Michael, that Jack is a lot more fucking with-it than we gave him credit for. He followed his brother into the john, and they went out the fucking window. No one could have foreseen that.’

  Michael Flynn was looking at Declan Costello as if he had never seen him before in his life. He was so outraged at the man’s complete fucking dereliction of his duty, he wasn’t sure he could be trusted not to hammer him into the ground.

  ‘This is fucking unbelievable! I have been entertaining the Colombians all night. All you had to do was keep an eye on two northern fucking wankers, and you are telling me that they outwitted you? They scrambled out of the crapper window, and no one fucking noticed anything? Are you telling me no one was outside?’

  Declan shook his head in abject denial; he was reeling with amazement. He had kept a low profile, waiting for Michael to arrive, and now it was completely fucking naused up in the worst way possible.

  ‘Was he armed?’

  Declan nodded once again. ‘He had two firearms, a Glock, and a smaller handgun.’

  Michael laughed sarcastically. ‘Oh, that is just fucking great. Just what I need – a drunken fucking northerner after my blood, running the streets of London without a care in the fucking world. You useless crowd of cunts. If anything happens to cause problems with Salvatore, I will personally hunt every fucker involved down, and I will kill them myself.’

  Declan looked around. Everyone in the club was looking at the floor; no one wanted to catch Michael’s eye, or bring his wrath down on their heads.

  Michael was in total shock. He was in the process of making a deal with one of the most dangerous men on the planet, and nothing – nothing – could go wrong. If Salvatore Ferreira thought that there was even a minuscule chance of aggro he would back off faster than a transvestite at a tractor pull. Salvatore had travelled to England because he had been assured that nothing could happen to him while he was here. If he was dragged into a police investigation because the Cornel brothers decided they wanted to chance their arm, it would cause murders – literally.

  ‘Get out there, Declan. I want everyone we have on our payroll looking for them. There’s a twenty grand bonus on each of the Cornels’ heads. Find them, and find them soon. I’m going home. I assume you already have people watching my drum? The last thing we need is my wife and daughter put in the frame.’

  Declan nodded. ‘’Course. Give me some credit, for Christ’s sake.’

  Michael stormed out of the club and, as soon as he was gone, Declan turned to the doorman. They were terrified for their lives, knowing they had made a major fuck-up.

  ‘Patsy, get on the blower and get four of your guys over to Michael’s drum sooner rather than later. I will organise geting everyone out on the pavements. We need to find the Cornels and, when we do, I will fucking skin the bastards alive myself.’

  Chapter Seventy-Nine

  Jessie Flynn woke up suddenly and, turning on her bedside lamp, she listened intently. Whatever had woken her from her sleep was still going on. She could hear her mother’s voice shouting at someone. Her mother never shouted at anyone. She was one of the most inoffensive people on the planet. This was not something she had ever experienced before in her life. But she could hear panic and fright in her mum’s voice.

  Jumping out of bed, she ran from her bedroom, and across the large landing to her mother’s room. ‘What’s happening, Mum? What’s going on?’

  Josephine was at her balcony doors and, at the sound of her daughter’s voice, she turned quickly towards her, saying quietly, ‘Go back to your room, darling, and lock your door. Don’t argue with me, just do what I say.’

  Josephine didn’t want the men on her drive to know her daughter was in the house with her. They were after trouble. They wanted Michael, and she knew they were not leaving without a fight.

  ‘Have you phoned the police, Mum?’

  Josephine shook her head angrily. ‘’Course not, and don’t you either! Just do what I said, will you!’ She was almost shouting at her daughter now, and Jessie was getting more frightened by the second.

  She could hear a man’s voice shouting angrily, ‘I’m warning you, lady, open the fucking door or I’m blasting my way in.’

  Jessie watched in shocked amazement as her mother shouted back loudly, ‘Go on then, I dare you. But it won’t be easy. A fucking cannon couldn’t get through there. My husband will fucking be here any minute, and he will kill you. He will fucking take you out, mate, and laugh while he does it.’

  She shut the balcony doors and pulled the wooden shutters across, locking them quickly. Then, as she ran from the room, Jessie followed her mother down the stairs, and into her father’s office.

  ‘Mum, we need to phone the police!’

  ‘No, we don’t! They are the last people we want on the fucking doorstep!’

  Jessie Flynn couldn’t believe her ears. ‘Mum! We need to get the police here now!’

  Josephine was opening the large safe Michael used for his cash, and Jessie watched as her mother removed a large shotgun. Priming it expertly, she pushed her daughter out of the door roughly and, standing in the hallway with the gun aimed at the front door, she bellowed, ‘For the last time, Jessie, will you do what you’re told for once. We don’t need the police, OK? I’ve already rung for help. Now will you just move it!’

  Jessie heard the urgency in her mother’s voice, and she ran up the staircase quickly, but she turned at the top of the landing, and watched her mother – her quiet, kind-hearted mother – calmly lock all the downstairs doors, before she once more positioned herself in the centre of the hallway, the gun cocked, her lovely face set into a grimace of hate.

  This was unbelievable
– it was like something from a TV programme! There were men outside trying to get in, trying to burgle them and, instead of phoning the police, her mum was preparing to take them on single-handed. It was wrong. It was terrifying. This was something that the police should be dealing with, surely? Her dad knew the police, they were always round the house having meetings with him.

  She was shaking with fear now. She sat on the top stair and, pulling her nightdress over her knees, she watched her mother as if she had never seen her before. And she hadn’t – not this mother, anyway. This was a woman Jessie had never met before. This was a woman Jessie was actually frightened of.

  She heard glass shattering – the men had smashed through the back door. She saw her mother turn towards the locked and bolted kitchen door, the gun poised, and ready to discharge. This was a nightmare. None of this was happening.

  ‘I’m armed, and I will blow you away, you bastards. I’m warning you now. Go while you still have a chance.’