by Martina Cole
Donna nodded. She opened her bag and checked over her make-up, talking all the while.
‘Where are we off to now?’
They were once more cruising along Argyle Street.
‘Me and you are going to have a nice meal in a Chinky I know. It’s the Amber House Restaurant - you’ll love it. The best Malaysian food this side of the Clyde.’
Donna was delighted. ‘I’m starving. We haven’t eaten since that ham sandwich this afternoon, and the amount we’ve drunk!’ Her voice was slightly louder than usual and Alan laughed gently.
‘One thing in my favour, Donna, I could always handle me drink. I take after me old man in that way.’
Donna moved sideways in her seat so she could look at him as he drove.
‘Do you come up this way a lot? Only everyone seems to know you and Georgio.’
Alan carried on talking as if he hadn’t heard her. ‘My old man could drink anyone under the table. In fact, it was a scam he used. In a pub, right, my old man would bet the biggest navvy in the place that he could drink him under the table. He’d put a ton on the bar and ask him to match it. Then he’d drink the fucker under the table!’
He snorted at the skulduggery of his father. ‘Old ponce he was, I hated him.’
He pulled into a parking space and said gaily, ‘Here we are then, girl. The Amber House.’
A few minutes later they were sitting inside the restaurant. The proprietor knew Alan and he showed them to a quiet table. Donna lit a cigarette. Leaning on the table she said, ‘You didn’t answer my question, Alan. Do you come up this way very often, and how come everyone knows Georgio? If you don’t answer me I might start doing a little bit of investigating myself.’
Her voice was jocular, but he heard the steely undertone.
‘You smoke too much, lady.’
Donna gave a nasty little laugh that jolted him.
‘You must think I’m stupid, Alan Cox. I’m a grown woman, and I want an answer to my bloody question! I’m not a child to be put off with anecdotes and smarmy references to my general health and well-being! Now, are you going to answer me?’
He sipped his scotch and grinned annoyingly. ‘Why do you always want to know everything? Why can’t you just get this little lot sorted out and be done with it? Jesus, I don’t envy Georgio being married to you, love. It must feel like being shacked up with someone in the CPS. Always asking questions - questions, I might add, you probably wouldn’t like the answers to.’
The moment he said the words he regretted them. It was the drink speaking and he knew it.
But he did honestly wish she wouldn’t keep asking questions he couldn’t answer. In fact, the only person who should answer them was Georgio, and he wasn’t saying anything!
‘Thanks a lot, Alan, it’s really nice to know I can trust you so much and that the feeling is mutual. Everywhere we go, people look at me as if I am an interesting specimen. Annie, Jonnie H., Nick, even poor dumb Albie. They all know you and Georgio. Yet I ask you one civil question and you talk down to me like I’m dirt. You afford a greater measure of respect to rent boys and ex-prostitutes from Shepherd’s Market. Now, if you don’t give me a straight answer, I am getting up and going home. I am going to tell my Georgio to leave the whole lot in your capable hands, as well as ask what is going on with him, Scotland, and all the people we’ve met since we’ve been here.’
Alan shrugged helplessly. ‘You do what you’ve got to do, love. All I can say is, as far as my interests are concerned, they’re fuck all to do with you. I ain’t got to tell you nothing about my dealings, or anything else come to that. As for your old man’s business, that’s down to him to tell you, not me. Be fair, love. I ain’t got to tell you nothing. You ask him, all right? About the respect, well, I’m sorry if I’ve offended you, but there you go. These people, Annie included, are a big part of my life, love. How and why I know and respect them is my business again, OK?’
Picking up a menu he glanced at it as if engrossed. Donna fought down an urge to get up and walk from the restaurant, knowing in her heart that it was exactly what Alan Cox wanted. She was shrewd enough to realise that he hated her tagging along.
Looking into her face, he smiled gently.
‘Look, Donna, is it my fault you don’t trust your old man?’
She lit herself another cigarette and sipped at her glass of Perrier. Alan Cox had just hit the nail on the proverbial head.
She didn’t trust Georgio. Which was why she was in Scotland.
The revelation shocked her.
‘I don’t like you, Alan Cox. I tolerate you for my husband’s sake. Don’t worry, I’ll never question you again.’
Alan raised his eyebrows whimsically. ‘I take it you’re leaving then, so I’ll just order for myself, shall I?’
As he scanned the menu he realised he had hit a raw nerve, and the knowledge saddened him. He looked over at her, and was astonished to see the glassful of water coming straight towards his face. It was too late to duck.
Soaked to the skin, he sat back in his seat and shook his head slowly before saying through gritted teeth: ‘If you was anyone else, Donna, I’d smash that glass into your boat without a second’s thought. Now I’m going to the toilet to sort myself out and calm down, because I’m fucking annoyed, woman. If you’re still here when I come back, I want an apology, and then we’ll see if we can go on from there. But if you ever pull a stunt like this again, I’ll give you the hiding of your fucking life!’
Stunned at what she had done, her face devoid of colour, Donna watched him as he pulled out his handkerchief and wiped at his face. As he stormed across the restaurant towards the toilets she realised exactly what she had let herself in for.
Alan Cox was dangerous, and so was her husband.
The drink she had consumed was weighing heavily on her stomach and she looked at the empty glass with a feeling of shocked triumph.
She didn’t trust her husband. That new insight continued to shock and sadden her. Her involvement in all this was a blind. What she had really wanted to know all along was how far up the scale of villainy her husband really stood.
She refilled her glass from the large bottle on the table and sipped the water slowly. The knowledge that Georgio was involved with the likes of Annie, Jonnie H. and Nick Carvello had shocked her. But even with Alan Cox threatening her, she realised she still didn’t want out from it all. All she wanted was the truth.
She reasoned that eventually she would get it - and that she would probably find it a bitter pill.
As Alan Cox walked back towards her she rehearsed her apology in her mind.
She hadn’t wanted to throw the water at him; she had wanted to throw it in her husband’s face.
She had a strange feeling that Alan Cox had realised that before she did.
BOOK TWO
Odi et amo; quare id faciam,
fortasse requiris.
Nescio, sed fieri sentio et excrucior
I hate and I love; why do I so you may well ask.
I do not know, but I feel it happen and am in agony—
Carmina No. 85, Catullus, c.84-54 BC
At twenty years of age, the will reigns;
at thirty, the wit;
and at forty, the judgement—
Poor Richard’s Almanac (1741 June), Benjamin Franklin, 1706-90
Chapter Twenty-Six
Jack Coyne was a thick-necked Liverpudlian of almost pure Irish ancestry. The name was Irish, the deep blue eyes were Irish . . . but Jack’s mother had been a Vietnamese woman of uncertain age and even more uncertain virtue. He grew up in an atmosphere of suppressed violence, strong maternal love, and hardship.
Kek To, his mother, had lived in a small tenement building in the heart of Handsworth, supplementing her meagre Social Security with turning tricks along Lime Street and the Dock areas. She was small, quietly spoken and amicable, which meant she attracted large brash individuals who wanted a weekend’s leave in a warm house with a warm woman - an
d the advent of a large half-caste son was often a bugbear. Especially as Jack hated more than anything his mother’s ‘friends’.
Kek To had died when he was thirteen years old. Already five foot ten, and looking much older, he got himself work in the Docks, loading the tall ships that came in, and keeping himself to himself. At seventeen he was already a world-weary man and that was when he met JoJo O’Neil. JoJo was thirty-five, already a big name in Liverpool Dock circles as a pimp and procurer, and he saw the potential for violence in hulking young Jack Coyne.
Taking Jack as his minder, JoJo had taught him the finer points of pimping, fencing, and countless other ways of making a dishonest few pounds. Together they became a mighty force, and twenty years on Jack and JoJo were still together, only now they were partners and ran a good many of the Liverpool rackets. Neither had ever darkened the doors of a prison and neither wanted to.
To look at, the pair were semi-respectable - both drove nice cars, wore decent clothes, and owned among other things two night clubs and a brothel. JoJo had only one interest - young women - which he pursued with a fervour belying his age. Jack Coyne on the other hand had an Achilles heel - his wife Bethany, a small dark-eyed West Indian woman, five years older than him and the mother of his six children.
Jack adored her, even though she was showing the wear these days and he was in a position to buy any kind of company he liked. Bethany was his mother, sister and lover rolled into one; the product of a white woman and a black man after a one-night stand. They had an awful lot in common; they both adored each other and their children in that order, and Bethany turned a blind eye to her husband’s businesses, enjoying the feeling of security the money and the respect brought them. Their children were beautiful, taking only the best from their ancestors; they were clever, industrious and loving.
The Coyne family lived behind the walls of a large house in Cheshire, in the upmarket hinterland of Liverpool, and the neighbours, who included a top female TV star and three producers, were always polite to the Coynes even though their overtures of friendship were never reciprocated. The Coynes never accepted invitations to dine or attend parties. They were an anomaly, and eventually the neighbours left them in their large property and just waved now and again if they saw them on the drive. Bethany’s mother visited on a daily basis and Bethany needed no one else. Just Jack, her mother Violet, and her children, four sons and two daughters.
The house had twenty rooms, an outdoor heated pool and a large thirty-by-thirty-foot pond in which Jack kept his Koi carp. The grounds, which sprawled for nearly an acre, held numerous animals belonging to the children, including a pot-bellied pig and three Shetland ponies.
Bethany cooked and cleaned the house by herself, grew her own herbs outside the back door, and had never learnt to drive or use a video. She dressed well, kept herself neat, and never wore make-up. Jack looked on her as his dark Madonna. Now she was pregnant once more and enjoying the condition as always.
It was to this strange household that Alan and Donna came on the Sunday afternoon, on their way back to London from Glasgow. The atmosphere in the car was uncomfortable.
After Donna had apologised, they had left the Amber House Restaurant without ordering; Alan had driven them straight back to their hotel, leaving her at her door. Donna had gone into her room, and cracking open a bottle of Jameson’s, had sat on her bed and thought long and hard about the events of the last few days. It was a different woman who came down to breakfast the next day, and they both knew that.
Alan pressed the intercom on the wall by the double gates. As they opened electronically, Donna drew in a deep breath on seeing the house that was hidden behind them gradually revealed. It was a long, low Scandinavian-style building, with floor-to-ceiling windows and flat roofs. It seemed out of place in Liverpool, and in the weak sunshine looked as though it should have been covered in snow on some mountainside in Europe.
‘What a house!’
Alan gave a weak smile at the awe in his passenger’s voice. In the South of England, the house and its grounds would easily have been worth in excess of two million. It was one of the most beautiful properties he himself had ever seen. Its windows gleamed like diamonds in the sunshine and the house looked as if it was actually watching you. It was constructed on three levels, but from the front looked as if it was a bungalow type. It wasn’t until you went inside that you realised it had been literally built into the ground. The entrance hall was on the top floor, and the rest of the considerable area in the lower levels. Donna was enchanted as Alan had known she would be. They were once more greeted by dogs, but this time by two mongrels with shaggy black hair and friendly yaps. Alan got out of the car on the circular driveway and scratched both animals behind the ears.
‘Hello, old boys. Donna, meet Happy and Grumpy. They’re Jack’s kids’ dogs. Friendly pair of buggers they are and all. He saw someone throw a sack into the Docks and jumped in when he realised it was moving. These were the culprits.’
Donna knelt down and allowed the dogs to nuzzle her face, letting them lick her neck, enjoying the sensation. Then, laughing, she turned to look at Alan and froze. In the doorway of the house stood possibly the biggest man she had ever encountered in her life. He made Geoff Capes look like Finn McCool’s little baby. Behind him was a small, painfully thin black woman.
The big man lumbered down to greet them, his face twisted into a smile. Donna saw the oriental look about him and found herself holding a hand so big it could easily have swallowed her arm to the elbow. He was surprisingly gentle.
‘How do you do? You must be Georgio’s wife.’
He inclined his head as he spoke, as if she was a queen or at least a princess, and Donna knew instinctively that this was a man who liked and respected women.
‘This is Jack Coyne, Donna, and his wife Bethany.’
Bethany had held back. Now she was properly introduced she came forward timidly and shook Donna’s hand also. Her grip was firm, her skin cool. Donna said a shy hello and the two women were about to talk more when all hell broke loose. Six children of different shades and appearance broke out of the house, shouting and laughing at the tops of their voices.
Jack waved a hand at them and they all stood silent as they were introduced to Donna with proper ceremony.
Jack smiled at the children and said with pride, ‘My daughters Jade and Ruby.’ Two tall girls with budding breasts and long legs smiled a hello. Both had inherited the slanted eyes of their grandmother except theirs were a startling shade of blue.
‘My sons, Jack Junior, Petey, Davie, and the youngest, Harold.’
Jack Junior, Petey and Davie were coffee-coloured, handsome boys with thick lustrous hair like their father’s. The youngest boy, Harold, had the tight curls and deep black skin of an African. He also had blue eyes like his brothers and sisters. Each child was exotic and stunningly beautiful, taking Donna’s breath away with their sheer perfection.
‘They are very beautiful children, Mr Coyne. You must be very proud.’ She smiled at him as she spoke and watched his chest swell with pride. Donna was secretly pleased that these children would have the buffer of money, knowing immediately the trouble their appearance would have caused them in a less privileged environment or even a middle-class area. With money their appearance was another asset, to set them apart, and these children would always be set apart from everyone else. They were a tangled mixture of colours and cultures and they looked happy and healthy.
Inside the house, Donna’s eyes were drawn to many lovely different features as they made their way down to the bottom floor and the living rooms. Everywhere was light, space and glass. The house was absolutely individual.
Inside the forty by twenty foot lounge Donna was seated on a white leather sofa and given coffee. The outer wall consisted of glass doors overlooking the landscaped grounds. It was a house made especially for these strange people.
‘I designed the house myself,’ Bethany said, almost reading Donna’s mind, her thick
Liverpool twang at odds with her frail appearance.
Donna took a deep breath. ‘It’s fantastic. Are you an architect?’
Bethany laughed, a breathy sound reminiscent of fluttering wings.
‘I can’t barely write my name, Mrs Brunos. I drew a picture and the man worked out the plans for me. We were very satisfied with it. Jack had it built to please me.’
He nodded and Bethany stood up.
‘If you don’t mind, I have to get the children ready. The girls have got dancing tonight and the boys go to karate. I won’t be long.’
Such normal behaviour and homely talk seemed out of place with the mission that was on their minds. Donna looked at Alan and knew he was experiencing the same feeling.
‘So, Alan, what can I do for you? JoJo won’t be here for a while yet, so drink your coffee and relax. I know you’ve had a long journey. Bethany’s made up a couple of rooms in case we run late and you want to stay the night. Before I forget, what’s the scam with Dirty Freddie? I heard he was out of the game now?’
Alan relaxed back in his chair and began to talk about a violent London pimp. Donna knew then that the first magic of the house and its occupants would never come back to her again. Sighing she sipped her coffee, staring out over the beautiful grounds.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Timmy was lying on his bunk, his fat moon face sad. Georgio could practically smell the fear emanating from him.
‘Are you sure you don’t want to come down to the rec room, Tim? Have a game of cards or something?’
Timmy shook his head. ‘Nah. You go, Georgio. I’ll be all right. I just want to lay down and think.’
Georgio left the cell and the foetid pong of Timmy’s feet. He passed the kitchen just as Sadie walked out of it.
‘I put the pie in,’ she said fussing. ‘Timmy loves a rhubarb pie. Where you off to?’
Georgio pointed down the corridor. ‘Where do you think? The rec room. I can’t sit in that cell any more. Why don’t you come down for a while? The film should be starting in a minute on Channel Four. It’s The Winslow Boy. You need a break and all, Sadie.’