It was so heartbreaking to see them come here, over and over again, knowing that it was only a matter of time before they were banged up once more. They were institutionalised at an early age, and deep down they only felt safe when locked up.
After Marie had left she felt the usual feelings of helplessness. There was so much that needed putting right in this woman’s life, and so little Amanda could do for her. And she would like to help Marie Carter, sure that deep inside she was a good person.
If only she would give herself a break.
Patrick was still convinced that he had to do something spectacular to get himself back on form. Since Maxie’s death he felt that people were suspicious of him, and the police coming to his home had shaken him badly. Every time he thought of them at his front door he felt almost faint with anger. Someone had to pay for that. People had to be made aware that he was not a man to fuck with. He needed a fix, and his fix was fear. Pure unadulterated fear.
He needed people to be scared of him, to respect and revere him. That was the key to getting away with murder.
Even that cunt Tiffany thought she could mug him off ! He had had to chase her all over the fucking smoke, the stupid cunt. Even she thought he was a fucking pussy eater with nothing better to do with his time. Maybe she thought that now that murdering whore of a mother of hers was on the street again she could walk all over him. Fucking Jonah! That Marie had always been a Jonah. Since she hit the pavement he had started getting aggravation. She was like all her kind, nothing but trouble.
All women were trouble. They were either fucking whores or they were religious nutcases. Never a happy medium with them. All fucking pot pourri or living in shit holes like fucking trollops the lot of them. Get them on their backs and you could make them do anything. And anything would get them on their backs. Drink, drugs, a fucking meal at a Bernie Inn for most of them. All women were nothing but fuck busters, worth a shag and that was it. He knew how to make money from them, and it was what they were put on earth for – to be used by men. All the laws in the land would not make a woman his equal. They could say it over and over again, it would not make it true. Women were only equal to animals, natural scavengers living off the carcass of their mate. That was the reality of the situation and anyone who thought different was a fucking moron. Women went to the strongest man who’d have them for protection, money and sex. Well, Patrick gave them all that and didn’t even have to put up with their miserable fucking faces at the breakfast table.
Now he was going to do the big one. He was going to take out a face, a London face. A man who instilled fear into Brixton and its boundaries, and made the rest of the South East think twice before they offended him. A bona fide nutcase, and also a nice bloke in many respects. He had taught Patrick a thing or two, that much had to be said for him. Credit given where it was due. He was a good Gangsta man, a Rasta killing machine and a man who commanded respect. And Patrick would garner that respect for himself before much longer. He would deal with the Yardies in future. He would bring in the drugs, and take over all the women.
For all his respectable front there was nothing like a good expanse of complete bastardy to get the juices flowing. Make you feel like a man. Bring your brain into action and your body into line. There was nothing like causing a bit of mayhem to give a bloke a buzz. No drug could match it. If he could bottle that feeling of ecstatic pleasure it gave him he would be a fucking billionaire. It was addictive, it was the best feeling in the world. Better than sex. Or better than the kind of sex his girls provided anyway.
He was looking forward to it. But first he had to sort out Tiffany.
Carole lay in her filthy bed and breathed in the fumes of alcohol and vomit. She knew on some level that she should see a doctor, but she was too scared. Her whole body ached. The alcohol made her sleep for a while but it was wearing off, and she knew she should try and wake herself up. At least take a soak in a hot bath. She could feel the vomit in her hair as she moved, it was stiff and it stank.
She tried, unsuccessfully, to get up. It was too much trouble and she slumped back on to the pillows again.
She thought about the money again and felt the futile tears. He had taken her money and given her the most terrifying time of her life. She had really thought he was going to kill her. He had been at her for hours and she had wondered all that time how he would finish her off. But in the end he had dropped her at the end of her street as if they had been on a date, and she had been terrified to leave the place since.
He had her address and he had her money.
She hated him.
What goes around comes around. Marie had always said that and she was right. It was the fact Carole had done what she had to Tiffany that made this even worse. Tiffany had been grassed for that money and now it was gone. No good had come of it whatsoever.
Carole tried to get up again and this time she managed to get herself to the edge of the bed. Her thighs were heavily bruised and already scabbed. He had scratched her, pinched her. She hoped she had a disease of some description, at least a dose of hepatitis so the bastard had a memento of her.
But then, what the fuck was he carrying?
Last night had been a wake-up call. Carole had lost a lot more than the money. She feared she had lost her bottle and in her job, especially at this end of the market, that meant she had lost her earning capacity.
She stood up, wincing at the pain all through her body. She caught a glimpse of herself in the stained mirror on the old dressing table. Everything here looked scuffed and dirty, like her. She was aware for some reason of the real state of her home, though it had never really been that, not by other people’s standards. It had just been somewhere to go when her night’s work had finished. Even her daughters had never wanted to be there for any length of time, and who could blame them?
Carole didn’t want to be here either and now she had no choice. The place looked even more depressing than usual. All those years ago, she had meant to do something with her new flat. She had watched TV and thought, I would like a place like that, furniture like that, whatever. But she had known deep inside that she would do nothing about it. Even little Tiffany had tried to get a place together for Anastasia. Her flat had looked lovely, brightly painted and warm. She was just like her mother in that way. When Marie had got her first place it had looked nice. Until she got on the skag, then it had all been turned upside down. Patrick Connor smashing the place up regularly had not helped matters. She had given up, like many women before her. It was pointless trying to get a place around you when you had a man who was out to destroy you and anything you possessed.
Carole walked unsteadily to the dressing table and gripped the top of it. Her fingers felt sore where the man had bent them backward at one point in the evening. He had also burned her with a cigarette. Remembering made her feel faint with fright once more and she sank down on her knees. Her reflection told her all she needed to know and she started to sob: with guilt, remorse, and the realisation she had finally reached rock bottom. It had been a long time coming, but it had arrived.
She closed her eyes tightly and saw Tiffany with Anastasia on her lap. The little tableau made the tears fall thicker and faster. Marie would kill her if she found out what she had done. What she had caused to happen.
She had given that girl up like a sacrifice to the man who had destroyed everyone he had ever come into contact with, male or female. Marie’s voice was in her head once more: What goes around comes around. How true those words were.
The psychiatrist listened to Kevin rambling on. He had said the same thing over and over. That his wife was evil, that she had caused everything bad that had happened and now she was getting a taste of her own medicine.
It was like a mantra. One thing Dr Bewly knew for sure was this man was not fit to stand; he was not fit to mix with society either. Kevin Carter was suffering from a personality disorder, he was paranoid and he was also in a deep depression. Every now and then he seemed lucid but the t
hings he said were unbelievable.
Bewly reviewed his notes and decided that what this man needed was a course of intensive psychiatric therapy and drugs, then they could decide his fate.
He was meeting the police later in the week and they would review his findings. He felt sure that once they observed the man for themselves they would agree with him. Kevin Carter had lost all contact with reality.
He listened once more to his patient’s raving.
It seemed the wife had driven him mad over the years. A very difficult woman by all accounts. She would have been called a nag years ago, though that was politically incorrect, he knew.
He watched as Kevin leaned over the table and said conspiratorially: ‘You don’t know what she’s like, doctor. She made us all do what she wanted. Everything was for Marshall. None of us mattered, but he was as bad as she was. She made that boy as bad as her. Looking down on everyone, thinking he was better than he was. But it was Lou – she made him like it. She gave him an inflated opinion of himself from a child.’
Kevin stopped and concentrated on rolling himself a cigarette. His hands were shaking from the medication and suppressed anger. He carried on whispering to himself, oblivious now to the man sitting opposite him. He looked demented. He was demented.
And he was also telling the truth most of the time but it sounded so incongruous that no one could be expected to believe him. Least of all a doctor who had no real idea what had happened all those years ago. For the simple reason the truth had never been spoken aloud.
Patrick was in a Wimpy drive-through when he got the call he was waiting for. He wheel-spun out of the queue, ignoring the many shouts and rude gestures from the other patrons.
He was sweating with excitement, driving erratically through London, weaving in and out of traffic and listening to Jungle music. The beat stirred his blood and he luxuriated in the knowledge of what was going to happen soon. Violence was a funny thing; he had courted it all his life and as long as it was not directed at him he enjoyed it. He felt good about himself when he was in control of it.
Now he was about to cause an act of violence that would reverberate throughout London. The buzz was astronomical, the feeling giving him a natural high, and that was what he craved these days.
He knew that everyone was mugging him off, from his girls to his so-called mates. Well, after today they would all have to have a rethink. He was going after the big one and he was going to get it.
He had settled a few old debts in the last twenty-four hours. Today marked a new era in his life. He was soon going to be in charge of every major scam in the smoke, and couldn’t wait to get started.
Mahogany Statter was tall and she was pretty, very pretty, with relaxed hair and large brown eyes. Her slim frame was perfect for displaying the latest fashions; she turned heads wherever she went.
As she walked into the block of flats on the corner of her road she heard a groan, low and barely audible. She stepped into the lobby and looked around. Nothing. She was about to walk to the lift, thinking that she had imagined it, when she heard it again.
It was coming from the bin cupboard. She was scared now, but she walked over and opened the door slowly, frightened of what she might see.
Her screams brought all the people out of the flats.
Marie was in a restaurant with Mikey. They were having a late lunch, and she was telling him all about Jason and his adoptive mother.
Mikey was listening with half an ear. He had a lot on his mind, but the sound of her voice was soothing. He loved listening to her whatever she was saying. It had occurred to him that he was in love. Or at least as near to it as he had ever been. When he had first met his wife he had been in lust. It was how he always was with women. He never could resist a good pair of tits or a nice tight arse. Or, come to think of it, a pair of long legs or a naked thigh.
It was just the way he was, and he had money and a good reputation so all these things were available to him as and when he wanted them. Now he had Marie, and liked her for more than her looks which, he admitted, were nevertheless good for her age. Considering what had happened to her, he thought she looked phenomenal. But what he really liked about Marie Carter was her quietness. She had a quiet voice and a quiet nature. He could relax when he was with her, secure in the knowledge that she wanted nothing from him except his company.
All the shit that had happened to her, and she never felt sorry for herself. He admired her for that. So many people blamed others for what had befallen them. He had even knocked the coke on the head because he didn’t need to be on it when he was with her.
His phone rang. He saw it was Alan’s number. They were waiting for another shipment so he took the call even though he was with Marie. He was not expecting to hear the words Alan said to him. Mikey replaced the phone on the table and immediately called for the bill.
Marie watched him warily. There was obviously serious trouble of some kind and as they walked from the restaurant she hoped that everything was OK.
Malcolm Derby was with his baby daughter Alisha. She was a very pretty little girl with his dark eyes and her mother’s crinkly hair. He adored her and she adored him. He was a good father to all his children, acknowledged his responsibilities, paid for them all to go to private schools and gave them the best of everything.
Alisha loved to chew on his dreads and he smiled at her as she did her teething on her father’s hair.
Her mother took the little girl and put a coat on her. She was going shopping and Malcolm pushed a wad of money into her hand, as she knew he would. He was a good provider and she loved him dearly. She turned a blind eye to his business and an even blinder eye to his other women, especially his wife. It worked for her and it worked for him.
He kissed his little daughter on the cheek and she crowed with excitement. Malcolm buckled her into her buggy and waved her off from the spacious lounge.
‘Listen out for Georgie upstairs.’
He nodded and turned on the monitor so he could listen out for his two-year-old son. He settled back into his chair and picked up a twist. As he lit the grass he inhaled deeply. Three of his henchmen were in the room with him and he ignored them as usual.
‘She is gonna break a few hearts that one, Malcolm.’
The man’s voice was kindly and Malcolm smiled at the compliment.
‘She me baby, Alisha. She’s in my heart. That Georgie is a boy too. He is a big man. He will be a good boy, I think. He is clever, you know. Loves his picture books.’
He often talked this way about his children and his men admired him for it. They all loved their children, too, but Malcolm had a special bond with all his kids and made sure they were all well taken care of.
Malcolm looked at his best boy, a young man with well-developed muscles and a quick mind. His name was Stanley, and he had gradually risen in Malcolm’s business from collector to personal minder. Stanley thought the world of Malcolm, admired and respected him. He was also grateful because Malcolm had paid off the CPS and got him off a robbery charge. He knew he would lay down his life for the man before him – and that was going to be proved sooner than any of them realised.
This room was large and well-decorated with white walls and expensive furniture. Malcolm loved it as he loved his whole house. It was the epitome of all he had worked for. He had arrived from Jamaica with nothing, and now he was coining it in. He was proud of what he had achieved. He was a hard man but, it was generally agreed, as bad as he could be, he was also fair. He never used mindless violence, there was always a good reason for his outbursts.
At least that was the general consensus and he agreed with it. He knew he dealt in fear and in his line of work that was mandatory. It was par for the course. If someone upset you then they had to be taught a public lesson so no one else made that same mistake. It was how you kept on top, how you sorted out your business. It also kept any usurpers at bay, made people wary of taking you on, and with his many illegal businesses that was also mandatory.
He had to use the fear factor, and he made sure people saw him enjoying what he did. They were always more frightened of someone they thought would get a kick out of hurting them. Although, if he was honest, he did enjoy it; he especially enjoyed the status it won him.
But at home, in this house, he was a different man from the one on the street. He was calmer. He was happier. He could be normal. Forget what he did outside the walls of his home and enjoy his ill-gotten gains.
The house had two entrances. The front was on to the street and the back on to a very large garden with swings and a slide. He was toying with the idea of putting in a swimming pool for the kids. There was plenty of room if he decided he wanted to. But he was also thinking of moving the families out to Hampstead. That thought made him smile because Hampstead was named after hemp, and hemp had been his first big money spinner. It was where they’d originally processed hemp for ropes. He didn’t sell hemp itself, he admitted that, he sold the leaves and the buds, but it still seemed ironic that he should move there. At least it did to him anyway, the boy from a shantytown near Kingston moving to an affluent suburb of London. But now he was a rave king he had a lot of legal money to play with. The filth could not touch him and they knew it.
As he put on a Bob Marley CD he could hear Georgie chatting away in his sleep. Malcolm got up and walked towards the kitchen to get some cranberry juice for when the little boy woke properly. He always wanted a nice cold drink when he woke and Malcolm made sure he had one to hand.
He said to Stanley, ‘Go up and get the boy for me.’
Stanley immediately leapt from his chair and made his way out to the hallway. As Malcolm opened the kitchen door he stepped back in surprise.
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