The Life Page 12

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  Theresa was drunk as a lord, and she knew that it was the only way she could get through this day. Peter and Daniel, her boys, her babies, were now further apart than ever.

  She could see her Daniel’s distress. She hated what Daniel had done, but in her drunken haze she couldn’t help blaming Peter. He should have monitored his brother, he should have looked after him. How could he not have known that Daniel was a few sandwiches short of the proverbial picnic?

  She sipped her whisky, watching as Ria and Lena fussed over little Tania, and her grandsons laughed and joked with each other. At least they were still getting along. But what would the fallout from all this be? What would be the future of the Baileys? She sighed, wondering how the feck her sons had come to this, standing as far away from each other as possible, yet more aware of each other than either of them would ever care to admit.

  Chapter Forty

  Lena was lying in bed with her daughter, but she was unable to sleep. She didn’t know where Daniel was. Today had just proven how drastically wrong the situation between him and his brother was. They’d all tried to act like nothing was amiss, but the tension had been impossible to ignore.

  She hugged Tania, felt the warmth of her child’s fragile body and knew that, no matter what happened in the future, she had to protect her little girl. She had to make sure she never knew the truth of her family’s lives. Lena was her daughter’s only real cushion against the Life, and she was more determined than ever that Tania would never have to be a part of it in any way. She was an innocent, and Lena would move heaven and earth if necessary to make sure she stayed that way. As her mother, it was all she could do. After all, if she didn’t protect Tania from the Life, who would?

  Book Two

  You lost the plot again, where you are now ain’t clear,

  It’s a misty morning memory, the road that took you here

  Alabama 3, ‘You Don’t Dance To Techno Anymore’

  Album: Exile on Coldharbour Lane, 1997

  Shoot me up

  Every damn day with a hypo full of love

  Alabama 3, ‘Hypo Full Of Love’

  Album: Exile on Coldharbour Lane, 1997

  We can’t wait, can’t hesitate, they’re picking the padlocks at the gate

  Smell the violence, blind suckers on the side of silence

  Are smiling, giving the eye

  Alabama 3, ‘The Night We Nearly Got Busted’

  Album: Exile on Coldharbour Lane, 1997

  Chapter Forty-One

  1987

  Father Brendan Murphy watched warily as Lena Bailey crept into the church with her husband. She had the grace to be ashamed even though she was too loyal to admit to anything that might show her husband in a bad light. She deliberately overlooked all the talk about him. In a way, he admired her for it; she took the Catholic sacrament of marriage seriously, and he had to give her credit for that. But knowing what he did about this man meant he loathed being in his company. He knew he had no choice about this meeting, but that didn’t mean he was looking forward to it. He was, Christ forgive him his sin, dreading it.

  Daniel Bailey was a hard man – that was common knowledge – but it cut no ice with him. Father Murphy had been a boxer in his day, and seen his fair share of hard men. He had grown up in Dublin, the son of a bare-knuckle fighter, a drunkard and one of the hardest men he had ever come across. Michael Murphy had been a legend in his own lifetime; if only he had had the brain capacity to use the money he had earned sensibly, he could have been a man of means. Instead, he had squandered his hard-earned cash in the nearest pubs, buying drinks for the hangers-on, slipping money to anyone with a hard-luck story.

  His mother, God love her and keep her – Father Murphy blessed himself then, as he always did when he thought of her – had been drawn to an early grave trying to raise eight children. Along with feeding them and cleaning for them on a pittance, she had worked tirelessly to make sure that they were good Catholics and decent men and women. He had entered the priesthood, having known from an early age that it would eventually become his calling, but he had returned home and looked after his mother and sisters after his father’s untimely death. The drink had taken him quickly in the end, and it had been a relief to them all.

  His older brothers had gone to America, never to be heard of again, his younger brother was doing life for murder, and his sisters were all married with families – and problems – of their own. Good women, but laden down by the men they had settled for, and wondering why they had not listened to their mother instead of taking the first men who had shown any interest in them.

  He knew the cut of Daniel Bailey all right and, even though the man worshipped in his church, knelt for Communion at his feet, and made his Confession regularly, he knew he was a fraud, a liar and, worst of all, a hypocrite. Daniel Bailey was the worst kind of liar because his lies were rooted in fact, and he used that to keep a decent woman beside him, even though, these days, so the rumours went, his own children were not so easily fooled.

  Father Murphy was a man of many sides. He had learned years ago that there were plenty of sinners inside the church itself, from the vicious gossips, who stood cleaning the altar while destroying someone’s reputation, to the drunks, the gamblers and the wife-beaters, who confessed their sins, and who he knew would be back within the month, confessing the same sins again. He knew the women who were having affairs, knew the young ones who were promiscuous, or were taking drugs. He tried his best to be a good priest, a good man, not to be too judgemental.

  But Daniel Bailey made his skin literally crawl. He had joined the parish six years ago, replacing Father Mahoney, who had been moved elsewhere – he never knew exactly why. Not long after, Daniel Bailey had come to him, and confessed to the murders of a man and his child, and Father Murphy had never been able to forgive him. He had done his job, had given him a good act of contrition; after all, as he was forever reminding himself, he was only the go-between, the emissary of God on this earth. It was not his job to judge anyone, but he couldn’t help how he felt.

  Daniel, he knew, only went to Confession to appease his wife, not because he ever felt any kind of remorse for his actions, and Brendan Murphy the man, not the priest, had known that from the off. Daniel Bailey looked at him with what bordered on defiance at times, knowing that they shared a terrible secret – a secret that he could never reveal. It felt as if Daniel believed he had something over Father Murphy; he acted as if they were in league somehow, as if his confession had given Bailey the upper hand in their relationship and, in many ways, it had done just that. Because Daniel Bailey had known instinctively that his confession had not only shocked Father Murphy, but had also disgusted him to his very core.

  As a priest, he was not supposed to let anything he heard in the confessional colour his relationship with his flock and, until Daniel Bailey’s bombshell, he had never felt this kind of repugnance for a parishioner in his life. His own brother had once confessed his sin of murder to him, and he had been genuinely sorry for his actions, had understood the enormity of what he had done. He had taken a man’s life in a bar fight – drunk and belligerent, he had beaten a man to death, hit him so hard the man had never even regained consciousness. A terrible tragedy for all concerned, and he was serving a life sentence for it.

  But this man came to him regularly, and confessed to all sorts of violent behaviour, sharing his hatred in the privacy of the confessional, and Brendan Murphy knew that he enjoyed telling him. This was East London, and he had heard his fair share of villains’ Confessions over the years. He wasn’t a man who dwelt on people’s situations, he was only there to hear them confess, and assure them that, as long as they were truly sorry, they would be forgiven. Bailey, though, saw it as some kind of game, as a way to demean him, and everything that he believed in, and thereby assert his own authority over him. Daniel Bailey was a bully of the worst kind, because he enjoyed it.

  Lena was a regular at early
morning Mass; she made sure the boys attended at least once a week, and she met up with Ria Bailey, Peter’s wife, along with Peter himself, and their own children.

  Now Peter Bailey, Father Murphy had a lot of time for, which was strange inasmuch as he knew he was just as big a villain as his brother. Peter Bailey was not a man to cross unless you were on a death wish of some sort, but, for all that, he was a different entity entirely from his brother. Whatever Peter Bailey might be, he wasn’t a hypocrite.

  Father Murphy knelt before the cross of Christ for fifteen minutes, knowing that Daniel would not dare to interrupt him at prayer, and enjoying the fact that keeping him waiting was making him angry.

  Standing slowly, he blessed himself once more and, forcing a smile on his face he turned to Lena and said as brightly as he could, ‘Sure, Lena, I forgot you were coming.’

  Daniel Bailey watched as his wife practically bowed in reverence to the priest, and he had to fight the urge to punch him as hard as he could in the face. He knew this man drank with Peter, visited his brother’s house regularly, and worked with him closely for charities. Peter had given the money needed for a boxing club and for a trip to Lourdes for the poorer parishioners, had seen to it that the people who couldn’t afford it had been able to go and pray to God to ease their suffering. All bollocks, as far as Daniel was concerned. His brother did it for personal gain, no other reason. Saint fucking Peter, his mother’s golden boy, and all round fucking good guy. When he gave money for the various causes – and he gave serious money – no one said a fucking word about it! Except Tania’s school that is – the nuns there knew which side their bread was buttered on. Tania had been Mary in the Nativity play, he had made sure of that.

  But this ponce here looked down on him. At least Daniel’s presence unsettled him, that was something. Unlike Lena, he wasn’t enamoured of the Church – he saw it as another fucking business, a scam. But his mother and his wife saw it as a way of life, and he understood that he had to swallow because of that. He knew how to play the game, and at least this man afforded him some pleasure in as much as he got the satisfaction of taunting him with his presence.

  He held his hand out and, smiling, he said pleasantly, ‘Good day to you, Father, we are so looking forward to our little Tania’s Communion.’

  Father Murphy shook the man’s hand, and prayed that this meeting would be over quickly.

  Lena beamed with happiness; she loved to see her husband in the church, it helped calm the fears she had for his eternal soul. Father Murphy understood her feelings, she was convinced of that. She knew that he was a man who saw a lot more than he let on, and was willing to go the extra mile for the people in his care. He was a man not only of good values, but also of discretion. He heard her Daniel’s Confession regularly, and knowing that helped her sleep at night.

  Chapter Forty-Two

  ‘Tell me you’re fucking joking, will you!’

  Davey Bailey shrugged. At twenty-three, he was now a big man and, like his brothers, he was firmly entrenched in the family businesses. ‘I’m not joking. For fuck’s sake, Danny, you of all people, must have seen it coming?’

  Daniel Bailey Junior sat down heavily, jarring his spine with the action. He looked around the office as if he was trying to find an escape route.

  ‘He’s a fucking nutcase, Danny, I was fucking gobsmacked. Couldn’t believe what I was witnessing.’

  Danny dropped his head into his hands and groaned theatrically. ‘I saw it coming all right, I just didn’t think he would fucking actually do it – he knows how we feel about it.’

  Davey lit a cigarette and, pulling on it deeply, he said quietly, ‘Like what we think means anything to him. He battered the fuck out of him. Derek Thomas is now fighting for his life in hospital. All over three grand! Talk about going over the top. I’m fucking sick of it, Danny. He’s out of control again. He acts like he’s in the right, and he ain’t.’

  Danny didn’t answer his brother. He knew exactly what was eating at his father; he had been expecting something like this, even though they were all on a good fucking wedge. Daniel Bailey Senior, his father, was still regarded with suspicion by everyone around them and, even though he had tried to regain the ground he had lost over the Clarke debacle, it had never really been an option without Peter’s support. It was a miracle he had not had his collar felt for it, a miracle that Danny suspected had a lot to do with his Uncle Peter’s desire to protect the family business, and the man’s knack for finding the people best placed to do him favours, or to smooth his paths, depending on what he required, and who was available for a fee. His father could never get his head round the fact that friendly negotiations and goodwill were far more lucrative in the end than brute force or intimidation could ever be.

  Peter Bailey, on the other hand, had always understood that. Consequently, he had branched out into all sorts of different spheres, and he had also managed, in his own inimitable way, not only to muscle in on other people’s earns, but ensure that the person he went into partnership with actually earned more. Therefore, the people concerned were understandably happy with the new arrangements. Unlike his father, who just took and, in the process, managed to make even more enemies than he already had. And his enemies, as the Bible would say, were fucking legion.

  His father was a taker, and that was what was causing so much trouble. Danny had spent a lot of time building up his family’s side of the business. He had painstakingly attempted to make sure that his brothers, as well as himself, were seen as fair, were seen as trustworthy; he treated people with respect, made sure his brothers did too. He was the antithesis of his father in that respect, though his father’s presence in the background made sure the people they dealt with toed the fucking line.

  He had learned from his Uncle Peter the wisdom of making people feel they were appreciated, and that it was easier when you were already at the top of your game to make friends of the new Faces, of the up-and-coming generation, that it was much more sensible to use the talents of the people who worked for or with you, than it was to make them into enemies.

  His father had seemed to be finally understanding that as well, had seemed to be pleased at the way they were now treated as a family unit by their peers. His father had four huge sons; they were not little kids any more and were working hard to portray an image of familial solidarity – they dealt with their cousins on an almost daily basis after all. Now, Daniel Bailey Senior had, in one afternoon, destroyed it – he had once more shown himself as nothing more than a common thug.

  He had ruined his sons’ graft for a poxy three grand, had sacrificed them because he had heard that his brother was opening another nightclub, and he hated that he wasn’t a part of it, or of anything that would require his active involvement.

  ‘Did he use his fists, or a weapon?’

  Davey looked into Danny’s eyes, and the brothers were both so disheartened and so angry that it was like looking into a mirror. ‘Both. He started out pounding him, then he picked up a fucking spanner that was lying on his desk. He finished him with that, all the time screaming and cursing. It was a fucking embarrassment.’

  Danny groaned again. ‘Were there many people in the betting shop?’

  Davey sighed. ‘Ten, eight, I wasn’t taking the fucking register, was I? Enough to make sure it gets talked about anyway. Oh, and on the way out of there, he emptied the tills like a fucking school-boy robber – stuffing the money into his pockets. I tell you, Dan, he’s a waste of time. He has no fucking care for how that looks to people, he really believes that it all makes him look big or something. He’s such a cunt . . .’

  Danny stood up then and, taking a deep breath, he said seriously and against his better judgement, ‘Look, Davey, whatever he is, he is still our father, and we have to be seen to be on the same page as him, no matter what. We can say what we like to each other, but outside the family we say nothing, do you hear me? That’s the worst kind of betrayal – you know that as well as I do.’

&nbs
p; Davey sighed and said sarcastically, ‘I know that, bruv, but in reality, it’s getting harder and fucking harder.’

  Davey stood before him, running his enormous hands through his thick hair, and Danny saw how big he was, how powerful he had become; they were both the image of their father. They all had the Irish blue eyes, inherited from their grandmother, and passed down from generations long gone.

  Danny also knew that it was getting more difficult to control his brothers; they were men now, and they had their own thoughts and opinions, which they were entitled to express. Sooner rather than later their father was going to have to accept that as a fact of life. Danny had a modicum of control over his father. Daniel had known for a long time that his eldest son was not in any way amenable to him, or his bullying.

  Even before Alfie Clarke, Danny had been appalled by what his father had done to Lenny Jones. He was a fucking saint, and Danny had taken to visiting him at least once a week. Lenny could talk now, but he would never walk again. Even after all this time, Danny hated to see the man so broken, hated that his father had done it.

  Lenny told him stories of the old days that were as thrilling as they were outrageous, he brought the East End alive, the old East End before the slum clearance and the tower blocks. And Danny had got an education from him as well, learning how the scams worked, how you weighed up situations, how you worked out the odds. He had never really thought about situations as a mathematical problem before, but Lenny had explained it to him in language he understood.