The Business Page 13

  ‘I’m sorry, Mum, I’ve tried, but I don’t want it, I hate it. It feels like a fucking albatross hanging round my neck. And I know that you don’t understand how I can feel like that about my own baby, but I do.’

  Imelda was sobbing then, her frail body shuddering with the power of her pain. Getting up from her chair, Mary forced herself to go to her daughter’s aid, forced herself to comfort her. And as she felt her girl slip her arms around her waist and hug her with all the strength she could muster, she forced herself to endure her touch. The sadness and the compassion she displayed were for the grandchild she was waiting for, her daughter’s touch still made her skin crawl.

  If Imelda had not wanted the child, she could have got over that, would have tried to understand that even, but it was her daughter’s arrogant disregard for her baby’s welfare that had finally finished her where her Mel was concerned.

  She worried that Imelda’s constant drinking and smoking and her refusal to eat the food she prepared for her, might cause some kind of problems for the baby. She had read in the papers about how drinking was not good for the foetus, how the Americans, who were always ten years ahead of everyone else, were now recognising something called Foetal Alcohol Syndrome. And she was worried about drugs. As she saw her daughter’s drinking escalate, her dislike and disgust had escalated at a similar rate.

  Mary felt Imelda pull away, and waited until she had sat herself down at the kitchen table.

  ‘I don’t really drink as much as I let on, I just . . .’ Imelda waved her hands in distress. ‘I just feel so horrible inside. I feel trapped, Mum, can’t you understand that at all?’

  Mary shook her head sadly. ‘No, Mel, I can’t. The child has done nothing to warrant your treatment of it. The drinking, the smoking and the punching.’

  She saw her daughter’s eyes widen at her words.

  ‘Oh, I know about your violence towards the poor child. And as God is my witness, how you could even think about such an abomination, let alone carry the thought out, is way beyond my comprehension. I know I let you get away with a lot because I was lazy, but it was also because there was this new world for young women, a world where you could get a good education and a good job. I knew you were a clever girl, knew that you had a bit of fucking intelligence about you. Had you had the wits to make something of yourself, that is. Instead of using that sharp mind you were given, you’ve fucking wasted it on lies and deceit and your own selfish wants. You can’t even see that you have a person inside of you, a real person. And, one day, that person will be an adult, and they will want you to answer their questions, and you will have to do that at some point, whether you want to or not. But I know that my words are wasted, because you will never see further than you. You’ve broken my heart, Mel. Even with all the trouble you caused for this family, if you had just once taken the time to consider that poor child, I could have forgiven you eventually. But not now, Mel, you have proved to me the truth of what I had always suspected. You are without any common decency, or any kind of empathy or care for anyone other than yourself. And you know something, Mel, I am actually sorry for you. I am heart-sorry, because you will never know what it is to love somebody more than you love yourself, and you will never ever experience what it’s like to be loved in return.’

  Imelda shrugged then, and sitting up straight in the chair, she looked into her mother’s eyes and said loudly and forcefully, ‘And am I to believe that you are speaking from your own experience, Mother? Only, out of your three children, which one of us ever loved you in return and, more to the point, which one of us did you ever love more than yourself ? Pot, kettle and black springs to mind. You have destroyed us all, one by one, but unlike the boys, I never let you get too close, lady. Your fucking perfect family was only for the benefit of the outside world. For the neighbours, and the people you deemed good enough for your so-called friendship. In reality we knew we were disappointments to you in our own ways. But my father loved me, and he was so in love with you that he didn’t even see fit to tell you where his fucking poke was.’

  She laughed then, at the way her mother had suddenly deflated, seemed to shrink before her eyes. ‘I’ll tell you something, shall I? I hate you so much it is the only thing keeping me going. I hope you fucking die screaming in pain, alone and unwanted. I pray that you will one day understand the damage you caused us with your self-righteousness, and your greed. I ain’t got nothing on my conscience where you’re concerned, Mother, but then again, I have no conscience at all.’

  The blow, when it landed, was hard and fast, it knocked Imelda off her chair and across the floor. It was powerful enough to draw blood, she could taste it, and as she lay on the floor she could see her mother moving in for the next blow. She instinctively put her hands across her belly, and the gesture was not wasted on either of them.

  Pulling herself up from the floor, Imelda leant against the kitchen table, and shaking her head in exaggerated misery she said, ‘I bet you feel much better after that, eh, Mum?’

  Mary was ashamed at her actions, at how this daughter could make her want to physically harm her; even pregnant she had still felt an urge to brain her.

  ‘You’re like an animal, Mel, but that’s a fucking insult to animals, at least they protect their young. You, you couldn’t care less about that poor child, you have no soul, you have no fucking care for anyone or anything that matters.’

  Imelda laughed then and, wiping the blood from the corner of her mouth, she looked pointedly at the vivid redness that was staining her hand and fingers. Then she said happily, ‘Well, be fair, Mum, I’ve got a fucking good teacher, haven’t I?’

  Jimmy Bailey was twenty-eight years old, he had thick dark hair, dark-blue eyes and a roman nose that somehow looked good on him personally. He was just over six feet, had an athletic build, and was known as a handful if needed, and a good ally in a crisis. He had made his mark with Michael Hannon over the last eight years, and he knew that if Michael was asking to meet him on the quiet it could mean one of two things. He was either going to be offered a job of some description or, worst-case scenario, he had offended Hannon in some way and was for the fucking chop.

  Personally, he favoured the former, he was far too shrewd ever to give an opinion about anyone who mattered. Only a fucking muppet did something that stupid. But there were plenty of them out there, as he had seen himself on more than one occasion. In fact, he was constantly amazed at the fucking sheer stupidity of some of his compatriots. They had a few drinks, a lively bird, and a couple of lines, and suddenly all their carefully created persona was forgotten as they felt an almighty urge to show off.

  That was when it tumbled out, who they knew, how they knew them, where the parties being bragged about lived, next, little nuggets of information that they had been told on the quiet were suddenly being repeated as if they were jewels of wisdom.

  It was as embarrassing as it was shocking. Jimmy wanted to die of shame for them. But of course he just kept his own counsel. He had only ever tried to step in on one such situation, where the person involved, a mate of long-standing, had, after much cocaine and Jack Daniels, suddenly felt the urge to discuss a recent bank robbery and who also insisted on telling everyone the names of the people involved. Jimmy had stepped in nicely and, after a few bantering jokes about grasses and Bertie Smalls, had managed to get his point across, but the man involved took his meaningful bantering as a blatant accusation that he was a grass. That Jimmy had won the ensuing fight did little to console him because he had lost a good mate who he knew was mortified at his actions, and although he had lost a tooth, he also acquired a scar on his eyebrow that he felt made him look distinguished somehow. He knew he was lucky with his looks; he was possessed of that Gypsy stroke Irish dark skin that, whilst it made him look exotic, also ensured that he had to shave at least twice a day. But women loved him and, as a consequence, he knew that his looks were a magnet for men who were not as well equipped in the looks department. This was usually caused by th
e said men’s wives or girlfriends giving him a blatant once-over.

  He had learnt as a young man the power good looks had over women, and he had also learnt of the anger the same good looks could invoke from men. His looks were a double-edged sword and, as his rep as a Face had grown, his need to fight because a woman had tipped him the wink in the full glare of her old man, had dramatically decreased. In fact, he was known in some circles as Handsome Jimmy, as opposed to Ugly Jimmy, who was a mate, and who was ugly.

  As Jimmy waited for Michael Hannon to arrive, he felt the first stirrings of excitement inside his breast. He hoped that this was going to be a good earner, with decent hours of employment. He hated early starts, but was obviously not silly enough to say that. If it was a four in the morning gig, then that was that. He would do whatever was necessary to get on in his chosen profession.

  Jimmy’s own business, and by that he meant his personal business, had not really garnered him any kudos in his world. He had acquired a massage parlour a few years earlier in payment for a debt and had decided to see what it entailed. Now he had six parlours all over the Smoke, and he ran a cab rank that was expressly used by his girls for their home visits. He was earning a fortune and it was more or less legal. He knew that there were still people who looked down on what they would call pimping: it having always been seen as the domain of the Jamaicans or the Maltese. Well, he had been called much worse than that over the years, so he had decided, rather magnanimously he thought, not to let it bother him. He was on a serious wedge, and that was good enough for him. Jimmy had a knack for business and he also had a radar for the type of girls who would be suited to that kind of employment. He only had to get them in there for a few days’ graft, and he knew that the money they were collaring would bring them back. They had kids, and they had bills, and none of them were exactly geared up in the education department. If it was a choice between the social security, amply supplemented by a few nights on the batter, he knew the choice they would make. It meant new clothes for their kids, it meant new furniture for their flats, and it meant something that went far deeper than material things. It meant they were financially secure at last, and that was something that these young mums treasured. So, a pimp he might be, but these days, no one was likely to call him that to his boat race. He had come a long way, and he had earned his fucking respect. He knew his own worth, and he never let himself forget it. Plus, he knew that his earning power, and the fact that he had turned a sleazy wank bar into a high-class booking service had forced the respect from even the most severe of his critics.

  As Michael Hannon slipped into the passenger seat of his car, Jimmy mentally chalked up one point to Hannon on an imaginary scoreboard. He had not even seen the fucker approach the car, and in broad daylight that was no easy feat. He was impressed, there was no doubt about that.

  Chapter Eight

  ‘Look, Mary, I do not want to take over your business. Michael thinks that I will be a good front man for you and, to be perfectly honest, I think he’s right. You can still do all the groundwork for the debts, I have no interest in that part of the business. I ain’t going to argue with you about this, OK? It’s sorted, finished, over.’

  Mary knew when she was beaten. But this young man, with his virile good looks and easy-going personality, had thrown her. She had expected someone older, someone she might have had something in common with, someone of her ilk. She had certainly not expected a youngster who had the good looks of a movie star and the reputation of a pimp. That really bothered her, Gerald had always looked down on men who earned their living off women, off girls. Desperate girls, most of them, trying to make ends meet, and finally being reduced to nothing more than animals by sharp-talking clever-clogs like this lad here.

  There was something about the business that stuck in her craw. She saw these men as carrion, and her instinct told her that anyone who could send a young girl to a stranger for money was not someone to be trusted. But Jimmy had presented her with a fait accompli: if Michael Hannon wanted him onboard, she had no choice in the matter. But he was first and foremost a pimp, he was a collector on a secondary basis.

  Jimmy smiled at her, knowing that his staggering good looks were wasted on Mary Dooley.

  ‘Look, Michael had nothing but praise for the way you can ferret out information about people who owe us. Now, if he says you’re a diamond, then I know that has to be the truth. He does not suffer fools gladly, as you know yourself.’

  Mary nodded at the logic of what Jimmy was saying.

  ‘So, that works both ways, don’t it? I have something to bring to the table as well. But my expertise is in a different field from yours altogether. You find the fuckers, and I will extract the money from them. OK? Now, I know your boys are well known for their aggressive natures and their willingness to smash someone to a pulp. And I believe, most strongly, that with their natural antipathy, and my knack for explaining things to people in a graphic and, shall we say, a violently explicit way, that between us, we have the perfect team. I can do torture, refined, artistic torture if necessary, and I will educate your sons in that. I can also threaten people in such a way that their own mothers could be standing beside them and they would not guess that anything was even slightly amiss. Though the man in question would be at panic stations within seconds of course. So, can we just go for it, Mary, see how it all pans out?’

  Mary nodded, as he knew she would, and as she knew she would.

  ‘My boys are good at what they do, you remember that. They were taught by a master, by their father.’

  Jimmy Bailey nodded in absolute agreement and, grinning at her with his perfect teeth, he said sadly, ‘You must miss him, love, me mum was the same when me old man passed.’

  Mary smiled then, a real smile, at his understanding of her situation and at his kindness for mentioning it to her. That he was making a point of offering his condolences.

  Jimmy didn’t tell her then that he had no family, that his father had been a one-night stand in a succession of one-night stands, or that his mother had abandoned him as a baby only to turn up periodically throughout his childhood, wrecking any chance he had ever had of anything even resembling normality with a woman. He certainly didn’t mention that her sons were about as much use as a chocolate fireguard, and were actually bereft of anything even remotely resembling respect.

  He had told her what she needed to hear, wanted to hear, and that was something he had learnt many years ago. In care you learnt early on how to manipulate the people around you, it was how you learnt to survive in a system where the odds were constantly stacked against you. A system where you were at the mercy of anyone who was stronger than you, cleverer than you or, in most cases, were running the fucking place, and running it to their advantage. It could be other children but, in most cases, it was the adults you were supposed to trust, who were supposed to be looking out for you. Basically, you were always at some fucker’s mercy, and that fucker was very rarely someone of a kind and generous nature.

  Jimmy knew the world inside out, and he was pleased with how he had survived within it, and at how he had managed to live to tell the tale in the first place.

  Mary Dooley would be easy enough to control. She wasn’t a fool by anyone’s standards, and she had a network of people she could call on that guaranteed her the location of anyone they might have the urge to pursue. She was not a push-over as such, but she was like most women of his acquaintance, she would be happy to let him run the show.

  As Jimmy looked around her spotlessly clean kitchen, breathed in the smell of Vim, mixed with Pledge, he felt a twinge of regret that he had only ever experienced family life on an occasional basis while in the care system.

  He had by then been far too cynical a child to allow himself to be beguiled by it all, knowing that it wouldn’t last, and that within a week of his departure the so-called foster parents would be hard-pushed to remember his name. He had therefore only experienced the so-called family situation from afar, as an outsi
der. It had never occurred to him that it was his aloofness and his fear of getting close to anyone that was the cause of foster parents eventually asking for him to be replaced as their love and understanding kept falling on very stony ground. The very thing Jimmy had used to stop himself from being hurt, was the same thing that had also stopped him from experiencing all the things he had secretly craved, and had led to him being hurt anyway.

  He opened his notebook then, and taking a pen out of his jacket inside pocket, he smiled once more, saying, ‘So, who owes what, and where can I find the bastards?’

  Louise Parks was doing her hand washing, her smalls and what she termed her private and personals, when she heard the doorbell.

  Sighing heavily, she wiped her soapy hands on a nearby tea towel and with her usual quiet demeanour she walked through her front room and, once in the hallway, she saw a female shape through the frosted glass of her front door.

  She was not expecting anyone, since the death of her husband and son, people had seemed actively to avoid her; those who had braved the consensus of public opinion had not seen fit to return for a second visit. A few, she decided, had come merely to fish for information, most of the others had meant well, but had not known how to comfort her, had not known the appropriate words for such an occasion. Louise had not held that against them, she felt exactly the same way herself.

  When she opened the front door and saw Imelda Dooley standing there, she thought for a few seconds that she was hallucinating. She stared at the girl for long moments, still unsure if she was actually seeing her. She could see the dark of the night behind her, could hear the distant hum of the traffic on the Mile End Road and smell Mel’s distinct aroma, cheap cigarettes and alcohol.