Revenge Page 5

  He answered craftily, ‘I don’t know about that, Declan, but they do say the country air makes you randy. It’s all those fucking farmers’ daughters – all that space and not enough geezers.’

  Declan roared with very loud laughter; he did like a dirty joke.

  Unlike his brother, Declan had never married. He enjoyed plenty of female company, but never felt the desire for one woman above all others. He preferred variety. He used the women who came into his life, but he was good to them and, for the few weeks that they caught his attention, he lavished his money and time on them.

  ‘I never thought of that, young Michael! I better get around the local pubs, have a look at the strange on offer. Now, where is that lovely little girl of yours?’

  Michael was pleased at the compliment; she was a real looker was his Josephine. She was a cut above the usual girls and he knew that.

  Before he could answer, the door to the office opened wide and Patrick Costello made a grand entrance.

  ‘Hello, boys, how’d you like my new house then?’ Patrick looked expectantly from Michael Flynn to his brother.

  Michael was about to speak when Declan broke in furiously with, ‘You had to do it, didn’t you, Pat, eh? I asked you not to and you still did it.’ Declan suddenly looked fit to be tied.

  Patrick Costello didn’t reply.

  Michael just stood there, unable to say a word. He didn’t know what it was about anyway. It was the first time he had ever seen Declan so angry, and it seemed that Patrick sensed that as well. This outburst had come out of nowhere.

  ‘The whole Golding family are dead, burnt to death in their beds. Except for the son – it seems he was staying overnight at his mate’s. Two little girls died though. Twelve and fourteen. How must you feel, Patrick? All that mayhem for five hundred quid.’

  Michael Flynn felt physically ill.

  ‘It wasn’t anything to do with me, Declan. I can only assume the man owed other people money. Let’s face it, he was a fucking ponce.’

  Declan laughed at his brother’s arrogance. ‘Who the fuck do you think you are, Patrick, eh? Well, remember, things like this have a nasty habit of coming back on you. It’s called karma. And no matter what you say, how much you might deny it, I know this was your handiwork.’

  He stormed out of the room.

  Michael Flynn looked at Patrick Costello. Michael was white-faced, ashen, knowing that he had been the one who had caused such carnage.

  Patrick shrugged. ‘Hard lines, son. Typical fucking Golding, though, lying about his whereabouts as usual.’

  Patrick could see the terror on the lad’s face and, pouring him a large brandy, he gave it to him, saying, ‘Get that down you, son. You’re in shock. But no one knows the truth except us. These things happen occasionally. Shit happens.’

  Michael gulped down his brandy.

  ‘The man lied to me, Michael. He said they were all going away for a few days.’ He sighed heavily. ‘What’s done is done, son. Just make sure we keep it close to our chests, OK?’

  Michael nodded. He didn’t know what else to do.

  ‘I have explained the downside of the business to you, and now you are finding it out for yourself. Take my advice, son: if you want to get on in this game, you need to learn how to tune out the shit you don’t need. It’s a fucking tragedy, but if Golding hadn’t been such a lying cunt, none of this would have happened.’

  Michael was nodding, desperate to believe what the man was saying.

  Patrick looked into Michael’s eyes, and he said warily, ‘If this is all too much for you, tell me now. We can part company, and no hard feelings. But I need to know I can count on you, Michael.’

  Michael Flynn wasn’t going to lose this opportunity; it was what he had dreamt of all his life. ‘You can count on me, Patrick.’

  The man grinned. ‘I had a feeling you were going to say that!’

  Michael Flynn knew then and there that he had burnt his boats. He had come into this business with his eyes open, and he had always known that people were sometimes murdered. It could happen to any of them, for a host of reasons. Just like the big prison sentence was always going to be there, hanging over his head. It was the chance you took if you chose the Life. He couldn’t let an accident, a fucking misunderstanding, cloud the rest of his life. He would put it out of his mind, force it from his psyche. After all, he had only done what Patrick Costello had asked of him – that was what he was being paid to do, and that was what he wanted to do with his life. He had made his choice.

  Chapter Four

  ‘Oh, for fuck’s sake, Mum, it’s just a telephone. Anyone would think we were living in the Middle Ages the way you carry on. I had to get a phone put in for work, OK? But you are more than welcome to use it if you want.’

  Hannah Flynn could hear the underlying annoyance in her son’s voice. In the three months since he had started working for Patrick Costello he had changed drastically.

  ‘And who would I be calling on the telephone, I ask you?’

  Her voice held a questioning note that irritated her son all the more. Anyone would think she had never seen or heard of a telephone in her life. It had never occurred to him until now how few friends his mother actually had. She was only forty-one; anyone would think she was in her dotage the way she carried on.

  Michael sighed heavily, forcing himself to be pleasant. ‘I really don’t know, Mum. But if you need the doctor, for example, or the fire brigade, you can call them. Now, if anyone rings for me, just take a message. I’ve left a pad and pencil by the phone, OK?’

  She nodded, rolling her eyes angrily. She could hear her son’s growing impatience with her and it hurt her deeply. ‘Are you coming home at all tonight?’

  Michael shrugged before saying testily, ‘I don’t know, Mum. I keep telling you, it depends on what I have to do. But look on the bright side for once, I can always ring you now, can’t I? Tell you not to wait up for me. I’m not a kid any more, Mum, for fuck’s sake.’

  Hannah knew when to back off. She had always prided herself on understanding her son better than he did himself. Since he had been working for Patrick Costello, Michael had become a different being. He had grown up and away from her almost overnight, and her hold over him was all but gone. He loved her, she knew that, but he didn’t talk to her now, not like he used to. She knew hardly anything about his life outside the home, and that wasn’t going to change. Working for Patrick Costello was like working for MI5 by all accounts. She was not happy, but she knew when to retreat.

  Forcing a smile, she said generously, ‘No, Michael, don’t be ringing me at all hours. You get yourself off, son, and I’ll see you tomorrow.’

  That was what he wanted to hear. Hugging her quickly, he left the house. As she heard his car pulling away, she closed her eyes tightly in frustration. He gave her so much, and she knew that she should be grateful for that, but he was all she had. With no husband or lover, he was her everything. She had devoted her life to him, and she felt that he owed her.

  Nowadays, she was nothing more than the woman who washed and ironed his clothes, and provided him with a meal whenever he wanted one. He kept his own hours, and she never knew when she would see him. This was not what she had expected from him, but she had to tread warily. He was determined to marry that young Josephine and, now he was starting to earn, she realised it wouldn’t be long before he did just that.

  She was losing her hold over him, and she couldn’t let that happen. Not without a fight anyway.

  Chapter Five

  Patrick and Declan were holding court in a public house near enough to the docks to make a good meeting place, yet far enough away so the meetings didn’t look dodgy. It was a great pub, and the Costellos were regular punters. Their main workforce were happy to hang out there and, as it wasn’t that big, it was also easy to keep an eye on the clientele, watch the comings and goings.

  Michael walked into the bar just after nine. He was well dressed for the occasion, in a slim-cut, d
ark-blue suit, an outrageous lilac paisley shirt, open at the neck, and chunky gold cufflinks that had his initials etched on them. They had been a present from Patrick Costello and he wore them at every available opportunity.

  His thick dark hair was still long, but it was now cut and styled professionally. Michael had always been aware that his good looks made women love him, and men admire him. As well as the looks and the build, he also had the added bonus of a nice disposition.

  He made his way to the bar, and he was gratified to see that Patrick Costello already had a drink waiting for him. He caught sight of Terry Gold watching him intently, but he didn’t react in any way. Terry had not been pleased by the turn of events and Michael’s inclusion in the Costello inner circle; his nephew Jimmy had been his boss after all. Terry Gold was well aware of Jimmy’s business practices, robbing everyone he dealt with hand over fist. Michael knew that Terry Gold was probably wondering if he might have mentioned that to anyone of importance. He was insulted by the man even thinking that about him. As if he would do that! He wasn’t a fucking grass.

  ‘You’re looking sharp lately, Michael, I didn’t recognise you when you walked in.’

  Michael laughed, but he was a bit embarrassed at Patrick’s words. He had changed in a lot of ways, but now he had money he could afford to look good. He felt he needed to dress as befitted his new station in life.

  ‘Do you like it? I got it in Ilford from some Jewish geezer. It’s the most I’ve ever spent on clothes in my life.’

  Patrick laughed loudly. ‘You look the dog’s knob! All that old bollocks in the Bible about clothes don’t make the man – they fucking do! A nice bit of clobber makes you feel good about yourself. You can wear a suit well and all, boy, you’ve got the build for it.’

  Michael didn’t know how to accept the compliment, so he took a large gulp of his whisky and soda. He had started drinking Scotch because the Costellos were whisky drinkers. But, if he was honest, he didn’t really like the taste.

  ‘You did well this week, Michael – I’m pleased.’ Patrick swallowed down his drink, and motioned to the barman for another.

  The juke box came on suddenly, and drowned out the noise of the men talking. It was ‘Unchained Melody’ by The Righteous Brothers. Michael sighed with contentment; he loved this song. He guessed that one of the older men had put it on and, as he glanced around the packed bar, he felt a thrill that he was part of this world.

  Patrick motioned with his head, and Michael followed him through the throng to the men’s toilets. Inside, Patrick waited patiently for the men using the urinal to leave. Michael noticed that they each did just that. He was impressed with Patrick’s ability to get whatever he wanted.

  Once they were alone, Patrick looked into the large mirror that took up half the wall and, as he smoothed his hair down, he said quietly, ‘I need you to sort something out for me.’

  Michael nodded. ‘Whatever you need, Patrick. You know that.’

  Patrick turned from the mirror. ‘You’re a good kid, Michael. You are going to go far.’

  He faced the mirror once again, admiring himself from all angles. He had this young lad’s total loyalty, he already knew that. The boy had a natural decency about him, he was a straight arrow there was no doubt.

  ‘I need you to take out Terry Gold, Michael. He has to disappear off the face of the earth, and it has to be done as quietly and as unobtrusively as possible. No one can know that we were involved. This is just between you and me, no one else can ever know about it.’

  Michael was shocked, but he knew better than to show that. Instead he looked into Patrick Costello’s eyes. He could see the man searching his face for some kind of reaction. The air around them was suddenly heavy, full of menace. In this game, Michael was well aware he would be asked to prove his worth, his loyalty time and again. He couldn’t lose his nerve if he wanted to be a serious player in the Life. He had to show that he was capable of anything that might be asked of him. So he shrugged nonchalantly, aware that he had just made a life-changing decision.

  ‘Consider it done.’

  Chapter Six

  ‘It’s got to be something you ate, Michael.’

  Josephine was genuinely concerned, and Michael hated that he had to lie to her. But ever since he had agreed to take out Terry Gold, he had been throwing up.

  ‘Yeah, you’re probably right, love.’

  Josephine placed a cold flannel on his forehead. It felt good, there was no doubt about that.

  ‘I’ll get you a cup of weak tea. You lie back and rest.’

  He nodded, but as he looked around her bedroom, he fought down the urge to vomit all over again. It was such a girly room with its pink paintwork and flowery wallpaper. Her kidney-shaped dressing table was painted white, and she had made pink satin curtains for it which hung in regimented pleats around the outside.

  She had actually done a really good job, but he hated it and the frills and the frippery that she lived with. She loved clutter – that was just one of her little foibles. He wasn’t used to it. His mother was not a feminine woman in that respect – his home had always been clean, unadorned and, in some ways, quite masculine. It had never occurred to him before but, whereas Josephine and her mum could spend hours deciding on a colour scheme or choosing a particular material, his mother had never really bothered herself with anything like that. He thought it might be something to do with the lean years they’d endured when Des was put away. They’d had so little for so long now they seemed never happier than when they were buying new bits and pieces. But it was all a bit much for him.

  As much as he hated Josephine’s bedroom in its girly glory, another part of him loved that she cared so deeply about such things. Her femininity was something that she gloried in and was one of the things that had attracted him to her. Josephine was a man’s woman. A natural carer, she wanted nothing more from her life than to be his wife, rear his children, and look after the home he would provide for them.

  He closed his eyes tightly, determined not to think about Patrick Costello’s request. It was one thing to kill without realising it – another entirely when you knew what you were doing.

  He heard Josephine come back into the bedroom. Opening his eyes he looked into her beautiful face, and he knew then and there that if he wanted to provide any kind of a decent life for her and his children, he had to man up and follow the path he had been offered. The path he had chosen.

  ‘Go and see the priest, Josephine, set a date for the wedding.’

  Josephine’s eyes were stretched to their utmost; he could see the joy that was such a huge part of her personality radiating from them. Josephine could find the joy in anything, she could find the good in any situation. She was a girl who always expected the best out of everything and everyone, and he wanted to make sure that was exactly what she would always get.

  ‘Oh, Michael, are you sure? What about your mum? You know she thinks we should wait.’

  Michael laughed. ‘Oh, sod my mum. We know what we want, darling. Sort it for next year. Big as you like, where you like and no expense spared.’

  Josephine sat on the bed beside him and, smiling happily, she sipped at the mug of tea that had been meant for him. This wedding was what she had been longing for, and now it was finally happening.

  Michael adored her and, as he listened to her chattering on about the dress of her dreams and the cake she had always wanted, he was content. He had burnt his bridges, the decision was made, and he felt much lighter in himself.

  Chapter Seven

  Ever since Michael Flynn had been given royal status by Patrick and Declan Costello, Terry Gold had been feeling nervous. It was just a matter of time until his nephew’s skulduggery would finally come to light.

  The Costellos were men of the world – they knew that an element of skimming was inevitable, that any cash business was open to a bit of creative accounting. It was what made their world go round. But Jimmy had been stronging it. Terry had told him time and aga
in that while a few quid was deemed acceptable, a serious rob would only be frowned upon by the powers-that-be. Jimmy, though, was not a person who took kindly to any kind of criticism; he saw himself as entitled to everything. It was his buzz word.

  Terry had his own creds where the firm was concerned: he had always been a good earner, always played it straight, more or less. He was a hard man in his own right, and his uncle’s reputation was something Jimmy had played on. And Terry had let him get away with murder, because he was family. He had never envisioned that Jimmy’s gofer would suddenly become the man of the moment. No one could have seen that one coming – not even Doris Stokes – and, according to his old woman, she knew everything.

  He had been a fool, he could see that now. He had let Jimmy go too far and had even defended him. Until Jimmy had come onboard, though, Terry had never once had his credibility questioned. Not that anyone had actually accused him of anything yet, but he knew that Jimmy’s reputation was a reflection on him. He had brought Jimmy into the fold, and he had failed to keep the boy under control. No one had really given a toss, until that ponce Flynn had been brought in as a worker. Jimmy had loathed everything about him on sight, from the lad’s good looks to his quiet demeanour, and Michael’s rep as a fighter – a fighter to be feared – had not endeared him to Jimmy either.

  In fairness, Michael Flynn had never retaliated even though Jimmy had treated him like dirt, but Michael’s quiet acceptance of Jimmy’s bad behaviour had only made matters worse. It was an insult in itself, as if Jimmy was beneath his notice. Then, as Jimmy upset more and more people, he wouldn’t take onboard the fact that, in their world, you had to know your own limits.

  Eventually the Costellos would be forced to do something about Jimmy. They would have heard whispers already, especially Patrick – he had eyes and ears everywhere. Patrick Costello was the brains of the outfit. Declan had his own creds and was respected and feared by the people who worked for him, but Patrick was in a different league. There was plenty of talk about him and his private band of workers, but no one had any real information. It was all supposition and rumour, but the fact that he had now taken Flynn under his wing meant he had watched him for a good while.