Vincent sensed all this in a heartbeat and, ignoring his father’s proffered hand, he grabbed the man by the scruff of his neck and, in front of everyone, physically dragged him across the small dance floor and out into the car park. There he proceeded to hammer his father with his fists until he was pulled off by Bertie Warner and Derek Greene.
Looking at his father lying in the dirt he said quietly, ‘You robbed me, you treacherous old cunt. You took money that should have been for my Gabby and my baby. If I ever clap eyes on any of you I’ll fucking kill you, you got that? And that goes for you lot as well,’ he said to his brothers, who had followed him out to the car park.
The men nodded their heads, humiliated and ashamed.
Turning to Derek and Bertie, Vincent then said jovially, ‘Come on, lads, we’ve got a party to go to!’
The two men followed him inside, acutely aware that a young boy might have been sent down, but a very dangerous man had returned in his place.
‘You must be mad, Gabby!’ Cynthia was beside herself with anger and it showed. That her daughter could be pregnant again so quickly was a source of irritation to her.
‘Thanks for the congratulations, Mum, really appreciate it.’
Cynthia stopped herself from retaliating, instead saying levelly, ‘You’re only young, why tie yourself down again?’ But she didn’t mean a word of it; her daughter’s happiness was eating away at her, and the fact that Vincent was making a great name for himself was galling.
‘My Vincent and me want another baby – he’s missed so much of Cherie’s life, and we want to be a family, a proper family.’
The inference was not lost on Cynthia and she seethed with indignation. Vincent, however, was not a man to fuck, as the Jamaicans would say. He had already put the hard word on her, told her that if she pushed her luck he would come after her without mercy. He had explained in a quiet and patient voice that if his Gabby did not get the respect due to her, he would hunt her down like a dog. Those had been his exact words, and it had been hard swallowing, but she knew she had to. If she wanted to see little Cherie she would really have to restrain herself, and she was willing to do that for the child. She adored that little girl, and she knew that Vincent saw this love as her only redeeming feature.
The social worker was well off the scene now that Vincent
had got his little garage, and was a productive member of society. She couldn’t tattle in the social worker’s ear any more about rumours and stories of her daughter’s wild ways, and how worried she was about her granddaughter’s moral welfare. Those days were long gone, and she knew it.
She forced herself to smile. If Gabby was pregnant she would need more help with Cherie, it stood to reason. This might actually work in her favour.
‘I just don’t want to see you losing your freedom, love, that’s all. Old before your time.’
That made sense to Gabby, and she smiled faintly, her eyes softer now. ‘It’s what we both want, Mum. Vince is thrilled.’
Cynthia didn’t answer; instead she put the kettle on. ‘Well, why don’t you leave Cherie with me, and have the weekend off to celebrate, eh?’
Gabby nodded. It was what she had hoped her mother would say, and she felt a hypocrite in many ways; after all, it wasn’t that long ago that she didn’t want the child anywhere near her mother. But that was before, when she didn’t have Vince by her side, and was at this woman’s mercy. Those days were long gone.
It would be nice to have a weekend alone with Vince. Cherie was a handful, constantly wanting her father’s attention. But that was to be expected – he had not been in her life properly until now, and Cherie, the little madam, was making the most of him being there. For his part, Vince loved his pretty little daughter, and she knew he was happy at the prospect of another baby.
‘Thanks, Mum. I’ll pick her up on Sunday afternoon.’ Gabby walked into her daughter’s bedroom which her mother had decorated to perfection, and hugged the little girl to her. ‘You be a good girl for your nanny, OK?’
Cherie nodded happily. She loved it here; she was the centre of attention from the minute she opened her eyes until she fell
asleep. For a child like Cherie that was heady stuff, and Cynthia indulged her shamelessly.
‘Go on, get yourself away. I’m sure that man of yours is champing at the bit to see you.’
‘He is, he always is.’
Gabby left the flat and walked to her car. As she unlocked it, she saw her brother standing at the corner of her mother’s road, and felt troubled. After all, her Cherie was in the flat with her, and she didn’t want James going there and causing trouble in front of her.
She drove to the corner and, stopping beside her brother, she said, ‘What you doing here, James?’
He smiled absently at his sister, then he said, ‘I hear your Vincent is doing well for himself.’
She ignored him and said again, ‘What are you doing here, James? You know Mum doesn’t want to see you.’
He shrugged and she saw how emaciated he had become. Vincent had heard he was an addict and, seeing him now, she believed it. He looked thin, drawn, and very run down. The weather was just turning cold and all he had on was a thin jacket over an even thinner T-shirt.
She looked into his face and was heart-sorry for the way his life had turned out. If he had not been her brother she certainly wouldn’t have approached him. If she was honest, she had avoided him like the plague since he had been back on the scene. She had seen him from a distance a few times, and she had driven past him without stopping to even say hello. He made her nervous; anyone looking into his eyes could see that he was not quite right. He could easily be mistaken for a rapist, or a serial killer from a film. He was dirty, unkempt, and basically just odd. The trouble with James was that he was literally capable of anything, and she had to make sure he wasn’t going near her mother’s house while her daughter was there.
‘My baby’s in that flat, my Cherie, and if Vince finds out you’ve been near there, or that you scared her . . .’ She left the sentence unfinished and she saw her brother’s eyes widen. ‘You are taking your medication, aren’t you, James?’
The question threw him, and she could see it had also annoyed him.
‘Are you?’ she repeated.
He shuffled his feet for a few seconds, unable to meet her eyes. ‘What do you care?’
She sighed then, a sad, drawn-out sigh. ‘You’re still my brother, James . . .’
He didn’t answer her so she tried again.
‘Where are you living? Locally?’
He shrugged. ‘Why the interest suddenly?’
Gabby could smell the foetid breath of the junkie and she felt her stomach heave.
‘Because you are hanging round Mum’s street, and you aren’t exactly her biggest fan, are you?’
He looked awful, like he had been sleeping on the streets, and she wondered at how her father would feel seeing him like this. Seeing what had happened to them all, for that matter. She wondered if, had he known what their fates would be, he would have left them like he had, at the mercy of a woman who had no real care for anyone except herself, and now also little Cherie.
Neither Gabby or James had had the best start in life. They had been little children at the mercy of an adult who had no real care for anyone or anything but what she herself wanted. It was an abortion really, all of it.
‘It’s a free country, Gabby. I can go where I like, and I like to watch Mother. I can promise you this though; if I decide to have a word with her, I’ll make sure she’s alone, OK? I can’t be fairer than that, can I?’
Gabby looked at this man who was still her brother despite the fact they felt like strangers and, shaking her head, she said
sadly, ‘Please tell me where you’re living, James. I just want to help you if I can.’
He didn’t answer her; instead, he gave her his usual enigmatic smile and walked away.
She sat in the car for a while wondering if she should warn her mother about him. But she guessed that she knew he was there already. She wasn’t a fool – she would have noticed him surely? Yet, turning the car around, she went back to her mother’s flat anyway. While her Cherie was there she wanted to feel the girl was safe, and she made up her mind to tell Vincent about her worries.
‘I need a good earner, Bertie. I’ve got another baby on the way and, though the garage does OK, I need some real money to get a mortgage, et cetera.’
Bertie Warner grinned laconically; he had wondered how long it would be before Vincent wanted more. It was indisputable that he was on a fucking good earn, but he would still never feel he was getting enough money – that was just this boy’s nature. He seemed to think the world owed him a living. True, he had done them all a big favour, but, by the same token, he had already been handsomely recompensed, and he had earned the respect of everyone into the bargain. It was too soon for Vincent to be out on the rob and Bertie said as much.
‘Calm yourself down, lad. If you go out too soon you’ll get another fucking capture. They will be keeping an eye on you for a good while yet. They will be aware of your known associates and they will even be monitoring your calls. Now, you remember what I told you about mobiles, don’t you? Never, and I mean
never,
use your mobile for work – you always talk business from a fucking public phone or an untraceable pay as you go. The Filth are using scramblers and all sorts to listen in on conversations, so be aware.’
Vincent could barely keep the impatience out of his voice as he answered heavily, ‘You have mentioned that before, Bertie.’
Bertie Warner, annoyed now, said sarcastically, ‘I’m sure I have, clever bollocks, but just in case you are a bit dense I thought I would mention it again. Only you lot seem to think you are technological wizards because you can fucking dial a phone number. Well,
my
technological wizards, who are shrewder than you lot put together and then some, have warned me of the pitfalls of tapping. The signal is winging its way through the air, and can be intercepted at any time. Now, I may not be Alexander Graham fucking Bell, but I know enough to listen to the people who
do
know about these things. So if you ever ring me cold again like you did today, I will see to it that your fancy new mobile gets shoved so far up your jacksie you’ll have to shove your hand down your throat to answer a call!’
He was bellowing now; he could be heard all over the scrapyard. And it took Vincent O’Casey all his considerable willpower not to knock the man on his arse. But he knew that for the mug’s game it would be – Bertie would have him sliced and diced without a second’s thought. Bertie was a lot of things, but even-tempered was not one of them. He could be moved to tears at the plight of a starving child in Africa one moment, only to become murderous if the noise of a child’s actual crying interrupted him watching the news. He was a mass of contradictions, and it was best to let him get his anger out of his system.
‘And for the fucking record, Mr Big fucking Earner,
you
work for
me,
and
I
say when, and if, you go back out on the street.’
Vincent licked his dry lips, and bit back the retort he was dying to make. Instead, he bowed his head, feeling like some kind of errant schoolboy.
Satisfied by the boy’s outward deference, Bertie lowered his voice and said amiably, ‘I done a lump and half, son, and I know how you’re feeling, but believe me when I say you have to lie low for a while. I mean, be honest, do you want to get captured again? Because this time, mate, it will be a lot longer than four years behind the door. Next time round you become what the
courts call a serial offender, and they’ll throw away the fucking key, son. So, tighten your belt. You’re on a fucking decent earn – many men work a month to earn the poke you get a week – and the garage will pay off. Take my advice and stop giving it the large – you’ve plenty of time for all that when you’re properly established.’
Although Vincent knew he was getting sound advice, he still couldn’t let his wants go. He liked the life of a criminal; he liked the kudos and, most of all, he liked the money. He was determined to get some serious poke if it was the last thing he ever did in this life.
When he left, Bertie Warner sighed in annoyance. He had seen them all come and go – real hitters who, if they had a bit of patience, could have gone right to the top of their game. Impatience, Bertie had learned, was the scourge of the villain; it was the downside of easy money. So many of these young lads blew their wages in a week and were soon looking for another earn; if they saved a bit for the rainy days they would be quids in. He watched them in the pubs and clubs – big diamond Rolexes and eighty-grand motors and they were still signing on, for fuck’s sake! The naïvety of these young men was laughable. He blamed the education system – they taught them how to add up, but not how to invest their money and save the bastard, or at least some of it, anyway.
Bertie lived well, but not as well as he could, and that was because he knew the Old Bill loved nothing more than someone who lived it large with no real means of employment. A local Face driving a prestige car, with all the rent paid, while still on fucking Jobseeker’s Allowance did tend to raise the red flag. But these young lads wouldn’t listen, none of them.