Eileen came into the room with a tray full of cups of tea and she saw that Kathleen’s laughter was, once more, turning to tears. She swallowed down her irritation, feeling guilty for her annoyance at her sister’s distress.
‘Come on, Kath. Cheer up, love. You took your tablets?’
Patrick had taken Kathleen to a doctor in Harley Street and he had diagnosed her as a manic depressive, whatever that was. He had prescribed antidepressants and Kathleen was not happy about taking them. Only Lance seemed capable of getting her to swallow them. Once she had them she seemed spaced, admittedly, but at least she was happier. Eileen sat beside her twin and hugged her tightly.
‘Come on, Kathleen. Stop this, will you? Drink your tea and take your pills. If you don’t, I will be really upset. You take them for Lance but not for anyone else and when he gets in I want to be able to tell him that you took them for me without a row.’
Kathleen didn’t take her eyes off the TV but she swallowed the pills with the scalding hot tea and Eileen sighed with relief although Kathleen was still crying. The last few days she had been so low that they had nearly taken her back to the doctor again. But according to Pat, once the pills got in her system she would be much better. Well, Eileen hoped so. She was her twin and she hated to see her like this. She was so unhappy and, even worse than that, so uninterested in her life or the world around her.
She was a teenager and she was already like an old woman. Eileen, on the other hand, was full of life and enjoying every second with as much energy as she could muster.
She sighed once more and, picking up a small hand mirror and her tweezers, she set about tidying her eyebrows. She had her eye on a new boy at school and she was confident that she might just get him.
As much as she loved her sister, she was embarrassed by her at times. She had been off school for a few days and Eileen was ashamed to admit that she had actually enjoyed her absence. For the first time in ages she didn’t have to watch her and take care of her, she could just go to school and be like the other kids. This thought made her ashamed and she smiled at her sister once more. She wished she had the patience of Lance; he seemed to know just what to do with her, no matter what her mood.
She knew Kathleen was her twin sister but she was past the stage where she put all her energy into her sibling. She wanted to be young and she wanted to enjoy her life and with Kathleen like she was, that was not an option.
Pat was outside the hostess club his mother had been working in for years and he was not impressed. It was scruffy, and not just the usual seedy scruffiness of Soho, all top show and dim lighting; this place was so dilapidated that it would be apparent even in darkness.
He watched as the doorman, a large black man, walked two men into the club. He observed that even the doorman was a scruff-bag and that his suit had seen better days. He was going through the motions and that told Pat enough of what was going on around him. This was a front. The money this place earned was nothing compared to whatever else was going on here. The real business had to be a serious earner and his mother must have been aware of it at some level. He wouldn’t press her on it though. He knew she was close-mouthed because she didn’t want him and Brewster at loggerheads.
The bouncer came back out to the small foyer and recognised Pat. He knew who he was, Pat had established himself all over the Smoke. That this man knew him from the off was pleasing to him though. Either that, or someone had heralded his arrival, but he forced that thought away. Pat was on his own because Kathleen was on a mad half-hour and Lance had gone home to look after her.
Pat had phoned home earlier and got Eileen. He guessed Eileen wanted to go out and, knowing Lance would walk over hot coals for his little sister, she had probably exaggerated her symptoms so he would come home and take over. Pat grinned. Eileen was a shrewdie, bless her, and she had the right idea and all. Why have a dog and bark yourself ? If you could get someone else to do it, why not?
‘Can I help you, Mr Brodie?’ The man spoke with a quiet respect that Pat knew was genuine. Up close he saw that he wasn’t that much older than he was himself. He was a good-looking boy; obviously of mixed-race parentage and obviously able to have an almighty row if the fancy took him.
‘Where’s Brewster?’ It was a statement more than a question.
The doorman didn’t move for a while; he was as still as a corpse as he made a decision that would affect the rest of his life. Glancing over his shoulder to make sure no one was earwigging, he said, ‘He ain’t here but he will be back within the hour; he is meeting up with someone you know.’
Patrick nodded slowly. ‘What’s your name?’
The man held out a meaty fist. ‘Colin. Colin Butcher.’
They shook hands and Pat felt the strength of him and the coolness of his palm. This was someone who would not easily be rattled and, once more, he wondered if this was a set-up. He knew the different angles that were used in their business and in stir he had been taught all about them and how to deal with them, by the masters.
But his instinct told him that this boy was good and he decided to trust in it. After all, it had never let him down before.
‘I think I’ll wait then, if you don’t mind?’
Colin smiled then and he looked a completely different man. He had a wide, open smile that was automatically guaranteed to make whoever was on the receiving end of it feel relaxed.
Pat knew then that this man would be an asset to any business. He had the right demeanour and the sense to keep quiet.
‘Can I get you a drink?’
Patrick nodded. ‘I think I’ll go through to the bar and wait there.’
They walked in the club together and Pat felt comfortable with him. He also felt optimistic when he saw the full extent of the club’s shabbiness. It was a dump, and dumps were always easier to reclaim than palaces. He suddenly remembered walking in here with his father and he noted that it had the same flock wallpaper on the walls and the same dark-grey carpet that he remembered. It smelled of fags, cheap deodorant and desperation, and he decided that it smelled just like Brewster himself.
Ordering a large Scotch, Pat settled himself at the bar and looked the hostesses over. They were watching him warily and he knew they were wondering if he would be as big a shite to work for as Lenny Brewster. He hoped not.
Brasses bothered him. Not because of how they earned a living but because the very act that made them money was also the thing that stripped away their self-esteem and their enjoyment of ever being with a man. Once women resorted to the game they saw everyone around them as marks and this was what made them so unreliable in the long run. They had no loyalty to anyone, not even themselves.
Pat noted everything around him without even seeming to glance away from his drink. Another little trick he had taught himself in gaol; unexpected eye contact could be the death of you and, in certain prisons, it often was. He had also learned patience and he stood now, completely relaxed and at ease with his surroundings, and waited for Brewster to return.
Spider was watching his son play snooker and he was also watching the time. He knew it was early yet and that Pat wouldn’t be there for a long while, but he was nervous. Something he had not been for many a long year.
The boy was a grafter, no doubt about that. He was also a handful; he had heard great things about him in poke and he knew that now he was out and about he was determined to get what he saw as his due. Not just his due, but his mother’s due as well. She had been royally used and it was common knowledge. Pat and Lance had been kids and had not understood the seriousness of what had happened but now they were men, and men had a habit of taking great pleasure in reaping revenge when they could.
Spider watched the people in the bar, most of them had had run-ins with Brewster; he had not made a point of keeping friends close. Yet it was friendships and families that were the backbone of their way of life. You needed people you could depend on and that you could trust. Loyalty was important, especially if anyone got their colla
r felt. Keeping your trap shut when questioned by Old Bill and doing your bird without a squeak was considered the correct way to behave. Brewster had so many enemies now that he would only need a phone booth for a meet with his most trusted friends and advisers.
He had approached Patrick through other people, not even having the nerve to do the dirty deed himself. It was common knowledge and no one who knew about it was impressed. Everyone was waiting though and no one was going to say a word until the two had met and an outcome was decided. Until then, it was a waiting game and the waiting should finally be over tonight.
Jimmy Brick and Lil were walking into the club just as Lenny emerged from his car. His driver always dropped him outside the doorway, in full sight of his doormen and his workforce. The club itself earned a few quid but it wasn’t really anything to shout about. It was his office space and where he went to plan or execute his serious skulduggery.
Seeing Lil with Jimmy, he felt his usual anger rising to the surface.
’All right, Jimmy? Long time no see.’ His voice was louder than he intended and he knew he was overdoing the friendliness. Him and Jimmy had never really been mates; in fact they had only tolerated each other. But he knew he had to show willing; he had realised that his usual disinterested rudeness would not go down too well at the moment.
Young Pat, as he was being called by all and sundry, seemed to have the same force as his father; it seemed that people were drawn to him. They had a high regard for him and he was only twenty. It was a fucking diabolical liberty to expect him to meet up like he was some kind of fucking gofer. But he knew that he had to suss this out and make sure that he was at least seen to be doing the right thing.
Now, in the middle of it, he had Jimmy Brick looking at him like he was last night’s bunk up. Lil was watching him; she had lovely eyes and, in fairness, she was still a very shaggable woman. Although Lenny was often seen with young women, he was actually far happier with the grown-ups. He liked his women to have a bit about them; liked to take the woman from someone else if possible. It suited his strange sense of humour. There was nothing like shagging a rival’s bird or, even better, a rival’s old woman. It added to the excitement as far as he was concerned, and it also marked the spot, like a dog pissing on a street corner to mark his territory. It let everyone know he had been there and he had done that.
Once he had acquired them, used them and made his point, he discarded them without a second’s thought. They were old news, so why would he keep them on board?
Now though, as he followed a silent Jimmy into the club, he felt the urge to laugh. He had arranged a little reception for them all and he was looking forward to seeing their surprise when they realised what was coming their way.
Jimmy Brick was not happy about taking Lil in with him but he had no choice now; she was coming inside with him or without him.
As they walked up the rickety stairs towards the office, Lil was reminded of how many times she had made that journey over the years. Now it seemed that this club was once more going to play a part in her destiny and in the future of her children. She was surprised to find that she was shaking.
She kept thinking that Lance should have been there. That no matter what she thought of him privately, he should have been there with Pat to sort this out once and for all. It would always be remembered that he had not been present and she knew that, in years to come, it would cause problems.
Pat Junior was already inside; he was actually seated behind the old desk, the desk that she had bought one sunny afternoon from Camden Market with Patrick. Now it was scarred from years of hot cups of tea and unattended cigarettes. It was scratched and stained but it still held a certain charm for her. And she could see her husband behind it once more, in the guise of her eldest son. Never had he looked more like his namesake than he did now. He had the same cold look, the same easy manner and the same promise of violence if he didn’t get what he wanted.
Lenny saw him sitting there and, keeping a lid on his anger, he said loudly, ‘I hope you’ll jump in my grave as quick, son.’
He went to the small bar and poured them drinks; he was amazed to find that his hands were shaking, visibly shaking, and he knew that the boy had the edge over him for the moment. He had received no answer to his jocular taunt and he understood, for the first time, just how precarious his position actually was. There were none of his aides in the room, no one seemed to have arrived as arranged. In fact, even Colin was absent and that in itself was a revelation because he was up for promotion. He had been earning his stripes for a while and now it seemed he was happy to retreat when the aggro arrived. Colin was not a fool, he had a decent enough shit-detector and Lenny was aware of that; he had a similar one himself. It had kept him out of trouble for many years. Until now that is. Lenny had a trump card though, cards even; he had kids with Lil and they were half Pat’s blood as well. He was confident that Pat wouldn’t do anything too outrageous to the man who had sired his younger siblings. Patrick was like his father, he saw himself as far too decent to do anything like that. It was a weakness and he would find that out before too long.
Lil had sat down on the chaise-longue kept in there in case anyone wanted forty winks or needed a breathing space if things got out of order in the club. Many a hostess had drunk a cup of tea and vented their spleen on that sofa; it was a way of diffusing a situation that could become very difficult if not handled properly. Hostesses were fighters and they loved to fight one another when the fancy took them; a slight seen where none was intended or drugs were consumed and then caused paranoia. Now though, it seemed it was to be the throne that Lil sat on as her son reclaimed his father’s businesses.
Everyone was seated now and Lenny was left standing in his own office. He stared at them all with his usual aplomb; as if nothing bothered him, which, until tonight, it actually hadn’t. He leant nonchalantly against the bar; his handmade suit was crumpled and his eyes were red-rimmed from the drink he had consumed that afternoon. Even the good whisky he had poured for himself tasted bitter somehow.
Lenny kept glancing at the door, expecting someone to enter, even though he knew deep inside him that that was not going to happen. Patrick seemed to know what he was thinking because he said quietly, ‘No one’s coming to your rescue, mate. I saw to that days ago.’
Lenny Brewster shrugged. ’Am I supposed to be scared or something?’ His voice sounded much more confident than he actually felt.
‘Come on, Lil, sort this boy out, will you?’ His voice was deliberately scornful; he knew he had to make an impression and he also knew he was in big trouble. For the first time in years he was afraid, mortally afraid.
Lil didn’t answer him. No one had expected her to. She got up though and, walking to her son, she kissed him on the cheek. Then she said heavily, ‘You can’t talk your way out of this one, Lenny. You have to stand there and take what’s coming to you.’
Her voice was his undoing; that she was there to see all this, to see him brought so low, was more than he could bear. It had finally dawned on him that no one was going to come up, that no one was going to help him. He was surrounded by his enemies and that was through choice; he had only ever made enemies.
The girl he had been with earlier had slipped into the club itself and he knew then that even she had heard a whisper about what might happen. She had covered her bases all right, but that even a slag like her was in the know, devastated him.
Young Patrick was still sitting there quietly. His deep-blue eyes were expressionless and his body taut and young. Looking at him, Lenny knew that he couldn’t compete. But he was far from finished and he wouldn’t go down without a fight.
‘I ain’t fucking standing for this, boy. I ain’t your father, letting meself be taken like a fucking rabid dog. Looking forward to your birthday this year, son?’
Lenny Brewster had never carried any kind of firearm; he knew that if you packed a weapon you were putting yourself up for a seven-year stretch on possession of firearms
charges. He had thought he had been so clever, making sure everyone around him was packing, but now he wished he had one to hand so he could blow these bastards off the face of the earth without a second’s thought.
Patrick was unmoved by his words, was not going to be goaded into anger. He was calm and collected. Lil could see her son’s demeanour and, standing up quickly, she said, ‘I’ll be downstairs when you want me. The girls will need a firm hand and the sooner I start, the better.’
As Lil walked towards the doorway, Lenny, his anger as always a heartbeat away, pulled his arm back ready to take a swipe at her. As he did so, Patrick and Jimmy were up and ready for him. But it was Lil who retaliated first. She grabbed a whisky glass off the bar and, with all her strength, she smashed it into his face. As he felt the glass break, the slicing of his skin, he was so shocked he didn’t even move. Putting up his hand, he held it to his cheek, feeling the skin flapping as it hung in chunks from his cheekbone. Bringing his hand away from his face, he stared down at the crimson blood and knew then that he was finished. It was over. Lil had finally got the last word and he appreciated the irony of it. He had spent his life using anyone and everyone around him and he had known his time would come; it was inevitable. He just hadn’t thought it would be at the hands of the Brodies. He smiled sadly, feeling the pain now. As the cuts began to sting, he knew Lil had been entitled to that one blow at least. He had hurt her enough over the years.
Lil watched the blood seeping down his face; the bone was exposed and she was amazed that she didn’t feel nauseous. He looked awful and it didn’t bother her. She had no feelings either way about the wounds she had inflicted on him.