Chapter Fifty-Two
Josephine woke up slowly, and smiled lazily. Michael was asleep beside her, his arm around her waist. She felt her baby move inside her, and she felt a rush of happiness. Every time she felt it moving, she knew that it was still alive. She closed her eyes and said a quick prayer of thanks. She had been saying the rosary every day, the Joyful Mysteries, mostly. She wasn’t comfortable with the others, least of all the Sorrowful Mysteries. She had also been saying the Thirty Days’ Prayer, and the Creed. She had always loved the Creed. It was so beautiful. She prayed to Mary, Our Lady, a mother herself, to please protect her child, and guide it safely into the world. She was sure that her prayers would be answered. If it didn’t happen this time, she was never going to try again; she would accept her barren state, and get on with her life.
She crawled out of the bed, making sure she didn’t wake Michael up. He worked so hard, and she had forced him out of the house the night before. Now she felt bad about that. He was only trying to protect her.
She walked down to the kitchen, and put the kettle on. As usual, she opened the back door to let the air in. She loved that she had such a huge garden, and that it was so beautiful. The gardener came three days a week, and he kept it pristine. She had her own little herb garden, and a small patio that allowed her to sit outside and enjoy her garden at her leisure. She knew how lucky she was to have so much, she really did appreciate what her Michael had given her. She knew just how hard he worked for his family, and how lucky she was to have a man like that.
She made a cup of tea, and sat down at the kitchen table. She caressed her belly; it was really starting to show now. Her mum had to have guessed, but she had not said a word. Josephine loved her for that. Her mum had been her best friend, until she had taken against Michael practically overnight. They were suddenly at loggerheads, but her mother had the sense to know when to retreat, and she had done just that. No one was going to say a word against her Michael without a fight. If she had to make a choice, there would be no competition – Michael would win hands down. Every time her mother tried to slip a criticism in, she turned on her without hesitating. It had worked too. Her mother’s complaints were now few and far between, thank fuck. Her dad loved him at least! As Michael always said, two out of three wasn’t bad.
She sipped her tea. She would kill for a cup of coffee, but apparently it wasn’t good for the baby, so she had stopped drinking it. She heard a car crunch to a stop on the drive. It was only eight a.m. She yawned noisily. Who could this be? It must be one of Michael’s workers. They all seemed to have the code for the gates.
She went through the reception hall, and opened the front door. Two men pushed past her, knocking her backwards.
‘Where is he?’
Josephine looked at the men in her entrance hall, absolutely terrified. They were huge and very aggressive. She recognised one of them, but she couldn’t place him.
‘He’s not here. He hasn’t been home all night.’ She was not going to let them get any advantage over her husband, she knew that much.
‘Look, love, don’t fuck me about. I ain’t in the mood for games. Where the fuck is he?’
Michael was at the top of the stairs, and she looked up at him fearfully. She couldn’t believe it. He didn’t seem to be the least bothered about them coming to his house, her home. He walked slowly down the stairs, saying, ‘Have a bit of respect, lads. My wife’s pregnant.’
Both men looked at her, and she pushed out her belly to emphasise her condition.
‘I expected you at some point, but I thought you would have the decency to come to my offices. After all, I didn’t bring my grievances to your front door, did I?’
No one said a word, and Josephine waited with baited breath, wondering what the next step would be. Michael was beside her now and, smiling pleasantly, he said gently, ‘Put the kettle on, darling. Make us all a cup of tea.’ Then he walked into his office, and the two men followed him, like lambs to the slaughter.
Chapter Fifty-Three
Michael closed the door to his office quietly. He gestured amiably to the two men to take a seat and when they were both settled comfortably – though looking thoroughly chastened at learning of his wife’s condition – he bellowed at them loudly, ‘How dare you! How dare you bring your fucking grievances into my home! My home, where my wife resides, and where I expect her to be safe and left in fucking peace. You dare to fucking come here like the avenging angels, and then expect me to swallow such outrageous fucking behaviour without retaliating?’
When Michael was really angry, he was formidable. He concealed his temper beneath the usual friendly countenance he showed to the world most of the time, whilst maintaining his reputation as a man whose temper, when roused, was without equal. He had nurtured this unpredictability over the years, ensuring that his reaction to any situation could never be guaranteed. That had stood him in great stead – it was the reason why these two men were unsure now of what he was actually capable of. Oh, he remembered the guilt he had felt over the Goldings’ death and the angst he had felt over his first kill. It had all been easier than he had ever believed. He had been given a baptism of fire all right – Patrick Costello had ensured that. But it had shown him how simple the kill actually was. Now his reputation was set – his reaction to any given situation, on the other hand, was something no one could ever foresee. It was why these men were suddenly so fucking subdued. He had not been even remotely bothered by their presence on his doorstep; they had assumed it would give them the edge – instead, it had given him the advantage. They had come to his home in anger without taking the time to think it all through. That alone was a fucking insult in itself.
Michael Flynn genuinely felt for Christie McCarthy. The man’s anguish was evident and he had every right to feel as he did. He had lost his son and that was a terrible thing for anyone to endure. But all that really mattered in their world was righting a wrong – that was the bottom line. Kelvin had pushed his fucking luck big time, he had taken a dirty great liberty, and he had been punished for it. That was it, as far as Michael was concerned, but he was willing to try to build a few bridges.
‘Look, Christie, I know how you’re feeling, mate, I respect that. But you know, as well as I do, that Kelvin was long overdue for a fucking hammering of some sort.’
Michael waited for a reply. He wanted to give this man a pass; he had no argument with him personally. But Christie’s silence was making it difficult. Well, fuck him! He needed a fucking lesson in etiquette.
‘Do you know what I really think? I think that you should have reined your boy in a long time ago. I mean, I couldn’t believe my fucking ears! He actually pulled a gun on Jeffrey Palmer, in my fucking club! In full view of the paying public, I might fucking add, disrespecting me and my premises.’ Michael was getting even more annoyed now at having to explain himself. ‘Do you honestly think that I should have swallowed my fucking knob? Done nothing? Your son baited that man for ages, he insulted him into the ground, and the only reason Jeffrey Palmer didn’t retaliate and kill the cunt there and then, was because he was on my premises. He knew if he entered into the fray – bearing in mind that he had every right to sort that lairy little cunt out – he would now be in the same condition as your boy: dead as a fucking doornail. I cannot, and will not, allow such behaviour on my premises. I don’t care who it is.’
Christie McCarthy knew that Michael had only done what he would have done himself in the same position. But this was still about his son. As useless as the boy had been, he was his own flesh and blood.
Michael was leaning on his desk, with his arms folded across his chest. He looked every inch the main man; he had something about him that told people he was not to be underestimated. Like Patrick Costello, he had an edge to him. McCarthy had dealt with dangerous men before – it was par for the course in the world they lived in – but, occasionally, the world threw up someone like Michael Flynn or Patrick Costello. They were few and far between, and the
fact that they lived by such a completely different code was the reason they were so successful.
Christie McCarthy was a man who had his creds, and he had come here for a fight – not just to avenge his son’s death, but to show people that some things needed to be redressed.
He glanced at his close friend, Sam Dunne, his sister’s husband, and a man who he knew would always be there if needed. Like him, Sam was subdued.
‘He was still my son, Michael, my boy, and you fucking murdered him.’
Michael shrugged nonchalantly. This was starting to irritate him now. It was all going on too long. ‘Well, you know what? He didn’t give me much fucking choice, did he? I’m not going to enter into a big discussion about this. I had to do what I did, and you both know that. I’m sorry to the heart of me for offending you, Christie. I have the greatest respect for you, but this was just business. It wasn’t personal. If I had let his actions slide, you know I would never have lived it down!’
Christie was shaking his head in denial, so Michael bellowed, ‘He asked for it, and he fucking got it! Not before time, either. You should have seen this coming, mate. He used your name, and he lived off your reputation like a fucking leech. I’m only saying to you what everyone else has been saying about him for donkey’s years. I didn’t want to do anything to him. As you know yourself, this kind of thing is a last resort, for fuck’s sake! But it happened. Whatever you might think, I did what I had to do.’
Sam Dunne couldn’t look Christie in the face. He was with Michael Flynn every step of the way. He loved Christie McCarthy like a brother, but that son of his had always been trouble. It was awful to know Kelvin was dead, for a father to know that his son had been murdered, but it had to be a relief for him in some ways. Christie had been plagued by the lad’s antics for years. He spent money like water; he couldn’t hold a job down, he had stolen from his own family. He had been devoid of any kind of decency whatsoever, he had lived his whole life believing he was entitled to everything. Now he had been taken out by Michael Flynn, and Sam Dunne was seriously regretting his impulsive actions in coming here. But family was family.
Michael could see how hurt Christie McCarthy was about his son. He didn’t like to see the man so upset, but he wasn’t going to sugar-coat everything; the man knew he had spawned a fucking moron of Olympian standards. He attempted to swallow his anger once more, and said gently, ‘Look, Christie, I can’t really apologise for what I did, all I can say is, I hope you can let this go. I don’t want to fall out with you about it. I have no fight with you – I had no fight with him till he brought one into my club. But if you can’t get over this, then tell me now.’
It was a threat, and Christie recognised it. Michael Flynn was getting bored, he wanted this over. He had apologised in his own immutable way, had tried to explain his action, and given Christie the respect he was due.
Christie had far more sense than his son – he knew when to let things go. Michael Flynn was also the main employer for many of the men he had to deal with on a daily basis – he was his bread and butter, really. It rankled – the death of a child wasn’t something to be forgotten overnight, even if that child had been on a death wish for many a long year – but his earlier anger had diminished.
‘I don’t want to carry this on. You’re right, Michael – my son should have known better. I knew he was a fucking waster. He broke my heart. I gave him every opportunity to work for a living, to have a life in the real world, but he fucked it up every time. I don’t want to fall out with you over this. It is hard to say it, but he ain’t worth all this. He never was.’
Michael smiled widely. He could be generous now, magnanimous. He had got what he wanted. ‘I’m glad to hear that, Christie. I would have hated to have us at each other’s throats. When I saw you two in my hallway, and my poor wife looking so fucking frightened, I was all for killing you both, just for the piss-take. I really didn’t think we would get this far. It shows you how wrong first impressions can be, eh?’ He held out his hand and Christie McCarthy shook it heartily. Then Michael turned to Sam Dunne, and did the same. It was all friendly now, the atmosphere lighter, and both Christie and Sam knew they had dodged a bullet. Michael was relaxed, acting like he was relieved that they had understood his terrible predicament and forgiven him.
‘Let me pour us a drink. I’m so pleased we managed to get past this shit.’ He poured them large brandies, personally serving them, making sure they were comfortable, offering them seats and cigars, treating them with the utmost respect, making them feel valued, acknowledging their status in his world.
‘A toast. To the future.’
They all raised their Waterford crystal glasses, knowing that Michael Flynn had won the day. Everyone would find out that they had folded, that Christie had been forced to overlook his son’s demise, and accept Michael Flynn’s actions without any recourse whatsoever.
‘I never wanted to fight with you, Christie.’
Christie McCarthy took a big gulp of his drink to steady his nerves. ‘I know that, Michael. I know you had no choice. I can see that now.’
Michael was still smiling his big friendly smile, as he said nonchalantly, ‘By the way, Christie, just one last question. I will never mention this again, but it’s important that I know. Which treacherous ponce gave you the code to my fucking gates?’
Chapter Fifty-Four
Lana was on her third glass of wine. She was what she called ‘merry’ and, as Josephine topped her glass up, she laughed loudly. ‘Oh, thank you, darling! This is just what the doctor ordered!’
Josephine laughed with her. This was the mum she loved, the mum she had grown up with – full of fun and mischief, always up for a good laugh. She had missed this. She hated them being at loggerheads, especially when it was over her Michael.
Lana looked at her daughter with her usual critical eye. For all her traumas, her Josephine was still a lovely-looking girl – well, woman now. She had kept her natural beauty, even after all the miscarriages and the stillbirths. The only real change had been her daughter’s quietness; with every loss she had gradually lost her natural ebullience and her lust for life. Over the last few years she had become like a recluse – she rarely left the house now.
She still shopped twice a week, and that was it. But how she shopped! Talk about bulk buying! Everywhere you looked there were boxes, all piled up on top of one another. She used to keep them out of sight – now the whole place looked like a warehouse. Who the fuck bought twenty-four cans of soup at a time? There was only the two of them. As Des joked, if the bomb dropped, they could live round Josephine’s for a year, and never eat the same meal twice. She had laughed with him, pretending everything was all right, but it worried her, as a mother. She knew that things were not OK with her daughter; her girl wasn’t right in her mind.
This house had once been spectacular. Tastefully decorated, each item of furniture had been agonised over, carefully selected, and put into place with love and pride. Now, though, every room had boxes piled up everywhere. Josephine shopped like she was feeding the five thousand. A case of this, two cases of that. What really bothered Lana was that Josephine acted like it was perfectly normal. This was a very big house, yet her daughter was having to use every room to store her purchases. But Lana knew better than to say anything – she was not going to rock the boat in any way now that they were finally back on track. She kept her own counsel where Michael was concerned too. Josephine was not going to listen to anything detrimental about him, but Lana knew she must have heard the rumours going round. Look at all this about Kelvin McCarthy for a start – it was the talk of the town.
There was something she needed to pluck up the courage to ask her daughter though – something she couldn’t let go. It was far too important. She gulped down her wine for more Dutch courage. It was really lovely; one good thing about Michael Flynn for all his faults – and they were legion – was he only bought the best.
‘I’m a bit pissed, Josephine!’
&
nbsp; Josephine laughed happily. ‘I could have told you that, Mum!’
Lana laughed with her daughter, pleased to see the girl so happy for once. ‘Josephine, my love, I have to ask you this, darling, as your mum – please don’t be cross with me. Are you pregnant again?’
Josephine looked at her mother, sorry to her soul that her mum had not asked her the question straight out but had needed a few drinks to pluck up the courage. She knew that this was her fault. She had deliberately built a barrier between her and her mum. A barrier that had alienated her from her own mother so much she was too scared to ask her a perfectly natural question. She was nearly eight months gone now. She knew she should have told her mother already. She was an only child, she was all her parents had. She felt so guilty, and so disloyal. Her mum loved her more than anything, and she knew that without a doubt.
She was nearly in tears as she said brokenly, ‘I didn’t tell anyone, Mum. Neither did Michael – I wouldn’t let him. I didn’t want to get everyone’s hopes up again. That way, if I lost this baby, I wouldn’t have to face everyone, see their disappointment along with my own. I would have just coped with it myself this time. I didn’t tell you in case it went wrong again. I couldn’t bear to put you through it.’
Lana felt as if her own heart was going to split in two. Her daughter’s words were so sad. But she could understand the girl’s logic. It had been so traumatic for her, losing her babies time and time again. She had hated witnessing her girl’s pain, watching her beautiful daughter die inside a little bit more with every failure. She had held her while she cried her heart out, wishing she could take her girl’s overwhelming sense of loss and pain on herself, so her daughter wouldn’t have to experience it. But that wasn’t possible; all she could do was be there for her, and pray for the best.
‘Oh, darling, I understand. But I want to help you in any way I can. I would have kept it to myself. I’m your mum, Josephine. I know we have had our differences, but never forget that you are everything to me. All I want is your happiness, darling.’