The Business

  He knew, and better than anyone, that sometimes, just sometimes, the truth could decimate a person and their whole life. It could cause a reaction so devastating it would make Hiroshima look like a playground prank.

  Like his mother, he had never trusted the truth, and in their world that wasn’t uncommon. He was known for his straight talking, his honesty. He knew that he would never lie about work - it was not feasible. But lying about some things was, in reality, fucking inevitable.

  He remembered a priest once telling his class of five year olds that ‘The truth will set you free’ and the memory made him smile to himself. The truth could be a bigger jailer than most people realised. It was something that a lot of people just couldn’t afford. Especially his sister Jordanna, the truth was the last thing she needed to hear. But he also knew that, now she was back in her mother’s orbit, it was inevitable, that at some point the truth was likely to come out. Then what?

  He didn’t know and neither did anyone else. The lies went back to their childhood, and he knew that one day it would all surface, and when that day came, it would blow them all out of the proverbial water.

  He also had a feeling that the day he had dreaded his whole life was near and, in a strange way, he just wanted it over with, wanted it out in the open. Because, God Himself knew, he was sick of keeping it all secret. Sick of living this lie. And living everyone’s lie for them.

  Book One

  All happy families resemble one another, but each

  unhappy family is unhappy in its own way.

  - Leo Tolstoy, 1828-1910 Anna Karenina

  A child is not a vase to be filled,

  but a fire to be lit.

  - François Rabelais, 1494-1553

  Chapter One

  1978

  Mary Dooley was cleaning, she cleaned like other people slept; without any thought whatsoever. Her eyes constantly scanned surfaces for dust or smudges. Her mirrors were buffed to a high gloss, and her floors were polished to an almost dangerous sheen. She saw it as her given right, her God-given right, as she was well aware that cleanliness was the nearest she would get to Himself in this life.

  When not cleaning, Mary was cooking. Huge, wholesome meals that her family ate without any real regard; after all, they had eaten this way all their lives. She cooked the old way; mashed potatoes dripping with butter and well-cooked joints of meat left to settle into their juices before being hacked apart and placed reverently on to her willow-pattern plates. She made shortcrust pastries and heavy rock cakes bulging with sultanas screaming for thick butter to be spread on them and devoured with a cup of sweet tea. She could do anything with suet and a bit of shin. She could make a cheap cut of meat fit for the Pope himself to devour, as her husband often pointed out when in his cups.

  She pooh-poohed his compliments loudly and with her usual ripe language. She disparaged this new talk of salads and the avoidance of animal fats, and all the other crap they talked of that threatened her whole existence. She fed her family and she fed them in the only way she knew how.

  Heart attacks indeed. As her own mother always said, sure, everybody had to die of something. Mary couldn’t take onboard that you didn’t need to die before your time, that she was slowly killing her family with love and good cooking. She saw it as some kind of conspiracy against her and all the other women like herself who had lived through the war and the want and were not going to go back to basic rations for anyone.

  Tea was another of her passions. Mary left the big metallic pot on the hob bubbling away all day long until it was stewed black, and that was how she drank it. Black and sickly sweet. She said it gave her energy, and she was correct. It also gave her foetid breath and a furry tongue. This was at odds with her otherwise pristine appearance; like her home she was immaculate. From the tightly rolled French pleat that held in place long, thick, blond hair, coloured now every six weeks while her family were asleep, to well-fitting clothes that wrapped themselves neatly around her perfect size-ten body. For a woman well into her fifties she was still a looker. High cheekbones and deep-set dark-blue eyes saw to that. She had tiny, pretty feet that she was secretly proud of, and which she showed off every summer in cheap but tasteful sandals. They were her only real vanity.

  Her hands were rough, well taken care of but still showing the damage from years of bleach and washing soda. Her skin was assaulted nightly with a good scrubbing of Pears’ soap and a thick layer of Pond’s cold cream. This seemed to work because she looked much younger than her years and she had the demeanour and carriage of a much younger woman.

  Her only vice was smoking; a cigarette was permanently dangling from her cupid-bow lips, and she squinted up her eyes to counteract the constant stream of smoke whenever she had her hands full. Her husband joked it was the secret of her good cooking, the adding of cigarette ash that everyone knew sometimes fell into her batters and her gravies. She laughed as loudly as her family at this, seeing nothing wrong with the occasional lapse of concentration. After all, it wasn’t as if it could poison them was it?

  Mary folded up her washing, enjoying the feel of its softness and the smell of its cleanliness. She was possessed of a twin tub that she would never part with, for all the newfangled gadgets they had these days. As she said to Mrs Phillips, her neighbour, what was wrong with these young girls with their constant striving for an easy life, without the chores what the feck was there for a woman to do?

  She glanced at the kitchen clock and stopped her folding. It was eight-thirty on a Monday morning, most of the family were away to their works and she was due at the church for nine o’clock Mass. She heard the toilet flush upstairs and sighed heavily. Her only daughter, her late surprise, as she referred to her, as she was over forty when she arrived, was finally up and about.

  Pouring the child a cup of tea she took it up with her as she had to get her coat and hat anyway from the wardrobe. She treated this child differently to the boys and, deep down, she knew that, but she would never admit to it of course. She loved them all the same, at least outwardly, though her Imelda was the baby, and that, as she knew very well, was the trouble.

  Her daughter got away with murder and, even though Mary knew it was wrong, she couldn’t resist her. She was her last one, her baby, and she allowed her more licence than all the others put together.

  Mary prayed daily that her trust in her youngest child wouldn’t turn out to be misplaced but, in all honesty, she didn’t hold out much hope. She had made one too many mistakes with that one, and it looked like they were coming home to roost.

  Imelda Dooley was the image of her mother, the only one of the children to have her small build and ability to eat anything without putting on an ounce.

  She had the same blond hair and small mouth, but she had her father’s large, blue eyes, and they only added to the package, making her look innocent and knowing all at the same time. She had finely arched eyebrows and a small, pointed chin which made her look younger than her years. But the thick make-up that she applied with an expert hand soon put paid to that. Men had been looking at her since she was twelve and her breasts had suddenly appeared overnight. If her father had not been a local Face and her brothers had not been known locally for their short tempers and ability to knock out anyone within two feet of them, she would have been taken down a lot sooner, she knew that much now anyway. She had been such a fool, a silly, childish fool.

  She sipped the tea her mother had brought in to her and wondered at how she was going to drop her bombshell, and she knew she needed to do it sooner rather than later. Her mother’s personality was not conducive to secrets and if a neighbour sussed it out before her there really would be hell to pay.

  Imelda felt sick with apprehension, she had played fast and loose and this was the result; her mother’s warnings and advice had fallen on deaf ears. She knew it all, like many a girl before her.

  Now she was lumbered, well and truly lumbered, and she knew that this was the one thing her mother would not forgive her. r />
  She was frightened and excited all at the same time, the thought of a baby interrupting her life was more terrifying than the thought of dying. She would actually rather die a thousand deaths than face her mother’s wrath and shame. And that was what she would be subjected to, she knew that as well as she knew her own name. Even in this day and age, it wasn’t acceptable for Irish Catholic girls to have children out of wedlock, no matter how fashionable it might be for the rest of the country’s youth. In this house it might as well be 1900, because those were the values they had to live by.

  And as for her father, well, he was her biggest obstacle in all this, because she had no idea how this news would be received, and in what form his anger and his disappointment would take.

  She was nearly crying again, and the fear was once more making her feel faint. If it was only her brothers, she would have braved it out, both of whom she knew would see this latest escapade as yet more proof she was a spoiled brat. It was her mother and her father she was frightened of, because they were the ones who would be expected to sort this mess out. And a mess it was.

  She put Elvis Costello on her record player and turned the volume up as high as it would go, her mother was at Mass and she had the run of the house. She might as well make the most it before the balloon went up.

  Gerald Dooley was a big man, an even-tempered, large Irishman with hands like bunches of bananas and eyes the colour of wet slate. He was imposing, well muscled, and he had a reputation as a fair-minded man, but not a man to cross. He liked a drink, and could hold it. He went to Mass once a week, as did his children, grown as they were, and he had a little flutter on the horses. He was also in full-time employment with a local Face named Michael Hannon; he collected debts, delivered messages with the minimum of threats and, in general, was what was known as a good all-rounder. This meant he had a wage, paid taxes, and was given a bit on top as a bonus. His family lived well and were respected as was he.

  His size and his knowledge of everyone’s business were his greatest assets and he had known that since he had been a boy of twelve and he had utilised his strengths from then. In this world he was a big man, outside it he was just another enforcer. He kept on the right side of the law through intimidation and innate cunning. This also held him in good stead with his employer. If he said something couldn’t be done then it was a fact. But he would find a way round any obstacles, and that was his forte.

  If someone was fool enough not to heed his warnings, always delivered with a friendly smile, then they were mugs, and would be made to pay the price. Rumour had it that a man, missing these many years, had last been seen talking with him. The story had only advanced Gerald Dooley’s fearsome reputation as a man who achieved his objectives through any means necessary.

  This truth would be proved once more when he got out of his Jaguar outside a block of flats in Barking. He was dressed casually as usual, but still well put on. Even in his sixties he managed to garner looks from women of all ages. A reputation could do that for a man, especially in an environment like this. On this particular estate a decent car, a nice set of clothes and the ability to fight was a requisite for the women without a man. It screamed a few quid, the end of any aggravation with neighbours or family, and a guaranteed good few nights out.

  Gerald was more than aware of this, and even though temptation had always been in his way, he had never succumbed. His wife had always been enough for him, and his family was his life. He had occasionally taken the odd flyer when he had been a young man and he had always found it a rather distasteful business. His guilt had gnawed at him like a priest with a ranter, and he had decided early on that he was happy enough as he was. With the wisdom of age he knew he had made the right decision, because so many of his contemporaries had sacrificed their families for a quick flash and a bacon sandwich. Youth was no substitute for loyalty and time served, even though it had its obvious advantages. No, his Mary had been an exemplary wife, and he appreciated her respect, her kindness and her love for him and their various offspring. For all her religious fervour he knew she would lie on a stack of bibles if the need arose. That was more important to him than anything else.

  Today he had brought a new young lad on the job with him, his father was an old friend and the son, though a big lad, was not the sharpest knife in the drawer. But he was willing and that made up for a lot. He had the brawn, and the makings of a good repo man if he was taught properly from the off.

  Lads like this made Gerald’s life easier, and it worked well for them all. Anyone he trained was guaranteed a good livelihood and was generally regarded as having learnt his trade from the best. Young Declan might not be the most scholarly boy he had ever encountered, but he was willing, with a shrewdness that was paramount in their line of work. Ergo, he got the dosh by whatever means, all he needed was the chance to smooth out a few rough edges and he would be set for life.

  When they had reached the required front door, a scruffy-looking flat with dirty nets and scuffed paintwork, Gerald Dooley nodded almost imperceptibly. Instead of knocking politely, young Declan proceeded to kick the door off its hinges. This was not a difficult task and, walking into the warm smell of central heating and cannabis smoke, they saw the occupant of the premises standing in his kitchen with the kettle in one hand and the other hand down the front of his pyjama bottoms.

  ‘Morning, just in time for tea. Only, do me a favour would you?’

  The man nodded dumbly, his face devoid of any colour now. Terror was taking over as he felt the trembling that told him he was well and truly fucked.

  ‘Wash your fucking hands first.’

  Jason Parks was walking through the spring sunshine like a man who owned the world and, in his case, he believed that to be the truth.

  He was a new kid on the block, nineteen years old, and with the world at his feet. He was already responsible for three armed robberies and a Bond Street jewellery heist. His life was a set pattern and he was pleased with its natural progression. A womaniser by instinct and, with a good teacher in the shape of his father, he loved women, money and prestige, in that order. The latter guaranteeing him the former, as he knew from experience. Women had loved him from the tender age of fifteen and, looking twenty, he had been fortunate enough to have the pick of the litters around and about. His first encounter with a thirty-five-year-old French teacher had taught him that most women were as up for it as their male counterparts, they just acted as if they weren’t interested because of public censure. In fact, most of the women he had come across would fuck a table leg if it had a nice set of togs and a decent motor. The fact that he was possessed of the gift of the gab was a bonus. He talked a good fuck, and he had found he was capable of delivering one into the bargain. Sex, or more importantly, the promise of the sex act, was his whole life and, unlike most romancers, he loved to pleasure a woman, loved hearing her cry out, watch her enjoy his ministrations; that was as much of a turn on as the chase itself.

  A good-looking boy with an athletic body and fair countenance, he knew he was a babe magnet; women of all ages, sizes, shapes and descriptions loved him. And in all of them he found something to love. He had taken the cherry of more than a few young girls and he had done it with what he considered panache. He saw himself as their teacher in matters of the personal and private. He enjoyed the role of tutor.

  He enjoyed both the danger of a married woman and the innocence of a young girl new to the game. Jason liked the knowledge of their bodies, liked the way the experienced women guided him into their bodies all wet and warm and grateful.

  Danger appealed to him, and he admitted that to himself.

  As Jason snuck into a small, terraced house in Bow he was smiling. The wife of a notorious bank robber lived there and her husband was in court at this very moment for non-payment of fines. That he had been banged up when the fines had been requested was something for the briefs to argue, all Jason knew was that he had a few hours’ grace until the man came home, and in that few hours he wa
s going to give his wife the seeing-to of a lifetime.

  The woman opened the door with a wide smile and the minimum of clothing and Jason was inside the front door before the two men observing him from the house opposite had time to comment about him to each other. Even though they were shocked at the boy’s blatant temerity, to be visiting this particular man’s wife on such an auspicious occasion was outrageous to say the least, that they were also impressed with his front, his bravado, was a given. Anyone who would risk their life for a quick feel had their vote, and even though they knew that he was a wrong one, a fucking muppet, they both felt a grudging respect for him, for his guts, for his absolute bottle. Laughing loudly, they shook their heads sagely at one another. He was a lad all right and, as far as they were concerned, he was to be applauded, but they kept that gem of wisdom to themselves.

  Gerald Dooley was smiling, and young Declan had the sense to mimic his new boss’s behaviour.

  Colin Baxter, a junkie with an unfortunate amphetamine habit coupled with a complete inability to pick a winning horse, now owed what amounted to the national debt, not only to his dealer, but also to his bookie, who happened to be one and the same person.

  When the kettle finally boiled Gerald took it off the gas and, motioning to Declan, waited patiently until Colin was safely held over the sink, his head about two inches from the china bottom, his arms wrenched painfully behind his back.

  Leaning over the whimpering man Gerald said quietly, ‘I warned you, Col, and you fucking mugged me off.’