Bad Catholics (14 page)

A bus pulled up, Father Liam got on and went upstairs, Jimmy followed. They sat on the back seat. It was as Father Liam had said. There was only one other person upstairs. By talking quietly they had as much privacy as they needed. Jimmy liked the idea. It wasn't The Hind but it was somewhere real enough so that he could think straight and talk about what he wanted to talk about. Father Liam lit a cigarette and waited. If it was serious, and it wasn't Bernadette, he couldn't guess. So he didn't try. The clippy came upstairs for their fares. She smiled and nodded to Jimmy who nodded back. Father Liam got two tickets to the terminus and the clippy went back down to the lower deck.

‘What's a mortal sin, Father?' asked Jimmy eventually.

‘Were you never told?'

‘Yes, I was told. Something that turned your back on God.'

‘Well?'

‘But, can you give me an example?'

‘Well, murder and the like.'

‘That's what I thought but at school when I was a nipper they said missing Mass on Sunday as well and swearing and small stuff, stuff that isn't even important.'

‘Missing Mass is always important.'

‘OK, I know it's important, but how can you put all that small stuff beside something like murder? If missing Mass sends you to Hell for ever, well, most of everything else people do is worse. That means we'll all go to Hell unless we spend the second half of each day confessing what we did in the first half.'

It wasn't what he wanted to say or had intended but it was what came out.

‘You give me an example, Jimmy. Let's start there.'

‘Stealing. Is stealing a mortal sin?'

‘It depends on what is stolen and why. Do you want to put in some details so I can think about your example?'

‘Breaking and entering. Stealing from a jeweller's.'

Father Liam spoke slowly with an exaggerated thoughtfulness as he drew on his cigarette.

‘All right, breaking and entering, stealing from a jeweller's. That's a good enough example.'

The priest was accepting the fiction of an example. Jimmy knew he could stop at any time and, knowing he could stop, told the priest everything.

They eventually got off the bus half an hour later. The priest looked at his watch. ‘I'll get the Tube back, I have no idea how often that bus runs. What about you?'

There was a pub across the road. ‘No, I'll stay here for a bit. Thank you, Father.'

‘Do you want absolution, Jimmy?' said the priest quietly.

‘I don't understand, Father. We've just been talking, it

wasn't a confession.'

‘It could be if you want it to. All it needs is for you to say you're sorry and ask God's forgiveness. Are you sorry, Jimmy?'

Jimmy thought, then nodded, and the priest said the words of absolution so quietly not even Jimmy, standing next to him, could hear.

‘I'm off now. Say an Act of Contrition whenever you can,' Father Liam said, then he smiled. ‘And for your penance say as many Glory Bes as you can before you get inside that pub. After that it's all up to you.'

Jimmy smiled back and they shook hands. ‘Thank you, Father. See you.'

The priest turned and set off to find the nearest Tube station. Jimmy watched him go.

‘Glory be to the Father …' he said silently to himself and God, and crossed the road. Inside the pub he bought a pint and went to an empty table. Confession on a bus, forgiveness in the street, it wasn't what he had been taught and it wasn't what he was used to.

‘I suppose you have to grow up in everything,' he thought. ‘I was still a kid in the confessional, but I grew up on the bus.'

He began to think about the eighty pounds in his wallet that he had collected from The Hind the previous evening. He thought about how Father Liam had told him that knowing something was wrong was not enough, there had to be restitution, if possible, and a real desire to change. And Jimmy didn't want to change. Anyway, there was no way of giving the eighty quid back. Who would he give it to, Harry? The jeweller? He knew he was good at what he could do. If he did it for Denny Morris, he and Bernadette could marry whenever they wanted. They could get somewhere nice to live, not some cramped little flat. And he wanted to be married as soon as possible. He and Bernadette had not had sex again. Jimmy had understood what she had risked for him and he wouldn't ask her to take that risk again. If Bernadette wanted to have a proper wedding with a proper wait, then he would wait.

How could he be expected not to change but still marry Bernadette? They would never marry on a conductor's pay. Even on a driver's pay, if he ever became a driver, there wouldn't be enough for anywhere decent to live and have kids. They would get some crummy room and have about twenty years to wait on the council housing list. Jimmy knew he would need money and the only thing he was really good at, the only thing he could do to get enough money, meant mixing with Denny Morris, Harry, George, and the rest.

He took another pull at his pint.

Who was he kidding? It wasn't the money and it wasn't about marrying Bernie. Their world was his world, he fitted in, he belonged. In that world he could be somebody. What was it the Bible said? If you've got a talent and you don't use it, you're in deep shit. But the talent God had given him got you into trouble if you used it outside a boxing ring, and it was too late to go down that road. The bloody Church, they got you coming and they got you going.

Jimmy finished his pint and sat for a time looking at his glass. He knew he couldn't change the way he was, he knew where he fitted in, and he still needed the money.

He turned it all over slowly in his mind. Then he looked up. He had made a decision.

It was his world, he would stay part of it and he would get the money that he and Bernie needed. He stood up and took the empty glass to the bar.

‘Another?' asked the barman.

‘No,' said Jimmy, ‘no thanks, I've got to get going.'

Two weeks later George went into The Hind and walked over to the table where Denny Morris was sitting. He was alone for once.

‘Mind if I join you, Mr Morris?'

‘I mind. Fuck off.'

But George persisted. ‘It's just there's something I thought you'd want to know.'

Denny looked at him nastily but nodded to a chair. ‘Well?'

Denny was in a dangerous mood. Something had upset him and he was looking for a way to express himself. George was a good guesser, he hoped to God he had guessed right this time.

‘It's Jimmy Costello, Mr Morris.'

‘What about him? I haven't seen him for a bit. Something horrible happened to him, has it?'

‘Sort of, Mr Morris. He's gone off to be a copper.'

George waited. Suddenly Denny slapped the table and laughed loudly. George breathed freely, he was still a good guesser.

‘Has he, the fucker? Well, good for him, I knew he had something about him.'

‘It's all right then is it, Mr Morris? Jimmy being a copper after working for you. Is that OK?'

‘'Course, George. Jimmy's worked for me once and when he makes his way up, he'll work for me again. 'Course it's OK. It's the best news I've had this week.'

He was cheerful now. He took out his wallet and pulled out two five-pound notes and threw them on the table.

‘Here, George, buy yourself something nice.'

George took the money and stood up. ‘Thank you, Mr Morris.'

‘Oh, and George, as you've cheered me up I'll give you some free advice. Don't ever bring me any bad news, unless, of course, you have no further use for your dick.'

Then he laughed loudly.

George laughed as well, but not so loudly, and left.

SEVEN

King's Cross, February 1995

Inspector Joe Deal did not drink and didn't like pubs, especially pubs like the one in which he found himself waiting for Tommy Flavin. He had asked for coffee. That exotic drink not being available, he had settled, after some discussion with the barmaid, for bottled water. It was a brand he had never heard of.

He felt and looked out of place. The pub was in a back street in a part of London he didn't know and didn't want to know. There was no food, it smelled of stale cigarette smoke, and it was dirty. All the tables had ashtrays and they were all full. He assumed they paid someone to fill them before the pub opened because it was only midday and there were only two other men and himself in the bar.

He sipped his water. The two men smoked and shared a table in silence, except for the occasional hacking cough. Each had a pint glass on the table which they occasionally noticed, considered, and took a drink from. The barmaid stood wiping a glass with a grimy cloth. She managed to cough occasionally without losing control of the fag that hung from her mouth. She had certainly not been employed for her looks, conversation, social skills, or hygiene. Her talents, whatever they were, remained a mystery to Joe Deal.

He looked at his watch. Flavin had said twelve. He would wait until twelve twenty and then leave.

He would not have another drink.

About five minutes later the door opened and Tommy Flavin walked in, came to the table, and sat down. Clearly he was not going to be the one to supply the drinks.

‘What'll you have, Tommy?'

‘A pint. No good coming here if you don't have a pint. The beer's the only good thing about this dump. Best pint in London, some say, and I don't say they're wrong.'

‘It's a bit early for me.'

‘It's only beer, Joe, not real alcohol, it won't slur your handwriting. Let's make it pints, eh?' and he looked significantly at Deal.

Deal went to the bar. There were two handles and three automatic taps.

‘Which is it, Tommy?'

‘Stanley's, the rest are rubbish.'

Deal turned back to the bar. The barmaid continued wiping the glass, ignoring him and everything else. Deal tapped on the counter with a coin. She put down the glass and cloth and came and stood before him, silent.

‘Two pints of Stanley's.'

She moved down the bar and began pulling the pints. This pub might be worth mentioning, Deal thought, a dump, of course, where you need breathing apparatus and maybe a tetanus shot, but worth it for the Stanley's. He must write the name of the beer down. Some say it's the best in London, I wouldn't disagree.

Two pints of murky liquid, each with a thin foam on top, were placed in front of him.

Back at the table, he took a sip. It was revolting, worse even than it looked. He concealed his reaction as best he could. ‘Thanks for coming, Tommy. Jimmy Costello, you know him?'

Flavin nodded. ‘This isn't part of your murder, then?'

‘No. What I want is just for my own personal use.'

‘Off the record?'

Deal nodded. He decided not to try any more beer. Even that water had tasted odd.

‘All right, you just drink your pint and I'll tell you all about Jimmy Costello.'

And he waited.

Deal slowly picked up his glass.

Flavin waited.

Deal realised he was going to have to drink the foul stuff and seem to be enjoying it if he was to get the story out of Flavin. With a weak smile on his face he raised his glass.

‘Cheers.'

He consigned his soul to God and took a long drink.

Tommy began his story.

‘Jimmy was as Irish as it gets in Kilburn. Born there, grew up there. Dad from Mayo, mother from Cork City. I was from round that part of London as well and I remember his mum, Betty. Her accent was so thick, some stranger once asked me if she was Polish. Jimmy was never in trouble as a lad, boxed at a Catholic club, very useful, I heard, but it never went anywhere. He was an altar boy. No Holy Joe, you understand, it was just something he did. When he left school he joined his dad and worked on the buses for a few years, then went off to be a copper. He made good progress and joined the CID. He married a local girl, Bernadette Callaghan, nice girl, very quiet, very devout. He met her through church, something like that. Anyway, Jimmy got to be a detective sergeant. He was steady more than clever, but he could have gone further up. As it was, he stayed a sergeant and stayed local. He made quite a name for himself, he was respected. He took money but no one ever felt they'd bought him and he never took money for something he didn't want on his patch. Ordinary villains knew just where they stood. If it was yes, you were told the price, paid, and got on with it. If it was no, it was no. Further enquiries were not encouraged.'

‘How did he get away with it? How come no one pushed past him? There must have been plenty about who wouldn't take no from a DS.'

‘Depends on the DS, and it depends on how far he'll go. Jimmy went all the way. One time he was in a club with two other coppers. They were drinking and playing cards, just beer and gin rummy, nothing serious. Anyway, they're sitting there and in walks this girl, a knockout, about sixteen or seventeen. She walks over to their table and leans on it and lets her coat fall open and underneath she's stark, bollock naked. She asks which one's Costello. They tell her and she says to him, “I'm a little present for you, want to take me somewhere to unwrap me?” Well, as I say, she was something but Jimmy just says, “I don't take presents, just money, tell your pimp.” She looked at him, closed her coat, and left. Next minute in walks this big bloke, very expensive. He comes to the table, takes out a bundle of notes, and drops them in front of Jimmy. He leans down, puts his hands on the table so his face is close to Jimmy's and says, “There's a grand – cash. I'll have my girls on the street tonight and I don't want to hear from you again, ever. That's all you get.” Next thing Jimmy puts his pint glass straight through the bloke's face. What a mess, a total mess, blood everywhere. Up gets Jimmy, grabs the bloke, slams him face down on the table, cuffs him, and says, “this is what happened, he came in drunk and wild, went for me, and his head got pushed onto a beer glass on the table while we tried to restrain him.” Calm as you like, as if he had the story ready. Then he counts out five hundred quid, pockets it, pushes the rest into the bloke's pocket, then holds him up and says to him, “when you get out you can have two girls on each of the streets, I tell you, and I want a steady hundred a week from you.” Then they take him off and bang him up. They told the story like Jimmy said and the bloke went down for six months for assaulting an officer.'