In fairness, he was pretty easy-going in many respects, but if they didn’t have the brain capacity or the good manners to know that someone like Mary Dooley was deserving of not only their respect, but also their time, then they were no good to him. A real debt-collector had wonderful manners, was capable of charming a mother out of her house so they could get access to her son, or talk a dutiful wife into giving them her husband’s whereabouts. A debt-collector would use his deference and his humility without question, and would only use violence as a last resort. They would only harm someone if that person was fool enough to disregard their veiled threats, and their attempts at civility. Once that was gone, the person involved deserved all they fucking got. It would then be open season; after all, he had a living to make like everyone else. And, under his personal tuition, the violence, when it did finally arrive on the said borrower’s doorstep, would be of such outrageousness and of such controlled hatred that the person concerned would think very carefully before he would chance getting a second instalment.
Jimmy mentally shook his head at the stupidity and arrogance of the majority of the male population. They were so foolish, they never believed that anything bad could happen to them. When it did, they acted like fucking teenage girls, complaining and moaning.
Mary was smiling at him again, a real smile this time, and he understood that their contretemps was over and done with.
‘Did you find Dicky Mullen?’
She grinned then. ‘ ’Course I did, but I also found out that he ain’t being hunted for a debt. He is being located for a
grudge
. So you tell
whoever
it is that wants him I expect a fucking decent drink on top of me usual before I open my trap.’
Jimmy laughed at her, as he always laughed when she took it into her head that she was not being paid enough for her information which, of course, she wasn’t.
She was right though, he had to admit that to himself. A grudge was completely different to a debt. A grudge was personal, and that meant the person being hunted was aware of his situation. Also, if a grudge was brought to them, it meant that the people involved had exhausted every other avenue known to them. She was literally their last resort.
So she was right to demand a decent wage; after all, she had achieved in twenty-four hours what they had not managed to achieve in months or, in some cases, years.
‘I’ll sort it out, Mary, don’t worry, mate.’
She shrugged nonchalantly. ‘I ain’t being funny, Jimmy, but I know me worth, mate. Unlike that daughter of mine, I have always known me worth and it has always been far more than anyone has been willing to pay, even my old man. The father of my children. And that is why I fucking hold the bastards to ransom. I get my due in the long run, and I make sure that I get it and all.’
Mary was suddenly on the verge of tears, and he knew that she was lonely and frightened and still unable to comprehend how her life had been ripped apart overnight.
‘I look at my Mel, and I wonder what happened to make her like she is? What the fuck did I do to make her into a fucking junkie? And, as if that ain’t bad enough, she’s a cold-blooded, vicious, treacherous fucking whore. She breezes in and out of the kids’ lives, and she hates little Jordanna whereas Kenny Boy, well. He’s like her personal little boyfriend, and poor Kenneth, God love him, is about as much use as a chocolate fucking teapot. He lets her do whatever she wants with him, he is so scared of offending anyone, God love him. He doesn’t see her as everyone else does, he only sees the gifts she brings him and the sadness inside her. She is so good at the sadness bit, Jimmy, I mean, in all honesty it’s fascinating to watch her at work. Even I fall for it, and I, better than anyone, know what she is capable of.’
Jimmy was sorry for her, and he also knew that she understood his attraction to her daughter better than he did. He also knew that she had hoped that he would take Imelda in hand and make her into a nice person somehow. Never mind that Jesus Christ himself would be hard-pushed to perform a miracle of that immensity.
‘Look, Mary, you have two choices as far as I can see: you either swallow your knob and accept Imelda warts and all, or you do what we both know is right. You cut her out of your life like you would a fucking cancer, and in doing so, you can give those poor kids a chance at a decent upbringing. She will taint them, and you know that’s true. She taints everything that she touches. She is a junkie, and if that was the extent of her fucking problems we could all cope with her. But she is a fucking Looney Tunes into the bargain, and you know that as well as I do, Mary. She is a wicked, vindictive piece of shite who relies on you to make sure she has a home of some description to return to when the fancy takes her and when the people in her world have had enough of her, have had enough of her hatred and her underhandedness. Look on her as the treacherous cunt all druggies are deep down inside. She would sell her kids at the drop of a hat if it meant getting what she wanted. You know that.’
Mary knew Jimmy was referring to Jordanna’s part in the shooting now, knew that he had the same thoughts as her about what had actually happened that night.
Jimmy watched the changing expressions on her face and knew that Mary would never be the same kind and generous person she had once been. It was too late for all that now. Circumstances had dictated otherwise. He sighed then, sorry for his words, sorry to have hurt her feelings.
Mary nodded her head slowly, aware that everything he had said to her was the truth. Over the years she had become very close to Jimmy Bailey, and she knew that those feelings were reciprocated. He looked on her as an honorary mother, and she saw him as her honorary son. In fact, she thought more of him than she did of her own sons. They were a pair of fucking idiots, her so-called sons. Both were pussy whipped by their wives, and as for the fucking wives! Well, she had to say, in all honesty, that if her sons’ idea of marital bliss was being dictated to by a couple of screeching harridans then they had achieved their objectives. And Brendan had only agreed to get married to keep that woman quiet. She could have understood it if they were a pair of good-looking babes, but the beauty gene in their families had obviously skipped a generation or two. And, worst of all was that they were bosom buddies; the wives were like clones. But then she understood that much at least, birds of a feather and all that. These days she only saw them when they needed money, and that was far too often for her liking.
Jimmy Bailey smiled at her gently and said sadly, ‘What a pair we are, eh, Mares? But, on the bright side, at least we are in a good position. We earn a decent crust and we don’t owe fuck all to anyone.’
Mary laughed then, her face shining with delight as she answered him with another old East End saying. ‘My old man always said, you can pick your friends, boy, but unfortunately you can’t pick your family.’
‘If you could, Mary, would you be content with your lot or would you trade them all in for some newer versions?’
Mary stopped laughing then, and looking him directly in the eyes she said honestly, ‘I’d trade all mine in a heartbeat, except for the grandkids of course.’ Then, after a few minutes of silence she said honestly, ‘But then again they are still babies, aren’t they? Who knows what the future will bring for me or for them? One thing I do know, though, with my Imelda as their mother they had better learn to develop a thick skin. She is bad enough on her own, but once the kids at school find out about her those two will be like lambs to the slaughter. Especially little Jordanna.’
‘At least they have got something going for them, Mary. You. And, if push ever comes to shove, they know that you will always be there for them.’
‘We’ll see. All I know for sure is that I am frightened for them. I know that they will never be given an easy ride.’
Jimmy shrugged then, annoyed at her defeatist attitude. ‘Whoever got an easy ride? What can’t kill you makes you stronger, and me and you both know the truth of that fucking old chestnut.’
Mary laughed once more, but her heart was already broken by the cross those two little children were going to have to bear for the remainder of their lives, especially Jordanna. If only her Imelda would leave, would go to another part of the country or, even better, go to a completely
new
country. And, while she was there, she hoped against hope that her daughter would somehow meet with a fatal accident. She hated that she often fantasised about her daughter’s death, but it kept her sane, and she also believed that the fantasy would make the girl’s demise much easier when it finally happened. Because she knew her daughter would not make old bones. Her lifestyle would see to that.
Imelda was sitting with two girls of indeterminate age, who were both blessed by mother nature with overly large bosoms.
Imelda was genuinely impressed, she knew that God was good, and that when He had endowed these two with their enormous knockers, He had only done so to ensure that the humongous tits supplied would be guaranteed to stop people from looking at their ugly faces. She was laughing to herself at her own wit.
The elder of the two girls, Jacqueline Basin, was watching Imelda warily, everyone knew that she was a fucking nut-bag. She was capable of anything, capable of picking a fight with her own elbows if the fancy took her, and she was more than capable of winning the fight, of course. She was a real loose cannon, and she was also capable of extreme viciousness if she felt she was being disrespected in any way, shape, or form.
As they waited for their next customers to arrive they sipped cheap wine and chain-smoked cigarettes. The room they were in was small, decorated with deep-red paint, the walls, the ceiling, even the doors. The air was heavy with the scent of cheap perfume and cigarette smoke, the only light came from a lava lamp that was placed on the floor by the window, and the only noise was from a portable TV that was rarely tuned into any of the stations for any length of time. It was like watching the programmes through a snow-storm, but no one really minded. The chairs they were settled into were plastic, cheap, and very uncomfortable. It was a miracle that Imelda was willing to sit there for any length of time, at least that was the private opinion of Miss Basin and her friend.
They were at the lowest end of the market, and she knew that for a fact. The massage parlour where Jacqueline had worked before coming here had more class about it, this place catered to the lower echelons of their society. This was strictly a quick fuck and home to the old woman kind of establishment. Imelda Dooley was far too good-looking for somewhere like this really. She should be out on a real earn, and if Jacqueline had been blessed with her looks she knew that was exactly where she would be.
Caroline Jones was short, dumpy, and devoid of anything even remotely pertaining to an IQ. She was a really nice person though, devoid of any kind of jealousy or bitchiness, and she was always ready for new people, new friendships, or for just plain chatting. As she looked over at Imelda Dooley, saw her smart clothes, her lovely hair and her perfect make-up, she finally found the courage to ask her outright the question that had been plaguing her since she had started work here. ‘Why on earth are you working here, Imelda?’
Jacqueline Basin nearly passed out with fright at her friend’s inquisitiveness.
Finally, Imelda grinned and, making a face that said very plainly to anyone who could see it,
Are you stupid or what?
, she said gently, ‘Why do
you
work here?’
Imelda seemed genuinely interested in the girl’s answer. Caroline smiled, and answered her question honestly and without any inkling of the danger she was actually in. ‘I work here because it’s local for me, I only live down the road, it’s warm, and I’d had enough of standing around Shepherd’s Market last winter. Fucking freeze your drawers off there, mate. But by the same token,
you
can pick and choose where you want to work, surely? You’re lovely, and you still got that fresh skin that men like, and your legs are fucking fantastic. If I looked like you I’d be straight up the West End, mate, on a proper few quid, not fucking dossing down here with these low-lifes.’
Imelda thought about what the girl had just said to her, and she knew she was just putting her wise. She knew herself that she should have more fucking respect for herself than to work in a cheap creamery like this place. Most of the clientele only had the money for a wank.
But then, to her, money was money, and a punter was a punter. She had no care for what they looked like, smelt like, or dressed like. Prince of the realm or a fucking tramp, they were all the same to her. As long as they had the money agreed, she did not give a flying fuck. But she knew that if she wasn’t careful, she would end up selling herself short once too often.
She had lost out on fucking Bailey’s cabs, they had been told that she was now
persona non grata
, she had been well fucking eradicated from Bailey’s hit parade. Even though she had been one of his most popular girls, had been requested over and over again, he had still aimed her out of it. And she knew it was because of her big fucking trap. But she had really believed that he had a thing for her, when he had fucked her off that day she had decided that it was because he fancied her, but had lost his guts at the last minute.
She had been well up for him as well, after all she had wanted the bloody job. He had threatened to blackball her then, but she had not believed him capable of it. She had thought he was just using empty threats.
Well, she knew different now. Jimmy Bailey had turned out to be a vindictive little fucker. But she knew she could work a lot of better places than this if she wanted to. The big hostess clubs would kill for her, she knew that. But she didn’t want to waste half the night talking to a fucking punter, making sure he bought the requisite two bottles of champagne and the pack of fifty cigarettes, and only then could she get him off out of it into a hotel somewhere. It was too much like hard work. And for what, a hundred quid? She would rather do five blokes quickly at twenty each than spend hours making conversation with a complete fucking oink, and even then she had no guarantee they would cough up the readies, nine times out of ten the poor sap had already been fleeced of most of his earnings. By then the fright at his predicament would kick in, and that was what would leave her with nothing more than a paltry hostess fee. No way was she going to chance that.