Kitabı oku: «Hidden Sin: Part 2 of 3: When the past comes back to haunt you»

Chapter 10

Be the man your father never was. Mo had never forgotten being told that. By his mum’s younger sister – his dead mum’s younger sister. A woman whose memory burned much more brightly than his mum’s did, because she’d died when he was not much more than three.

He remembered where he’d been, too, when he’d been told that. Not long out of prison, not long settled in Spain – as far as he could get to escape the ferrety attentions of DI fucking Daley. A place where he could rebuild his empire undisturbed. At the Tikki Bar in Puerto Banús, more specifically; a piece of the Caribbean on the posh part of the Costa, that he’d set up with his partner and friend, Brown Benny. Like Mo, Benny had done time – in his case, in London – having been caught with a car boot full of fake twenty-pound notes.

The call had come via the girl Mo employed to mind his villa, and who’d given his aunt the number, as being the place she could most likely track him down.

He remembered being in two minds about whether to take the call, too. As a rule, Mo didn’t need to take calls he didn’t want to. The name Marcia hadn’t immediately registered either. When Benny’s lad had come across and said there was a call for him from a Marcia, he’d first off assumed it was some bird he might have messed around with, or just messed around. No doubt with some tedious teary female rant.

‘She said it’s about family,’ the boy had persisted, and Mo had hesitated. The lad was well trained in interrogating unexpected callers. If he thought Mo should take it, then maybe he should.

‘It’s Shah,’ she had said, without preamble, once he’d answered. She’d only ever been known as that – just between the two of them, always Shah. He’d no memory of it himself but she’d told him when he was older. That, back during those first terrible months after his mum died, he’d wail for her apparently – ‘Marcia! Marcia! Marshah!’ And his dad, mad with grief, would go running to fetch her. And she’d come. For a while, at least. Till it all got too shitty. Till she met a ‘decent’ man and moved far, far away – somewhere in London, they’d gone. And even she – saint that she’d been through it all – couldn’t, wouldn’t, separate him from his dad. And so left him to his fate. Which became even shittier. Because his dad had lost a wife and been left with a son, when – and he never tired of telling Mo this – it should have been the other way a-fucking-round.

He barely saw her after that. Couple of times a year, no more. And each time she did she’d have this look in her eye. Something like regret, but never quite enough. When he’d run away, he’d gone there, but he was too big, too angry. Even she couldn’t deal with him then.

‘Your father’s dead,’ Shah said briskly. ‘Thought you might want to know.’

‘You thought wrong.’

That’s what he’d said. And he’d meant it. The scars – emotional and physical – were too deep. The memory of endless evenings cowering in his filthy box bedroom while his father, blind drunk, but with ears like a fucking elephant, played cards with his dole money and more often than not lost. It made little difference. Win or lose, he’d still strap him.

Mo still meant it now. That would never change, ever. But he’d never forgotten what she’d said to him, either, ten minutes into what had turned out to be an epic conversation, mostly detailing the reasons why he needed to sort his life out. Stop dealing in gear. Stop going to prison. Stop treating the world like it owes you a bloody living. Try making one – an honest one. Make your mum proud, you hear me? You’ve learned your lesson now. Grow up. Be the man your father never was.

Well, he was always going to be that. Hardly fucking hard, was it? He leaned forward on his chair and blew cigar ash off the papers he was sorting. Silks had had a good week. A great week, in fact. A week certainly good enough to make his unlikely extravagance vis-à-vis the lad Joey feel justified.

Be the man your father never was. I’m doing that, Shah, he thought, as he spiked a pile of receipts. And, of course, the takings from the club were only half the story.

‘Boss?’ Mo looked up. Big Billy had popped his head round the door. He was sound, Billy – the sort of hired hand who knew where his bread was buttered. He was really Nico’s lad (if ‘lad’ was strictly the word, which it wasn’t) but now they were partners, and they were both paying his wages, Billy seemed to have no difficulty adopting Mo as a boss too. Which tickled Mo. Though at the same time, he knew how things worked. If he ever crossed Nico – highly unlikely, but never say never – there’d be no ‘boss’ about it. And Billy’s particular brand of talent was well known.

Mo raised his eyebrows in enquiry as he stubbed his cigar out.

‘There’s someone here wants to see you. A bird.’

‘Name of?’

‘Christine,’ said a woman’s voice, this time, pretty shrill. Then the sound of a slight scuffle outside.

Billy’s head popped back out of sight then the door fully opened. ‘Hey,’ he started. ‘You can’t just – hey!’

And in she bowled.

How long had it been now? Mo wondered. Then he mentally corrected himself. Sixteen years, give or take. And she’d changed. So much so that it gave him pause – Jesus, she looked so like her mother. He held her gaze. She looked like she had inherited her mother’s attitude as well.

He raised a hand. ‘You’re alright, Billy,’ he said. ‘Go on. I’ve got this.’ Then, once Billy had shuffled out and pulled the door shut after him, to Christine, ‘Well, well, girl. Long time no see.’

He gestured to the chair she was currently standing behind. Slim rather than skinny. Still pert. Good hair. A T-shirt and jeans on. He let his gaze linger. No trace of the raddled addict he’d last clapped eyes on years back. Mo had no time for drunks or crackheads. He’d had no time for her.

He wasn’t sure if he did now, guessing what she’d come to chew his ear about. He wondered if her own ears might have been burning lately, too.

She sat on the chair, pulling it forward by digging her heels into the carpet. ‘What’s your game?’ she said. ‘What d’you think you’re playing at, Mo?’

He leaned back in his own chair, conscious of his bulk and how slight she looked in comparison now she was seated. He watched her eyes taking stock, her gaze darting round the office, lingering here and there, looking for trouble.

‘I don’t play games, girl. You know that,’ he said mildly.

She made a sound, a sort of snort. Pushing her lips out in a kind of pout. ‘Yeah, right,’ she said. Then seemed to want to correct her expression. Like she hadn’t yet decided – now she was in here – quite how to play him. If that were even possible, which it wasn’t. She should know that.

‘Yes, right,’ he repeated. Then tented his fingers and waited.

‘Mo, what do you think you’re up to?’ she said, leaning her body forwards. ‘What’s your game? A fucking drum kit?’

He enjoyed seeing her agitated. Shades of the fiery mother he’d so often sparred with. To think blow-job fucking Brian was shagging her. It beggared belief.

He spread his hands. ‘I like the boy. He’s got something. He’s –’

‘So what are you? Father bloody Christmas? Mo –’ She leaned closer. ‘Why are you doing this? What do you want from him?’