Born Bad Page 3

  Abruptly, Katrina stood up, shaking her head and glowering at him, as though she was channelling the displeasure of the Father, the Son and the Holy Spirit. She scraped the visitor’s chair noisily along the lino. Smoothing down her drab navy skirt, her feet perfectly together in those ugly flat shoes they all wore. Prim and righteous – no different from when she was a kid, Paddy mused.

  ‘I’ve not got time for any more of your nonsense, Patrick,’ she said, dabbing at her nose with a white cloth handkerchief. ‘You should be thinking about your future. Carry on like you have been doing and you face an early death, and worst of all, the eternal fires of damnation.’ Her voice was quiet. Considered. Deadly. ‘Sheila and the girls will be left to fend for themselves. Francis will end up in jail, overdosed or killed. But that’s fine, because you’ll be gone, you selfish, thoughtless man. Think about how you could be spending your ill-gotten millions in a more meaningful way. Do it, Paddy! Make the changes before Death comes for you early, like it did for Mam and Dad.’

  Alone in that side room in the hospital, Paddy wept openly, perhaps for the first time since he was a small boy. Let the fear of losing everything flood through him. I don’t want to die, he thought. Wiping his eyes on his crisp bedsheet, he rifled among the scores of Get Well Soon cards from neighbours, friends, family, lackeys and sycophants on his bedside cabinet. Drew out the framed photograph of Sheila and the girls. Taken at Christmas time last year, when he had paid for them all to spend a fortnight at the Rayavadee Resort in Krabi. They had been snapped by their waitress, dining as a family around a table situated on the beach, their togetherness framed by the limestone cliffs that rose sheer out of the turquoise Andaman Sea and the lush jungle green that fringed the shoreline. Amy and Dahlia, fully grown now, with lives of their own. One at university and one working a proper job in the City of London. But they had still found time to be with their old dad, hadn’t they? It had been the most perfect time in his life. Turning sixty, surrounded by his girls. After six decades of struggling to get as far away from the grime and stink of his childhood home and those foetid, rotten roots, that trip had epitomised his success.

  He clutched the photograph to his chest. Tried to conjure the smell of the sea and the sound of the palms, rustling in the warm Thai breeze. At his side, the beeps of the heart monitor spread further apart. Slowing, slowing until they settled into a gentle rhythm.

  Paddy knew what to do.

  ‘What do you mean, you want to sell up?’ Sheila asked, her baby-doll beautiful face freezing mid-smile. Paddy was relieved to see she had covered up the bruising to her forehead. No need to remind him of that.

  She dropped her oversized handbag onto the hospital lino. Flung her slender frame onto the seat that Katrina had occupied earlier. Michael Kors or Armani or whatever it was she wore, clinging to her curves. Fur. Leather. Silk. Louboutin stilettos that cost him a small fortune. The antithesis of his sister. When she dared to get angry, it made him want to conquer her.

  Paddy forked baked potato into his mouth enthusiastically. Chewed the fluffy mush with relish, as though this was the first time he had ever really tasted food. Sheila would come round. She always did as she was told with a little persuasion.

  ‘I’ve thought it all through, She. I’m selling the business.’ He set his fork down authoritatively on the tray. Grinned.

  But Sheila’s scepticism was etched across her face. Those fine eyebrows raised archly.

  ‘It’s not a sodding barber’s or a chain of corner shops, Paddy.’ She lowered her voice. Looked over her shoulder, though they were alone, with the hustle and bustle of the ward on the other side of a heavy fire door. ‘It’s a Criminal. Fucking. Empire.’ She leaned in further with each word. Tapped every syllable out on his dinner tray with almost perfectly manicured electric blue nails – one shorter than all the rest.

  Undeterred, he ushered more potato into his mouth. Pictured the tropical paradise of Krabi, so very far from Manchester’s never-ending rain and Frank’s idiot schemes and the daily grind of having to look over his shoulder continually. Spoke with his mouth full.

  ‘Tariq and Jonny. They’ll have it. I bet you. I reckon ten mill, and me and you can just get on a plane and swan off to Thailand. Open a bar.’

  Sheila shook her shining blonde mane.

  ‘You’re tapped,’ she said. ‘You think the Boddlington gang are gonna shove you ten million quid for something they’ve spent the last twenty years trying to nick for free?’

  Paddy nodded, beaming at his own brilliance. He felt happiness register itself in his groin, overpowering the agitation that she had dared to call him tapped.

  ‘Suck us off, She.’ He pointed at Little Paddy, making his presence felt beneath the honeycomb blanket.

  Eyes narrowed, Sheila was folding her arms. Paddy mused that the blow-job was looking unlikely. He didn’t have the energy to insist otherwise.

  ‘Tariq Khan and Jonny Margulies are a pair of thieving bastards, Pad. You’re a thieving bastard, too, or had you forgotten?’

  ‘They’ll snatch me bleeding hand off, She! Especially if they think there’s a chance I might sell to some hip-hop, drive-by snot-rag from London with his arse hanging out his trousers. Or some Scouser. It’s what they’ve always wanted, Tariq and Jonny. They’ve got north Manchester and now I’ll sell them the south. Fair and square. The gambling dens, the pharmaceutical side, the guns …’ He started to count his interests on his fingers, as though this would somehow curry her favour. ‘… The endangered species shit that the Chinese love, the nail bars, the moody art, the lot! Bollocks to it. If they pay up, they can have our kid’s club and your cleaning business too.’

  Out of her chair like a jack-in-the-box.

  ‘My frigging company?’ She shook her head. Waggled her finger. ‘Oh, no, no, no, no you don’t, Patrick O’Brien.’

  Her pixie chin stuck out defiantly. Reminded him of the time he had asked her out on that first date, after a Wednesday night at the Haçienda’s Zumbar. He’d spotted her during the intermission – before the cheesy cabaret act had come on. Parading down the catwalk, modelling clothes from some local fashion school wannabe. Legs that went on forever and tits that had a buoyancy all of their own. She had been seventeen. He, thirty-seven – old enough to have his minions selling drugs in clubs, but too old to enjoy them himself, as a rule. But it had been Frank’s birthday that particular Wednesday, with his band playing downstairs in the Gay Traitor bar, so Paddy had relented. His cash hadn’t impressed young Sheila, but he had worn her down with sheer romantic persistence and, later, rightful dominance. She’d relented in the end, just as she would relent now, he felt certain.

  ‘You can get a new hobby in Thailand, babe. I’ll buy a big fuck-off villa. You can get it done out like a five-star spa hotel. That’ll keep you busy.’

  ‘Nine years, Paddy,’ she shouted. ‘Me and Gloria have built that sodding cleaning company up over nine years! I’m just about to get a healthcare contract, cleaning a big private hospital. I’ve done quotes this week for two law firms in town and a bank! It’s not a hobby, you cheeky bastard.’

  ‘Hey! Wind your fucking neck in, woman, or I’ll wind it in for you!’

  ‘I’ve got women relying on me.’ Her generous, pink lips had thinned and were now arcing downwards.

  ‘They’re bloody trafficked skivvies from Um Bongo, aren’t they?’

  ‘The Democratic Republic of Congo, Patrick. Not bloody Um Bongo. And some of them are from Nigeria and Ghana and are legal, actually! Gloria knows them from church, the Ghanaians and Nigerians. They’re glad of a job. I am a responsible employer.’

  Paddy snorted. ‘What? You don’t reckon you’d be leaving your nice African ladies in good hands? You think Tariq Khan and Jonny Margulies are incapable of screwing over slave labour and refugees as good as you? Do me a favour!’

  Sheila glared at him. She clearly thought she could gain the upper hand, while he was laid up and at the mercy of a medical team. Cocky bitch. />
  ‘I care about my staff.’

  ‘You’re full of shit, is what you are, Sheila O’Brien.’ Paddy picked up the framed photograph taken in Thailand. Thrust it towards her. Pointed at the girls. His heart rate picked up pace, as it occurred to him that – for perhaps the first time ever – without his being able to squeeze the defiance out of her physically, Sheila might put her foot down and refuse to bend to his will. ‘This isn’t about money, She. We’ve got enough to last us ten lifetimes. This isn’t about some scrubbers you don’t even know, or that nagging, sanctimonious bitch, Gloria. This is about me, staying alive for our daughters. For us. Family.’

  Sheila’s face had a pinched look to it as she chewed her bottom lip. Her gaze flicked from the photo to Paddy and back. She was refusing to make eye contact with him and staring intently only at his chin or his forehead. Nostrils flaring gently, as though she were processing some internal argument.

  ‘You’ve made your mind up, haven’t you?’ she asked in a quiet voice.

  ‘Yes.’ He held the photo to his chest. ‘For better or for worse, She. How bad could twenty years of tropical sunshine be?’ He grinned triumphantly. ‘I’ll buy you an elephant.’

  ‘Piss off, you daft bastard.’

  ‘You’d save a bomb on the sunbed.’

  She dropped her gaze to her eternity and engagement rings, running her index finger over the large, solitaire diamond. Closed her mournful eyes.

  ‘If I agree, does this mean you’re getting out for good? No controlling the business from the end of a phone or a laptop? A clean break?’

  He nodded. Felt his neck muscles start to relax.

  ‘It’d better be a damned big elephant, Paddy O’Brien.’

  Chapter 4

  Jonny

  Biting into his bagel, Jonny Margulies mused that it was a fine morning. From the vantage point of his desk, positioned by the office window, he could see the sun hitting the dreaming spires of Strangeways prison. The red brick was on fire today, giving an impression of baking warmth in a city that never thawed or properly dried out. The steep slate roofs shone – slick from the overnight rain, now reflecting sunshine like the solar panels on some distant satellite. Negative energy inside those walls, though. He imagined the poor bastards in the central building, walking round and around Her Majesty’s Victorian hotel, wondering what on earth had gone wrong with their lives. At least he was safe. And the warmth that spread from his groin to the rest of his body was genuine.

  ‘Not so hard, sugar,’ he said to the girl on her knees beneath the desk. ‘Flick your tongue around it while you suck. Okay?’

  The blonde paused and looked up at him quizzically. Smudged eyeliner ringing her eyes looked like it had been applied days ago and never washed off or replenished. Oh well. She had a nice mouth and a sweet face and he had a hard-on the size of Texas. All was well.

  ‘You not like?’ she asked. Said something in Polish or Estonian or whatever the hell language she spoke. She smiled uncertainly. Cupped her small breasts. ‘You want I play?’

  Jonny shook his head, batting the uninvited mental images of Sandra that encroached on the fantasy. Get out of my head, for God’s sake. Sandra, with her orange face and prune mouth. The half-starved and gorgeous Mrs Margulies – mother of his legitimate children but not sexy like this tasty little Eastern European tart.

  ‘No love. You’re fine.’ He set down his bagel and cupped her face in buttery hands so that she looked up at him. He mimed the technique he wanted her to adopt.

  ‘You want more lick. Yes?’

  He nodded. ‘That’s right, love.’

  The girl smiled. Her teeth were clean. He liked that. The dentist looked after all the girls’ dental hygiene well. He reached down and stroked her breasts. Felt his erection grow harder still. Wanted to put it inside her tight little pussy. He pulled her up towards him, not caring if anyone from the upper floors of the prison could see him. He just wanted to screw this girl right now.

  ‘Sixteen?’

  ‘I?’ She nodded enthusiastically. ‘Sixteen. Yes.’ She rubbed her breasts on his face. Soft pink nipples brushing his stubble. Not a single blemish on her young, pale flesh. She was far younger than his daughter – but she wasn’t his daughter.

  Reaching in her thong, he could feel her, soft and wet. Hot, where his finger slid inside. Two ties at the side came loose easily. She climbed onto him and started to ride him – inexpertly, but what the hell?! This was a glorious start to the day. Until …

  The knock at the door was insistent.

  ‘Jonny!’ came a man’s voice on the other side. ‘The tax inspector is back.’ Strongly accented, pronouncing inspector as inspecter, betraying his Jerusalem origins.

  Pushing the girl off his lap, Jonny’s desire cooled immediately.

  ‘Come in, Asaf, for Christ’s sake!’ he shouted, zipping his deflating penis into his chinos. He waved a hand at the girl. ‘Get dressed! Anyone asks, you were asking directions to TK Maxx.’

  The girl looked at him blankly until he threw her clothes at her in a bundle.

  ‘Ah, dress. Yes.’ Scrambling to cover herself, she had at least picked up on the urgency in his voice.

  The office felt smaller with the tall figure of Asaf Smolensky standing in it. Clad in his usual black double-breasted suit with its old-fashioned overdone padding to the shoulders. The thin, white strands of his ritual tassels – tzitzits – hanging outside his trousers. Scuffed shoes and a stained waistcoat juxtaposed against the immaculate cropped hair and ringletted sidelocks of the Hassids. He smelled of chopped and fried fish. He looked like he meant business.

  ‘Is it that tax bird again?’ Jonny asked him, feeling the blood drain from his face faster than it had from his dick. His pulse was racing. Suddenly, the half-eaten bagel in his stomach felt like lead. His brain whirred into overdrive, checking through the list of changes he and Tariq had instigated last time the stupid bitch had come calling, demanding to snoop around. They had fobbed her off, but only temporarily.

  Smolensky nodded. Perched on the edge of the oversized desk, wearing a grim expression.

  ‘Yes. Ruth Darley. She’s come with two assistants today and some official-looking paperwork. HMRC wants your blood, Jonny.’ He toyed with his unruly beard, a thick eyebrow raised archly.

  ‘Tariq know?’

  ‘He’s at Sefton Street.’

  ‘I’ll call him.’ Pulling his mobile from his trouser pocket, Jonny inclined his head towards the young prostitute.

  ‘Do us a favour. Get Lev to get her away from here without anyone seeing. And make yourself scarce.’

  Asaf stood tall and grabbed the girl by her upper arm. Said something to her in an Eastern European language that Jonny didn’t understand. The girl looked afraid, clutching her shoulder bag close as Asaf steered her through a second door in the office which led to the stone stairwell at the back of the building.

  Locking both doors shut, Jonny dialled Tariq’s number. Sweat breaking out on his top lip. Tariq answered on the fourth ring.

  ‘What’s up, bro?’ Tariq asked. The chatter of workers was audible in the background, along with the whirring and clanking of a production line.

  ‘Darley’s back.’

  Tense silence hung between them for too many moments.

  ‘I see,’ Tariq said. ‘Do you want me to come over?’

  Jonny peered out of the window to the car park immediately below, avoiding looking at Strangeways, now, for fear that he might somehow jinx his precarious freedom. There were two cars he didn’t recognise parked out front, next to his own Maserati. A silver Toyota and a black Mondeo. Tax man’s cars. He willed his hand to stop shaking. Gripped the phone harder.

  ‘No, you’re alright. I’ve got it covered. If they’ve got eyes on the street and spot you coming out of there, we’re totally buggered. Stay put. I’ll call when they’re gone.’

  His secretary’s instantly recognisable rat-a-tat-tat on the door said it was time to put on the grand
performance.

  Clad in a frumpy blue suit with her banana legs and fat ankles stuffed into cheap shoes, Darley was already strutting through the warehouse, examining the stock. Jonny willed himself to smile before she had even turned around to face him, lest he make it too obvious that he’d like Asaf to bone her like a haddock with his sharpest knife. In his peripheral vision, he clocked her minions – two men: one who looked about ready to retire and the other who didn’t look more than twenty. They were speaking to the workers, who were bundling the cheap jewellery into even cheaper packaging.

  ‘Ms Darley,’ Jonny said, adopting his magnanimous and friendly voice that he used for PTA meetings. ‘What a pleasure to see you again.’

  Darley turned on her heel, a grim expression on her face that implied the pleasure was not mutual. ‘Mr Margulies.’ She held out her right hand and treated him to the iron handshake of a woman who broke balls for a living. In her left hand, she clutched an oversized accountant’s briefcase. ‘I’m here to search your premises. Please make all your accounts and employee records available.’

  Jonny felt like his bowels were somehow ingesting themselves. The tell-tale sensation of needing the toilet, fast. But he wouldn’t show this bitch any fear. The authorities were like dogs; the moment they caught a whiff of guilt, they knew they had you. Tariq was relying on him. Both of their families depended on his giving a convincing performance. He put one foot in front of another and showed her to an office that looked onto the main factory floor through a large plate-glass internal window.

  ‘You can work in here,’ he said politely, switching on the flick-flickering strip lighting and pulling out an uncomfortable-looking brown plastic chair. It was cold in there. The thin carpet tiles were peeling upwards, revealing perished rubber underneath. Let the tax bastards suffer.

  ‘Where is Mr Khan?’ she asked, touching her no-nonsense brown bob. It appeared rigid and moved only slightly.