Читать книгу Hidden Sin: Part 2 of 3: When the past comes back to haunt you - Julie Shaw, Julie Shaw - Страница 5

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?’

‘Nothing.’ It was the truth. And he was happy to admit it. It irritated him that she couldn’t seem to see that for herself. He knew Joey didn’t need anything from him anyway. That was his charm. Bottom line, Joey didn’t need anything from anyone. Wanted stuff, sure – what kid didn’t at his age? But didn’t need anything. Because he was in a good place in his head. Because he hadn’t had a fuck-up of a life, bottom line. Fair play to Brian. Though that beggared belief too. How did so much shit end up coming up roses?

‘I like the boy,’ he said again. ‘I told you. He’s a good kid. You should be proud.’

His words seem to electrify her. ‘Christ, you think we’re not? He’s our boy, Mo. Ours. You can’t just turn up and start trying to turn his head like this. You can’t just come waltzing in and messing with his head the way you’re doing. You can’t –’

‘Tell him who I am?’

‘No! You even think about it and –’

‘I hadn’t been.’

‘Yeah, right,’ she said again. ‘I know you. Don’t you forget that. I don’t know what’s going through that twisted fucking mind of yours, but if you so much as put the slightest idea in his head, then –’

‘What?’ He shook his head. ‘Babe, you know, you’ve not thought this through. Why would I want him to know who I am when we’re getting on so well?’ He leaned in. He could smell her. Some cheap body spray. Not unpleasant. Something had shifted between them. He wasn’t sure what. ‘He’s a nice kid,’ he said again. ‘And a looker. Good genes.’

He raised his brows, but only slightly, the reference clear enough.

Her eyes glittered. ‘Just back off, okay? Just back off him. Leave him alone. You’ve no right –’

‘It’s not about rights. Joey’s an adult. I’d say it’s up to him what he does, wouldn’t you? And right now I’m in a position to help him.’ He smiled. ‘And I’d like to. If he’ll let me.’

She exhaled hard. Then drew a breath in. ‘Why, Mo? Why are you doing this? All these bloody years and you come back and – are you trying to get him off me? Get back at me? Is that it?’

‘I’m not trying to get anything,’ he said. ‘I just wanted to do right by him. Well, as far as I can do. Which doesn’t take me far, I know. Whatever. It’s what it is. Call it a whim.’

‘A fucking whim? This is his life, you scheming bastard! A life you have no right to meddle in. You had your chance, you walked away. You didn’t fucking want to know!’

It was in that moment that Mo properly saw her. Saw the piece of scraggy arse she’d once been and how soon, having bedded her, he’d come to despise her. He’d not spent a single moment thinking about it since, much less regretting it. But now he saw it all so well. He’d been a piece of shit too.

He almost owed her. But not her. He owed the kid, just the kid.

‘And I hold my hands up to that,’ he said softly, sensing the power he had over her. It suddenly hit him that perhaps she had more to lose in this than he did.

She seemed to shrink a little. Had she just had the very same thought?

‘Just don’t, Mo,’ she whispered. ‘Just don’t.’

‘Is that a threat?’

‘And don’t fucking speak like you’re in a bloody gangster film,’ she spat at him. ‘Just don’t tell him. Back off, Mo. I mean it.’

‘I had no intention, babe. I just told you,’ he said.

And in that instant, he realised he didn’t mean it at all. She’d forgotten. No one told him what to do.