‘No, he doesn’t.’
‘Yes, he does,’ shouts Paul. ‘And worse.’
‘Well, your father is an adult,’ says Judith -
‘A policeman,’ spits Clare.
‘We’re here,’ I say.
The Marmaville Club:
Posh mill brass house turned Country Club-cum-pub, favoured by the Masons -
Favoured by Bill Molloy.
I get Judith a white wine. I leave her with the kids and the other wives and theirs. I head back to the bar -
‘Don’t forget you’re driving,’ shouts Judith and I laugh -
Laugh like I wish she was dead.
At the bar, a whiskey in my hand, there’s a hand at my elbow -
‘Isn’t that a Mick drink?’
I turn round:
Jack -
Jack bloody Whitehead.
‘What?’ grins Jack. ‘Didn’t think the Chief Superintendent would stoop to inviting scum like me?’
‘No,’ I say, looking around the room. ‘Not at all.’
Mr and Mrs Robert Fraser stand in the doorway to the dining room, waiting to greet their guests:
‘Uncle Maurice, Auntie Jane,’ says the Bride.
‘Auntie Judith,’ corrects the Groom.
‘Smart lad,’ I say, shaking his hand. ‘You should be a copper.’
We all laugh -
All but Paul and Clare.
Louise kisses Judith on the cheek. ‘It’s been a long day.’
‘Not over yet,’ I say -
Not by a long chalk.
In the dining room we’re seated at the same table as Walter and Mrs Heywood, Ronald and Mrs Angus, the Oldmans and their son and two daughters -
The Brass.
We eat grapefruit, chicken, and some kind of trifle with a fair few glasses of wine and disapproving looks from the wives and kids to wash it all down.
Then come the speeches, with a fair few glasses more to help them go down.
There’s a hand on my shoulder. John Rudkin bends down to whisper: ‘Bill wants us all to have a drink upstairs. When dancing starts.’
I smile, hoping he’ll fuck off.
He glances at Walter Heywood and the West Riding boys. He says: ‘Be discreet.’
I smile again.
He fucks off.
An upstairs room, down the red and gold corridor past the toilets -
The curtains drawn, the lamps on, the cigars out -
The sound of music coming up through the carpet -
The beautiful carpet, all gold flowers on deep crimsons and red -
Like the whiskeys and our faces.
Sat in a circle in the big chairs, a couple of empty ones -
The gang’s all here:
Dick, Jim Prentice, John Rudkin, Bob Craven and -
‘Lads,’ says Bill. ‘Like you all to meet a good mate of mine from over other side of Pennines. This is John Murphy, Detective Inspector with Manchester.’
Similar age to me but with all his hair, Murphy is a good-looking bloke -
A younger Bill Molloy -
Another one.
John Murphy stands up -
‘Speech!’ shouts Dick Alderman.
‘I know some of you and the rest by reputation,’ smiles Murphy with a nod to me. ‘I also know that we’re all here because of one man -’
Nods and murmurs in Bill’s direction -
Bill all hands up, embarrassed and modest.
‘So let’s first raise our glasses,’ says Murphy. ‘To the Badger himself, on the marriage of his daughter.’
‘Cheers,’ we all say and stand up -
‘No,’ says Bill. ‘We all had enough of that bollocks downstairs -’
We laugh. He pauses. We stand there waiting -
Waiting for him to say -
‘Let’s drink to us,’ his voice and glass raised. ‘The bloody lot of us.’
‘The bloody lot of us,’ we reply and drain our whiskeys.
We sit back down.
Bill tells Rudkin to ring down for another round. He says: ‘We’ll have to keep this brief, as we don’t want too many questions, do we?’
‘They think we’re playing cards,’ laughs Jim Prentice.
‘Not talking about the wives, Jim,’ says Bill. ‘Thinking more about Old Walter and our country cousins.’
‘Yeah,’ I say. ‘Thanks for putting us on same bleeding table.’
Hands up again, Bill grins: ‘I just wanted you lads to meet John here, and -’
There’s a knock on the door. Bill stops talking.
A young waitress brings in another tray of whiskeys -
Doubles.
She picks up the empties and leaves.
‘And?’ I say.
‘And,’ nods Bill. ‘A couple of other things.’
We sip our whiskeys. We wait.
‘John here’s acquired,’ smiles Bill. ‘Acquired some offices for us on Oldham Street in centre of Manchester. Got the printing and distribution end sewn up nicely.’
‘Got a few nice Vice connections too,’ adds Murphy. ‘Pete McCardell for one.’
Low whistles around the room.
Bill pats Murphy on the back. ‘This is just the beginning; what we planned, worked so hard for, it’s finally coming together -’
Nods.
‘Controlled vice,’ says Bill Molloy, quietly. ‘Off the streets and out the shop windows, under our wing and in our pocket.’
Smiles.
‘The whole of the North of England, from Liverpool to Hull, Nottingham up to Newcastle – it’s ours for the taking: the girls, the shops, the mags – the whole bloody lot.’
Grins.
‘It’s going to make us rich men,’ nods Bill. ‘Very bloody rich men.’
Lots of nods, smiles, grins and hear-hears.
I stare around the room at all the teeth. I ask Bilclass="underline" ‘What about your son-in-law?’
Everyone stops smiling -
Rudkin shaking his head.
‘Never,’ says Bill. ‘I never want Robert near any of this.’
I stare around the room again: ‘Better all watch what we say then, hadn’t we?’
Some of them are looking at the carpet, the beautiful carpet -
All gold flowers on deep crimsons and red -
Like the whiskeys and their faces.
‘I do have some other new faces though,’ smiles Bill and turns back to Rudkin. ‘Invite our guests in and have them bring up some more drinks, will you, John?’
John Rudkin leaves the room.
‘We’ve got an opportunity here,’ Bill says. ‘An opportunity to invest the money from our little ventures and turn it into something even bigger -
‘Something great.’
There’s another knock. Rudkin holds open the door for John Dawson and Donald Foster.
Bill gets up. ‘Gentlemen. Please join us.’
Don and John take their seats in the circle. Bill makes the introductions -
Me thinking, too many cooks, too many chiefs.
The waitress brings in more drinks and leaves.
The introductions over and done, Bill gestures to John Dawson and Don Foster. ‘John and Don here have their own dreams, don’t you, gents?’
Foster nods. He clears his throat. ‘With your help, gentlemen, we’re going to build a shopping centre -’
‘The biggest of its kind in England or Europe,’ says Dawson.
‘One place where you can buy everything you need, where you can see a film or go bowling, where you can have breakfast, lunch or tea,’ says Foster.
‘Whatever the weather, all under one roof,’ adds Dawson. ‘Make the Merrion Centre look like the rabbit hutch it is.’
‘Where?’ I ask.
‘The Hunslet and Beeston exit of the motorway,’ says Foster. ‘Be ideal.’
‘The Swan Centre,’ beams Dawson -
Beams Foster -
Beams everyone:
Too many cooks, too many chiefs.
Bill stands back up, his left hand open in the direction of Dawson and Don Foster: ‘With John’s brains, Don’s bricks, and our brass, we’re going to make this happen -’
Everyone clapping -
‘And we’re going to make some bloody money too -’
Everyone joining him on their feet with their drinks -