Ricky Williams had come through for his family and they were riding high on it. People were once more civil to them, overeager in their quest to be allowed a few minutes of their precious time. Ricky had known he had to do something spectacular to get them back in the groove and he had achieved his objective with outstanding results. Palmer and Brewster had both given him a public welcome worthy of a World Cup winner. Ricky was now the undisputed head of the family, he had dragged them back to where they belonged. As he stood in the toilet of the Speiler in Bermondsey that Patrick Brodie had once called his own, he looked in the mirror and admired his good looks and his dapper new outfit. Ricky loved the new fashions, he loved the materials, and in his fitted-velvet jacket and his boot-cut jeans he felt like a real tasty geezer. He loved that expression, especially when he believed it pertained to him. His euphoria was at its peak and as he sauntered back into the bar he saw his brothers, what was left of them anyway, waiting for him with smiles and drinks. Ricky downed a double brandy and, feeling the burn, he held the glass out for a refill knowing that the barmaid would not optic it, not for him; he would be given the bottle on the counter as a measure of his prestige.
He fucking loved it, loved being on top, loved having the pick of the birds and loved knowing he was being talked about in hushed tones; his escapades being related over pints of lager by people who were impressed with him, were in awe of him.
Ricky was almost strutting, so pleased was he that his plans had made it to fruition. The little sort he had acquired earlier in the day, an eighteen-year-old from Mile End with big tits and an even bigger mouth, was drunk as a skunk. He watched her trying to articulate the bollocks that passed as conversation in her world and knew that these short sharp shags were going to be a thing of the past now. He would still have a dabble, of course, but he decided that a decent-looking bird with a bit of nous about her would look much better on his arm now that he was a man of substance.
Tommy and Dave were swearing their heads off as they spoke with her and he knew that was what was bothering him. Dave, Tommy and Bernie were louts. With Patrick on board they had managed an earn of sorts but none of them really had the concentration required for long-term skulduggery; they preferred to be ornamental as opposed to instrumental and that, again, suited him. Ricky liked being the alpha male, the doer, the instigator of events. He knew his guests had arrived by the cries of greeting he could hear coming from the front bar. He saw his brothers' brows darken; they were still nervous that they might be brought to task over Patrick Brodie. It seemed that the frenzy of their combined attack, which he now knew had been brought on by the drink and drugs consumed by them earlier on in the day, worried them. They felt that people were maybe not as pleased as they were making out. He was pissed-off with them. They were like old women with their fucking stupidity; their absolute cuntishness seemed to cling to them like shit to a blanket. He watched as Alan Palmer walked over to him with his usual swagger and he held his arms out in a gesture of friendliness. Alan stopped in his tracks and held his hands up in front of him, saying loudly, 'Fuck me, we ain't on a date,' then, turning to the henchmen, who were as always half a step behind him, he called out, 'He's trying to fucking shag me. I told you, didn't I? He'd fuck anything.'
Ricky was laughing with everyone else but the avoidance of the friendly gesture was noted and filed away for future reference. He was annoyed to see his brothers laughing like drains as if it was the funniest thing they had ever heard in their lives. That's how fucking stupid they were, they couldn't see an insult even when it was in front of their fucking faces.
He had his work cut out with this lot all right and with Palmer and all, by the looks of things. He saw his little bird staggering to the toilet and, winking at one of the regulars, he gave him a score and told him to cab her. She was not going to add anything to this meet and he was sick of her.
They all ordered drinks and settled down to talk, but Ricky was not a happy potato. In fact he was about a hair's breadth away from stabbing Alan through the heart just for the fucking fun of it. He had been blanked and he knew it. But he controlled the urge to retaliate and, smiling easily, he chatted as if he had no worries in the world.
Lil was still tired from the birth and the trauma of that day. Shamus had weighed in at nearly ten pounds and, as she had remarked to her mother, it brought tears to your eyes did childbirth. He was a good baby but she was still not sleeping, even when her mother took over for her. She still had times when she believed Patrick was alive, that she had dreamt his horrific murder. Seeing him buried though had put it into perspective for her, he was gone all right and she had to try to keep herself going for the sake of the kids if nothing else. The luxury of grieving was not an option for her, she had to keep her wits about her and try to salvage something to secure their futures. There had been twenty grand in the bank accounts but she knew that was not a lot with five kids and a mother to support.
As she let herself into her husband's scrapyard she hoped that no one came bowling in. She knew the place was used for a lot more than collecting old scrap. The dogs were running free as always; the two Dobermans knew her well and she petted them as she walked to the Portakabins that passed as offices. As she let herself inside, the animals lay down and waited for her.
Lil opened the safe without even turning on the lights; she didn't need anyone seeing the place lit up. She had opened the safe and counted out wages or taken cash out for sundries more than enough times and, as the heavy metal door swung open, she felt a glimmer of excitement at what she was doing.
'I'm stealing back our own money, Pat.'
She laughed as if he had been there to answer, to share the joke with her and appreciate the irony if nothing else. She was nicking back money that had been nicked in the first place; this was his cut from bank robberies, jewellery heists and wage snatches.
The safe was empty and she wasn't really surprised, it had been a long shot. She guessed it was one of the men who worked for him, feathering his own nest while he could. Pat's death must have put the wind up a lot of people, especially those who depended on him for their livelihood.
The tears stung her eyes and she blinked them away. She was at her wits' end, she was going to need a lot of money to raise five kids.
She sat on the floor of the office. Cold and damp, it had the feel of the grave. She knew that nothing was ever going to be all right again. The tears were once more threatening, but she forced them back. There was plenty of time for crying in the future, now she needed to make sure her kids were taken care of.
Lenny Brewster was filled with his own self-importance; he had been like a youngster since the death of Patrick Brodie. A born-again wanker was how his enemies would describe him, though not to his face. Now, looking at the Williams brothers and Palmer, all waiting to greet him and ingratiate themselves into his life, he knew he was finally settled; he had taken what was rightfully his.
Ricky was all smiles, nodding to his brothers to make sure they understood the importance of the man before them. Lenny noticed the gesture and knew that the boy had at least a working knowledge of how things worked in their world.
Ricky was already clicking his fingers for the barmaid, making sure a fresh bottle of Courvoisier Brandy was opened and that the ashtrays and bar surface were cleaned. He knew the importance of respect and he respected the man who had just entered the bar like a conquering hero. Lenny Brewster was a legend, more so because he had always kept his head down and had never been a man to eliminate enemies without just cause. He had gathered an army around him and had never once trod on anyone's toes. He was a gentleman, and he was respected because of that.