Billy should have seen that coming.
Chapter Two
Pat loved the docks at night. Even the stench of the river was something to be enjoyed. As a kid, after his mother had walked out, he had played here while waiting for his father to finish his fighting. A street fighter, he had sporadically made money with magnificent wins. As the drink got him though, he lost more often than not. Then the money had not been as plentiful and that had just made him drink all the more.
One of the reasons he had disappeared as well, Pat decided, was his gradual loss of face and reputation. He understood now how hard that must have been for him, but he still could find no forgiveness in his heart. He had dumped him without a by-your-leave and that alone had hardened him up, and it had also made him determined to always take care of his own, no matter what. Walking away was easy, it was staying around and sorting out your own shit that took guts, that made you a man.
Pat closed his eyes and forced all thoughts of his parents from his mind. They were over with, finished, gone. They were both the shit on his shoes, he had no care for either of them, and he certainly had no intentions of letting them encroach on his life any more than they already had. He had a coldness inside him, it had been there all his life, the fear of depending on another person, the fear of being soft, of being seen as a mark. Now though, with Lil, he felt in control because she needed him, it wasn't the other way around.
It hurt him to remember how he had been dragged up, how, like any child brought into the world of poverty, his life had been a lottery. He knew his parents wanted him now, shocked that their child had managed something neither of them had even dreamt of; they actually thought he would be cunt enough to take them on board. Like he was mug enough to even entertain any of them. The only time in their life they had ever agreed on anything and it was too late. He would not piss on them if they burst into flames in front of his eyes. He was happy enough as he was. He had not needed anyone until his wife and she was all he needed, he respected her. Simple as that. Unlike his mother, she had not been round the turf more times than a fucking prize-winning greyhound. All his life he had been overlooked, mugged-off, and now he was making his mark, making people understand that he was a force to be reckoned with and he was enjoying every second of it. Not that he would ever admit that of course. Even to himself.
He stared up at the new moon and smiled to himself, enjoying his lonely vigil, enjoying his power over his past.
Under the cover of darkness, Custom House, like all the dock areas, was as alive at night as it was during the day. The difference being that the night-time deals were made by dark-clothed men with subdued voices and menacing reputations. The whores that walked the quays in the small hours were the older women, their best years behind them, the dim glow of the lampposts their only friend. They were used-up, weather-beaten, defeated-looking women. The dock dollies who frequented the wharfs with a determined stealth waited patiently for the punters they were now reduced to; the Chinamen, the Arabs and the Africans. Their bleached-blonde hair and heavily made-up blue eyes were like beacons to these men, drawing them into their world with a slow smile, then finishing them off quickly and expertly with either a hand or their thighs.
The sex was quick, furtive, and unsatisfactory, not only for the men but also for their conquests. These hard women who only knew how to use, whose lives were lived in black and white, had no feeling any more for the reality they were unfortunate enough to charge money for. The darkness gave them a reason to ply the trade that had destroyed them; reduced to the lowest of humanity they embraced the night because it paid their rent. There were no pensions or savings for these women, easy money had ensured they were never off the pavement, and the money they were earning now was a pittance in comparison to their heydays.
This was another world, and it was a world that Pat Brodie hated and loved with equal passion. He had met his mother walking these very docks once, and her plight had not touched him one iota; he had enjoyed her embarrassment, enjoyed her demise. In his eyes she had hit rock-bottom when she had deserted him and he felt no allegiance to her at all. He didn't even mind if anyone knew about it: she was nothing to him, and he had no intentions of making her think otherwise.
Since his marriage he had found a renewed vigour for making money. Lil was everything to him and he found that his feelings for her seemed to grow on a daily basis. She was as astonished as he was to find that she had a very bad temper, which inflamed them both. She was passionate and she was funny.
Things that had either been hidden or had lain dormant inside her for years while tiptoeing round her mother's house trying to be invisible, had finally come to the surface. Pat's face hardened as he thought about the way she had been treated and he wondered for the millionth time why she still entertained her mother.
The fucking leech was never off the doorstep and she seemed to have a real affection for her grandchild, if not for her daughter, though she acted the concerned parent with a zeal that was as astounding as it was unbelievable. Money did that to people, he knew it better than anyone. He also knew Lil needed her, needed to believe that the woman who had birthed her, cared about her. She believed that it was her birth that had been the catalyst for her mother's unhappy marriage and was the reason for her own bullied and hated existence. Lil was too nice for her own good, and he swallowed it; if it made her happy then he was satisfied. But her mother was like his, a product of poverty and betrayal, the product of a man who had knocked her up and run away leaving her to make the best she could of her new-found circumstances. Lil forgave her for marrying a man who had tortured them both, and in a strange way he understood her forgiveness: at least this way she could pretend her life meant something. For himself, he couldn't wait until the old bag blotted her copybook, and she would, her type always did, then he would take great pleasure in showing her the door. Until then, he would swallow his knob and smile when required.
Still, she helped out and that was something. Young Pat Junior was a handful, and he loved him with all his heart. He was his father's son all right; he only hoped that he didn't have anything of his paternal grandfather inside him. Only time would tell. Pat wanted a horde of children and he was shrewd enough to know that one of them would be likely to inherit not only the laziness, the poncing and lying that his father had been so good at, but also, the unconcerned demeanour of his mother. She would come out in one of them he knew, as would his father.
That man had been able to talk himself out of anything, and he would take the bread out of his child's mouth for a drink or a bet. It was sod's law that a large family would throw up a waster but Pat prayed that he would recognise the traits early enough to stamp them out. Beat them out of the child, if that was what it took. Unlike his old man who beat him for no other reason than he wanted to.
And his mother. She had fucked off on a regular basis, left him there with a man who had no idea how to raise a child and no interest in anything except where the next drink was coming from. He had lived on and off with various relatives all his life, so his home with Lil was everything to him, as it was to her.
Although Lil tried to make excuses for her parents, well her mother anyway, he had no such illusions about his beginnings; all he knew was that he wanted to make a good life for his family and he wanted to make his wife feel needed, loved and respected for what she was.