'I'm OK. Fancy a cuppa?'
Pat looked at the boys as he shouted irreverently, 'Let Attila the fucking Hun make it!'
Pat sat beside Lil and pulled her into his arms. 'You look whacked-out, girl.'
'I am a bit. Look at your gorgeous daughters.'
Lil always changed the subject if it was about the way she looked or felt; she continued to collect certain rents for her husband and did the prison visits when they were needed. She didn't want him to see her as weak, even though that was how she felt lately. She wanted him to trust her and rely on her. Lily knew almost as much about the businesses as he did, and although he was only trying to save her energy by giving her a break, she wasn't happy about it.
'My pair of beauties.' Pat grinned once more. He was ageing fast but she still felt the pull of him when he looked at her full-on. She grinned too, her perfect white teeth at odds with her white face.
'The girls look at you with such love, Pat.'
He opened his arms in a gesture of understanding. 'All women look at me like that.'
This was said arrogantly and, too late, he saw the way she was staring at him. He saw the fear and the loneliness inside her, the sadness his silly words had caused, and he cursed women and their bloody moods.
'I was only joking, darling.'
But the moment was gone again. This was happening a lot lately and it was starting to get on his nerves; he had enough on his mind without her looking for poxy rows as well.
'Why do you wind yourself up, Lil? It was a joke, that's all. Look at the kids' faces.'
Lil could see the exasperation in his eyes and the children watching their parents with worried expressions, and she saw then that they picked up on everything around them and it wasn't healthy. She knew it was her, her feeling so rough, her worry that Pat was going to either get nicked or go off with a newer model. The latter was the biggest fear of all; there was an old saying about how if a wandering old man got his collar felt, at least you knew where they were. She now knew how true that was.
'Go and play upstairs, kids. Mummy's feeling a bit tired.'
Pat Junior and Lance picked up a sister each and left the warmth of the room without question. Annie, Lil knew, had her ears on red alert as she listened to everything that was being said between them.
'I'm sorry, Pat. I just feel so rough all the time…'
He cuddled her into him again and she could smell cigarettes and the lingering aroma of cheap perfume.
'You've got to stop this, Lil. You are me girl, always will be. You're the mother of me children for fuck's sake.' His voice was earnest and she wished with all her heart that she could believe him, but she knew him better than he knew himself. She forced a smile as she answered him.
'I look like a bloody cow. Don't take no notice, it's just me hormones talking.'
'More like your fucking mother talking.' Pat pulled her face up to his and kissed her on the lips.
'You're my wife and you're the world to me. I am out collaring every day to provide for you all, OK?'
Lil nodded again and he felt the strength of his love for her. Why couldn't she believe that even at her heaviest, with her belly hanging down to her knees, she could never look more beautiful to him than when she was carrying his children. Fuck knows, he had made enough of them with her. Now he had the unenviable task of telling her he was on the out again tonight.
That little gem was going to go down like a two-ton tart in the back of a Mini.
Cain and Spider were stoned and as the night drew in, they settled down to watch some TV while they waited for people to collect their gear. They doled out anything over 2.2 lb themselves. It didn't matter whether it was puff or speed; they wanted to see who was new to the game and find out their connections. It was a point of honour now that the Williams brothers didn't score from them by any means. They had a good rapport with the people they weighed out to, and any new faces brought in had to be referenced by at least two of their trusted dealers. Especially if they were white.
Skinheads were smoking puff like there was no tomorrow and so were the middle-class white boys. It was becoming the drug of choice for a whole generation. Together with the new seventies music scene and the opening up of so many clubs all over the Smoke and the Home Counties, speed was also an earner. Pills were still going strong, but the preference was for the white powder.
1976 was the year of the snort with punks desperate to stay up all night, the rude boys wanting the blues that lasted for days on end and the casuals with their Depeche Mode and asymmetric haircuts. Selling speed was like printing money and that was why they changed flops every few months; no reason to ask for trouble. By five in the morning they would have about eighty grand in the room with them and that was a temptation to anyone, let alone the people they dealt with on a daily basis.
This flop was new and they had made a point of making it habitable. Hence the TV and the comfortable sofa. It was a large property in Clapham and it was rented out by the room. The place stank of goat meat and sweat and there were people in and out at all hours of the day and night which was a bonus as far as they were concerned. It was owned through a holding company that had its annual AGM in Jamaica. By the time the tax man finally worked out who actually owned the place they would be retired and living in Montego Bay.
All in all, it was a good flop and it was also worth a few bob from the rents. It was full of black men and white girls, it always had music blaring and, in that respect, it was no different to any other house in the street.
They felt safe there and so they only had two guns with them, both ex-army-issue pistols. One was a thirty-eight and the other was a forty-five, which was enough firepower to do real damage, yet small enough to tuck into a waistband and hide from prying eyes. But they weren't too bothered about security, in fact they were overconfident. Outside, in a Ford Zodiac, sat three Rastas who had not yet embraced the beautiful meaning of their religion. They would shoot their own mothers if they tried to have any of them over.
They had also clocked Dennis Williams and his little crew when they had driven by not ten minutes before. Dennis had looked them over as if they were so much shit on his shoes and the Rastas had taken it; give the boys a false sense of security, that was their motto. Anyone who listened to music that had words like Ballroom Blitz in it, deserved all they got. The Rastas had guns and machetes and they were ready for anything the white boys had to offer them. In fact, they were looking forward to a real straightener, it would sort out the men from the white boys once and for all.
Dennis was rocking. He had been drinking steadily all day and he was up for a fight. The Rastas in the car earlier had really given him the taste for a violent confrontation; it was only his baby brother, Ricky, driving them to the pub that had stopped anything from occurring.
'Calm down, for fuck's sake.'
Ricky was a little hard nut, not as big as his brothers, but he had a quick wit and an even quicker temper. But he was also sensible enough to know that Dave would have their balls for breakfast if anything happened without his express say-so or knowledge. Dave was still sucking Brodie's cock and as much as that annoyed him, Dave was still the driving force of the family and Ricky respected that.
He knew that Dave was trying to stop this going off. But even he was beginning to see why the others were getting the serious ache. The blacks were fucking all over the place and, no matter how much the Williams boys were told they had missed their chance, it was fucking out of order that they were practically paupers in the grand scheme of things.
Ricky had just got his latest bird in the club and he needed some spondoolies to weigh her out for the new arrival. It was therefore a matter of grave importance to him that he was skinter than a striking miner. By the time he pulled up outside the Beckton speiler they ran, Ricky was already spoiling for the fight he had prevented.