The Family Firm

Chapter 11

'Well, fuck me.' That was Mickey McElroy's exclamation as he clapped eyes on a particularly busty red-head passing by on the pavement. 'And I do mean that literally.'

Fred snorted out in laughter. There was something about Mickey he liked, something he wasn't quite sure how to name. The man was chatty, and he was well-spoken, both things of which were normally sources of annoyance for Fred but with Mickey, it was different. Maybe it was their shared Irish roots, but more than likely it was because he was coked-up on enough of the best bugle in London to kill a horse. In any case, he was having a good time.

He had agreed to go for a drive with the man and was really enjoying himself. The Irishman had said that because they now had a deal, that he wanted them to be friends, and while that wasn't really how Fred worked (he didn't actually have any friends at all, not genuine ones), a drive wouldn't hurt. It was just the two of them as well, none of their lackeys which was certainly not the way to do things and yet there they were, like two university mates out on the pull.

'You're leaving back for Manchester when, then, Mickey?' asked Fred as he drove, popping a piece of gum into his mouth.

Mickey settled back in his seat, eyes scanning the horizon, jittery from the snort. And yet, oddly, he seemed collected, even with his teeth grinding and feet tapping periodically. The fella was always wiry; it was almost as if the coke sorted him out. 'Two days, which is why we're not gonna talk about business, Fred, not until I've come home. Tonight we're going to party, tomorrow we're going to recover, and business will come after.'

Fred, while entrepreneurial as he was, thought adopting Mickey's "live now, worry later" mindset could prove fortuitous for him, and so he cast aside all business thoughts and instead directed his attention to the various women lining the streets.

They were in the red light district, of course, looking for whatever pair of tits came their way. Fred was no stranger to, well, strange, and neither was Mickey, whose gaze on the various night-walkers was as casual of that of a man inspecting livestock. And like livestock, women were useful, but not entirely important. This was something both Fred and Mickey could agree on.

'I like 'em a bit older,' mused the Irishman suddenly, before he pointed through the windscreen. 'Like that one there.'

The woman in question was in her late thirties, which in her profession was, indeed, "a bit older". She was wearing a large leopard-print fur coat and thigh-high faux-leather boots, and her hair was cropped just below the ear and swept back damp, so that only the ends hung freely off her head. Her make-up was dark and plentiful, and the thick layer of foundation served to cover the age lines in her face.

Sara Wickers had been working the streets since she could remember. There wasn't any shame in it that hadn't been put there by society, and that was something she firmly believed. Of course it wasn't her dream job, in fact she wanted nothing more than to stay at home and raise her Katie, but a woman alone had to make her bread in the world any way she could and for Sara, that meant selling her body.

She could take the shame of it, she'd always been a tough bird and she was able to brush off petty insults like they were dirt on her boots. But what she couldn't take was the people that talked to Katie, about her and behind her back. That was a pill she couldn't—wouldn't—swallow, not if her life depended on it. She would do anything to protect her Katie, and fortunately the girl had a good head on her shoulders, wouldn't end up like her mum. But that didn't stop people from talking, did it.

A black BMW rolled up along the kerb and her mate, Julia, said, 'You take this one, love. You've earned it.'

Julia was a bit older than she was, with her hair dyed red and cut in a pageboy fashion. She had a gravelly voice from her years of heavy chain-smoking and had battled cancer twice. Sara knew this as well as she knew the woman was only giving her this punter because she was looking out for herself; the ones with the money always wanted the strangest shite, and Julia wasn't as young as she used to be. Sara didn't hold this against her or anything; she knew as well as anyone that it was every woman for herself out there on the streets, and besides, she needed the money.

The window rolled down as she approached and she forced her usual, professionally coquettish smile as she lowered herself down to talk to the driver. 'Need a bit of company, love?'

But as soon as the words left her mouth, they tapered off and her breath got stuck in her throat, for there, sitting proudly behind the wheel, smile wide as the bloody Channel set on his face, was Freddie fucking Evans.

'All right, ducky?' he said cockily, his tongue tucked between his teeth. Sara narrowed her dark blue eyes at him and lowered her head into the window.

'You,' she said. 'What the bloody hell do you want?'

Mickey was laughing at her gall, always in awe by East End women; Fred, on the other hand, was accustomed to it, and pouted mockingly. 'Well, that's not very nice, issit. What's it look like I want, eh? The only thing you're giving up.'

Sara couldn't have cared any less about his ribbing. Sod the insults; she was too furious with him to care. 'I know you been talking to her,' she accused, her words low and vitriolic.

Fred knitted his brows in a way that irritated her. 'Who?'

'Don't you fucking ask me who!' she barked back, finding it difficult to stay hushed. She could feel Julia's eyes on her from a few paces away and subconsciously knew she would intervene if necessary. She was frightened of Fred despite this, not that she would let him know. She was far too angry for that.

Pressing her thin lips together briefly, she steadied her voice and told him, 'You can't talk to her. You were banished from her life thirteen years ago and you won't fucking waltz right back into it now, so help me God.'

'Or what, eh?' he asked, and suddenly all humour was gone from his voice. In a quick movement, he'd grabbed her by the back of her short hair, just enough to get a fistful of her blonde locks, and yanked her face right up close to his. 'Or what? What's a cunt like you gonna do about it, hmm?'

'Let me go!' she warned, her hands immediately clasping onto his in an attempt to force him to release her. The grip on her hair hurt, and his breath stank of pungent liquor. It made her want to retch.

Freddie, finding amusement in the situation, slowly pressed forward on the pedal, forcing Sara to clumsily walk along the side of the car, stumbling and struggling not to fall. She cried out, and suddenly the dolt of a brass behind her had taken a few steps forward, but was powerless to help.

Leaning even closer to her, Fred went on, 'Whatever you say, she's my child, and I'll see her if I want to see her. Understand me, you daft bitch?'

She was crying out, her voice struggling to sound angry over the blatant fear and pain that had bubbled up in her throat as she tore and scratched wildly at his tattooed hands. 'Let me go! Right now!'

'You kept me little girl away from me all these years, but she ain't just yours,' he continued lowly, tugging her by the hair back and forth on each emphasis. 'Remember that.'

Now, turning back towards the windscreen casually, he pushed her head back out the window, discarding her like rubbish. She fell onto the tarmac painfully and cried out, more in anger than anything else:

'You're a fucking animal, Freddie!'

Freddie only glanced back as he heard the beer bottle shatter against the boot of his car, and saw in the mirror Sara on the ground with the red-headed brass comforting her at her side. And then, his eyes settled back towards the road as if nothing had even happened.

Mickey was looking at him, amused by the sight he'd just been witness to. 'A feckin' show that was, mate. What was that about?'

Fred shrugged carelessly. 'Just not feeling blondes tonight.'