The Family Firm

Chapter 17

Freddie felt like the dog's bollocks. Business with Manchester was going brilliantly, in fact they were turning a pretty hefty profit and it was all thanks to Fred himself. He and Mickey had got on wonderfully in the past few weeks, they were mates now, and even though Fred was making a profit off him they had a good working relationship. All in all, things were better than they had been in a long time and he was pleased as punch.

They were all gathered at Peter & Paul's, a pub in Wapping they had done business out of for some time, in celebration of their latest enterprise. Of course, it was all owed up to Fred, and he was the centre of attention because of it. He didn't often like that sort of attention, but right then he had a grin slapped on his face as wide as the Thames and he was revelling in the praise.

Junior was there as well, and was enjoying himself. He'd only had a beer and a half but already he was well pissed and this was a delight to his new comrades. They all got a kick out of him, loved his sense of humour and he fit right in with the lot of them. Because of this, Fred was prouder of him than he had been in all his days and he was filled with so much love for the boy his heart was close to bursting.

Freddie was watching as his nephew regaled the crowd with a wild, inventive tale from his school days. It was the first time all night he'd really had a moment to himself, and he was enjoying it. It wasn't long before he felt a broad hand on his shoulder, however, and when he turned to see who it was, he saw the ugly balding head of his boss, Archy.

'Well, my son, you've done it, haven't you,' the old gangster said, and while they both were smiling, Fred could see there was no pride in the man's eyes. There once had been, very much so, in fact Archy had treated him like his own son in all the years they'd known each other, back when he was in his twenties and Archy had given him the opportunity to make a real man out of himself. There was a time in which he would have looked at Fred with fatherly pride but they both knew things were different now. Different, because Freddie Evans posed a very real threat to poor old Arch, and for the first time in ten or so years, they were both very, very aware of it.

'Learnt from the best,' Fred offered, trying to dissipate the tension they both felt acutely. Archy squeezed his shoulder, and the younger of the two men knew it was aggressive.

'That you have, Fred,' he said, using his other hand to "playfully" smack him on the cheek. He got close enough to practically kiss him, close enough to smell the booze on his breath as thick as the tension that hung between them, and he added, 'Don't you ever fucking forget that.'

It wasn't even a disguised threat, and Fred nodded a few times to himself, mulling a few thoughts in his head. But as Archy pulled away from him and made to sit with the others, there was only one thought that had flashed past his mind that mattered and, grabbing the nearest object, which just so happened to be a heavy, unopened bottle of claret, he clubbed the old fucker across the head with it.

Archy was completely blind-sided. In fact, more than likely he was dead before he'd even hit the ground, but that didn't stop Fred from giving him a very violent beating, bashing him in the head and face with the bottle until it had shattered and deep burgundy wine rushed out, mixing with the blood that had pooled around him. Even then Fred didn't stop, and he continued shanking him again and again with the broken end of the bottle in what was left of his face, the glass ripping and shredding into his flesh as the blunt force broke bone until the pulpy red mass caved inward.

Everyone around them could only watch in horror at the violent act, readying their weapons weakly, unsure if they should even use them. No one had intervened or tried to stop him, which spoke a lot for Archy's character, in Fred's opinion.

After he was finished, he stood and threw the bottle to the ground, what was left of it shattering against the floor in the process. Archy's hulking mass of a body was discarded like rubbish at his feet, surrounded by copious amounts of blood and wine. And then there was Fred, who didn't even spare another glance at him, instead looking at the others, these men whom he'd worked with all these years, men whom he considered to be brothers, who were staring at him in shock.

'I'll be running things from now on,' he demanded, jabbing a finger downward at Archy's corpse. 'He ain't been king of the castle in a fucking decade. I done the deals, I handled the people, and we all done the fucking manual labour. What's this cunt done for us eh? What's he fucking done for us?'

He was preaching to the converted. Everyone was aware that he'd been on his way out, not just Fred; it was simply only Fred who had had the ambition to put the old fuck out of his misery and take the business by force.

Breathing heavily, Fred looked to his companions and said, 'Now, you're all gonna work for me, or you'll end up like this faceless Face, am I understood, mate?'

The room was silent. Junior was looking at his uncle in horror, having seen what the man was truly capable of. This was more than scaring some old fuck with a match and petrol, more than any physical fight he'd ever been in at school; this was actual, real violence, and Fred had just ruthlessly killed a man for seemingly no reason, in cold blood, without batting a fucking eye.

He looked down at the lumpy mass which was once Archy Jackson's face, and saw in it his uncle's work, his real capability, his raw power. And he knew then, more than he'd ever known before, that he was very deep into a life he had never expected, that he had never even known existed.

And it was exactly where he needed to be.