broke away from the hug and looked down nervously at the red tiled floor, deciding it needed another clean now that most of last night’s dinner had been chucked onto it. Not wanting to look at her daughter directly, she spoke softly.
‘That’s what I was going to tell you love; I didn’t like to worry you when I came to visit, but a few things have changed since you were here.’
Maggie squinted her eyes. She always knew when her mum didn’t want to tell her something, especially if it was something bad. This was one of those times. Watching her mother shuffle from side to side, Maggie bent her tall, slender frame down to her mother’s eye level and spoke firmly but quietly.
‘Mum, if you’ve got something to say, for God’s sake, spit it out.’
Shelia stared into her daughter’s eyes for a split second but quickly turned away, unable to hold her gaze. Her daughter’s big blue eyes always made her feel guilty, reminding her of her kids’ rotten childhood.
Maggie had seen so much and heard so much but complained so little. She’d always been a good daughter to her. Even though Maggie had suffered at the hands of her father and had been left for hours on end to look after her siblings when her mum was either in hospital or just couldn’t cope, Maggie had always been loyal.
Her daughter was the only one who’d helped around the house, making well-needed brews, helping with the mounds of dirty laundry and the seemingly never-ending piles of washing up. It was only Maggie who’d ever spoken kind words to her and it was only Maggie who’d ever walked through a blizzard of snow to come and visit her in hospital when Max had fractured her pelvis. And closing her eyes at the thought, Sheila knew it’d only ever been Maggie who, even from an early age, had stood terrified but bravely in front of Max, willing to take the punches instead of letting him hurt her mum and siblings. Shamefully she’d let her; Sheila had let her daughter stand there, becoming a human shield for her and for her other children.
Shelia knew by rights it should’ve been her who was there for her daughter, but knowing life would’ve been even more intolerable than it already was without Maggie, she ignored the gnawing guilt of this role reversal and just continued to be grateful for the care her daughter showed. And now the one time Maggie had actually asked her for help and needed some support, she’d let her down and Sheila Donaldson didn’t quite know how she was going to tell her.
‘Sweetheart, you better sit down. You won’t like what I’ve got to say.’
Max Donaldson hacked a deep chesty cough, releasing sticky yellow mucus from the back of his throat before spitting it out expertly on the step of Ronnie Scott’s Jazz Club. He was angry. Not just because Maggie was back home. And not just because the stifling heat of the Soho streets was causing the sweat to drip down his back. And certainly not just because of the run-in he’d had last night at the casino with one of his rivals. He was angry for no other reason because that was who he was and always had been.
Since he was young, Max had felt the presence of anger as he felt the presence of the air he breathed. On some days he’d wake up feeling the slow burn of irritation, and by the time he’d got washed, shaved and was ready for breakfast, he was ready to pummel anyone who got in his way. He didn’t fight the feeling – it got things done; made things happen. His temperament had made him a face. It stopped people taking the piss; the sensible ones anyway, the ones who didn’t want to wake up in a hospital bed.
Striding to his car and ignoring the ‘no littering’ signs, Max threw away the contents of his pocket next to the bin. He was heading over to Wembley Park to see a person who hadn’t taken what he was saying seriously – but Max was certain once he had paid them a visit, they’d never make such a stupid mistake again.
He’d thought about sending his ‘butchers’ to deal with it. They were the men who did the chopping – the hurting – but today he’d wanted to do it himself. In fact, he’d go as far as to say he was looking forward to it.
On paper, the Windsor Estate sounded majestic. Anyone who’d read only the name might be forgiven for imagining large white houses surrounded by trees with wildlife roaming in the nearby woods, but in reality Max knew the only wildlife the occupants saw were the cockroaches running up and down the cracked walls. And the closest it got to being majestic was its residents being carted off to do a stretch at Her Majesty’s pleasure. There was no other way to describe it but bleak; bleak and harsh. It was, as Max saw it, the arsehole of life.
The estate, also known as Crack Castle, had been forgotten by society, making the tenants living on it easy pickings and often desperate for his services. When they ignored his warnings, there was no one foolish enough to call the police. More tellingly, there were no police officers willing enough to respond to their call.
Max stared at the grey door with peeling paint and indecipherable graffiti. He took a deep breath, preparing himself as if about to go into the ring, then kicked the bottom of the door several times, not wanting to touch it with his hands. The dried red marks looked suspiciously like blood. Receiving no answer after three knocks he booted it hard, taking the door off the top part of its hinges as he did so.
Fired up, Max ran into the front room curling his nose from the stench of urine and ignoring the sounds of a crying baby. He bellowed loudly, banging the wall with his fist and feeling the charge of adrenalin seeping through his body.
‘Where the fuck are you?’
A woman in a nightie appeared at the door of the bedroom with a look of shocked recognition. Her thick brown hair was a mass of knots and grease, her skin had an outbreak of angry red spots and her eyes were devoid of any life.
‘He ain’t here.’
Max snarled, disgusted at the woman’s appearance.
‘I’ll be the judge of who’s here or not. Get out of me way.’
Max didn’t wait for her to move. He pushed her hard, knocking her to the floor and stepped into the bedroom to see a child no older than six slumped on a dirty mattress which lay on the bare floorboards.
‘Where’s your Da?’
The boy’s eyes were as dead as his mother’s and he shrugged fearfully at the angry intruder.
‘I said, where’s your fucking Da?’
The woman – recovered from her fall – scrambled in front of Max, petrified for her son.
‘Leave him alone, he ain’t done nothing.’
‘That’s right, he ain’t, but it don’t matter to me who I have to knock about to get me money. So cop on to yourself and do your son a favour; tell me where your old man is. He owes me big time.’
The woman’s eyes darted from Max to her son.
‘Go through to the kitchen, get yourself a drink love, I’ll be though in a minute.’
The boy ran out of the room quickly.
‘He’s paid you; he’s already paid you the five hundred quid he borrowed.’
‘Yeah, but he was late and as we agreed when you were so eager to borrow the money from me, any late payments means double payments.’
‘He was only late by two days.’
‘I’m no charity sweetheart. Interest occurs on
