you had your men take the telly last week.’
Max sneered and stepped closer.
‘If it makes you feel any better darlin’, there’s nothing on telly worth watching.’
He sniffed and spat on the floor continuing to talk in a threatening manner, feeling the early summer’s heat stifling the already putrid air. ‘I want this week’s payment now or you’ll be standing watching your boy becoming my punch bag.’
‘You’re sick, you know that.’
Max leaned into the woman’s face, smelling her early morning breath and stale cigarettes.
‘I may be sick babe, but that don’t stop me wanting my money. I’m telling you now, I want to feel the greens in my hand by the count of five. Don’t underestimate what I’ll do.’
The woman’s eyes suddenly flashed with terror.
‘Look I ain’t got your money, I swear.’
Max touched the woman’s face and circled his large podgy fingers around her lips.
‘Well there lies the problem because I’m not sure if you’ve got anything I want. Now if you didn’t look like an arse end of a rat I might get you to work for me; pay off the money, but I can’t imagine many punters willing to pay to shag a hanging bag of bones, can you?’
Max watched the woman’s eyes fill up with tears as he walked towards the door.
‘Now where is your old man? Or do I have to go and find that son of yours to show you how serious I am? One … two … three …’
As Max counted he produced a small silver headed cosh out of his pocket. The woman’s eyes flitted around the room then she nodded her head towards the tall wardrobe in the corner, indicating Max should look there. He opened the doors, then laughed scornfully as he saw a sinewy looking man cowering in the bottom of it.
‘Well, well. What have we got here? A coward and a money cheat.’
Without waiting for the man to talk, Max leapt at the trembling figure. His fists pummelled into any part of human flesh he could find. He felt his knuckle knock through front teeth and felt the wet of the blood on his hand. He pushed again with his clenched fist and heard the squelch of the teeth leaving the gum behind.
Max hammered down with the cosh; over and over again, until he felt a twinge in his back. He stood up, panting, still attacking the man with his feet as he kicked him in the side of his head.
‘Next time you pay me on time. I don’t like having the piss being taken out of me. Next time I won’t go as easy on you.’
Max looked down at the man who was silently nodding. He was fairly certain the next time he came for his money it’d probably be wrapped in a big pink bow. Turning to the woman, Max grinned. He walked towards her and started undoing his trouser belt. As he reached her his hand stroked her shoulder.
‘Perhaps it’s your lucky day after all.’
Outside, Max lit a cigarette. It was only the beginning of summer and already the oppressive city heat was starting to drive him crazy. He unzipped his jacket which made little difference. Walking back to his car he thought of Maggie, hoping that putting the fear back into her would be as easy as it had been with the man.
The North Circular, the road which would take Max back to central London, had come to a standstill, along with Max’s air conditioning. The combination of the two gave way for him to contemplate last night’s altercation with a newfound rage.
The altercation had been with Frankie Taylor, a Soho face and successful businessman who’d made his money through strip clubs and peep shows. Max had known him for as long as he could remember. First as a business associate, and then as a rival. As the years passed the rivalry between the two of them had turned to hatred. Then the hatred had turned to a full-scale war between them. There wasn’t a person Max loathed as much as the vain, perma-tanned, loud-mouthed Frankie Taylor. And there wasn’t a person he didn’t want to see in the ground as much as he did Frankie.
He’d bumped into Frankie at the casino and as usual the man had been as arrogant as ever. But the evening had taken a turn for the worse when Frankie had thrown a drink at him in full view of some of the biggest faces in London.
Remembering it, Max touched his chest, almost being able to feel the wet sticky humiliation of last night’s drink on his shirt. If it hadn’t been for the fact that Frankie had been surrounded by a group of his heavies, he would’ve taken him out there and then. But he could wait. What was it the priests used to say to him back in Ireland? All good things come to those that wait.
Frankie Taylor had made the ultimate mistake. He’d humiliated him, but Max knew exactly how he was going to pay him back. As the traffic started to move, Max smiled. Frankie had an Achilles heel. An Achilles heel which came in the form of his wife and son.
Maggie wiped away her tears. She was so unused to them, seeing them as some kind of weakness. She looked at her mother, bewildered by what she’d just been told. Not knowing what else to do, Maggie bent down, holding her head in her hands as she sat at the kitchen table. Not for the first time that day, she took a deep breath to stop her rage getting the better of her.
Prison time had changed her, or at least that’s what she wanted to believe. She’d done a number of small stretches a few years ago but then it hadn’t mattered. This time it had. She was twenty-five and as she kept telling herself, life had to be different now. She had to keep her temper in check. Stupidly she had thought it was going to be easier than this. She’d only been home a few short hours and already she could feel her resolve being sorely tested.
Her mother poured the tea as she talked.
‘I’m sorry love but what other choices were there? We were desperate. Nicky told me Gina offered to help out; it seemed like a good solution at the time. What else could I have done?’
Maggie tried to stop the hysteria coming into her voice as she watched her mother put down the teapot to open the back door, in a vain attempt to get some air into the stifling room.
‘I don’t know Mum, but anything; anything would’ve been better than this. It’s the only thing I’ve ever asked of you.’
‘It was hard to get out. I know it sounds like an excuse but …’
Sheila Donaldson trailed off. It not only sounded like an excuse, it was an excuse. And not until now, looking over at her daughter who was clearly in distress, did she realise how hollow and pathetic it sounded. Sheila tried again, not quite sure what she was going to say, but wanting to say something which might plaster over the damage.
‘Mags … I …’
Maggie put her hand up to stop her mother saying anymore. She loved her mother so much, but the enormity of the situation was starting to sink in. Conflicting emotions were overwhelming her.
‘Not now Mum, please. Not now.’
Sheila’s agitation stopped her
