The Faithless - Martina Cole [133]
‘He’s stunning, Gabriella, absolutely beautiful. Well done, you two.’ She aimed her smile at Vincent and she saw the delight on his face at her words. Like his genes alone could have presented her with a grandson like this! It would take her time to stamp out the O’Casey traits, she was sure. This little boy would be someone, a banker, or a doctor; he was like a blank canvas waiting for her to colour him in. One thing was for sure – he wouldn’t be a fucking bank robber like his old man, she would see to that. Her smile widened as she thought of what she had done. She had made sure that his father would not be around to interfere in his little life. It was her secret gift to her new grandson.
She smiled at Vincent Senior once more, aware that she would have to put up with it until he was captured trying to rob a bank in Borough Green. The police were watching them all, and she knew that the conspiracy to rob charge would keep him out of their lives for at least seven years.
Gabriella would be heartbroken, which was to be expected; after all, the girl loved him. Cynthia understood that, but she was more concerned that, if left with these two people, her grandchildren would never have anything in their lives, not anything worth having anyway. They would end up labelled blaggers’ kids, and they would go the way of all thieves’ children, embracing that life as all that would be open to them. So she was pleased with herself, pleased at what she had done.
As Vincent took his son from her, and gazed down into his perfect little face, she did not feel an ounce of shame. She was saving these kids from a fate worse than death.
‘He’ll be someone this little lad, Gabby, I can feel it in my bones.’
Cynthia laughed with her daughter at the words and, looking at Vincent, she winked happily at him.
He winked back, oblivious that his fate, like that of his little family, was well and truly sealed.
Chapter One Hundred and Thirty-Two
‘What a fucking mug! But would he listen to anyone?’
Bertie Warner was incensed at the news young Vincent O’Casey had been captured as he and the Gold brothers were about to enter a bank in Kent. They were caught with guns, balaclavas, the works. A whisper had got out, and somehow the Filth had got wind of it. How, he didn’t know, because it was the first he had heard about any of it. In fact, it seemed that no one had any idea about the fucking robbery at all. So either one of the Golds had become loose-lipped, which was very doubtful, or Vincent had mentioned it to someone. Not a chance of that; knowing how Bertie felt about him going back into the game too soon he would have kept it quiet. No, this had to be close to home. Micky Gold had just dumped his wife for a seventeen-year-old blonde, but then would he mention a piece of work to his old woman? It was a melon scratcher all right.
But they were bang to rights now, and they would be looking at a good few years behind the fucking door, before they would be out celebrating Christmas with their families. Stupid, stupid fuckers. Especially that young Vincent. Bertie had had such high hopes for him.
He thought about that girl of his. She had not long had her second baby – a lovely little boy – and she would be devastated by this news; after all, it was not the first time Vincent had left her literally holding the baby. The poor little whore. Some girls really were unlucky. Still, what was done was done, and life on the outside continued.
But all day he kept thinking about young Vincent and about what a waste of a life it was. The second stretch was always worse than the first – for a start, you knew what to expect. Bertie would grease a few palms, make it easier for him, pay out and get him his own cell, a bit of snout and a few luxuries. Vincent would be out one day, and Bertie wanted him to remember that they had not forgotten him. He would slip that little bird a few quid too, tide her over till she was sorted out. It was the least he could do.
Chapter One Hundred and Thirty-Three
Vincent O’Casey sat