The Faithless - Martina Cole [37]
It was important to run your own neighbourhood. It meant a loyalty that was almost guaranteed, providing, of course, you looked after your own, and they had both done just that. But, whereas Jonny was a likeable fellow, Kevin Bryant wasn’t. Respected, yes, but liked? That was a different kettle of fish altogether. No one approached Kevin, he wasn’t that kind of bloke, whereas Jonny was accosted wherever he went. He always made sure people had a few quid in their bins, and was known for paying for the endless rounds of drinks his hangers-on and supporters expected. He mediated between warring factions, and was known to give out rough justice to the less salubrious of his neighbours – burglars, nonces, liars and the like. He was a hard taskmaster with his workforce, but paid them well, and they understood he would not, under any circumstances, tolerate bullying, thieving off him or their own and, most importantly of all, he would not countenance slackness in either word or deed. He paid well, and expected the best they could offer him, and he saw to it that he got just that.
But this latest deal he was going after was as audacious as it was dangerous. It could either bring him untold riches, and untold power, or it could mean he was on his last few hours on God’s good earth.
Jonny took a deep breath and exhaled slowly; he had read somewhere that it calmed the nerves and, despite appearances, he was actually as nervous as fuck. He looked up as his new best friend and confidant on this latest scam, Linford, walked into the small office quietly.
‘Any news?’
‘Not a fucking murmur anywhere on the pavements. News has got round, of course – you’re the hero of the hour. No one liked Joseph anyway. But nothing yet from Kevin Bryant and nothing from his mouthpiece Bertie.’
So they were scheming, and that was to be expected. Jonny nodded and sipped at his whiskey. They had paid off the best part of Bryant’s workforce, guaranteed them a bigger and better earn and, more to the point, they had put the fear of Christ up half of London with their antics this night. He had done all that could be done.
He could hear the riotous laughter coming from the pub he owned on the Mile End Road. He was surrounded by his best workmen and his most trusted friends. They were tooled up and ready for anything. All he could do now was wait, and he had a feeling on him that the wait was going to be a short one.
Kevin Bryant was a lot of things, but a mug wasn’t one of them.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Bertie was fast getting the raging hump.
Kevin was so laid back he might as well be in a fucking coma for all the good he was doing at this moment in time. Bertie’s old woman had made more noise in the sack and that was saying something. His Deirdre was a lovely girl, an exemplary mother, and an all-round decent bird, but she wasn’t exactly what you’d call a live-wire in the fuck department.
Bertie, on the other hand, was a doer by nature; if anyone fucked him over, he done them, simple as that. It was a credo he had lived by and which had kept him alive and kicking this long in a very dangerous game. All his instincts were telling him to go after Jonny P mob-handed, guns blazing, pickaxes swinging, and maybe even a few fucking machetes thrown into the mix just for the irony factor. And that was exactly what he was going to suggest to Kevin. He couldn’t sit here like a fucking Victorian mistress any longer. It was, in effect, doing his head in.
Bertie liked Kevin; he probably knew him better than anyone else, and he respected him, and saw his good points as well as the bad. But this fucking silence was deafening; he could almost hear his own brain turning over, and at every little noise he expected to be overrun by a mob wielding giant machetes.
Kevin was watching Bertie placidly; he knew exactly what was going through his mind and, in a way, he could sympathise with him. Bertie didn’t have the patience of a three year old, and when a bit of chastising needed doing he was the man to call on. Unfortunately,