He was waiting for Michael. It was Thursday, and that meant Michael would meet him in the private club they owned in East London by one o’clock at the latest. It was something they had done for years. Michael always liked to hear everything that was going on first-hand, and Declan was more than happy to oblige. He always gave Michael the lowdown on everything and everyone he dealt with. After Michael had nearly murdered him all those years ago, no one had been more amazed than him when Michael had brought him back into the fold, treating him as if nothing untoward had happened between them. It had been a real learning curve for him, and he had never forgotten it. Michael had only ever mentioned their contretemps once, on the day he had come round to his house just after he had finally left the hospital. After enquiring about his health, Michael had looked at him sadly, before saying, ‘I never want us to fall out again, Declan. All I want is for you to keep your eye on the ball in the future. You were supposed to have my back, you were supposed to be making my life easier.’
Declan had been so grateful to be given another chance, he had sworn to prove himself worthy of Michael’s kindness. He had never once forgotten his role, and he relished his position, realising how easily it could be taken from him if he ever fucked up again. His laziness, combined with his refusal to think for himself, had nearly cost him not just his livelihood, but also his life. It was a mistake he wouldn’t make a second time.
He took a deep gulp of his beer, enjoying the icy coldness as it slipped down his throat. He was a very happy man, and that was something that he really valued these days. He had lived through the humiliation of Michael’s attack, and that had been very hard for him; without Michael Flynn he was basically worth nothing.
He held up his empty glass to the barmaid, and she took it quickly, filling it up once more for him. The bar was empty; they had just had the whole place decorated, and it was odd to see it so clean-looking. But it still had the old-fashioned vibe to it; the men who frequented this place would not be comfortable otherwise.
He glanced towards the stairs. He had heard the door opening, and he watched Michael Flynn walking down the stairway slowly. He was still a very handsome man. Michael had never put on any weight, he still had a good body on him. He would get better looking as he got older, the jammy fucker; some men were lucky like that.
‘All right, Michael.’ It was a greeting, not a question.
Michael smiled. ‘All right, Declan. You’re looking good, mate.’
Declan grinned with pleasure. ‘I feel fine anyway. That’s the main thing. Drink?’
The barmaid took the order, and Declan was amazed to see Michael Flynn drinking a large whisky so early in the day. ‘Are you all right, Michael?’
Declan’s voice was genuinely worried, and Michael swallowed his drink down in one before answering him. ‘It’s my Jessie. She didn’t turn up for her money. I know it’s silly to worry, but she’s never missed a Thursday before.’
He motioned to the barmaid for another drink, and she took his glass from him without a word. She refilled it and placed it on the bar in front of him. He smiled his thanks, noticing she wasn’t the usual eyeful they employed.
‘I don’t know, Declan. It’s not like her. I’m worried.’
Declan knew how fragile Michael’s situation was regarding his only daughter. He suspected that young Jessie was probably shacked up with some piece of shit lowlife somewhere, but he knew better than to say that. Instead he took a drink of his beer, before saying easily, ‘I’m sure she will turn up. You haven’t got anything to worry about there, mate. She probably had a late night.’
Michael looked at his old friend. Declan was ageing before his eyes. It didn’t help that he dressed like a fucking Nigerian refugee. He always looked like he had got dressed in the dark. ‘I suppose so. But Josephine wanted me to report back to her, and how can I do that now? I’ve sent someone round to her gaff. She won’t like it, but who gives a fuck? I need to know she’s OK.’
Declan didn’t say anything. Jessie Flynn was notorious in their world. Her name was a by-word for whoring. She had used up all her brownie points with her uncle Declan years ago. She disgusted him now. If she was his daughter he would have crippled her many moons ago, put a stop to her gallop then and there. She had slept with everyone they knew.
‘Daughters, eh, Declan? A breed apart!’
Declan laughed gently. ‘I wouldn’t know, Michael. I never wanted kids, or a wife, come to that. You know me, mate. I never felt the urge to reproduce.’
Michael was laughing despite himself. ‘I can’t say I fucking blame you for that. Anyway, what’s the score? I heard about the aggro in the lap-dancing club.’
Declan groaned theatrically, pleased to be changing the subject. ‘If you had seen the bloke who caused it, you’d freak out. He was as old as the hills for a start, and the girl was all of nineteen. He had made the fatal mistake they make, of course – assumed that because he had been giving her money all night he owned her. Then, when her shift was over and she tried to leave, he kicked off. Typical city type, thinks the whole world owes him allegiance. Well, he got a fucking slap in the end – there was no talking to him. He’s barred now, the wrinkled up old ponce.’ Declan motioned for more drinks before saying craftily, ‘I had to laugh, though, he was two grand down, and drunk as a coot, but he was a game old fucker, I’ll give him that.’
Michael was laughing with him now. ‘It always amazes me that they just don’t get it.’
Declan picked up his fresh pint, drinking deeply, enjoying it. ‘’Course they don’t get it, Michael. If they did we wouldn’t earn a fucking bean!’
Chapter Ninety-Five