Declan Costello was in the top bar of their newest nightclub, The Gatsby. He was holding court, and enjoying every second of it. His latest amour, Sinead, a petite blonde with huge breasts and delusions of grandeur, was by his side. She was pretty enough, green-eyed with high cheekbones and full lips but, unfortunately for her, she had about as much personality as a tadpole. It had only been a week and already Declan was getting bored with her. The only women who lasted for a while with him, had one thing in common other than being good-looking – a sense of humour.
Declan looked around him. Everyone, from Jeffrey Palmer to Jermaine O’Shay had turned out to wet the baby’s head. Even the Notting Hill lads had come over to the East End – an almost unheard of situation. But Michael Flynn was popular and everyone wanted to congratulate him on the birth of his first child. Christ Himself knew they had waited long enough for it.
Jermaine was drinking whisky and, as usual, he had women lining up to talk to him. Tonight, though, he wasn’t interested in the strange around him; he just wanted to share Michael’s night with him.
The club was packed out, and the music was loud and pumping, the beat resonating through the floor.
Michael Flynn finally arrived just after midnight and, as he walked up the stairs to the top bar, Whitney Houston’s ‘I Wanna Dance With Somebody’ came on. Laughing excitedly, Michael made his entrance by dancing erratically, and singing the lyrics at the top of his voice.
‘Fucking hell, Michael! You pissed already?’
Michael was so happy, it was almost painful to watch him. After all these years, poor Josephine had finally managed to produce a child for them.
‘Drunk? Am I fuck, you cheeky bastard! I’m happy. Get me a large Irish, mate.’
Everyone was clamouring to congratulate him; he was shaking hands and hugging people all around, his happiness infectious.
‘So, come on then, what did she have?’
Michael looked at Declan in disbelief. ‘Didn’t you tell them?’
‘No, I kept schtum. That’s for you to know, and for that lot to find out! It’s your news, mate. Not mine.’
Michael felt almost tearful at Declan’s generosity of spirit. He understood how big this moment was for him and, even though he would not have minded Declan telling the people around them his news, he appreciated that Declan had left it to him.
‘Come on then, Michael, what you got? It can only be one or the other!’
Michael was laughing once more. Then, standing up straight and clearing his throat theatrically, he announced, ‘Jessica Mary Flynn was born today on the tenth of September nineteen eighty-nine weighing in at six pounds, five ounces. She is her mother’s double, and she’s fucking gorgeous.’
The cheer that went up from everyone was so loud it drowned out the music. Declan pushed a glass of whisky into Michael’s hand, and he downed it in one go. Then, giving Declan his empty glass, he shouted, ‘More!’
Michael had already noticed that Jeffrey Palmer was there with some of his crew, looking very sheepish. He had clocked Jermaine O’Shay too. Michael smiled at the people there; it was a great crowd, and he knew that they were there for him, to celebrate his good news with him. Almost every Face in London was in this bar tonight and, as he looked around him – at young Danny, as always telling jokes and making people laugh, and at Orville Cardoza, a Rastafarian of advanced years who was capable of extreme violence at the least provocation – he suddenly felt at peace with himself, and with his life. His little daughter was a miracle. She had arrived with the minimum of fuss, and he had never seen Josephine more beautiful – the look of triumph on her face had said it all. She had finally achieved the one thing she craved more than anything else in her life. As she had cradled her daughter in her arms, he had closed his eyes tightly and thanked God for finally answering their prayers.
He had another large whisky put into his hand and, once again, he swallowed it down quickly. ‘Keep them coming, boys. Tonight I am going to get fucking plastered.’
The men around him were cheering him loudly. Arnold Jameson, a young Jamaican guy with a bald head and a taste for outlandish shirts, hugged him tightly. ‘I remember getting my first baby. Your own flesh and blood. It’s a real trip, ain’t it, maw?’
Michael hugged him back. Until now he had not thought of it like that. His little girl, his brand spanking new little baby, was his flesh and blood.
Chapter Sixty