Faces by Martina Cole

wallpaper, cigarette smoke and Bitter. The clientele were Faces who either wanted a quiet drink with no juke box, to make a deal of some kind, or play cards in peace and quiet. Women were not encouraged and, on the rare occasions they did cross the threshold, they were tolerated for only a short while. Danny Boy loved it there, felt comfortable in this world of men, real men. As he slipped through the bar to the rooms out back he always felt a buzz.
    ‘He is a fucking lump all right.’ This came from a regular called Frankie Daggart, a bank robber with stunning good looks, and a fearsome reputation as a ballroom dancer. He grinned at the cheek of this kid, and enjoyed seeing him getting more and more confident as the time went on. ‘Want a drink, son?’
    Danny shook his head and grinned. ‘Nah, thanks anyway, Frank. I still have a few calls to make before I can relax.’ The men all smiled at his level-headedness: he looked twenty if he was a day. His old man must be kicking himself at the trouble he had laid on this lad’s young shoulders. All the men agreed that if they had been blessed with a son like him they would have thanked God for him every day of their lives. He was a Brahma, a diamond, a fucker in the making.
    As he slipped through to the back Danny could feel the goodwill emanating from all the men cluttered around the bar and it was a feeling that he cherished. Frankie Daggart was waiting outside for him when he left, a little over an hour later.
     
    Jonjo loved his little sister but she got on his nerves. She was crying again. If she actually cried it would be different, but she didn’t, she just whined. Now, at almost eleven thirty, she was getting a second wind and as he went to go into the bedroom he was almost knocked flat on his back by his mother.
    She slammed into the room and shouted angrily, ‘What the feck is wrong with you now?’
    Annie screamed as her mother’s rough hand came into contact with whatever piece of skin she could get to. After a few minutes she stopped the beating and, straightening up, she pointed a finger at the terrified child and said loudly, ‘If I hear your fecking voice once more, I’ll brain you, do you hear me? Your poor father is trying to rest in there, and all you can do is aggravate the shagging life out of everyone.’
    She roughly pulled the covers over her daughter’s shoulders and left the room. Her whole body was bristling with anger and frustration, her tired face showing the strain of her day-to-day existence. Living in this house was a constant battle of wits and her nerves were shot. Her husband was now able to move about with the aid of a stick, and her elder son made him feel he had to be grateful for every bite that went into his mouth.
    Her husband was a shadow of the man she had married: the life had been drained out of him. He was quiet, even taking communion once a week when the priest popped in for a natter. As she went back into the bedroom she nailed a smile on her face and, pouring two glasses of Scotch, she handed one to her husband, trying to ignore the fact that he only livened up when offered alcohol. Even that had to be done on the quiet; if Danny Boy knew, he’d go ape shit. Part of his daily enjoyment was seeing to it that his father was dry, and stayed dry. He used his father’s own frail health as a weapon against him, knowing that the man couldn’t do anything to stop him. Wouldn’t even try.
    ‘She needs a firm hand that one, I should have put me foot down when she was born.’
    He didn’t answer her, but then Ange knew he wouldn’t. One-sided conversations were now the main-stay of her life.
     
    Michael was waiting by the scrapyard, and he was freezing. As he drew deeply on his Dunhill cigarette, he kept his eyes skinned for any movement in the shadows beyond. He hated this bit of the night, he never knew what time Danny would get there, and he felt vulnerable with the wedge of money he had to carry around. His fear was