sitting down at the kitchen table she yawned noisily.
As tired as she was, she loved every second of her life so much that even a fractious child was bearable. As she looked around the kitchen she sighed with sheer contentment. Her life was so different and she thanked God for that every minute of every day.
Even though it was three-thirty in the morning and she had no idea where her husband was, or what he was doing, she didn't fret. The life that she now lived was what she classified as normal. It had been like this since day one. Naturally close-mouthed, she didn't question Pat and he didn't expect her to. It was a perfect arrangement for them both.
He would turn up at some point, he always did, and she would cook for him, chat to him and make love to him. It had never occurred to her that the life she lived was not the norm for most young women; she never questioned him about his whereabouts as any other young wife would.
All she understood was that he was out grafting for her, and because of that, she had everything a girl could want, from a twin-tub washing machine to a set of Carmen rollers. Never in her life had she been so cared for, or felt so safe. She depended on him for everything, from the food she ate to the light she read by. He provided for her and their son, more than provided, and she was happy enough with that. Since her marriage she had money coming out of her ears and she spent it like it was going out of fashion. The best of everything, was Pat's mantra and she enjoyed having just that.
It all seemed very fragile at times, precarious even, but she put that down to the way she had been brought up. The fear of her life collapsing around her was never far from her mind, and she struggled to stop the fear enveloping her. All her life she had felt as if she had been waiting for something good to happen, and now it had, the feeling was still there, but it was mixed with a frightening dread that sometimes felt stronger and more real than anything else.
Dicky was laughing. Pat had beaten the filth until he had passed out. Whether that was through the drink or the ministrations of the prostitute combined with the alcohol, or Pat's bruised knuckles, no one was sure. The lesson had been duly administered. From a friendly drinking session, it had eventually deteriorated into a drunken beating. Lomond was now theirs and he would realise it as soon as he sobered up.
On the cold floor, Harry Lomond was having trouble breathing, although no one in the room was worried. In the hostess club they had seen so many Old Bill gasping for breath it was a running joke.
Filth like Lomond were renowned skirt chasers, he was typical of his ilk. A bully, a bruiser, and ultimately a coward. The strange thing was, no one minded a capture off a straight Old Bill. It was expected if not welcomed, but it was a pure collar. Everyone was generous if it occurred, inasmuch as they had a mutual respect for each other. A capture off a bent filth, however, was a different story, it was a complete and utter gutter. Bent filth convicted anyone they were asked to, or paid to, depending on whether they owed money, or needed money. No one wanted the aggravation or indeed humiliation of being banged up by someone they had no respect for, or worse still, for something they didn't do. Serious Bill feeling your collar at least afforded you the respect you were due. Bang to rights, it was a fair cop. A changeling on your case though, told you and all your contemporaries that you had been fitted up for a crime you never committed, to get you out of the way usually, so that whatever skulduggery you might actually be involved in would now be taken over by a different Face. Or you had been well and truly grassed by someone close to you, not even an enemy. Either way, this was seen by police and criminals alike as an unsafe conviction. Especially for the person who brought it about in the first place.
For a judicial system to work, it had to
As tired as she was, she loved every second of her life so much that even a fractious child was bearable. As she looked around the kitchen she sighed with sheer contentment. Her life was so different and she thanked God for that every minute of every day.
Even though it was three-thirty in the morning and she had no idea where her husband was, or what he was doing, she didn't fret. The life that she now lived was what she classified as normal. It had been like this since day one. Naturally close-mouthed, she didn't question Pat and he didn't expect her to. It was a perfect arrangement for them both.
He would turn up at some point, he always did, and she would cook for him, chat to him and make love to him. It had never occurred to her that the life she lived was not the norm for most young women; she never questioned him about his whereabouts as any other young wife would.
All she understood was that he was out grafting for her, and because of that, she had everything a girl could want, from a twin-tub washing machine to a set of Carmen rollers. Never in her life had she been so cared for, or felt so safe. She depended on him for everything, from the food she ate to the light she read by. He provided for her and their son, more than provided, and she was happy enough with that. Since her marriage she had money coming out of her ears and she spent it like it was going out of fashion. The best of everything, was Pat's mantra and she enjoyed having just that.
It all seemed very fragile at times, precarious even, but she put that down to the way she had been brought up. The fear of her life collapsing around her was never far from her mind, and she struggled to stop the fear enveloping her. All her life she had felt as if she had been waiting for something good to happen, and now it had, the feeling was still there, but it was mixed with a frightening dread that sometimes felt stronger and more real than anything else.
Dicky was laughing. Pat had beaten the filth until he had passed out. Whether that was through the drink or the ministrations of the prostitute combined with the alcohol, or Pat's bruised knuckles, no one was sure. The lesson had been duly administered. From a friendly drinking session, it had eventually deteriorated into a drunken beating. Lomond was now theirs and he would realise it as soon as he sobered up.
On the cold floor, Harry Lomond was having trouble breathing, although no one in the room was worried. In the hostess club they had seen so many Old Bill gasping for breath it was a running joke.
Filth like Lomond were renowned skirt chasers, he was typical of his ilk. A bully, a bruiser, and ultimately a coward. The strange thing was, no one minded a capture off a straight Old Bill. It was expected if not welcomed, but it was a pure collar. Everyone was generous if it occurred, inasmuch as they had a mutual respect for each other. A capture off a bent filth, however, was a different story, it was a complete and utter gutter. Bent filth convicted anyone they were asked to, or paid to, depending on whether they owed money, or needed money. No one wanted the aggravation or indeed humiliation of being banged up by someone they had no respect for, or worse still, for something they didn't do. Serious Bill feeling your collar at least afforded you the respect you were due. Bang to rights, it was a fair cop. A changeling on your case though, told you and all your contemporaries that you had been fitted up for a crime you never committed, to get you out of the way usually, so that whatever skulduggery you might actually be involved in would now be taken over by a different Face. Or you had been well and truly grassed by someone close to you, not even an enemy. Either way, this was seen by police and criminals alike as an unsafe conviction. Especially for the person who brought it about in the first place.
For a judicial system to work, it had to
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