Fogarty, Page 3

  Now here she was, barely fifteen and hugely pregnant, trying to deliver new life on her old single bed covered in fresh linen sheets. Den watched her struggles without emotion, his face unchanged as she cried out with each contraction, screamed with each push.

  “She needs a hospital, Dennis, we can’t do this alone.” May Finnegan was a good midwife and she was being ably assisted by Mary Akuta, a nurse trained in the Caribbean and now working in London, but this was a difficult birth. Mary and her family lived two floors down in flat 28 and she, too, complained that this was a complex delivery. She was worried for May’s slightly built daughter. Dennis Grierson snarled his reply.

  “Just get on with it! I’m not having nosy paramedics poking around the Farm. If she needs help I’ll send her in a car to the North London, but only after the delivery, understood?”

  The look May Finnegan shot at Dennis Grierson was so malevolent that even the man known as Psycho shivered.

  ***

  Three hours later Ambrose Bejamin Fogarty lay in a transparent baby crib at the foot of his mother’s bed in the busy North London maternity ward. May sat at the bedside of her sickly looking daughter. The girl was not yet fully grown; she was still less than five feet tall and weighed under six stones. She had been skin and bone before the pregnancy started to show, and she was skin and bone again.

  Whilst May fully understood that her daughter had been the unwilling victim of a cruel and vicious man, she still felt guilt and shame for allowing this to happen to her little girl. They needed to get Siobhan away from the estate as soon as possible and away from the psychotic Dennis Grierson. But more than that, May needed to protect little Ambrose and protect him she would, even if it meant killing Den herself.

  Chapter 4

  Homebush Ranch, Masterton, Near Wellington. NZ.

  Thursday 11th August 2011; 11am.

  Ihaka Nga Hiwi looked every day of the hundred years old he claimed to be, albeit the reality was that he was closer to seventy. The tribal elder of the local Maori tribe, he had spent the last twenty years at Homebush Ranch, not doing too much hard labour himself but ensuring that the younger men worked hard for their beloved boss. Ihaka was very frail now, and to Ben Fogarty it seemed impossible that this was the man who had taught him everything he knew about Maori culture and how they fought and loved. This was the man who, at nearly sixty years of age, had run for twenty miles across a wicked terrain without a stop for breath whilst a young, and allegedly fit, Ben trailed behind in the distance.

  As they sat in the traditional pitched roof hut with elaborately decorated timbering, the old man reminisced about Ben’s childhood, taking all of the credit for the fine young man who stood before him now. He explained how his Maori training in listening, watching, stealthy movement and battle tactics had made Ben a world class rugby player. It seemed that the coaches for Wellington and the All Blacks had simply benefitted from the finished product sent to them by Ihaka.

  Ben took the old man’s hand. The flesh hung loose over brittle bones and visible veins.

  “I will honour the old ways and venerate the animals. I will tread lightly and leave no footprint on this delicate land,” he promised the old man, repeating and paraphrasing, in English, the old Maori pledge of manhood.

  The old man smiled and reached over to a small leather bag on the table beside him. Ben knew very well what the bag contained. It held Ihaka Nga Hiwi’s most treasured possession, perhaps the most treasured possession of any Maori warrior, his greenstone Mere or Patu. Made from highly prized nephrite, the simple unthreatening looking weapon could cut through bone better than the finest steel. Ben knew very well the damage and devastation the weapon could cause to animals; he had been trained in its use since childhood. Just a month earlier, Ben saw the short striking Patu being tested on the History Channel, where men, who were still secretly boys, tried to find out who would win if a Maori fought a Roman. The results were surprising. The Patu excelled in every test, beating some of the most advanced steel weaponry available. Ihaka held his treasured Patu in front of him, the weapon nestling in his two uplifted palms.

  “Hehu, this is for you. Keep it with you always. Your destiny is to fight and so this must be your constant companion.”

  Ihaka had used Ben’s adopted Maori name ‘Hehu’, which means saved by God. He had been given that name on his arrival at the ranch because the Maori ranch hands all believed that Ben had been saved by God from a terrible life in a dirty city called London. When Ben looked around at the landscape that surrounded them, he had known immediately what they meant.

  “I will take the Patu, grandfather.” Ben knew that it was both pointless and insulting to refuse the gift. He placed his right fist over his heart and then placed it over the heart of the old man. “My heart is your heart; your family is my family.”

  The old man was tiring quickly and so Ben took his gift and returned to the ranch house, where the dining table was groaning under the weight of sweet smelling meats and pulses of every kind. The buffet was a mix of traditional food and western food, all prepared by the housekeeper, Mrs Himbaka, who only ever answered to the name Nanni.

  ***

  Later, with most of his farewells out of the way, his three Maori brothers, Hirini Matiu and Tane, crushed him in their meaty arms before they departed. Ben Fogarty was almost six feet four, toned like an athlete and around sixteen stones in weight, and yet his Maori brothers could have crushed him to dust, such was the power of their grip, such was their heritage as warriors. Pushing his floppy dark hair out of his eyes, he realised he needed a haircut. His unruly locks were now a step beyond fashionably long. Alone with his adopted son, the older man examined the young traveller. None of his Irish heritage showed through in either his swarthy complexion or his steel blue eyes; Patrick concluded that he was crafted more by his geography than his genes.

  “This is the complete portfolio on your background,” his adoptive father said, handing Ben a thick folder. “Everything you need to know is in there - reports, records, document scans, photos, everything Vastrick have produced for me over the years. But be prepared; it makes uncomfortable reading.”

  Ben took the file and placed the accompanying USB drive in his pocket. He looked at the tough but gentle man who had been his father for twenty years; Patrick Vernon Fogarty, second generation New Zealander, rancher and politician, beloved of all who knew him. Widowed at thirty when his Maori wife died in childbirth, Patrick had done everything he could to rescue Ben from his torrid existence in England. The MP was actually Siobhan Fogarty’s cousin, and so Ben was, in biological terms, his first cousin once removed, but in every sense that mattered he was his father. To everyone that knew them, and even to the rugby following public, Ben was Patrick’s son and heir. Not that Patrick was thinking of passing on any time soon, but now, in his mid fifties, he did not relish being apart from the boy who meant so much to him, the boy who was his life.

  “Ben, go and do what you have to do. Don’t hesitate to ask for help, but come back to us safe and sound. OK?”

  “OK, Dad,” Ben replied as he teared up, berating himself for his weak sentimentality. Damn it all, he had been an international rugby player.

  ***

  Ben waved to the gathered crowd as he drove the pick-up truck out of the gates and off towards Wellington, where tomorrow morning he was due to fly out to England. Leaving behind him the lush but frost covered landscape he pressed on, knowing what he must do and hoping that he had the strength of character to do it.

  Chapter 5

  Virgin Atlantic Airbus, 42,000 feet above China.

  Friday 12th August 2011; Noon.

  The four-hour flight from Wellington to Sydney had taken off at 6:40am and arrived in Australia at 8:40 am local time. There had then been an interminable wait until three in the afternoon before the Airbus was ready for boarding. Ben had used the time wisely and had studied the portfolio in depth, using Wikipedia and the web to fill in any gaps in his knowledge.


  In the transit lounge he had taken a virtual walk up Tottenham High Street and onto the housing estate that he had once called home, using Google maps. According to the government website, the area had benefitted from hundreds of millions of pounds’ worth of government investment in the eighties and nineties and, to Ben’s eyes, it still looked reasonable - on a sunny day.

  Now, relaxing at the bar in Upper Class, Ben decided to read another page or two before he retired to the lie flat seat that would be his bed between here and London. He turned and smiled at the stewardess who was laying out a sheet, blanket and pillow for him. Ben picked up the file and, having read the investigator’s summary of the circumstances surrounding his birth, he read the part of the report covering the period up to the worst day of his life, that terrible day in June 1991.

  “It appears that even after the birth Dennis Grierson would not loosen his grip on Siobhan Fogarty. Showing no interest in his child, or in contributing to his upbringing, Grierson regularly called on his young girlfriend and abused her both physically and sexually. By 1991, when she was just twenty five years old, Siobhan had been in and out of hospital over fifty times with drug or violence related illnesses.

  There was some respite in the years between 1986 and 1989 when Dennis Grierson was jailed for his part in the riots on 6th October 1985. By then Morris Gibson had been ousted as Kingpin on ‘The Farm’ and Dennis Grierson had taken over the manor after a violent and bloody feud that the police chose to ignore. On his return to ‘The Farm’ in 1990 he had lost his little fiefdom and he was only able to regain control of Trafalgar House and its immediate surroundings, and he had to share that with one of the new black gangs that had sprung up in the area called ‘The Ganga Army’, who themselves were overtaken ten years later by the TH Crew.

  With just a handful of working girls and even fewer drug deals, the Grierson gang turned to organised burglary to raise funds, using young kids from the flats to do the jobs. He also reacquainted himself with Siobhan who had been clean for three years and who had given up smoking and drinking to devote her efforts to her young son. Dennis wasn’t happy about her working as an invoice clerk with London Transport or about her reluctance to see him. During his incarceration his wife had left him and had their daughter adopted.

  My informant tells me she was living in Sheffield as far he knew and having never been north of Watford Grierson didn’t bother seeking her out for punishment. In an intimate conversation with his cell-mate in prison he said that his main complaint was that his daughter would soon be at an age where she would become more entertaining. His cellmate took this to mean Dennis Grierson had long planned to abuse his own daughter when she reached the age of twelve or so.

  After one violent and drunken attack on Siobhan he waited for a couple of days and went around to ‘set things straight’. My informant thinks that would have been a sort of apology. It seems in his perverted way he loved Siobhan.

  As we know from the records May, Roy and Siobhan Fogarty had gone by the time Grierson made the effort to walk up one floor and apologise. May and Roy moved back to Liverpool and Siobhan took young Ambrose Bejamin Fogarty with her to her new flat in Wilds Rents, Southwark. The council, Siobhan’s new employers, the social services and police had worked together in a case conference to plan the move and to keep the young boy away from Grierson.

  Siobhan was dating Daniel Wingrave, an architect, and Ambrose began attending a new school. Both were using the surname Pendleton. On 4th June 1991, just two months after their move, Siobhan was leaving her office when a stolen car mounted the pavement and ran her down. The police believe that Grierson was at the wheel.

  My enquiries in 2001 revealed that Grierson had a contact in London Transport who helped him track Siobhan to her new place of work. The man was found and dismissed but no charges were brought. His name is Trevor Pannell and he now works for a property developer in the London area.”

  Ben set the file down on the bar and finished his drink. He sat and thought as his bed was prepared.

  Those two months had been the happiest of his life; he was attending a new primary school and preparing for life at high school in the autumn. His mum was a changed woman. She laughed a lot, dressed beautifully and when she was made up for an evening out she was spectacular. Daniel Wingrave was about his mother’s age and he adored her. He also had plenty of time for the young Ben, who accompanied him to some of London’s most historic buildings on days out in the city.

  It was Friday, it was sunny and he had just arrived home from school. He was excited because they were going to the West End to see a musical, and if he asked nicely they would take him to Pizza Hut afterwards for a late supper. The tap at the door was the first signal that something was wrong. A policewoman with a kindly face asked him to get his coat and anything he needed for an overnight stay away from home. Ben suspected the worst, and had to hold back the tears.

  An hour later, at the hospital, Daniel Wingrave took Ben’s hand and led him to a room that was like a cross between a hospital room and a chapel. His mother lay on the bed. A sheet covered her as far as her chin. Her face was a little bruised and grazed, but there was nothing that looked serious. Ben looked at her and instantly knew she was dead. Her body was there, but she wasn’t.

  Ben never returned to either the flat or the school. Daniel took him by train to Liverpool, where his Gran met them at the station. Surrounded by strange accents and a strange city, Ben felt vulnerable. More than vulnerable. Lost.

  The next month was a whirlwind of confusion. People from the Social Services came and went, the police came and promised they would get Dennis Grierson and pleaded with Gran not to take matters into her own hands. Then, suddenly, Daniel Wingrove was gone after a tearful hug, and Ben was packing new clothes ready to fly to his new home in New Zealand.

  May Fogarty had been devastated when the authorities explained that Ben was not safe in the UK and that the New Zealand option would most likely be given approval, considering the status of the adopting father. She told Ben to make himself a good life and remember his mother, and with that he was taken away, crying and confused. What had he done that was so wrong? So wrong he had to be sent to New Zealand. Wasn’t that what they did with criminals in the olden days? How was a small boy supposed to understand any of it?

  ***

  Ben slipped into lie flat bed and closed his eyes. The flight still had more than ten hours to go before landing in London and he knew that he would not sleep a wink, even though he was very tired. He had already been awake for almost twenty-four hours. He rested his head on the pillow and, despite his reservations, fell into a sound sleep.

  Chapter 6

  New Scotland Yard, London, UK.

  Saturday 13th August 2011; 9am.

  Detective Sergeant Scott leaned back in his chair and stretched his limbs, trying to stay alert and focussed. He was bone weary. Since the riots had kicked off a week ago he had worked six shifts of twenty hours. Last night he had been in court until midnight, accompanying sobbing teens and their disbelieving mothers into the family room, a bare reception room with fixed seating where parents could say goodbye to their kids before they were carted off to a cell somewhere in London for who knew how long.

  By the end of his shift the reporters had begun to annoy him, pressing their cameras and microphones into the faces of grinning looters as if they were celebrities, and asking banal questions; “How do you feel about the damage you caused?” “Did you realise people could have been killed?” “What sentence do you think you will get?”

  Daryl Trasker, dressed in the white fatigues given to him forty-eight hours earlier when his own clothes were confiscated by Forensics, was the last defendant of DS Scott’s shift. A regular in the magistrates’ courts, Daryl had been remanded on Sunday night for sentencing in the Crown Court. Either his lawyer had been too busy to tell him, or he was too stupid to understand -either one was possible - but Daryl had not been sent to the Crown Court to be let off lightl
y again. The clever ones, the middle class student rioters, had twigged early on that if the magistrate could send you to jail for six months and he still referred you to the Crown Court for sentencing, you were likely to get a year or more.

  With the bravado of the ignorant, Daryl confidently speculated that “The prisons are full, man, I’m only just eighteen, I’ll get an ASBO. I can handle that, man.” The cameras greedily sucked in his arrogance for tomorrow morning’s news bulletins, as his mother advised him to be respectful. Angered at her intervention, Daryl turned to the woman who bore him and uttered a string of expletives which, when translated, told her to shut up. DS Scott accidentally punched Daryl in the kidneys.

  An hour later a shocked Daryl, white as a sheet and crying for his mother to do something, was being guided towards the prison van that would deliver him to an adult prison, where he would spend a minimum of two years.

  DS Fellowes, on loan from the City of London Police, tapped his old friend on the shoulder.

  “There’s a celebrity in the house. He’s waiting downstairs in room 1.111. Are you coming, or are you topping up your beauty sleep?”

  “Give it a rest, mate, I only had six hours’ kip,” Scott replied, standing up anyway.