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

Chapter Sixty

Josephine lay in the hospital bed, tired and sore, but also elated. She watched her little daughter as she slept in the Perspex crib beside her bed, fascinated by each breath and each snuffle. She was still worried that this was all a dream, and she would wake up in her own bed, covered in sweat and silently crying into her pillow.