BEING A CRIMINAL is one of the only jobs that requires no interview, references, training or education. You simply go out and steal a car, mug someone, break into a house or hold up a bank and you’ve got the job.

It’s the ultimate equal opportunities employer, and for this reason a popular option for many people who are blocked from more socially-acceptable vocations.

The price of the low entry requirements into the career ladder of crime is that once you’ve taken the job you are stuck with it for life. From the minute you commit your first crime you are set apart from society and will never be able to return. There is no resignation clause or retirement option.

In Micky Finn’s case it was a career he was born into. For the Finn’s were London’s most notorious Irish crime family and criminality was a family business for more than three generations.

Having left Ireland to escape the troubles, the Finn family quickly found a whole new war to fight on the streets of London. In 1917 the British regarded the Irish as little more than serfs and it was common to see signs on boarding houses that read
No Blacks, No Jews, No Irish
.

The slum housing of Camden became a ghetto for immigrant Irish families forced to live in squalid conditions by profiteering landlords.

Despite being a time served tradesman, old Grandpa Finn couldn’t get work, and quickly found out in a society that ostracised him by virtue of his nationality it was simpler just to help himself, the Finn crime family came into existence and their bloody and brutal reign over organised crime in North London began.

Seamus ‘Sharky’ Finn was the eldest of the latest generation of the Finn firm preceding his four brothers, Billy, Danny and finally Micky. Born in the sixties, at the height of the London gang wars, Sharky got an early apprenticeship into the family business, but London was changing. As multiculturalism took firm hold and criminals of all nationalities descended on the capital, the Finn’s power base began to wane.

During his father’s tenure as head of the firm, the Finn’s were one of a handful of large crime families that ruled London by postcode. From the Sullivan’s to the Kray’s, London’s map was divided by areas of influence ruling the traditional vices of gambling, drinking, protection, prostitution and the Finn family favourite - armed robbery.

Times were quickly changing and the emergence of the drugs trade as the most profitable of criminal enterprises, the organised theft of high value cars to export markets in the Middle East and Sub-Saharan Africa, electronic fraud and the huge increase of sex-trafficked women into the brothels and strip bars favoured foreign gangs with wide ranging connections.

As the Metropolitan Police was cleaned up, so too were the long standing protection agreements for the biggest, most notorious, families, and entire generations found themselves serving long stretches at her Majesty’s hotel chain.

Sharky, having been schooled in a more old-fashioned apprenticeship of crime, was ill-equipped to deal with these new more violent gangs who didn’t rule by mutual agreement but had ambitions all over the capital.

It was left to Micky, youngest of the Finn family, to adapt the Finn’s business model and as the youngest, most violent, and least morally-adjusted, member of the family it was something he excelled at. Under Micky’s stewardship the Finn’s quickly became a feared entity once more and without the boundary agreements of the old firms Micky committed crime across the capital with impunity.

When he was finally charged with Murder, and faced a life sentence behind bars, Micky asked for another 2,561 offences to be taken into account. Having spent 34 years on the planet by the time he was finally killed, Micky had set a record that would remain unbeaten in the London underworld.

This is the story of Micky Finn, and like most Irish stories it started with a family feud.

CAMDEN TOWN. 1989.

SEAMUS WAS A quiet man, but appearances can often be deceptive.

Underneath his calm, reflective, exterior, Seamus was still one of the most violent and dangerous criminals in London. Most residents of Camden avoided him. If he knocked on your door it meant you probably owed the Finn family money or had upset one of their many business interests.

Seamus gained the nickname ‘Sharky’ from his early role enforcing the firm’s loan book. Sharky was the sort of loan shark that gave money lenders a bad name; at least until the City of London showed how to extract more money without menaces using nothing more than a suit and a fancy office, and the familie’s principal income stream of unsecured credit was taken over by the cheap and easily available credit on the high street.

Being ever adaptable, the Finn family decided to return to their more historical pastime of robbing banks and armoured cars.

The influx of immigrants to London had however brought a new generation of criminals looking to make a names for themselves, and so it was on the afternoon of May the first, a Bank Holiday, when even bank robbers took a day off, at the Swan on Camden High Street, Sharky’s enjoyment of a pint of Murphy’s whilst studying the Racing Post was rudely interrupted by a young Turk by the name of Ishmael Ozbek.

“I know who you are,” Ishmael said to Sharky.

Sharky turned the page and didn’t look up. “That’s nice for you Son,” he replied dryly.

“I want to talk to you.”

“Well I don’t want to talk to you. So be a good boy and fuck off,” replied Sharky.

“I’ve got some business for you.”

“It’s a Bank Holiday. A day off. I suggest you go home, watch a Bond Film on your TV and make an appointment during business hours.”

Ishmael shrugged his shoulders. “I don’t care about no bank holiday.”

“Well your sort never does, do you? Work on Sundays as well I expect.”

“What do you mean
my sort
?”

“Kebab shop owners. I know you. I know your dad. Owns the Kebab Express down Chalk Farm way.”

“Yeah. What about it?”

“Well you’re in Camden Son. Not Chalk Farm. I suggest you get on one of those little red buses and fuck off back there. Go slice some pittas for your dad. There’s a good boy.”

Sharky flicked the page of his newspaper angrily.

“I’ve got a message for you,” Ishmael replied.

“And what would that be?”

Ishmael produced a knife and lunged at Sharky. Quick as a flash Sharky grabbed his arm and pulled it, sinking the knife into the leather buttoned banquette seating. He elbowed Ishmael in the face then pushed him to the floor, produced his pistol and put it to Ishmael’s head.

“Have you got a fucking death wish?” Sharky asked him. “who sent you?”

“Nobody. I work for me.”

“Well you should have stayed in your kebab shop.”

Sharky grabbed Ishmael by the hair and dragged him screaming outside to the side street alongside the pub. He put his gun away and started kicking him as passers by did their best to ignore the altercation. When he had finished, Ishmael was a bloody mess on the pavement and not moving.

Sharky drew a deep breath and straightened his hair and suit. “I was enjoying that pint,” he said, and wiped his nose with his hand before he took out his pistol, cocked it, and fired three shots into Ishmael. “Bloody Turks.” he said scowling. He looked around at all the witnesses staring at him, put his gun away calmly and walked away.

SHARKY WASHED HIS hands under the cold tap, removing the blood and trying to reduce the bruising when Caitlin, his mother, walked in.

“You been fighting again Seamus? Can’t you even give it a rest, it’s a Bank Holiday.”

“Kids Ma. Can’t even go to enjoy a quiet pint and read the paper down the boozer these days without some Turk trying to make a name for himself.”

“You could just walk away Seamus. Turn the other cheek.”

“Then where we would be? Someone’s got to keep control of the place.”

“That’s the job of the police Seamus. You shouldn’t get involved.”

“You didn’t complain when we took care of old lady Rourke’s muggers.”

“That’s different Seamus. Going round attacking old ladies, those boys needed to be taught some manners.”

“Yes Ma,” Sharky said, drying his hands on the tea towel.

“Not on my best linen Seamus. I’ve got to dry the dishes with that! I don’t want your filthy blood and germs all over it!” she said as she passed him a towel. “Here, use this.”

Seamus took it and dried his hands. “Where’s Micky and the boys?”

“Off out causing trouble no doubt. You boys will put me in a early grave to be sure. Left alone to bring up four boys on my own. You’re all as bad as your father.”

“Danny is a good kid.”

“Thank the lord for that. I spent enough time praying that at least one out of the four of you would do some good with your life.”

Sharky shook his head and took out a can of Guinness from the fridge. Caitlin took it off him.

“I think you’ve had quite enough of that for one day Seamus Finn. I’ll make us a nice pot of tea.”

Seamus sighed and went and sat in the living room of the Finns family house on Camden Square, thankful there was at least once place he could read his paper in peace without distraction, other than from his mother.

MICKY, DANNY, AND, Billy were sat in their usual haunt next to Camden Lock. Watching with boredom as the crowd of Bank Holiday tourists, artists and local riff raff of the cosmopolitan Camden High Street enjoyed the Bank Holiday sunshine. Despite Sharky’s demands he stop doing so, Micky was supplementing his income selling Cannabis, Coke and Ecstasy to the Bohemian passers by.

Having concluded a deal with a pair of tourists, he returned to his brothers, counting out the wrap of 20 pound notes with a satisfied smile, having extracted a healthy premium mark-up from the inexperienced drug buyers.

“I love Bank Holidays. Great for business,” Micky said with his usual laconic Irish tones.

Unlike his brothers, whom most people regarded as ‘Plastic Paddies’, due to their London Irish heritage, Micky had been brought up by his aunt in Cork, having burned half the primary school to the ground when he was 7 years old he was quickly dispatched to Ireland to avoid a spell in care or Borstal.

Billy spotted a rival dealer on the corner of the street. He nudged Micky. “Someone’s trying to invade your turf.”

“Go and get rid of them,” Micky replied.

“What the fuck am I? the hired help?” Micky’s elder brother, Billy responded with annoyance.

“Teamwork,” replied Micky. “Danny here looks after the money, I do the sales, you do the security. Then if one of us gets pinched we don’t lose our day’s profits,” he said. “Just get on with it, I’ll buy you an hour with that prostitute down in Kings Cross after tea. Go on with you. Soft lad.”

Billy put down his hot dog and reluctantly walked over to the dealer. Micky watched the scene then handed the money to Danny who put it in his pocket.

Micky frowned at him. “Who’s pissed in your pool then Danny Boy?”

“Nobody.”

“Well you look like someone has.” He shook his head. “You know Danny boy, this love business is not what it’s cracked up to be. Ever since you got a sniff of that girl’s skirt you’ve been maudlin. You really should just get on with it and give her a jump. You’ll feel better for it.”

“She’s fifteen Micky. And Catholic.”

“So?” said Micky shrugging his shoulders. “I got a blowjob off a nun when I was thirteen back In Cork. She’s probably gagging for it. Be a man. Give her a taste of your cock.”

The altercation got out of hand with the dealer, Billy head-butted him then three of the dealer’s friends rushed to his aid and started squaring up with Billy.

“Here we go,” said Danny.

“Fuckers. Come on then,” said Micky.

Danny got up and walked over with Micky.

“Is there a problem there lads?” Micky asked the group.

The group looked at Micky.

“Your Mate fucked with my Boy, ” said the gang’s leader.

“So?” said Micky not caring. “Take him home and get him counselling,” he added.

“You all think you are comedians, you Micks innit.”

BOOK: Micky Finn: The Evildoer 1: A Sexy Times Crime Romance Thriller (The London Irish)

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