by Max Schaefer
‘Ryan. Yeah.’ He hugs his stomach against the rain. He feels suddenly, prodigiously embarrassed, as if it is he who is a freak. ‘You all right mate.’
‘I’ve not been well Tony.’ Ryan smiles again, the awkward rupture repeating. ‘Never guess though would you?’
‘Yeah sorry to hear that.’ Moisture gathers in a drip under Tony’s nose. He scans the road to see if anyone is coming. A businessman regards them in passing but does not stop.
‘But I’ve got such lovely mates, looking after me.’ Ryan smiles up at his companion. ‘Can’t complain too much, can I? This is my friend Andy,’ he tells Tony. ‘This is Tony. From the old days.’
‘All right,’ nods Tony.
Andy puts a hand on Ryan’s shoulder. ‘It’s wet,’ he says. ‘We should get you inside.’ He stands before Ryan and extends his arms. Ryan leans forward and Andy grasps him under the shoulders, hauling him into a clumsy, close embrace. Ryan makes little noises and his legs quiver. Andy puts his right arm around him and holds the left out low like a bar on which Ryan leans. The arrangement looks precarious, misconceived.
‘OK?’ says Andy.
Ryan nods, panting. He asks Tony, ‘Could you get the door for us?’
Tony blinks. He looks around him, thrown, before thinking to ring the bell; then frowns at the camera mounted above, which examines him in silence. He imagines its view, the rickety clutch of men over his shoulder. There is a beat, ten seconds, twenty, then a buzz.
Holding the door, watching the effort of their advance, Tony feels the massive loom of the staircase at his left. The wheelchair stands abandoned on the pavement, rain pooling on its seat. It looks like bad poster art.
The men seem to swell into the doorway. Tony presses back against the wall but still they brush him, breathing heavily. Andy’s elbow nudges his stomach. Andy looks everywhere but at Tony.
From the foot of the stairs Ryan says, ‘Would you do us a favour Tony?’ His voice is wobbly with exertion. ‘Would you bring the chair up?’
Andy says quietly, ‘I’ll do it.’
‘Tony won’t mind, will you Tony? He’s going upstairs anyway.’
Tony says, ‘It’s all right.’
‘It folds up,’ Andy tells him. ‘If you look in the middle of the front bar there’s a catch.’ As Tony goes out he calls, ‘It’s very kind of you. Thanks.’
The door swings shut behind him. He squats in the street before the wheelchair, examining its front. Blebs of water cling to the metal, from which his fingers gather smeared dirt. He pokes and fiddles but nothing seems to give. The rain patters his scalp. Eventually he gives up and pulls the chair behind him as it is. He rings the bell again and stares at the camera as if daring it to ask why he’s still outside.
He shoves the door with his shoulder and drags the chair backwards over the sill. Andy and Ryan are only halfway up the first half-flight of stairs. Andy watches him. He seems to wonder whether to repeat the information about the catch and decide to leave it.
When they have rounded the corner Tony hauls up the chair. It is just narrow enough to fit. It bashes banisters, scrapes the wall.
He waits on the landing until they reach the top. When he follows them up, the chair keeps catching. His armpits are wet.
Andy lowers Ryan, panting and sweating, back on to his seat. ‘It’s not worth all that effort this place,’ Tony tells Ryan.
‘I’m not that bad Tony. Looked harder than it was probably.’ His breath heaves, then settles. ‘You look well though. Strong and that.’
‘Getting a beer gut.’ He pats himself.
‘It’s good, a bit of fat. Means you’re healthy.’
‘Yeah well.’
Ryan says, ‘You go on first Tony. I need to clean up a bit anyway. Wouldn’t help your pulling power, going in with me.’
They look at each other. Tony says, ‘Yeah. All right then. Cheers. I’m …’ He searches for a formula. ‘I’m sorry you’ve been sick and all that.’ At the door he turns. ’Ryan mate. Do you know if Dennis … Do you see him ever?’
‘I haven’t seen Dennis for years Tony.’
‘Yeah thanks.’
‘He was doing well last time I saw him. And I haven’t heard anything, on the grapevine. I imagine I would have, if … I bet you he’s right as rain wherever he is. You know Dennis. He’s probably met his Prince Charming and lives in a palace in France knowing him.’
‘Yeah,’ says Tony. ‘Probably. You take care of yourself eh? Cheers Andy.’
Andy catches his eye and looks quickly away. ‘Thank you,’ he says, with a careful lack of inflection, ‘for your help with the chair.’
Inside the club it is still fairly quiet. One or two people have been drinking since lunchtime. Tony greets some skins he knows and gets a round in quickly so he can be talking to them when Ryan enters. He tries not to watch when it happens but can’t help shooting the odd glance. One of his mates looks too and mutters, ‘Jesus Christ.’ Neither Ryan nor Andy tries to acknowledge Tony. The barman seems to know Ryan, who chats to him happily.
At a table by a window is a boy who can’t be more than twenty. He looks like a student on a night out: jeans, white shirt, floppy blond hair. He is talking to his friend, an older cardiganed queen, but keeps looking in Tony’s direction. The fourth time, Tony meets his gaze and the boy looks quickly away. He says something to his friend, clutching his hand across the table, and laughs.
‘He was eyeing me up earlier,’ says one of the other skins. ‘Lost interest when you come in. Fucker.’
‘Jailbait anyway,’ says Tony, ‘isn’t he,’ but he keeps an eye on the boy.
By nine the bar is filling with the pre-Heaven crowd and Tony has had a few drinks. When the boy next goes to the bar Tony follows him. The old queen watches anxiously.
Tony stands next to the boy, who is slurring his order — more drunk than he looked, Tony thinks — and stares at him, waiting. ‘Hello!’ the boy says when the penny drops, and then ‘Oops — thank you,’ to the barman. While he waits for change he leans into Tony’s jacket, eyeing the patches myopically. ‘Skroo-drai-vaa,’ he says. ‘You’re not really into that stuff?’
Oh well, thinks Tony. Worth a try anyway.
‘Yeah,’ he says. ‘I am. So why not piss off before I kick your head in.’ He turns to face the bar. The boy takes his drinks away in silence, but a few minutes later Tony sees him looking again.
Some time after ten, Ryan and Andy start to leave. They clear a path slowly through the now crowded room. As they approach the door it opens, and Nicky Crane walks in.
He still has it, that presence or whatever that makes people stare. If Tony hadn’t been watching Ryan he’d still have looked up, at the drop in volume. Nicky enters the room, Tony catches himself thinking, like an Olympic diver into water: hard and smooth, raising waves from the quick displacement. Sometimes you forget, and then you see him like this— Nicky, seemingly oblivious to the crowd’s involuntary tribute, is talking over his shoulder and nearly walks into Ryan’s wheelchair.
They stop within inches of each other. Nicky stares down at Ryan for a beat, and then at Andy, before stepping slowly, parodically, aside. The guy Nicky was talking to, who Tony now sees is of course Glenn, mimics this in the doorway, and as Andy pushes Ryan out, as fast as he can without looking cowed, Nicky says loudly: ‘These fucking spastics should have all been in the camps.’
One of Tony’s mates chuckles. ‘Way to make an entrance isn’t it.’
Nicky and Glenn drink their pints by the pool table, silently encouraging the conclusion of the game in progress. Glenn spots Tony looking, and nods to him across the room, so Tony has to say hello.
‘How are you doing,’ he asks Glenn, ‘OK?’; and adds to Nicky, ‘All right mate?’ in a tone that signals no conversation is expected, or perhaps desired. Nicky smiles and Glenn says,
‘Yeah good Tony thanks.’
‘Been up to much?’
‘Same old stuff. You know. How about you?’
‘Not bad.’
‘Yeah well. Good.’ Nobody says anything for a long moment. Then Tony says, ‘Anyway, I should …’ and gestures.
‘You going to Heaven later?’
‘In a bit. You?’
‘No I’m just in for a drink. Well. Have a good evening. Cheers.’ He walks straight to the boy’s table. The boy and his queen friend both look up at him. Tony tells the boy, ‘I’m going for a piss and then I’m going home. If you want to come ’ be ready when I’m back.’
Entering the toilets Tony has the extraordinary conviction that Nicky will come in after him. He can almost hear the loud bang of the door, and even the idea of trying to piss while Nicky stands alongside watching, casually loosing several pints of beer, blocks him up for a long, anxious moment. In his mind’s eye Nicky notices and winks at him.
When he returns to the bar the boy and queen are whispering. The boy makes a face at the queen, who stands up. He is shorter than Tony, but looks him in the eye. ‘I’ll remember you,’ he says. His voice wobbles. ‘I’ll be able to describe you exactly. So don’t …’ He trails off and tries to imply his demand with a teary look.
Tony says, ‘Yeah calm down you old fairy. He’ll be all right.’
He nods to the guys he was drinking with, then looks at the boy, who stands up shakily. He follows Tony down the stairs in silence and stays half a step behind him on the walk to Charing Cross. In the station Tony says, ‘Do you need a ticket?’
‘Yes.’
He nods at the counter. ‘Woolwich Dockyard. Quick as you can.’
As they walk down the platform, he says quietly, ‘I ain’t going to shit on you or nothing if that’s what you’re looking for.’
‘No. God, no, I’m not into anything like that.’
‘Good because nor am I.’
‘That’s a relief.’ The boy smiles, the first time since they spoke at the bar. ‘Although I wasn’t really worried about it, you know, as a possibility. I mean until you mentioned it.’
‘Well,’ says Tony, reaching for the door, ‘it’s funny what some people expect, do you know what I mean?’
‘Oh, I know. Some people can be right wallies.’
When Tony opens the train door six young blacks look baldly back at him. ‘Maybe not this one,’ he tells the boy. The carriages are divided crosswise into separate compartments. Each has doors on its sides to reach the platforms, but there is no connection internally. The next compartment’s only occupant, a middle-aged woman in office clothes, looks nervously at Tony but stays seated.
‘You a student?’ Tony asks the boy as the train pulls out. ‘Second year. I’m at UCL.’
‘Illegal then.’
‘Technically.’ The boy smiles again and blushes. The woman stares determinedly through her window.
‘Does that queer always pimp for you like that?’
‘No, he just … he likes to look after me.’
‘Got bollocks hasn’t she.’
‘Oh, he’s great, Ed. He’s my best friend.’
They lapse into silence. The train fills up further at Waterloo East, then rolls out among the roofs of Southwark. The boy stares self-consciously out. The woman keeps glancing at Tony — his boots, jacket, scalp, but never his eyes — and quickly away again.
When they arrive at London Bridge, there are jeers and yells from down the platform. The carriage door is opened by an Asian man looking nervously in the direction of the noise: he turns, sees Tony, and walks on. Hearing the gang approach, the boy is visibly anxious. Their chant of ‘Hitler was a skinhead’ — in which Tony recognizes at least one voice — becomes a chaos of abuse when its authors discover the blacks next door. But the yells abate, and it must be the skins who backed off, because Steve is now climbing through the doorway. ‘Oi oi,’ Steve says as he spots Tony, ‘look what’s behind the square window,’ and Tony manages to smile. Four more skins follow. They drink beer from cans and loudly establish their domain. The woman, and the boy next to Tony, both stare at their feet.
Steve stands over Tony with his group around. ‘All right Tony,’ he says, ‘been a while,’ and they all shake hands. Tony does not look to his right, where the boy is sitting: it is as if he has engaged a catch that prevents the rotation of his gaze beyond a point just past straight ahead. Of the ten seats in the compartment only three were occupied when Steve came in; it must be obvious that Tony was not beside the boy accidentally. ‘You been out then?’ asks Steve.
‘Yeah I had a few drinks.’
‘Where did you go?’
Tony thinks. ‘The uh—’ What the fuck is there near Charing Cross? Near Waterloo? ‘The you know the Princess Louise.’
‘What up on Holborn?’
‘That’s it.’
‘It’s all right that boozer. Who was there?’
‘Oh some of the lads. How about you? What have you been up to?’
‘We bought a few cans. Been for a wander.’ He looks at his watch, a Rolex or a copy of one. ‘Left early didn’t you?’
‘Knackered mate. Getting old.’
‘Yeah well,’ says Steve, in the tone of someone setting up a joke, ‘you want to watch it when you’re tired. You let your guard down.’
‘How do you mean?’
‘Sat next to a fucking Aids carrier aren’t you mate.’
The boy is staring terrified at the floor. Steve says, ‘You’re in my seat you queer bastard,’ and prods him with his boot. Without looking up, the boy stands. He opens the door while they are still pulling in to Deptford. One of the skins shoves him as he descends and the boy stumbles on to the platform.
Steve stretches his legs in the vacated seat. ‘You want to watch yourself Tony. You don’t notice these things.’
Abruptly, the woman stands. ‘Excuse me,’ she mumbles, and Steve winks at her and pulls his legs in very slowly. She gets off as the train begins to move.
‘You’re too innocent,’ Steve tells Tony. ‘That’s your trouble.’ Tony wonders if all this has been Steve playing a game with him. The gentleness with which Steve nudged the boy’s leg troubles him. He says, ‘Good thing you’re keeping an eye on me.’
‘I’m a dad now aren’t I so I’m always on the look-out. I don’t want some pervert coming up my little boy’s arse.’ And he winks.
‘Don’t see as much of you these days do we Tony,’ he says.
‘Well I haven’t gone anywhere mate.’
‘Don’t suppose you have.’
There’s not much to say to that. Two of the skins mutter, laugh. Tony is here as long as they want him.
‘I thought,’ says Steve eventually, ‘you might have joined the Front. Like Dave and them lot.’
‘Too much like hard work isn’t it. Anyway I thought you had. What about Skrewdriver Security and that?
‘Plenty of hours in the day mate.’
They pass Greenwich. Four stops left.
Steve says more quietly, ‘You heard anything about these Italians?’
‘What do you mean?’
‘You know with the Front. I heard they were running training sessions. Paramilitary stuff. Sounded interesting.’
‘No one tells me that shit. You’d hear about it first.’
‘Dave hasn’t said nothing then.’
‘Haven’t seen him for a while as it happens.’
‘Yeah.’
Steve is being fucking strange. Tony wants to get out but Maze Hill comes and goes and he is still stuck in the skins’ improvised airlock.
Steve says, ‘So you’re officially unaffiliated.’
‘Free agent you might say.’
‘Yeah well.’ Steve considers the ceiling. ‘Listen. There’s a few of us never left the BM in the first place, do you know what I mean? Just because that Scouser pillock of a milkman wanted out.
‘We kept it quiet for a bit, had to sort a few things. But we’re growing now. Slowly. Telling some of the old members as and when. Blokes with experience. Do a bit of business on the side, if y
ou follow me.
‘There’s some good stuff on the burner. Country sports you know? Gun clubs. Got some lads in the TA and all. Defence begins at home so they say.’
‘You’ve been busy.’
‘Just help out where I can mate. Anyway what I’m trying to say, I could mention your name if you’re interested.’
Westcombe Park has come and gone. If Tony doesn’t leave at the next stop they will be getting off together. ‘Sounds interesting,’ he says. ‘Definitely. But tell me more next time, I’m getting off in a minute.’
‘Isn’t Dockyard better for you?’ says Steve. He leans in confidentially. ‘Thing is mate that pack of niggers in the next compartment — you must have heard our little set-to at London Bridge. Well they haven’t got off yet. They won’t have a go as long as we’re together and if they do we’ll have them, but if they spot you jumping off alone they might fancy their chances. Not that you couldn’t take six jungle bunnies single-handed or nothing.’
Tony grimaces: ‘Fair point.’ Steve is right: it would be asking for trouble.
But as they roll into Charlton Steve pats his knee. ‘No,’ he says, standing up, ‘you get off where you want to mate. We’ll keep them entertained. What you want to do,’ he tells Tony as the train stops, ‘is come round Kings Cross some time. The Ferndale Hotel in Argyle Square. You must have heard of it. I’m usually there on a Sunday. There’s people you should get to know.’ They are on the platform now. Steve marches straight to the blacks’ compartment. ‘Get yourself some kip,’ he tells Tony, then throws open the door and declaims, ‘Bloke walks into a pub with a crocodile, goes up to the bar and says, “Do you serve niggers in here?”’
To the blacks’ almost dutiful sounds of outrage, Steve climbs inside with his mates following.
‘Governor goes, “Course we do, we’re not racist.’’ So the bloke says, “I’ll have a pint of lager and a nigger for the crocodile.”’
Closing the door behind him, the last skin gives Tony a flat look through the window that could signify either brotherhood or contempt. As the train pulls away Tony hears the blacks shouting, Steve’s burlesque surprise, the overture to a proper fight.
