Stone Cold

by Taylor, Peter

  He rose late, made himself tea and toast and decided to wander down to the local Spar, buy himself a few treats he’d missed. A fat cream cake sounded good and maybe a big wad of cheese. Pile on the calories, son; he’d learned from deprivation there was much pleasure to be had in the small things. He’d maybe buy a paper, read it at his leisure.

  He set off at a fast pace, came round a corner thinking about that cream cake. A gang of hooded youths, like the ones that had been on the street corner yesterday, had gathered near the church. Henry checked his stride. Gangs meant trouble, were unpredictable, were best avoided. He decided to cross to the far side of the road and already had one foot off the pavement when he noticed one of the youths was holding a small boy up against the church wall. The boy was cowering, trying to protect himself but the youth holding him knocked his arms aside and slapped his face.

  Henry’s hackles rose. Father Andrew had told him to walk away from trouble, not hazard his probation. When the youth struck the boy for a second time, that advice went right out of his head. His anger impelled him towards the gang. One of them noticed him coming, hauled his hands out of his pockets and said something to his mates. The youth delivering the blows must have heard it because he held back the third blow and looked in Henry’s direction.

  All the gang were watching Henry now. As he halted two yards away, he could see curiosity in their eyes. Who was this guy with the effrontery to approach them? Was he going to provide them with a bit of fun? They were measuring him up, could see he was a big guy but adopted confident poses, sure that five of them were enough to deal with whatever he could bring to the table.

  Henry eyed the big, ugly one who had been doing the slapping. ‘You should be ashamed of yourself,’ he said, his voice calm.

  He let his gaze travel over the whole group, mouth and nose curling in distaste, as though they had crawled out of the nearest sewer and he could smell the stench coming off them. ‘You lot, too, for watching him attack a little kid who can’t hit back.’

  It was best to adopt a direct approach sometimes, as though you had no fear in you. He’d learned that in prison. He hoped he’d said enough to shame them into backing off. Violent confrontation was the last thing he wanted, but he was ready for it.

  With an amazed expression, the youth let go of the kid. Arms encircling his upper body, as though he was hugging himself for comfort, the boy slid down the wall trying to stifle his sobs.

  The youth stepped away from the wall, went up on the balls of his feet. His head moved side to side like a snake gearing itself up to strike. His eyes shifted incessantly between Henry and his mates. Henry read the signs; he’d seen them before in men priming themselves for action. This one needed to maintain his kudos, couldn’t afford to back down and lose respect. It was looking bad.

  ‘You’re a big man,’ the youth said, finally. ‘But big don’t mean brains.’

  With that, he reached inside his jacket. Sun glinted on steel as a blade appeared in his hand. Henry kept his face impassive in spite of the dry feeling in his mouth, the acrobats performing in his stomach. The knife had escalated the situation in the blink of an eye.

  ‘Can’t count to five, big man, eh? Long odds for you, all of us!’ the youth snarled. He waved the knife in the air. ‘But you do know this ain’t for cutting bread.’

  ‘Let’s do him, Barry,’ one of the youths called out, feeding off his leader.

  Barry took a step forward. Henry could see the crows’ wings etched into his upper cheeks below the eyes. The eyes themselves were cold, black depths, devoid of feeling. Henry had no doubt that, like his erstwhile pad mate, Tom Daly, this youth was a user, living on an edge as sharp as the knife in his hand.

  He focused on Tonks and nothing else as he stooped and picked up the fallen bike. Then, he glanced at the tearful boy.

  ‘Yours, son?’

  The kid wiped his tears, realized this was his chance and pushed away from the wall. He grabbed the bike from Henry, climbed on and, legs pumping like pistons, pedalled off.

  Almost as an afterthought, before he disappeared around the corner, he called over his shoulder,’ Thanks, mister!’

  A silence descended. Henry wanted to turn, walk away. He’d achieved his purpose: the boy had escaped. What stopped him was that knife and the madness in those eyes. If he turned his back, Tonks might well plunge the weapon between his shoulder blades, or thrust it into his ribs. He decided he’d have to concentrate on putting the leader down quickly, in the faint hope that would make the others back off. If you cut the head off a snake, so the saying went, the body became useless.

  ‘There are no heroes allowed in South Bank,’ Tonks said. ‘Hasn’t been since Mannion played for the Boro — that was in the Ice Age.’

  ‘There’s only scum like us now,’ one of the gang cackled. ‘Welcome to the cesspit.’

  Brandishing the knife, Tonks spoke in a sing-song voice, ‘The smoggy men are going to get you.’ That gave his pals much amusement.

  He started to advance. Two of the other youths drew knives ready to back him up. Henry’s throat constricted, felt so dry it was as though sand was pouring down his windpipe. He didn’t think he had much of a chance. He’d either be killed or end up in a casualty ward severely injured. Any second now, they’d be on him like a rash.

  Then, suddenly, one of the lads who’d pulled a knife shoved it back into his waist band.

  ‘Pigs,’ he hissed.

  Tonks came out of a crouch, neck stretching like a nosy housewife eyeballing new neighbours, looked beyond Henry. With a groan of frustration he slid the knife under his top and retreated a few steps. Henry risked a glance over his shoulder, saw a police car cruising down the street.

  The vehicle slowed to a crawl. The shaven-headed copper in the driving seat wound down the window and gave them a disdainful once over as he passed by. None of the youths moved a muscle but their eyes watched Henry, waiting for him to flag it down and squeal blue murder.

  Henry was more than tempted to flag the car down. But it went against the grain, against the code he had lived by for five years, and back beyond that. Grassing had been a taboo in both the gypsy encampments and in prison and old habits died hard. That aversion apart, it would look bad being involved in confrontation so soon after his release. So the moment came and went and he did nothing. As soon as the car disappeared up the street, the knives appeared again so quickly he had no time for regrets.

  Tonks started to advance as though nothing had happened, just a delay in the proceedings. Henry decided he’d just made one of the biggest mistakes of his life.

  ‘Let it go, Barry man,’ a voice protested. ‘He could have whinged to the coppers, couldn’t he? But he didn’t say a word.’

  Henry glanced at the tall, blond youth who’d spoken up. He’d noticed him earlier, standing back as though reluctant to be involved.

  ‘He earned a chance, Barry man,’ the youth continued. ‘He didn’t grass. Just think about that a minute. They’d have searched us, found knives on us, maybe more.’

  For a moment, a cord of tension seemed to stretch between the leader and his challenger. Finally, Barry let his gaze drift to the others who seemed to be waiting to see which way the wind was going to blow.

  Meanwhile, the blond youth turned to Henry with a puzzled expression.

  ‘Tell us why you didn’t you stop that car, big man? You had your chance there.’

  Henry decided to keep it simple. ‘Old habit. The way I grew up. You didn’t grass.’

  The blond turned to Barry. ‘See, he’s like us. Call it even, man. One favour for another. He could have had us in the police cells by now. Show him some mercy in return.’

  His gaze left Barry, embraced all of the others. ‘It takes a strong man to show mercy — a big man.’

  None of them said a word, seemed content to remain neutral and let the two of them decide. Barry knew those words about mercy and strength had put him on the spot. Maybe mercy wasn’t so important, but he
didn’t need anyone doubting he was strong.

  ‘Kings show mercy in those old films on telly, so maybe he has a point,’ he said, lowering the knife.

  The blond faced Henry again. This time there was a hard edge to his voice.

  ‘Stay out of other people’s business, mister. Today you’ve been lucky. Don’t go thinking you can cross my friend Barry and get away with it again. You’re new around here, so learn quickly.’

  Henry knew when Lady Luck was smiling on him, didn’t say anything in case it might change her mood. With a nod of gratitude to his saviour, he turned quickly on his heel and headed back the way he’d come. Once he was back inside the house, he made a mug of tea to calm his nerves and wondered why, once again, he’d had to get involved. Perhaps Mary was right and he shouldn’t have come back to South Bank. He had to hope today’s trouble was a one off and nothing like that would happen to him again.

  *

  When Mary picked him up that evening he took the decision to keep quiet about his confrontation with the gang because it would only worry her. They intended to have a bar meal in the Bluebell in Acklam. The route took them past the caravan site where he had once resided and where he knew his father had settled down. Memories came flooding back to him.

  Mary noticed his preoccupation. ‘So that’s where your father lives.’

  He didn’t say anything, just nodded assent.

  ‘No desire to see him?’

  Mary’s question took him by surprise. She knew how he felt. Why did she want to stir the pot when she was aware the contents had gone rotten a long time ago?

  His reply was bitter. ‘You mean in the same way he’s had a burning desire to see me all these years?’

  She kept her eyes on the road, didn’t answer immediately. He hoped she was going to leave it there but she didn’t.

  ‘He is your father, Henry.’

  He snorted, angry at her persistence. When he’d told her all about himself, he’d thought he’d made his feelings about his father and brother crystal clear.

  ‘You haven’t got a clue, Mary. You can’t imagine the way we lived. Your life has been so different.’

  ‘He might have changed.’ She waited a few seconds. ‘Was he really so awful?’

  He turned his head away from her, not wanting her to see how angry she was making him. Only when the fire inside him died down, did he allow himself to speak.

  ‘My mother died when I was twelve. That’s when he unfurled his colours. He drank more, was bad-tempered most of the time, occasionally beat me — hard. Only now, when I’m grown up, can I see how selfish he was. The final straw was when he and my brother got me that illegal fight — to make money for themselves.’ Henry sighed. ‘I was naïve, didn’t know what they were getting me into.’

  ‘I can’t understand why they didn’t visit you. It seems so —’

  ‘Selfish and callous,’ he snapped. ‘They say when you’re in trouble you find out who your friends are. Well, that applies to family too. And I found mine ran for the hills — didn’t exist.’

  Mary finally let it go and there was silence. He looked out of the window to the mid-distance where the Cleveland Hills rose above the landscape, the dregs of the evening sunlight adorning them with golden haloes as the first shadows of night crept across the fields to touch the hems of their robes. The world was turning, would turn forever. What good was his bitterness? Yet how could he forget?

  He looked at the view from the other window. Teesside’s industrial edifices loomed there, gigantic shadows in the fading light. He could see wisps of smoke rising from the silhouettes of the chimneys like signals aimed at gods of the sky. It was such a contrast to the view of the hills, heaven and hell juxtaposed, a metaphor for the soul of man. Henry sighed; life was a mystery. All you could do was put one foot in front of the other and keep hoping you weren’t wandering down the wrong road.

  ‘The hills are beautiful, aren’t they?’ Mary commented.

  He smiled, made himself lighten up. ‘Beautiful, like you, yes. The sun on those hills, the woman I love next to me. I know what I’ve been missing.’

  She laughed. ‘Far too poetic. You’re not that romantic. You’ll have to cut back on your reading.’

  He laughed along with her. Was he wrong not to tell her what had happened that morning? He thought about it again, decided he was right first time. She’d just try to get him to move, to go and live with her before he was ready.

  Arriving at the Bluebell, they parked the car and headed for the lounge. Mary insisted on buying the first drink so he sat down and waited while she went to the bar. He found it strange to be surrounded by groups of people of both sexes, the cheerful buzz of conversation all around him. Prison had been sociable in its own way, he supposed, but always there had been the knowledge that they had lost their free will, their lives under the control of others. He half expected a prison officer to appear on the scene at any moment to break up the happy little groups with a suspicious scowl and an announcement that association was over for the day. He smiled, relishing the fact that, at last, he was a free man and nothing like that was going to happen.

  ‘You should smile more often,’ Mary said, returning with the drinks and placing them on the table.

  He grinned up at her, took a sup from his pint and smacked his lips as the liquid slid down his gullet reintroducing itself to his taste buds. A pint had always been a pleasure but, unlike his father, he always had known how much was enough. Noticing the posters round the wall announcing future entertainments in the pub, he pointed them out to Mary.

  ‘I can read those now,’ he said. ‘That’s down to the education staff and yourself, Mary, for helping me to read. Deep down I was ashamed.’

  She leaned over, touched his hand. ‘Not your fault, Henry and it was nothing to be ashamed of anyway. Changing schools all the time, you never had a chance.’

  ‘My father didn’t help much. He thought it was all a waste of time. ‘Not for the likes of us’, he would say.’ Henry sighed, took another sup from his glass. ‘Didn’t want me to be able to do something he couldn’t, I guess.’

  He was enjoying his drink, thinking this was the life. Mary was as easy to talk to outside prison as she’d been inside those grim walls. No doubt about it, his luck had definitely changed when he’d come across her. One time he’d wondered if the attraction was because he was incarcerated and she was one of the few women with whom he had any contact, but he knew whatever it was between them went far deeper than that, came from the soul, whatever that was. For him, the miracle of it was that she was willing to take a chance on him knowing he was a jail bird.

  They chatted, then ordered meals at the table. Halfway through his ham and eggs, Henry happened to glance towards the bar. The piece of ham he speared never made it to his mouth. He sat there motionless, staring ahead, eyes bulging. It was as though in his mind he was watching a pleasant landscape suddenly overwhelmed by black clouds, thunder rumbling ominously in the background, with the certain promise of a lightning strike to follow. Mary looked up, noticed the change in him.

  ‘What is it? You look as though you’ve seen a ghost.’

  He nodded towards the bar. Puzzled, she followed his gaze, realized then why he had felt no need to explain what he’d seen. The man standing at the bar had a definite resemblance to Henry, except he was a bit older. He was staring back at them, a sardonic twist to his lips. She turned to Henry again.

  ‘That, my dear, is my beloved brother.’ He spat his words as though they were so distasteful he wanted to be rid of them.

  Mary said,’ Of all the bars in all the world —’

  ‘It’s no coincidence,’ Henry told her.’ You can be sure of that. This isn’t his kind of establishment. Sawdust and spittoon is his style.’

  ‘He’s coming over.’

  Frank carried his drink with him. That sardonic grin was still there as he scratched the back of his head with his free hand and looked down at them.

  ‘Can’
t believe my eyes. My little brother just back from’ — Frank hesitated, glanced at the surrounding tables, checked himself — ‘his holidays — and already he’s out with a bit of stuff. Fast work, kid.’

  Henry’s eyes blazed with annoyance at the insult to Mary. Afraid he might start something, she reached out under the table, gripped his knee. The moment passed.

  ‘This place has too much class for you, Frank,’ he replied. ‘But you couldn’t wait to see your little brother, eh! Managed to ignore him for five years, suddenly got fraternal urges.’

  ‘Fraternal, eh! Big word that. Don’t know what it means.’ Frank shook his head. ‘We decided to let you do your growing up alone, kid, like you’d joined the army or something. That way you learn faster, become a better man for it.’

  Henry screwed his face up in disgust. ‘My father and you are a pair. It wasn’t the army, was it? What if I was drowning in there?’

  Henry’s voice had risen and a few heads were turning. Frank’s eyebrows came down and he shifted his gaze to Mary who had been listening to their exchange without interfering.

  ‘I’ve business to discuss with you, Henry,’ he said, added with an emphasis that was clearly for her benefit, ‘family business.’

  Henry snorted. ‘Family business! That’s a new one. Anyway, this lady’s more to me than any family. There’s nothing she can’t hear.’

  ‘It’s all right,’ Mary said, patting his arm and rising. ‘I’ll go and stretch my legs.’

  Henry wasn’t pleased. He wanted to tell his brother to get lost but he knew Mary wouldn’t want a scene so restrained himself. Frank slid into the chair Mary had vacated leaned back, tilted his head to one side and scrutinized his brother.