by Tim Roux
Fran demands to be allowed to pick up Tommy from school, so we detour by her house to let her out. I get a revolver poked forcibly and fatly into my neck to remind me what will happen if I try to make a run for it. They sound like they are considering shooting me anyway. We have to skim the centre of Hull, and that annoys them, perhaps because it gives me a greater chance of escaping, as if I would leave Chrissie in Planty’s hands. Planty probably thinks I would and has shared his opinion.
I am spinning over and over in my mind whether Planty was playing mind games on us or whether Chrissie really is his sister. It seems impossible to believe, but perhaps no more impossible than that I should be Harry, and I know that at least to have been true. Planty has not produced the slightest evidence to support his claim, but I do believe he means it. And, of course, it is quite possible. Families are forever being split up in care. We had several children in our home who had brothers and sisters somewhere else, but whom they never saw and might never see. It doesn’t make sense, but it happens. Well, it did then. Maybe things have changed for the better. Conversely, nowadays, they want you adopted or in foster care, so it could be worse.
So, assuming that we mange to parlay Planty into sparing our lives, what does the future hold for us? Will he be down with all his mates for Sunday barbeques in our garden? Will Ella and Mark have to recognise Tommy as their cousin? That would be okay. What happens when Kathy and Chrissie get together and start sharing sisterly secrets? What happens when Kathy, Chrissie and Fran get together? That could destroy us. With Planty, I can stonewall and claim that he is talking utter shit, and Chrissie will believe me, but if the three girls begin to confide in each other, there will be no way of getting around that. Harry slept with me. Harry slept with me. Harry slept with me even after he was Keith. He slept with me too. How funny! Chrissie is going to kill me. She is going to walk out with Ella and Mark, and I am going to be left with Fran, Tommy and Kathy at best waiting for Jerry Springer to call and invite me on one his confessional circuses. “Let me get this straight,” he will say. “You slept with Chrissie here. Then you slept with her sister-in-law, Fran, then you slept with her (Chrissie’s) sister, Kathy, believing that she was your sister? Is that right?” Half the audience will boo me, the other half will laugh like hyenas, and our perfectly conceived life will be no more.
Talking of Jerry, the terrain has deteriorated from jerry-built 1950s houses to the flatter jerry-built seventies ones. As one of the largest housing estates in Europe, Bransholme looks like a place purpose-designed to incubate teenage thugs. There is no recovery from this sort of place. I know that I have been here before, but last time it was dark, and I was seeing it through Harry’s eyes, and he was no architect. I am beginning to understand the subtle nuances of perception between the way I see the world and the way I-as-Harry viewed it. Harry must have been there too, influencing my every move. It eases my conscience to believe so, but I think it is true as well.
Well, actually, it doesn’t ease my conscience. It is supposed to, I want it to, but it is like a moment of childhood guilt which keeps popping up and jeering at you. You cannot excuse yourself, much as you should, on the grounds you were only a child. You were still you. It is the same here. Harry may have been there, but so was I. I could have stopped him if I had been strong enough. There is no getting away from it.
We pull up outside Planty’s house. I recognise it from my previous visit. I check the tyres, which is stupid because I know they are here now, and I know that they won’t be here when I get back. This is one of these places where they strip the car while you are stopped at the lights. You drive off, and all that is left is the steering wheel and the exposed chassis.
“Is the car safe here?” I ask Nobby and Sylvester. They chortle. In fact, they keep on chortling.
Planty opens the door to us, and I pick up that familiar smell. We architects often forget how powerful people’s senses of smell are. We concentrate on form and structure, texture and colour, and practicality, but the first thing that hits anyone over the head walking into a building is its odour, whether it is that of new carpets, or of wood, or of urine, or of boiling cabbage, or of some piped artificial fragrance. I suppose we cannot control how a building will smell once we have handed it over, which is why we pay such scant regard to it, but maybe we should try to anticipate possibilities and build in remedies – mental note for when / if I get back to Wokingham. I will mend my ways.
Chrissie is perched in the sitting room on a velour couch. The brown of the couch clashes horribly with the patterned reds and greens of the carpet and the smooth texture of the velour does not work with the contoured design of the carpet either. In the corner there is a large TV set and a micro hifi system. Planty is carrying through cups and a teapot from the kitchen in a confounding affectation of domesticity.
“There yer are,” he proclaims. “Quite cosy, ain’t it? Yer’ll be glad to ‘ear, Keith, that Chrissie and I ‘ave ‘ad a good chat in the car on the way over, and that ye’re off the ‘ook. If I can believe Chrissie, and I do, there is no way yer could ‘ave been ‘arry, unless yer go for all this metaphysical rubbish, which I don’t. I was ‘appy to go along with my idea that ‘arry set up two ‘ouse’olds, one as a getaway from t’other, but I’m not buyin’ any body swappin’. I’m not sayin’ that it ain’t true, but I’m not goin’ there. So that’s it, brother-in-law, welcome to my ‘umble abode. It’s not much, ‘n’ it’s not mine. I’ll take yer up to my real place in Pocklington sometime. There’s lots we can do together now that we‘ve found each other. Yer can show me around yer neck of the woods too.”
A new horror pokes its head out at me; that he may spare us after all but at the price of our never being able to rid ourselves of him. I make to get up to sit next to Chrissie and get very strong ‘keep away from me’ signals. I have never had those from her before. I try to press forward, which makes her glare at me even more fiercely. I think she and Planty have been indulging in some very detailed and intimate discussions.
“Yer can go ‘ome now, boys,” Planty says to Nobby and Sylvester. “Ta very much for yer ‘elp,” and he settles back in his chair clutching his cup and saucer. Either Planty is treating us as best, or he has pretensions.
“Well, Keith,” he says turning towards me, “what do yer think of all this, then?”
“The situation or the interior décor?” I ask him.
“Poncey git,” he replies. “Is ‘e always like this?” he fires at Chrissie.
“I am beginning to wonder what he is ever like,” Chrissie fires back. “I feel like I don’t know him at all, as if he has been fooling me for years.”
“Oh dearie me,” Planty chuckles, “it looks like ye’re in the dog box this time, Keith me ol’ mate.”
Chrissie shakes her head in disappointed bewilderment. “How could you?”
“How could I what?” I demand indignantly.
“Fuck other women, kidnap a boy, threaten to kidnap other people’s children? Where does all that come from?”
“’arry,” Planty jumps in immediately, “that’s all ‘arry. Where yer’ve got ‘arry, yer’ve got trouble.”
“Yes, but Keith was there too.”
“So yer say, but I think all that’s a load of cock and bull, something ‘arry made up and some’ow yer ended up believin’ it. I think yer should ‘old Keith to account for things yer know Keith hissen ‘as done, and that yer should leave the rest for bygones. Yer’ll do yer ‘ead in if ye’re goin’ around believin’ owt else.”
“I’ll think about it,” Chrissie responds, and I can feel her backing off. She doesn’t invite me to come and sit next to her, though.
“Do yer mind if I watch the news?” Planty asks.
“Sure,” I say. “Go ahead.”
Planty reaches out, picks up the remote, and flicks the screen on. His timing is second-perfect. The title images have just started to roll. There are all the usual stories of floods in Bangladesh, civil war in the Sudan, deaths i
n Iraq, domestic inflation. Planty is watching intently, as if waiting for something specific. Abruptly, he flicks the news off again, and leans back in his chair, massaging the ridge of its back into his head and neck. “There’s never nowt on the news nowadays,” he mutters. “I only keep the tellie for the footie.”
There is silence. Planty continues to massage himself. Chrissie sits primly upright. I wait expectantly. It is my image of tea with an aunt – Aunty Planty. I fail to suppress a cackle.
“What?” asks Chrissie.
“What?” asks Planty.
“Nothing,” I reply. I was just thinking how funny it is that Trevor here believed that I was Harry, raised from the dead.”
“Raised, but not from the dead. That man is undead, always was.”
“So what did he do to you that was so bad?” I challenge.
Planty screws up his face. “’e was like a mosquito or a gnat, or some’at – always buzzin’ me, always stickin’ his nose in my business. That’s what ‘e done to me. What ‘e done to other people is another story. ‘e only did one person in so far as I know, and that was in self-defence, but ‘e ‘urt quite a few. ‘e enjoyed it. ‘e did most of the physical stuff ‘issen, with a knife, more personal like. ‘ow Martin let ‘im knife ‘im, God alone knows. ‘e must’ve ‘ad a brainstorm. ‘e should’ve known better. ‘e should’ve known a lot better.” He shakes his head in wonderment.
“Whom did he hurt?” I ask.
“Owt as crossed ‘is path. If there was some’at who as much as looked at ‘im, ‘e was a candidate for a bit of roughin’ up from old ‘arry. Women too. Fran could tell you some ‘air-raisin’ tales. ‘n’ look at Kathy. ‘e prostituted ‘er from when she was eight years old, just so as ‘e could get what ‘e wanted. ‘is own kid sister. It’s small wonder that she’s such a flea-bag now. Still, she got her own back, rattin’ on ‘is little scam to put me be’ind bars. Couldn’t wait to be rid of ‘im. She didn’t want any part in kidnappin’ small kids, but ‘arry insisted, an’ yer didn’t cross ‘arry. ‘e got exactly what was comin’ to ‘im, God rot his soul.” He got to his feet. “I think I’ll drink to that. Is anyone joinin’ me?”
I consult with Chrissie. “We should be going, Trevor. We need to get back to the children.”
“Why don’t yer stay the night? Leave first thing in the mornin’.”
“The children will be worried,” Chrissie says.
“Where are they? Stayin’ with friends?”
“Yes.”
“Give them a ring, tell them that things are goin’ well ‘ere and that yer’ve just a few more points to cover, an’ yer will be back ‘ome by lunchtime. I would like a few more ‘ours to get to know me new kid sister.”
“Well, I suppose we could. What do you think, Chrissie?”
Chrissie takes her mobile out of her bag. “I’ll ring Jerry and Sam and see what they think.”
Chrissie gets through to Sam straight away and gives the explanation for our wanting to stay the night in Hull as dictated by Planty. Sam is cool with that. Chrissie spends fifteen minutes talking to the children, accepting a glass of white wine from Planty with one hand as she does so.
“I wish I’d ‘ad children,” Planty comments. “I like children. Never ‘ad the time. Too busy buildin’ the business to find the right woman and, quite frankly, they ask too many questions. Of course, if yer business is legit, it ain’t a problem, but mine ain’t, as yer know.”
“How big is your empire?” I ask.
“A lot bigger since ‘arry took a dive, so to speak. The Royals ‘ave given up. Mike’s a nice guy, but nice guys don’t make leaders. Yer need people like ‘arry ‘n’ me to ‘ead up a gang. People who don’t give a shit, who’ll do whatever is in the best interests of the gang, whoever gets ‘urt. That is what ‘arry and I ‘ad in common. We are both ruthless. It must ‘ave come through the blood. Are you ruthless, Sis?”
“Not at all,” Chrissie replies.
“Not at all, eh?” Planty echoes. “Yer come out of care, yer become a partner in one of the biggest legal firms in the country, and ye’re not at all ruthless? Some’at don’t chime quite right to me. Face it, Sis, yer’ve got our blood. Ye’re as ruthless as the rest of us. Take Kathy. Everyone does. She looks like she’ll bend over backwards for owt, ‘n’ she does ‘n’ all, but she makes sure she gets exactly what she wants out of it. Martin tried to pin ‘er down, ‘n’ Martin got killed. It didn’t look like Kathy did it, but yer can bet yer life that it worked out exactly the way she planned it. Then ‘arry strong-arms ‘er into doin’ what she didn’t want to do, and ‘ey presto, ‘e’s a gonna too. It gets a bit past a coincidence, don’t it? Are you ‘ungry? I interrupted yer lunch, didn’t I? Do yer want some fish and chips – delicacy of the area?”
“That would be nice,” Chrissie says, so we get into Planty’s car and he drives us to the only fish and chip shop in Hull that merits his clientele. On the way out to his car, I notice that ours remains untouched. That’s power for you. And it’s true. You feel very well protected when Planty is looking after you, safety guaranteed by the meanest bastard in the valley. If anyone is going to hurt you, it is going to be him and no-one else. He always has this edge. Even when he appears friendly and almost pandering to you, you can sense this underlying buzz of energy like a sunken power cable. His solicitousness is like a trap laid over a pit. Take an ill-considered step and down you go, with Planty gloating over your troubles from upon high. I don’t know how I am going to spend a night in his house. If Chrissie really is his sister, perhaps we’re safe, and perhaps we’re not.
We get back to Planty’s house with our pack of hot fish and chips, and Planty is getting out some plates for us, when Chrissie’s mobile goes.
“Chrissie McGuire. Hello, Sam. What? You don’t know where they are? They were in the garden. Jack and Natty are missing too? Oh my God!”
Sweat has pricked its way out of me, and blood is thumping into my brain, lifting the hair off my head. I am praying that what Chrissie is saying is not what I am guessing, but of course it is. Chrissie spends twenty minutes talking to Sam, then Jerry, then Sam again. They decide to call the police urgently, which Jerry does while Sam continues to discuss the situation with Chrissie over the phone. Finally, and reluctantly, Chrissie cuts the line. She comes over to me and holds me, wailing loudly. Planty doesn’t appear to have understood the situation. “Come to the table yer two. Yer chips are getting cold.”
“Our children are missing,” I splutter.
“Oh yeah,” Planty replies. “I’ve been meanin’ to have a chat with yer about that.”
* * *
Chapter 21
We are to spend the night behind bars. Parts of Planty’s house are hyper-secure in terms of keeping people in, more so, as I know, than in keeping others out. No-one in their right minds is going to break into Planty’s house, except that we did of course. That must have rattled his cage.
Planty has our children, and Jack and Natty as well. He told us as if it were as normal as the fish and chips we were eating. “Don’t worry,” he assured us, “yer’ll get ‘em back in two weeks. Shall we say that it’s in my interests that parents across the country get to panickin’ about their children being kidnapped. That was ‘arry’s ruse, ‘n’ it were a clever ‘un at that. If yer want devilish plans, ‘e always ‘ad plenty up his sleeve, did our ‘arry. So there yer are, I ‘ave yer kids. I’ll keep ‘em for ten days, ‘n’ then I’ll ‘and ‘em back to yer. All right?”
“How do we know you will hand them back?” I asked.
“What else am I goin’ to do with ‘em?”
We weren’t going to answer that question. It is absurd to suggest that we would have been putting thoughts into his head by suggesting alternatives, but we weren’t going to put words to our fears.
“They’re me kid sister’s kids. I’m not goin’ to allow any ‘arm to come to ‘em, am I? I’m not that much of a bastard. That’s the sort of thing ‘arry would’ve d
one, but not me. Sit tight, do some ‘igh profile press conferences where yer do a lot of bawlin’ and make some ‘eart-rendin’ pleas to the kidnappers to ‘and ‘em back safely, ‘n’ that’s it. Don’t do nowt stupid, whatever yer do. I’m not nice when I’m provoked, I cannot deny that.”
After his confession, he seemed to want to have a normal evening’s discourse with us around a few glasses of wine, asking about our lives and telling us about his. He got increasingly frustrated that we weren’t up to sparkling conversation and carefree good humour.
Whether we wanted to hear it or not, he insisted on telling us about his life – how he had been brought up by his father after his mum walked out and then died, how they had moved to the North Bransholme Estate from the Midlands when he was seven, and how he had had to learn to survive in one of the roughest spots in the country.
“Yer don’t get many accountants or lawyers out of this place, nor billionaire entrepreneurs, nor doctors nor architects. What yer get out of ‘ere are shop assistants, ware’ouse packers, factory workers, drunks and layabouts, ‘n’ I weren’t goin’ to do any of that lot. The big career move around ‘ere is to become a wrong’un. Yer work for yersen, yer’ve flexible hours, ‘n’ yer’ve all the cash yer can lay yer ‘ands on. That was more the job for me. So I did me apprenticeship like, smashin’ shop windows where they weren’t caged in, shopliftin’, grabbin’ cash from tills when the shop assistant wasn’t lookin’, beatin’ up other kids, that sort of thing. ‘n’ I were good at it. The leader of the Inbies at the time were a guy called Leggitt, Michael Leggit. ‘e ‘ailed from a line of crooks as long as yer arm. It ran all through ‘is blood it did. ‘e started lookin’ out for me, gave me errands to run for ‘im, encouraged me to smash a few people up on ‘is be’alf, generally taught me the ropes. ‘e was all right, was old Leggit. I became one of ‘is sort of lieutenants. Then, all of a sudden like, ‘e died. ‘e got cancer of the stomach which wasn’t surprisin’ the amount ‘e ate and drank. ‘e was never fat like, but ‘e packed it away like a rhinoceros. So there was the question of who would take over from ‘im. Every bugger was expectin’ it to be Kneecaps Cartwright, but I decided differently. I decided it were goin’ to be me. I weren’t goin’ to wait for dead men’s shoes. That’s what true leadership is about, not fancy courses and empathisin’ with your staff; it’s about takin’ risks. So I up ‘n’ challenged Kneecaps to a duel – knives at dawn. ‘e didn’t like that idea and sent some of the gang round to put me in my place. I knew all these people, ‘n’ they weren’t really up for it. They reckoned that sooner or later I would become the boss, ‘n’ then I would reward ‘em or punish ‘em accordin’ to what they did that day. Too damn right. So they ‘ad a judgment call to make, didn’t they? Either they did me in once and for all, or they came over to me. I laid out their options bold as brass, ‘n’ they agreed. So we all marched round to Kneecaps’ house, pushed aside the couple of mates ‘e ‘ad round there at the time, ‘n’ beat the crap out of ‘im. ‘e was in the Infirmary for six months, ‘n’ that was before ‘ospital acquired infections that was. That was from genuine injuries – broken arms, broken legs, cracked skull, five broken fingers. ‘e got the message, as did all the other buggers, ‘n’ I became the boss, ‘n’ I’ve been the boss ever since. Nobody ‘as ever challenged me except that snivellin’ rat ‘arry Walker, me kid brother. So, sooner or later, ‘e would ‘ave to go if ‘e didn’t mend ‘is ways, wouldn’t ‘e? Ye’rve probably been askin’ yersens ‘ow I could’ve done what I did to me kid brother. Simple. I couldn’t afford not to. In this job, every bugger is watchin’ yer. If yer show a moment’s weakness, a moment’s ‘esitation, some daft bugger will be up ‘n’ contemplatin’ takin’ a pop at yer. I’m not goin’ to spend ‘alf me life dealin’ with people who’re after me job. I deal firmly but fairly with any trouble as it arises, ‘n’ every bugger stays where I put ‘em. I bet it is the same rule in a lawyers firm or an architects office, ain’t it, Sis.”
