by D J Harrison
‘It’ll be the city centre, then? Is that where they’ll be?’
‘Could be anywhere, but that’s a safe bet; all the high-value shops – Deansgate, King Street, the Arndale. That’s where.’
‘So do you think the stores we guard might get hit?’ I’m getting caught up in Mick’s obvious concern.
‘In London they’ve been wrecking everything – shops, offices, the lot, torching them as well.’
‘Okay.’ My mind is beginning to race. ‘Get everyone in – everyone – and if they can bring any friends, the more the better. Tell them it’s double time and an extra wedge for anyone they bring.’
I return to O’Brian, who is literally kicking his heels on my desk. Before he can continue his soliloquy of doom, I tell him about the impending riots.
‘Bastards, someone should teach them a lesson.’
‘Anyway,’ I say, ‘I need to make some arrangements to safeguard our customers. Was there anything else?’
O’Brian gives me that long stare of his and I look straight back into his eyes and wait. I remember when one look from him made me unsteady, but compared to Casagrande, this man is as gentle as a baby.
‘Well,’ he begins slowly. ‘There’s the matter of the business now that Gary’s gone. As I’ve put so much money into it, I have to protect myself. Control my assets, so to speak. You understand. I’m sure you do.’ He pulls out a sheaf of papers from his jacket pocket with the air of a magician. ‘You and Mrs O’Donnell need to sign these to transfer your shares into this holding company I’ve formed.’
The consternation I feel must be obvious because his tone becomes a little more placatory.
‘Don’t worry, I’ll still need you to run the business and I’ll pay you a good wage. Maybe even a bit of a bonus from time to time.’ He winks.
As I pretend to look through the paperwork, I use the time to breathe, steady my body and slow down my mind. The urge to slap his preposterous face recedes slightly but there is enough residual anger to keep the possibility alive.
‘Leave it with me,’ I sigh.
He stands up and turns to leave.
‘Wait.’
He turns, still smiling smugly.
I tear the papers in half and drop them into my waste bin.
‘I’ve had a think about your suggestion, Peter, and I’ve decided to reject it. This is Gary’s business. Whatever personal arrangement you two had is no longer valid. He might have promised to sign over the company to you for all I know but it belongs to his widow now, and to me. As her representative, I can tell you that we’re intending to carry on as we are. You’ll get the same service, the same treatment and the same return on your investment – business as usual.’
He flushes, whether in embarrassment or anger I can’t decide, then leaves without another word.
I have no time to worry about O’Brian. I settle down to make some serious phone calls.
At 4 p.m. I inspect Mick’s recruits in the car park. He’s issued them all with high-visibility bibs but they don’t look convincing to me. The idea that they might deter an angry mob seems a little far-fetched – they’re more likely to be taken as miscreants than guardians. At least there’s a good turn-out, thirty or so regulars swelled to twice that by casual volunteers. It’s just as well; I have twelve new customers to cover – ten independent shops and two national chain stores, all in or around Deansgate and St Ann’s Square.
News is already coming in that Salford precinct is in uproar and that several fires have been started.
****
The two guys in my shop are casuals; neither has done this kind of work before. At least we have that in common. Both are big lads, heavy rather than muscled, and I’m glad they’re here with me. The atmosphere in town is eerie: distant shouting, the smell of smoke, constant police sirens and the jangle of numerous intruder alarms. It got dark a while ago. There have been several bunches of hoodlums walking past shouting but no attempt to get in here until now.
The steel shutters are being rattled. I can see three men pulling at them. I hold up my hand to stop the lads making themselves known.
‘Wait,’ I instruct. ‘See if they give up and move on.’
The rattling increases its intensity then gets replaced by banging. They’re using a steel barrier from the road repairs outside to smash the shop front. The barrier was placed there to protect people from risk of injuring themselves by falling down the shallow hole someone has dug to reveal a blue pipe. Now that safety item is being used to destroy.
The window caves in with a crash, showering glass over the display of cameras and lenses. Only now do I realise that we should have taken everything out and hid it in the back. I quickly forgive myself for this lapse – it’s my first riot after all.
‘Right,’ I shout above the banging, ‘one either side of the doorway. Hit anyone who comes through, hit them hard but try not to hit them on the head – anywhere else, not the head. I can’t afford fatalities, even in this situation. The police will take a dim view if we cause any deaths. Even looters have more rights than shopkeepers these days.’
The shutter is forced half open and the door is now taking terrible punishment. I wade through the broken glass and yank it open. Three men in hoods and masks pause in their destructive process and stare at me in disbelief.
‘Go away,’ I yell at them. My knees are weak but my voice is strong. ‘Find somewhere else to loot.’
‘We like this shop.’
The nearest lout steps towards me and I kick him hard in his groin. The kick is swift and powerfully assisted by the steel-toed safety boots I’m wearing. He doubles up, holds onto his genitals and moans softly. The other two discard their battering ram and walk away. The injured man looks at me with disbelief then hobbles after them.
Two more groups show casual interest but move on when they see us. A slow-moving cordon of riot police arrives to shepherd miscreants towards waiting vans. Mick radios to report a minor skirmish on the other side of the square. One of our lads was attacked when he left his post to deal with a fire in the shop opposite. Mick says he has a few bruises and is in much better shape than his assailants.
I arrange for broken windows to be boarded up when it all seems quiet and am home in bed by 3.30 a.m.
****
O’Brian again. Sitting on my desk again, kicking his heels again. He doesn’t make an appointment, doesn’t ask if I’m busy. He materialises in my office, a wild-haired, sharp-eyed manifestation. After last night, I could have done with a lie-in, but today is a day for grasping opportunities, not resting. The phones are ringing constantly and I’m busier than I’ve ever been. The last thing I need is O’Brian and his avuncular menace.
‘Lot of damage in Manchester.’ He is speaking softly. I can hardly make him out above the sound of the phone. ‘Shops looted, fires started, people attacked … dreadful state of affairs. The police need more powers. We can’t let those nasty toe-rags get away with trashing our city.’
‘Excuse me.’ I pick up the phone; it’s an order from one of our new customers. They now want us to provide comprehensive security at all their locations nationwide. I arrange to meet them in London next week.
O’Brian continues to loom over me. ‘I heard about your exploits last night. Word is that your lot protected all your customers and that all the other security firms were either absent or ineffective.’
‘Maybe they were doing the rioting.’
My poor attempt at humour tickles him more than it should. He throws back his head and barks with laughter. I notice tufts of black hairs in his nostrils that contrast starkly with the universal whiteness elsewhere.
‘Have you heard about the Irishman who looted Argos?’ His laughter subsides but his eyes retain an amused twinkle.
‘No,’ I answer dutifully.
‘Well, he’s got five hundred catalogues if you want one.’ O’Brian’s laughter returns and he gives his own joke full appreciation.
The phone rings agai
n. He stops laughing abruptly and places his hand over it.
‘Before you answer that, I want you to know that I’m impressed with the way you’ve coped without Gary. Last night was a spectacular illustration of your smartness and your courage.’
He plonks the fat holdall on the desk.
‘Here – more investment. Consider it a vote of confidence. Use it wisely.’
I certainly will. With O’Brian behind me, I’ve got a chance. One I shan’t be letting go.
For Emma and Tina
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The End
1
‘This isn’t the No 1 Ladies’ Detective Agency.’ I glower at Big Mick as the distraught woman with two dishevelled children is shepherded out of my office.
He looks down at his feet and his big bald head reddens in its entirety.
‘Sorry, Jenny. I didn’t know what else to do with her,’ he mumbles in apology but I’m in no mood to let it go.
‘There are agencies out there funded by taxpayers’ money just waiting to help unfortunate people like her. Let them deal with her problems. For heaven’s sake, Mick, I don’t need this sort of thing. We don’t need it. We’re supposed to be running a business.’ I’m trying hard to look stern but I know Mick can see straight through me.
‘But you saw how desperate she is. There’s nobody out there willing to help her.’
‘So you expect me to suddenly sprout angel wings and set up in competition to Social Services?’ Now I can barely hide my smile. Mick knows that even if I weren’t willing to do anything for the poor woman’s sake, I’ll do it because it’s Mick that’s asking.
I owe him a lot. He saved my life and, although he never reminds me about it, he has no need to. Every night I re-live the horrible moments before his arrival, the dreadful feelings of abandonment and violation. Then he came with his massive strength and laid waste to the evildoers.
‘I have wages to find, mouths to feed, I have no resources for this kind of crusade.’ My protest sounds weak even to my own ears now. I look at him as sternly as I can manage with his little boy eyes staring back at me from his moonscape face.
The woman had told me that she was a single mother living on benefits in a Salford City Council flat. Four men had broken in while she was there and ejected her onto the street. Her protests to the police and the council had proved ineffective. The authorities seemed powerless, relying on the slow progress of the law. Notices had to be served, court orders obtained, the process would take weeks or even months. Meanwhile, they had her home, her belongings, everything.
2
It beggars belief that someone built these monstrosities in the name of slum clearance. They deemed terraced back-to-back houses to be unsatisfactory, they demolished them, displaced whole communities into these anonymous high rise blocks. When I say they, I really mean us, society. I can’t absolve myself from blame, even though I wasn’t born when it happened.
Mrs Mather’s flat is reached by breathlessly climbing countless flights of concrete steps until I reach a walkway with a half-height wall between me and the dizzying abyss. There is a lift, it even works, doors sliding obediently when summoned. I decided on the stairs because I didn’t like the pile of something in the far corner, nor the way it smelled. Instead, I improved my fitness levels with a vigorous work out. The man squatting in the lift has no idea what benefits his presence brought to my wellbeing.
Mick was insistent that he should accompany me. As usual, he wittered on about my safety, how it was a rough area.
‘It’s Salford and it’s the middle of the day – are you implying I can’t look after myself?’ Mick had to back down. ‘Anyway,’ I said, ‘you’ll only start kicking down doors and chucking people around.’ Now I’m here, I have the feeling that I’m the one who should have backed down.
Number 614 comes into view, a bottle green door with a small square of armoured glass at eye level. I knock, press the bell, knock again. Then I bang on the door with both fists. A tired child in a badly smudged dress eventually hauls open the door and stares blank-eyed at me.
‘Can I speak to an adult?’ I ask. ‘Your mother, perhaps?’ She continues to stare. I notice her feet are bare and although she is small she might be approaching teenage years. ‘Your mother,’ I repeat. ‘Can I speak to your mother?’ Her eyes show no reaction or hint of understanding. The short hallway has an open door at the end which emits the glow of a television. I can see a man’s head and shoulders poking above an armchair but he shows no signs of being at all interested in a visitor.
I push gently past the child and stand in the doorway. Three men are sitting in armchairs watching a porn film. The one nearest to me has another child kneeling by his feet, holding his penis. She is handling it mechanically and expertly. When she sees me enter she looks up but continues with her masturbatory duties. What she’s doing shocks and disgusts me, but it’s the look in her eyes that reaches deep into my soul. She has the body of a young girl, but with the hardened gaze of hope long abandoned.
She kneels amid wreckage and detritus, broken toys, smashed dolls, beer cans and pizza boxes. The television flickers pink scenes of depravation. My presence has no effect. The three men continue to stroke themselves or be stroked. It occurs to me that these men are customers, with no interest in anything other than receiving the services they paid for.
‘Stop that,’ I yell at the girl. She looks up at me and hesitates. The man grunts in complaint. I walk over and take her hand, drag her away. She reluctantly releases her grip. The man shouts words I can’t understand. There’s no plan in my mind, only an instinct to take these girls away from this horror. My other hand grabs the girl in the hall and I try to lead them to the door.
The girls are shouting, again in a language I can’t comprehend. I respond in soothing English. A large man dressed only in a soiled vest and grey underpants emerges from a side door and blocks my escape. The girls cower and bleat louder.
‘Get out of my way,’ I shout. One of the girls detaches and runs back to the television room. The man swipes at me. I release the other girl in an attempt to defend myself, the heavy blow hits the side of my head and I’m thrown against the wall. For a moment I can’t move or stand, my legs are giving way. Then I gather myself in time to swat away his grabbing hands and kick his knee.
The gir
ls have run away. My only objective now is to escape. My blow to his knee has only served to enrage him. There’s no room to dodge in this narrow hallway. Behind me the television room offers no respite. Backing away, disengaging, gaining five steps’ distance then head down, I thrust forward quickly, butt the abdomen, and, as he leans forward, smash the back of my head into his face. The pain is intense, testimony to the success of my attack. I barge past him, fending him away with my fists, kicking his legs from under him, leaving him littering the floor.
Outside, I sprint down the walkway and begin bolting down the stairwell, holding the handrail and swinging myself down each flight. The force of each landing hurts my knees. My left ankle is sore. My right leg is taking all the pounding. This is the only way to escape. This has to be the fastest way down these stairs. If he is pursuing me, he has no chance of catching me up, as long as my legs can take the punishment.
I emerge from the stairwell, breathless and staggering. Four men, one talking excitedly on a mobile phone, are waiting for me.
‘Hold on.’ The guy with the phone grabs me. They all look and sound Eastern European and crowd around me.
‘Let me go,’ I demand. The man speaks gibberish into his phone but keeps hold. There seems no way out. The men are thin and stringy, but look fit and athletic. The man holding me is a brute, he towers over me while one big hand has me by the arm.
‘What do you want?’ he asks.
‘Social Services,’ I say. ‘Looking for Mrs Mather and her family.’
He repeats this into the phone. ‘Wrong flat,’ he relays. ‘No Miss Martha, wrong flat. Why take girl? Boyfriend very upset, not nice.’
‘Sorry,’ I say. ‘My mistake, wrong flat.’
He speaks again at some length then I feel his grip relax. ‘Bad mistake,’ he says, but indicates to the others to let me through.
I walk quickly away, stiff-legged, knees hurting from the percussion of my hasty descent. The Range Rover is thankfully intact. I drive to the police station in the precinct and confront the duty sergeant. I give him the address, the details, a description of the man who struck me. He writes slowly and painstakingly. It’s taking an age. All he needs to do is send some policemen round there, get the poor abused girls and take them into care. I tell him this. Then I tell him again. He looks up from his form-filling and puts down his chewed biro.
