Angels Of The North

by Ray Banks

  ANGELS OF THE NORTH

  a novel

  Ray Banks

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  About this book

  1

  2

  3

  4

  5

  6

  7

  8

  9

  10

  11

  12

  13

  14

  15

  16

  17

  18

  19

  20

  21

  22

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  24

  25

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  27

  28

  29

  30

  31

  32

  33

  34

  35

  36

  37

  38

  39

  40

  41

  42

  43

  44

  45

  46

  47

  48

  49

  50

  51

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  53

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  55

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  57

  58

  59

  60

  Books by Ray Banks

  About Blasted Heath

  About this book

  Thatcher's Britain. A boom time for entrepreneurs, patriots ... and vigilantes.

  Gateshead's notorious Derwent Hall estate, crippled by unemployment, awash with drugs, and a no-go area for police and politicians alike.

  Three men - a taxi driver with political aspirations, a soldier with black dreams, and the jobless victim of a brutal attack - come together to rid their estate of crime. But when conscience collides with ambition, it's not long before the streets turns bloody and their community burns.

  Published by Blasted Heath, 2014

  Copyright© Ray Banks, 2014

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means without permission of the author.

  Ray Banks has asserted his right under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988 to be identified as the author of this work.

  All the characters in this book are fictitious and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  Cover design by Blasted Heath

  Visit Blasted Heath at:

  www.blastedheath.com

  ISBN: 978-1-908688-76-7

  Version 2-1-3

  For my family,

  whether by birth or by choice

  "Popular capitalism is nothing less than a crusade to enfranchise the man in the economic life of the nation. We Conservatives are returning power to the people.

  That is the way to one nation, one people."

  —Margaret Thatcher,

  Conservative Party Conference Speech, 10th October 1986

  WINTER, 1986

  1

  Joe Warren stood beneath the Central arches, a hunched island in the sluggish stream of rain-soaked commuter coats that pushed in and out of the station. An unlit Regal twitched in the corner of his mouth as he scraped his thumb raw on the wheel of his disposable. A man who smelled of wet dog jogged him with his elbow as he passed. Joe swore under his breath, shot the man a hacky glance as he shook some fumes into the lighter, and then finally scraped a blue-bubbled flame into existence. He touched flame to cigarette; the tobacco and paper crackled. He took a couple of short, swift drags to get the Regal burning, then exhaled into wet air.

  Home. Or as good as.

  It had been a long journey, the train choked with cigarette smoke, swimming in Skol, shuddering under bellowed, misremembered songs about Paddy-bashing and red-haired whores. These were his comrades, these former fighting machines, once disciplined and dangerous, now transformed into dick-measuring apes. Joe had spent the journey in the far corner of the carriage, head down, eyes half closed, a warm can in one hand. When they spewed out of the train at Central, Joe lingered behind.

  The second that lot arrived home it'd be sunshine and streamers, backslaps and beer; all Joe had to look forward to was a fresh-yesterday Carricks cream cake and a four-pack of no-name lager. The lads had wives and girlfriends, tarted up and anticipating some serious alone time; Joe had Michelle – lank black hair, thin lips, wide hips, mannish with exhaustion – and the bairn, face like a balled-up snotrag, mouth open in a gummy screech. Oh aye, and don’t forget, maybe the old man would be there if he could drag himself out the bookies for half an hour. The thought brought the taste of stale spit into his mouth and put an over-familiar itch between his toes.

  Up by the Hackney rank, a smart-looking man collided with two middle-aged women. Their pink umbrella almost took his head off. The larger woman showed lipstick on her teeth when she shouted at the bloke, "Howeh, man, watch where you're going!"

  The man ploughed on and ducked into the back seat of a waiting cab. The woman righted her umbrella, following the cab with a stink-eye. Her skinny mate huddled close. The pair of them watched the rain like they were made of sugar.

  Joe picked up his bag and jogged across the road to a phone box. Once inside, he pulled a card – buckled at the edges and bright yellow, a wild cat logo on it – and punched the number for Puma Cabs. A woman with a cigar smoker's voice told him it would be five-ten minutes.

  Twenty minutes later, Joe saw the minicab. He held up a hand. The cab slowed to a stop and the boot popped. Joe shut it on his way round to the back. He got in, slung his bag onto the seat next to him, and then pulled the door shut.

  "Room in the boot, you know."

  "You're all right."

  "Suit yourself. Where you off?"

  "Derwent Hall."

  The city centre blurred with rain as the cab pulled away, easing into the slow snake of traffic leaving the station. Brake lights flared every few seconds, every few yards. The driver had the radio on, classical music playing. Normally cab drivers stuck to Metro or Radio One. This one must've thought he was cultured. Joe glanced at him in the rear view mirror: blue eyes and a wide, freckled forehead that matched his wide, freckled neck. Thin blonde hair set in short spikes struggled to make it from one side of his head to the other, and Joe had the idea that it was the driver's gut rather than his height that had made him click back his seat.

  The blue eyes met Joe's. "I know you?"

  Joe looked away. "Nah."

  "You sure, like?"

  Joe nodded. Up ahead, the traffic had started to fracture. "I must have one of them faces."

  "Aye, must do."

  Heading south now, crawling over the Tyne Bridge, the river an oozing mudslide. Then on up the hill and into Gateshead where the traffic thinned as they passed through town before virtually disappearing as they turned onto the road to the Derwent Hall estate. The roads were always deserted out here. Not many people on the Hall had cars. If they did, they didn't live on the estate for long.

  Out towards Dunston, Joe saw the construction site for the new shopping centre. Out the other side of the cab, and pointing the way to the estate, was the old Derwent Hall coke works. The government had closed it a couple of years prior, the demolition order signed not long afterwards, but the works were a long time dying, and any attempts to dismantle the machinery or the blackened body that surrounded it were little more than welts on a monster's hide.

  Then there was the estate itself, the first grey buildings looming through the drizzle. Elswick Way looked as if it had been bombed. Here were the boarded remains of the Northumberland Arms and the older houses, the rotten, temporary accommodation that the council had been told to p
ull down. They looked like personal cells to Joe, but they'd been a paradise of two storeys and a garden to the old man's generation. There were a couple of mortgaged houses on the Hall; the majority rented. The only noticeable difference between the two types of building was the thicker layer of grime on the council-owned – dirt and soot from the works, brought over on a freezing wind and ground into the brick over the years, now impossible to clean and hard to paint over.

  "Where d'you want dropping?"

  "Kielder Walk."

  "Oh aye? I'm on Kielder."

  Joe tried to smile. "That right?"

  "Number twenty-three."

  "Just up the road from us, then." Joe turned his face to the side window. Caught sight of his smiling reflection. He looked sick and simple. The smile collapsed. "Number nineteen."

  The driver was nodding. "So what was it, then?"

  "Eh?"

  "Holiday, was it?"

  "Army."

  "Whereabouts?"

  "Ireland."

  "Really?" The driver whistled. A thick clicking sound came from the front seat. Obviously the driver's thinking noise. "So what was it like? I mean, you hear things—"

  "I've had worse."

  "Oh aye, I bet. Still dangerous, mind."

  Joe shook his head. "Quiet this time."

  "You been over before?"

  "Aye."

  "It's not something I could do, like." The driver turned his head a little, showing a mashed profile and the look of a Sunday soldier, the kind of bloke who couldn't wait to squander his weekends knee-deep in cow shit, firing blanks at a supermarket manager from Shields. "Tough job."

  "You get trained."

  "Aye, but I bet it's hard on your family, isn't it?"

  "They manage."

  "Everyone does." The driver sniffed. "You do what you can, don't you?" He glanced out the side window. "Or you try, anyway."

  The windows of Bamburgh Road were blinded by wood, the gardens grown together into one vast thicket of weeds and twisted crisp packets. In front of one house, a Presto trolley had taken a violent nosedive into a pile of sand. As the cab passed, Joe saw where the sand had come from: an industrial-sized bag was propped up against the side of the house, some DIY job that hadn't made it past a second thought. When the water got into the bag and made it too heavy to lift, DIY Dad must have dumped it out for the bairns to play in.

  "Been changes." The driver nodded to himself. "You been away an' that, you'll probably notice it more than most."

  Joe didn't notice anything different. The estate still looked like a shithole.

  "You know what it is, people just stopped caring. That's the problem. Lost their jobs, lost their what's-it, their self-esteem. Nowt left for them to do except go down the Long Ship." Another sniff. "And that's not good for the bairns, is it? See their mam and dad piss-mortal all the time."

  "Thought they were doing something about the park."

  The driver barked a laugh. "Aye, a blue moon, maybe. Probably can't find anyone willing to do it. I wouldn't go there on a cloudy day, myself. Lost that spot to the druggies. Your glue-sniffers, your smackheads, your God knows what else. I don't keep up. Not like anyone round here's going to do anything about it. Sad state of affairs. You know, we used to have a community round here."

  "I suppose."

  "Back when the works was open. You know, they keep telling us there's opportunities with that shopping centre, that new one, but I can't see them battery lads selling dresses, can you? It's just not thinking, man. It's just something to say."

  "Aye, some people like to talk."

  "Not me. I tried to do something."

  "You did?"

  "Too bloody right. Neighbourhood Watch an' all that? I was there. I did my bit. I knocked on doors, I handed out the pamphlets, I tried to get people involved, but it's no good, man. It's too far gone now. Can't do it anymore. There's a Watch sticker on my front window at home and I'll tell you, no word of a lie, it feels like a bad joke. Because right now it's all like, wey aye, we'll watch, Gav, but that's it. That's all we'll do. Know what I mean?"

  The cab turned into Kielder Walk. Joe caught a glimpse of the street sign and something tripped in his chest.

  "It's the dealers, that's what it is. Listen, like what happened to Brian Turner—"

  "Anywhere up here's fine."

  "You know Brian?"

  The name was familiar, but then it was that kind of name. "No, I don't think so."

  "Lives up here, number six."

  The house opposite Joe's. He thought about it, called up an image of a middle-aged mousy bloke, grey at the temples. Kind of bloke you nodded at down the Long Ship or when you were taking the bin out, but no hard feelings if you forgot because he had a habit of dissolving into the scenery. "What about him?"

  The driver clamped a hand to the back of his neck and rubbed the flesh. "He got himself done over."

  "Robbed?"

  "Beaten up."

  "Doesn't look like a fighter."

  "No, I mean he was brayed. Wasn't a scrap, it was them dealers up the road."

  "Where?"

  "Squatting in that empty place at the end of the road there. Kicked the shit out of him right in the middle of the street, right in front of his little girl."

  Joe didn't say anything. He looked out of the window.

  "Tea time and everything. Everyone in, nobody did nowt. Animals, man."

  "What about you?"

  "I was on shift."

  "And you would've done something?"

  "Too right." The driver glared at him in the mirror, but didn't hold it for long. "How, someone needs to do something about it, don't they? I mean, if I'd been there, I would've done something. Absolutely."

  "What about the police?"

  "Police?" The driver snorted.

  "Here's fine."

  The cab stopped. Joe leaned forward, paid the driver.

  The driver pulled a business card from its holder on the dash and scribbled something on the non-shiny side with a bookie pen. "You ever need a cab, you just give us a ring, all right? Ask for Gav." He'd written his name – GAV SCOTT – in big, childish letters, his phone number underneath. "Just get your change."

  "Don't worry about it."

  "Nah, I'm not having that." Gav handed Joe a mess of coins. "Discounts for our brave lads overseas."

  Joe nodded his thanks, pocketed the money and stepped out. He took a deep breath as the cab rolled away. The street smelled like school dinners.

  You couldn't miss the squat at the end of the road. A Datsun Sunny stood on bricks in the front garden while a lanky lad in army surplus leaned against what was left of the tumbledown front wall. Music blared from inside, and wasn't about to disturb their next-door neighbours – number fourteen was long abandoned. Across the road, Brian Turner's place was dark, the curtains open. The house looked like a skull.

  Drizzle became rain again. Somewhere behind him, Joe heard the front door open. Michelle said his name as if she wasn't sure if it was actually him. He fixed a smile and turned to her.

  She flapped down the front path in her slippers. "You forget where you live?"

  "Just looking around."

  Michelle threw her arms around him. He hugged back. She smelled like milk. He had to pull away.

  "The old man about?"

  "He's down the bookies."

  "Okay."

  "But there's someone else who wants to say hiya."

  "Who's that, then?"

  Michelle grinned, thumped him on the arm. She ushered him inside, slippers slapping the concrete, throwing a heaviness into her walk. He smiled every step of the way, even though his face had started to ache.

  2

  Gav sacked his shift at six, waved off Phil's invitation down the Long Ship – "Howeh, man, it's Saturday" – and headed home instead. Ten past six, he was through the front door and basking in the warm smell of Saturday chips.

  Upstairs, a rolling series of thuds made the boys easy to locat
e. Big Daddy and Giant Haystacks at it again. A shout. That was Andy. A scream, and that was definitely Kevin. Andy cackled and ran across the landing. Kevin pursued. They thundered down the stairs. Andy jumped the last two steps, an exercise book rolled like a baton in one hand. Kevin lunged after, yelling at his brother in a voice so high it made Gav cringe.

  Kevin snatched at Andy's arm. "Give us it back."

  "Nah."

  "Give us, man."

  Gav watched them barrel past. "No running in the house."

  Andy shoved into front room. Gav heard the telly – explosions and gunfire – and followed the boys. He was about to tell them to turn that racket down when Kevin leapt onto his brother's back. The boys tumbled to the carpet and rolled as one organism, all elbows and knees, across the floor. There was a break, a moment to recover. Kevin reared back and smacked Andy in the ear. Andy sucked breath, jerked into a half-curl, one hand clenched white around the book that now appeared in glimpses, wedged between the floor and his stomach, as Kevin tried to wrestle it out from under him. Andy grinned, his ear burning red, and let out a hoarse, grating laugh. These two had been battering each other raw since they were infants, as soon as Andy first learned to throw a fist and Kevin learned to counter, and now neither would stop until they were either physically separated or blood was spilled. Kevin smacked Andy again, a glancing half-slap to the cheek. Andy coloured, shifted, grunted, wriggled under the soft weight of his little brother, and brought out the book hand to brace himself. Kevin saw the book and made a grab for it. Andy bucked Kevin off-balance, staggered forward, and shoved the exercise book down the front of his jeans.

  Kevin looked violated. "Andy!"

  Andy crowed and skipped around the room. "What's the matter?"

  "Give us it back."

  "What's the matter?"

  "Give us it back." Kevin slapped Andy across the head. The impact hurt his fingers, and the sting broke the seal. Kevin's hand balled and he lashed out again, then again, his face now glistening with tears and snot. Andy whirled and threw a short, hard punch to Kevin's ample gut.

  Enough was enough.

  "All right, lads." Gav stepped in and grabbed Kevin, who immediately became a dead weight.

  "Ayah, man!"

  Gav dragged him off to one side, let him go and watched him stagger. "You're fine."