Angels Of The North

by Ray Banks

  "You."

  "Me?"

  "What you said in the cab the other week. What you were saying about Brian Turner."

  "What about it?"

  "You were saying that someone should do something about that lot at number thirteen."

  Gav didn't remember. He smoked his cigarette.

  "And I was thinking about it." The soldier sniffed. "I've been watching them. And I reckon you're right. And if the police aren't going to do nowt about it, I reckon maybe we should."

  Gav looked up. "What, 'we' as in you and me?"

  "You said something needed to be done."

  "Aye, something. I was talking about the police, wasn't I? I was talking about the authorities an' that."

  "Were you?"

  "Course I was."

  "So you weren't serious?"

  "Course I was serious."

  "Well, then."

  "About the police, I was. Jesus. And I was serious about being hacked off about the whole situation. I mean, it's shit, isn't it? It's a shit situation."

  The soldier stared at him. Didn't blink, even though the smoke looked as if it was getting right in his eyes.

  "Listen, I know what I said, and I never said owt about doing it myself, all right?" Gav held up a hand, tilted his head. "I'm sorry if you got that idea, mate, I really am. But I'm not a hard man, me."

  "Neither was Brian Turner."

  "And look what happened."

  "He did something, though, didn't he?" The soldier's voice took on an edge. "At least he did that."

  "Aye, and what did he get for it?"

  The smoke lingered in front of Gav's face, obscuring the soldier for a moment before the wind snatched it away. He told himself to watch the small talk in future. Reminded himself that you never really knew who you had in the back of your cab. He'd just been friendly and look where it had got him, braced by this slap-happy Samaritan in the freezing fucking cold.

  "Listen, sorry I couldn't—"

  "I did some sums." The soldier moved in front of Gav, blocking his exit. "Counted the houses. Next time you've got nowt better to do, you give it a go. Our street, Kielder Walk, you take that as an example. Twelve houses on either side, not including thirteen and the burn-out next door. Looking at one adult male per household, maybe more if there's any sons over eighteen, but for the sake of argument let's just call it twenty-four adult males for the whole street. From what I've seen, there's maybe six or seven people in that squat. Four to one. How scared d'you think you'd be if you had three blokes backing you up against one dealer?"

  "Hang on." Gav bristled. "I never said I was scared, did I?"

  "I know you're not. That's why I'm talking to you."

  "I don't get it."

  "You know this place better than me. I need to know if you think it's a goer."

  The soldier was smiling. The cigarette stuck out at an odd angle. Gav didn't like looking at him. He turned to his cab, which seemed so very far away, then he moved a little towards the office. "I don't think you'll get much interest."

  "Really?"

  "I tried with the Neighbourhood Watch—"

  "Aye, and they can watch, I know. But I'm talking about setting a proper fuckin' example, Gavin. People just need to be shown that it's not all right to be the victim. You can take the bastards at their own game. You can do something quick and hard and nobody needs to get hurt."

  "Somebody always gets hurt."

  "Then we make sure it's the right someone. Doesn't even need twenty-four. We can do it with ten. Fuck it, with the right plan, we can do it with two. Look at Curtis Sliwa, started with nothing—"

  "Who?"

  "Doesn't matter. All I'm asking is, are you in?"

  Gav shook his head. "Good luck with it, mind."

  "So you're not interested."

  Made it sound like, so you're a fuckin' bottler.

  Gav smiled a tight little smile, felt the pressure build in his head. Obviously he dealing with a mule here, so the next time he spoke, he made sure to do it slowly, clearly and in a friendly tone. Practising his diplomacy. "Listen, mate, I appreciate that you've probably been thinking about this for a while, and honestly, you sound like a hundred per cent committed, I can't fault you on that. I also think you've probably got the right kind of training to put the fear of God into that lot, so if you want to pick a fight, you be my guest. But I can't help you with it, all right? I've got a family to look after."

  "So does Brian."

  "Aye, and I'm sure they're dead proud of him."

  "You just bought your own house, didn't you?"

  Gav paused, looked at the soldier. Wondered what the fuck he was getting at. His shirt sleeves flapped in the wind. He stepped away, thrust both hands into the pockets of his bodywarmer. "What's that got to do with anything?"

  "First time buyer, are you?"

  "None of your business."

  "You know when you signed off on that house, you bought more than the bricks and mortar. You bought a commitment to the community at large."

  "Ah, come on ... Jesus Christ."

  "You said, you shouted, right, I am going to stay here. I am going to make a home here. I am going to raise my children here. I am going to be part of something that's bigger than me, and I'm going to address its problems, because its problems are bigger than my own."

  "I wish it'd said all that on the mortgage application."

  "Taking the piss, but you know it's true. Else you'd be saving money and renting from the council like the rest of us. And I'll tell you right now, see if you ever change your mind on that buy and you ever want to sell your house again, you're going to have to deal with the problems in your community. Because nobody wants to live on a street with a squat at the end of it, especially when they're dealing out of it. And that lot aren't going to shift unless someone shifts them. In fact, I guarantee, see if you leave it? They'll get more in. They'll spread out. They'll chase off your neighbours. It'll get a fuck sight worse unless it gets nipped in the bud now."

  "What about the police?"

  "What about them? What did they do? They're reactive, Gavin. They don't have a vested interest, not like you and me."

  "Like you."

  "Fine."

  "I'm sorry."

  "You don't want to be a part of it, that's fine. I can understand that. But if the only reason you're saying no is because you think you're going to get hurt, then I can guarantee that you won't."

  Gav laughed. "Sorry if I don't believe you."

  The soldier shrugged, moved out of the way to let Gav pass. "People get hurt when they underestimate their enemy. Can't underestimate if you're prepared." He clapped his hands, rubbed them together as if he'd just realised how nippy it was out here. "Anyway, think about it." He nodded. "I'll let you get on."

  Gav didn't move. "Why're you doing this?"

  "I don't know." The soldier shrugged again, looked over the top of Gav's head. "Because Brian Turner tried to do something for his community and his community did fuck all to help. We owe him. And I just thought it might be nice if he came back to a better estate than he left, you know?"

  "When's he getting out of hospital?"

  "Next Monday." He looked at Gav and smiled. "Listen, you change your mind, I'll be down the Long Ship on Saturday."

  He backed off a few steps, then turned. Gav watched him go. He didn't move, didn't feel the cold anymore either. He was numb.

  Standing there, wondering just how much that soldier knew about the night Brian Turner got brayed.

  9

  In.

  Pause.

  Out – tickticktick.

  Joe grabbed his clothes from the bedroom floor and nipped out to the landing where he dressed in silence. Then he put one ear to the door. Michelle was snoring. Did the same to the old man's. He was the same.

  Joe went through to the bairn's room and picked up the binoculars.

  The fat boy was out at the end of the street. Same clothes, same half-arsed attitude. Joe lower
ed the binoculars and rubbed some blood into his cheeks, closed his eyes for a moment. Then he left the bairn's room and took the stairs slowly, careful to miss the third and sixth creak on the way down. He shrugged into his jacket, collar up. Grabbed a cap, pulled down the bill. Checked himself in the mirror and saw a shadow staring back.

  Then he left the house.

  Despite the glow of the street lamps, it was pitch at street level, winter dark mixed with country dark, a molasses black so thick that cheap orange street lamps couldn't pierce it more than a foot. Joe wedged his hands deep into the pockets of his bomber, curled them into tight fists so they wouldn't shake. Kept his head down and his thoughts immediate, watching the pavement roll under his feet as he walked. He drifted further into the darkness whenever the opportunity arose, but maintained his pace. Didn't matter that his footsteps were almost inaudible. If he slowed down or sped up too much, there was a chance he'd register in the dealer's peripheral vision, and there was no sense in broadcasting his presence ahead of schedule.

  Gavin Scott didn't want to be involved, that was fine. He hadn't come in that night to the Long Ship, where Joe and Michelle spent another listless Saturday evening, hoping that the constant chatter around them would mask the holes in their conversation. He'd been hoping to see Gavin, but in the end just figured that the cab driver was scared. That was fine, too. Some people weren't natural aggressors. Even though he'd sounded like one in the cab – and he might still have the strength to make this work – Gavin was more mouth than might. Joe had seen plenty of them in the army. The shouters and screamers, frightened toothless mad dogs. The army took those blokes and muzzled them, forced them to the ground and whispered in one ear that it was all right to fight. It was all right to hurt someone. As long as you did it according to their specification, their rules, then it wasn't just all right, it was honourable and moral. Then the mad dogs sported fangs, and the shouters became soldiers with a duty to hurt whoever they were told to hurt, foreign or domestic. Gavin Scott was the same. Joe could see it in him. He just needed a push. The conversation hadn't done it, but maybe an example would.

  Joe stopped five feet away from the dealer.

  The dealer didn't notice him for a while. When he did, he watched him intently.

  Joe didn't move.

  "What?"

  Kept still. Didn't say anything. Wanted the guy on his toes and nervous. This wouldn't work if it was a surprise. Surprises were for when you needed your victim to forget what had happened, and Joe wanted this prick to remember every second.

  "You after something or what?"

  "Aye."

  "What, then?"

  "Brown." Joe pulled a handful of notes, most of them small, ten quid masquerading as pay day. He raised his head, tilted slightly, glanced over the dealer's shoulder at the open front door to number thirteen. Nobody there. Didn't mean nobody was watching, but they'd be hard pressed to get out of the door in time. He showed the notes to the dealer. "However much this'll get."

  The dealer looked at Joe's hand, but he didn't shift from the wall. Didn't like the idea of stepping into the shadows, obviously. Which made him cleverer than he looked.

  "Where you from?"

  "Eh?"

  "You're not from round here. I never seen you before."

  "No."

  "So where you from?" A slight slur in the dealer's voice. The can on the wall wasn't the first he'd had tonight. Probably not the only depressant, either.

  "Around." Joe moved his feet, just to see if he could without arousing suspicion. "We doing this or what?"

  The dealer watched him a little longer. Then he bunched his lips. "Nah."

  "You what?"

  Shook his head. "I'm not fuckin' thick. I'm not selling to a fuckin' polis, am I?"

  "I'm not polis."

  "Aye, right you're not. Fuck off."

  "I'm not."

  "Not telling you again." The dealer moved. The light danced across something that snagged the dealer's denim – a thick, black handle, rimmed with metal, something sticking out of his cowboy belt. The dealer pushed away the jacket and tugged to reveal one of those Rambo-looking hunting knives with a curled tip and serrated edge, a Halloween scare for softarses. Joe pressed his bottom teeth against his top lip to keep from laughing.

  The dealer read the expression as fear. He rolled his shoulders and replaced the knife in its sheath. "Aye, you'll fuckin' know about it in a minute, son."

  Joe stifled the smile. "I'm just asking for a bit of help, man."

  "I telt you to fuck off."

  "I'm not the polis, man, I'm telling you." He slowly but surely cut the five foot gap to three. "Swear, honest to God, man. I'm just after scoring, like."

  "I don't give a fuck."

  "All right, I'm sorry." Joe shifted his balance.

  "Fuck you sorry—"

  A jab to the dealer's ribs ripped the wind out of him. Another to the throat – side on and hard – took out the dealer's cords. A thick clicking sound, like the fat lad was trying to swallow his own tongue. Joe stepped up, grabbed denim, snatched the knife, sheath and all, from the dealer's belt. Got a close-up of the fat lad's puckered face as he tried to cough up his voice and butt Joe at the same time. Joe shucked the blade from its cover and pulled the dealer towards him, jabbed the curled tip of the knife against the fat boy's thigh. Joe smelled tabs, the sweetish odour of new sweat, the thatched smell of old booze, and the ammonia tang of urine.

  A glance over the dealer's shoulder. Still no movement in the house.

  Joe pulled the dealer forward, off-balance, the weight of him supported by Joe's shoulder and the knife. Blood spotted the dealer's jeans. He could hear the fat boy breathing in his ear, shuddering against his shoulder.

  "Hand it over."

  Swallowing, gulping at air. Another thirty seconds, and the dealer might get a lungful. A minute after that and he'd be screaming for help. He pushed back with his hands.

  Joe dug the blade in. "Don't be fuckin' clever and don't be fuckin' loud. Empty your pockets." He let the dealer back up a step, but kept the blade steady, the other hand on the lad's jacket. "Everything."

  The dealer felt around in his pockets.

  Joe glanced at the house again. Still nothing.

  The dealer held out plastic bags and Clingfilm wraps – weed, smack, pills, powder. A handful of grubby cash, mostly fivers. Joe let go of the dealer's denim long enough to stuff the lot into his bomber with his free hand.

  "All right. Good lad."

  He removed the knife, stepped in and planted a hard left just to the side of the dealer's ample gut. The fat lad made a noise like a choked duck and crumpled over Joe's arm. Joe backed away, watching him struggle to say upright. A few more steps. The dealer stumbled forward, hit the pavement. Joe stuck the knife down the back of his jeans, pulled his bomber to cover it, then turned and hit the shadows.

  Walking away. Glancing over his shoulder. Movement in the squat. He slowed, turned, watching from the darkness. Four heads, maybe five. A clot of people in the doorway, too scared to investigate.

  Joe kept walking, but slowly. Near-silent as he continued the dark way home. He paused a few yards from his house. Three badly-drawn silhouettes, moving in short bursts, emerged from the squat and grabbed the fat lad. Joe ducked round the side fence. He went in through the back door, up the stairs and into the bairn's room. She was lying on her back, her eyes closed, her breathing heavy. Outside, people milled around, talking in hushed voices. Joe shifted the floorboard and grabbed his wash bag, replaced the board and crossed the landing to the bathroom.

  He closed the bathroom door. Tugged the cord. Blinked against the light. Locked the door. Checked it was properly locked. He felt something wet on his hands. Clear, looked like drool. He wiped it off on his jeans and then emptied his jacket pockets onto the lid of the toilet.

  Two lumps of resin. Some weed stalks. Three small bags of white powder; a dab of each told him it was that kind of crunchy speed that would shred your
sinuses if you were ever stupid enough to play coke with it. Just over a hundred and ten in greasy fivers. And finally, and more important than any of that other shit, was the gear, enough to weigh a little something, and enough to keep him going for a while if he watched his pops.

  He stuffed the cash into his jeans, put the gear to one side and, after battering it with toilet roll, flushed everything else. Sat on the edge of the bath and retrieved his works.

  Then he cooked.

  There was an opportunity here. Maybe he could rip that fat bastard off every couple of weeks. Wasn't like there was any protection, and as long as he was out there and vulnerable, there was no need to think about Dylan or having to score like your run-of-the-mill smackrat.

  Joe prepped the pin, drew through cotton. It demanded concentration, but the kind of concentration that became second nature with practice. He tapped the needle and pulled off his trainer, then his sock. He waggled his toes, put a foot up on the side of the toilet.

  A creak outside the door. He froze.

  A few seconds later, someone tried the handle. Another slight creak. Someone knocked softly on the door. "Joe?"

  He kept quiet.

  "You in there, love?"

  Michelle tried the handle again. Yes, he had locked the door. Locked it and checked it. It was solid.

  He cleared his dry throat, found his voice. "Yeah, aye. I'm in here."

  "You all right?"

  "Fine, aye. Should be, anyway." He looked around. The works were spread out on the floor, the stash sitting on the toilet, the needle all prepped and trembling in his hand. "Just got a bad gut."

  "Aw."

  "Not pretty."

  "I heard someone being sick, but it sounded like it was coming from outside."

  "I wasn't sick, no. Wasn't me. It's the other end. I'll probably have to strike a match an' all, so you might want to leave it for a bit."

  "You want me to go and get them for you?"