by Ray Banks
"Get what?"
"The matches."
"Nah, it's all right. I'll get them when I'm finished."
"Right." He heard her shuffle behind the door. "Okay."
She moved again, but she didn't leave. He wanted to scream at her to fuck off, leave him alone, he'd be out when he was out, why couldn't she give him a bit of fucking peace? He wanted to hurt her for hanging around.
"I hope you feel better soon, love."
Like she knew what he was doing, and she was sad about it.
Joe kept his voice neutral. "Ta."
Listened hard. Heard her leave, heard the muffled click of the bedroom door as it closed behind her.
He breathed out. Looked down at the needle and jabbed it between his toes – a pot luck pop. When he pulled the pin, he sucked his teeth at the sudden, unexpected pain and watched the blood bubble up between his toes before grabbing a fistful of toilet roll and jamming it between big and first. He lowered his foot to the floor. The lino was cold. The rest of him warmed up.
The light hurt his eyes, but the pain wasn't altogether unpleasant. He shifted forward, leaned on his knees, let his breath out slowly like treacle. Something tickled his chest. When he cleared his throat, he found there was a lot to clear. Something warm and wet hit the back of his hand. He wiped his lips, but his mouth was dry. A warm ball rolled in his throat. And it was only when he put his hand to his cheek that he realised he was crying.
10
Monday morning – not that you'd know it, it was black outside – and for the first time in weeks, Brian was looking forward to six o'clock wake-up. As soon as that light came on at six, he was out of bed, ready to go. At quarter-past, he found himself in a wheelchair, a Polish porter pushing him to the QE reception. The porter's whistling showed him up as a Chris De Burgh fan. Brian hated the song, hated the tune and hated the whistling most of all, but it was better than what spilled out of the porter's mouth as soon as they hit the doors. Bad jokes, one after the other, like Bob bloody Monkhouse. The kind of puns that only amused people for whom English was a second language. According to the porter, laughter was the best medicine. If that was case, then this medicine belonged to an NHS on the skids: "You be careful, Mr Turner. You must take it slow. You should not enter the Great North Run, aha ha ha ha ..."
Brian felt the porter's hands on him and waved them away as he struggled to his feet, a Tesco carrier full of his stuff swinging from one wrist.
"Easy, Mr Turner. You are not so strong as—"
"Fuck off, will you?"
The porter chuckled. Brian concentrated on putting one foot in front of the other, and getting out of there as quickly as possible. His stiff legs refused speed, though, and as soon as he got outside, the cold slowed him even more. He stopped, zipped his anorak to his throat and then pushed on, hands in his pockets, Tesco bag bouncing against his thigh, and his shoulders up to his ears. The sky was pitch; the tarmac shimmered from an early shower. He walked on, feet like stumps, tried to ignore the twitch of fear as he passed shadows that flickered with the wind. They weren't dealers waiting to finish off the job – he knew that – but the lizard-brained part of him reacted regardless. He could smell the sweat, the tack and the beer, and if he set his mind to it, he could see them clustered at the end of the car park, just as they'd clustered in the narrow hallway of the squat, before they all came spilling out after him.
But it wasn't them. It wasn't anyone. Nobody was awake by choice at this time of the morning, and they certainly wouldn't be out in this weather if they were. Those men who'd broken his bones and bloodied him up and put him in the hospital were probably passed out on a settee somewhere. They weren't committed enough to come after him, and it was vain to think otherwise.
A freezing blast of wind forced him to stop. He lowered his head and shivered.
Up the road, a bus slowed as it approached its stop. Brian quickened his pace, limped through the pain. He made the crossing. A car hurtled past and sprayed him with puddle water. The bus behind was empty. He hobbled across the the crossing, shouting on the driver to hold on. The driver was either deaf or a dick, because he lurched past the stop and continued up the road. Brian swore at the bus, then the driver, then the rain and then checked his watch. The fucking thing was early. Of course it was. Why wouldn't it be?
He hauled his aching leg into the shelter. The timetable told him he had another thirty minutes to wait. A gust of rain-flecked wind provided him with a grumpy punchline.
"Shit." He shook his head. "Fucking ... shit."
He leaned against a McDonald's advert. His wrist hurt along with everything else. He moved the carrier strap and massaged the mark it had made. He bunched the bag in both hands. The rain thickened as it hit the top of the shelter, a spit at first, then a spatter blew in from the side. The puddles outside pocked and rippled. Brian wiped the water from his face, retreated to the corner of the shelter and stared through the mottled plastic glass at approaching headlights, smeared by the rain and too bright to stare at directly.
Another car belted past. More water sprayed, added to his soaked trainers. He looked down, didn't say anything. No point. Nobody around to hear it. When he breathed out, something gnawed at him just above the belt line and he realised he was hungry. He wondered if he had enough money to get some proper food in and went through his pockets. Not much. Maybe the bare essentials. Pint of milk, loaf of bread, maybe get some of those cheese singles things because they were cheaper than normal cheese, or maybe just make do with bread and butter. Toast it so it didn't feel so meagre. Maybe get some Dairylea or something. That sounded good.
More headlights. He stepped further back and prepared himself for another cold shower. The car slowed. It had PUMA CABS written on the side. The cab rolled to a stop in front of the bus shelter. Brian watched it. The driver rolled down the passenger-side window a crack. He was a stocky bloke, and he was smiling. "Sorry I'm late. There was tailbacks up Lobley Hill."
"I never called a cab."
"I know you didn't. Hop in."
Brian looked up. Another car went past. The tyres made a sound like a rolling tide. The cab's hazards ticked impatiently and somewhere under it, Brian heard the warm sound of classical music, the volume turned low. He unzipped his anorak and reached for his wallet.
The driver waved his hand. "Don't be daft, man. You're not on the meter."
Brian frowned. "You what?"
"It's a freebie."
"Why?"
"Because I'm a nice bloke. Come on. You need any help getting in?"
"No." Brian zipped his anorak and got in the back of the cab. The hell with it, a free lift was a free lift. He shut the door, brought the carrier up to his lap. It was warm back here. That, coupled with the music, made him want to doze off. The driver rolled up the passenger window and glanced at Brian in the mirror. He was smiling. It seemed genuine. He turned in his seat, offered his hand. "Gav Scott."
Brian shook his hand. "Brian Turner."
"I know." Gav sat back and faced front. Checked his wing, the rear and then pulled the cab into non-existent traffic like a pro. "Nobody told you I was coming to pick you up, did they?"
"No."
"That's what I thought. They were supposed to tell the reception to make you wait."
"I was in a hurry." Brian looked out of the window. Rain snaked down the glass.
"Aye, I bet you were."
"Why are you doing this? I mean, don't think I'm not grateful or anything—"
"We have a mutual friend."
"Oh, right." Brian wasn't aware that he had any friends. "Who's that, then?"
"Joe Warren?"
Brian couldn't place the name. He was about to say so when it finally clicked. The soldier. "He told you to pick us up at the bus stop?"
"He didn't tell us to do nowt. We were talking about you and he mentioned when you were getting out, so I thought I'd give you a lift. I was going to swing round to the front and pick you up there. Supposed to be a door-to-doo
r service, like. But there was a smash-up on Lobley Hill. I never got a good look – I'm not one for gawking, like – but there was a couple ambulances, so I'm guessing it was bad. Surprised I didn't see any of them come in here."
"Well, thanks for the lift. I appreciate it."
"Nae bother. My pleasure." He tapped the steering wheel. "I was wanting to have a word with you anyway." His eyes flicked to Brian's in the mirror, then back to the road. "Don't worry, it's nowt bad. Just that me and Joe were talking about what happened to you and everything, and we both agreed that it was a disgrace."
"Thanks."
"When something like that happens, it's a wake-up call. Makes you think about what you'd do in that situation. I mean, we all knew it was going to shit round our way, right?"
Brian nodded.
"But nobody would be able to tell you how shit it was until that happened. Shook a lot of people up, let me tell you. I know people could've stepped in, could've helped you out a bit. If I wasn't on shift, I would've done it myself."
"Nice to know."
"Nobody helped you. I know. I'm not saying it was right, but I can understand why. They're just scared."
"Well, it's over now."
"Aye, wey, I just wanted you to know, there's some of us on the Hall still give a shit."
"Thanks, Gav."
Brian saw the cokeworks in the distance, the sky greying around the black silhouette. His stomach growled, but the last thing he wanted to do was eat. The thought of it nauseated him. He tried to concentrate on the music. "Is that Elgar?"
"I don't know the names. I mean, they say them, but I don't really listen. I like the music. All the other lads listen to Metro. You ever hear that?"
"My daughter listens to it." He frowned. "Listened to it."
"Can't stand it, myself. All the DJs on there, they all sound the same to me. Not like they're from round here at all. Weird accents. Except Alan Robson. He's all right, I suppose. I mean, I don't like his show or nowt, but I've got to admit, the way he deals with them mentalists every night, that's a talent. Proper care in the community cases, some of them."
"I think it is Elgar."
Gav nodded. "You want me to turn it up?"
"If you want."
He did. They listened to the music for a while until Gav spoke again. "So how you feeling?"
"I'm okay."
"You going to be off work for long, d'you think?"
Brian smiled bitterly. "I'm not working at the minute."
"Right."
"Used to work down the hill."
"The cokeworks?"
"For a bit, yeah. A year in the office."
"My dad worked down there. Did it for twenty years after he left the merchants."
"What was his name?"
"Donald Scott. He was shop steward."
"Did he get laid off?"
"Nah, he died."
"Sorry to hear it."
"You never killed him. And it was a long time ago, way before all that redundancy shite. Before you were there an' all." Gav's mouth kept moving, but he didn't say anything else for a while until: "Would've killed him anyway to see what happened to us."
The cab slowed as it turned onto Kielder Walk. Brian looked out at the street. The soldier's house stood out, even in the gloom. Neat garden, clear path, even looked as if the brickwork had been given a good scrub. It looked like a house owned by someone other than the council, and those were few and far between round here. Gav parked the cab across the road, right in front of Brian's house.
"Sure I don't owe you anything?" Hoping to God that Gav hadn't changed his mind, because all he had was bus money and a couple of quid for shopping.
"Least I could do."
"No, the least you could've done was nothing. So thanks again."
Brian got out of the taxi and felt around in his anorak pocket for the front door key. Gav tossed him a little backwards wave as he pulled away from the kerb. Brian returned it and watched the car roll off down the street, disappearing into the drizzle and dark, brake lights flaring once as it turned the corner. Brian didn't dare turn and look at the end of the cul-de-sac. He wasn't up for that sight just yet.
Welcome home.
11
Here was a fun fact: Winston Churchill won World War II even though he was piss-mortal most of the time. And if the book's author had written it down like that – nice and clear, no fucking about – then Gav wouldn't have been squinting at the sentence like an idiot when Phil knocked once and stuck his head round the door. "All right?"
The noise in the main waiting area was bad enough with the door closed, but now it sounded like a coked up crèche – the typical Saturday night headache. Gav put the book down. "What's up?"
Phil closed the door. "You spoke to the big lad yet?"
"He only had the op last week."
"Thought you might've heard from him."
"When I do, Phil, I'll let you know."
Phil jerked a thumb at the door, grinning. "Just, we're all wondering, is it worth sucking up to you if you're just going to be a temp an' that?"
"That was you lot sucking up to me, was it? Fuckin' hell, I'd hate to see you turn against us." He pushed back from the desk and stood. "I'm sure everything's going to be all right. I'm just giving him a bit of time to get better before I talk to him."
"Fair enough, but see if he gives you any gyp—"
"I know."
"You just say the word, we'll go round the QE with a baseball bat."
Gav smiled and pushed past Phil. "All right."
"Where you going?"
"On shift." Gav eased through the crowd of drivers and customers in the waiting area. The smell of booze was almost tangible in the small cabin.
Rosie shouted after him. "You going out, I've got—"
But he was already out the door. He might've been on shift, but he'd be damned if he was picking up any fares. He crossed to his cab and got in. Trouble with the office was that it was full of people, and people didn't help him concentrate. Once he took over the place, he'd make sure the back office was soundproofed. In the meantime, he could get the rest of this Churchill book read somewhere nice and quiet and out of the way. He started the engine and the music eased in – soothing and orchestral – as he rolled the cab away from the office.
He tried to read up by Dunston Park, but managed no more than a page or two before he caught himself staring blankly out of the window. He drove around for a while, listening to the music, then parked at the end of Kielder Walk. He stared at the houses, counting them off. Most of the windows were black and curtained, apart from the squat at the end of the street.
The lights were on, and a crunchy bass sound came from somewhere deep inside the house, which Gav felt more than heard. The squat was alert, almost alive, and taunted him like a Hoppings ghost train. At night, the place looked deadly and impenetrable. Didn't matter how many people they rounded up, Gav couldn't picture a raid. And now he came to think of it, the soldier's maths were fucked, too. Yes, there were twelve houses on either side of the street, but Gav knew that there were at least five elderly couples on Kielder Walk. Dad's Army wouldn't be much use unless they had a couple of Enfields stashed away. The rest of the houses were home to a variety of long-term sick and full-time pissheads. That wasn't to say there weren't blokes who could be counted on to crack some skulls, but they were the last people you'd want involved – the kind of perpetual scrappers Gav saw grapple-staggering around the Long Ship car park after last bell.
Still, Joe Warren didn't act like the kind of bloke who talked bollocks just to make himself sound good. He'd been committed, and for all the flaws in his logic, there was some merit to the soldier's plan – with enough people, they could do something special. And maybe he'd seen something in Gav that made him think they were kindred spirits. Or maybe he'd mistaken guilt for guts.
Gav moved in his seat. Rubbed his face. The radio crackled.
He should've known better than to give Brian Turner a
lift. Should've left it alone. But he thought a good deed might go some way to alleviating the anxiety. Instead, he felt worse. Before Gav picked him up outside the hospital, Brian Turner was just a name and an event. Now he'd had him in the back of his cab, he was a broken human being, his face a mess of bruises, his walk a measured limp. And Gav felt partly responsible for that.
All right, more than partly.
Gav wasn't on shift when it happened. He was upstairs pulling on a clean shirt when he heard the noise up the street. He tugged the curtain, careful not to show himself because the shirt still hung open, and saw a knot of bastards all tight around someone on the ground. It was a shock, not because they were clearly kicking the shit out of someone, but because the bastards were out of their usual orbit. They'd moved beyond their gate, come out into the street. It was like seeing a growling dog in your bathroom.
He stepped back, brought the curtain across. Grabbed his trackie top and hit the stairs like a Cockney, two at a time and bandy-legged. He looked up the hall. Fiona was in the kitchen washing the tea dishes. Couple of steps just to check, and there was Sophie in her big girl's chair, tongue poking out as she finished colouring in a picture of Snow White with a chunky pink crayon.
Safe.
Another shout from out front, loud enough to make it through the house. Fiona turned off the radio. "What was that?"
"Trouble outside."
"Kind of trouble?"
"Doesn't matter. Where's the lads?"
"I don't know." She grabbed a tea towel, started drying her hands.
"They out front?" He marched up the hall. Gave himself a moment to catch his breath, then opened up. Kevin stood in the front garden, watching the scene. Gav grabbed his arm.
"Dad—"
"Where's your brother?"
Kevin pointed next door. Andy stood with his mate, Wayne Orton. Wayne looked like Andy's bodyguard. That stone face of his was enough to unnerve Gav at the best of times but right now it looked as if the rock-headed little shit was getting off on the wet thumps coming from the road. Gav shoved Kevin into the hall with a glare that told him to stay put or else, then turned back to Andy, who had ducked up the side of the house. Wayne stood there, still watching, a tight grin on his face.
