by Ray Banks
Gav went back inside, shut the door. Kevin stood dumbly in the hall, looking at his feet and apparently awaiting further instructions.
"Go and help your sister with her colouring in."
Gav went into the front room. Outside, someone screamed through liquid. Fiona appeared at Gav's side, tea towel wound tight in both hands. When Gav moved away from the window, she took his place.
She peered through the nets. "Who is it?"
"Brian."
"Brian who?"
He gestured vaguely at the far wall, the one with the picture of stampeding elephants. "Lives up the street. I don't know his second name. Got a kid. Daughter."
"What about his wife?"
"Never seen her. He doesn't work." Gav watched his feet. Someone outside roared a string of swear words. The noise tensed him up. He looked at his watch – he had to be on shift in ten minutes. He looked back at the window. "Fiona, man, just ... howeh, get away from the window, will you? Christ's sake ..."
She moved to one side, but kept watching. "I want to know what's going on."
"Whatever it is, it's got nowt to do with us."
She looked at him. "When do you have to be at work?"
"I've got time yet."
Another shout from outside. More joined it. They sounded like crows. Fiona turned back to the window, and Gav got the sudden urge to pull her away, something gnawing at him that turned sharp the moment he heard Brian yell for help, and then heard that yell cut short. He pulled at the net, saw Brian's silhouette take a header into the pavement, then he moved in front of Fiona.
"Gav—"
"You don't want to see this." Put his hands on her shoulders, tried to steer her away. "Howeh, love ..."
She slipped out from under his fingers and before he had a chance to stop her, looked out of the window. Her mouth hung open. "Jesus."
"It's all right."
"What're you talking about?"
"It'll be okay."
She made for the hall. He stood stupidly by until he thought she was going for the front door and panic kicked him in the chest. He followed, noticed the phone in her hand, and his panic distilled into something much worse. "What d'you think you're doing?"
"Calling the police."
"Don't be daft. Police aren't going to do him any good, are they?"
"They'll do something."
"It's finished. They'll be long gone by the time—"
"They live at the end of the street."
"The police don't care."
Her face was pale and blank. She glanced at the front door. Whatever she thought she saw through the frosted pane made her swallow. Then she started dialling. "I've got to do something, Gavin."
"You need to think about it, love."
She put the receiver to her ear. "Hello?"
"You want to put us in danger. If they find out ..."
She ignored him, talked to the operator instead. He went back to the front room and tugged the net.
They were still out there, but their kicks came less frequently now. Either bored or tired. Brian didn’t move at all.
Gav had seen this coming, this whole situation. Blood on the road. Except before it had crept up on him in the middle of a sleepless night, and it had featured a version of himself under the boot instead of Brian Whatshisname.
The group broke up, some of them turning to swagger up the road. Brian was face down. Blood around his head. The lads laughed as they went back to the house.
When they were gone, the whole street was silent.
Brian lay there so long, Gav thought he was dead.
Then came the low moan. Quiet at first, then building in volume and pitch until it became a scream scratched with rage and agony. It was deafening for a second, and then died as quickly as it had started and then everything was quiet again.
Fiona came into the front room. "I called an ambulance."
They stood together by the window. He heard Kevin telling Sophie that she shouldn't use blue for someone's face. He didn't want to think about where Andy was, just hoped he was safe and out of the way. He put an arm around Fiona's waist. She resisted at first, then came closer. Outside, Brian's arm bent. His hand braced against the road. He tried to push himself up and failed.
He didn't move much after that.
The ambulance arrived before the police did. By that time, people were out and talking, all neighbours together, hemmed in by their gardens and afraid to cross boundaries. Every now and then, someone would look up at the squat and then quickly away, as if staring at the place would bring the bastards back out.
Gav kissed Fiona on one cold cheek and set off out the front door. At the gate, he watched the medics put Brian in the back of the ambulance. He was unconscious and bleeding. One hand was purple and mangled. The flashers rolled light across the street, giving the whole place the look of a disco. Up by Brian's house, a teenage girl – Gav guessed it was Brian's daughter – stood shivering under a blanket, flanked by a couple of her mates. They talked with their heads down, and every so often she would look embarrassed at the ambulance and all the people. Something about that expression made Gav want to go over and shake the shit out of her.
Instead, he shoved his hands into his pockets and walked quickly up to the cab office, pausing only when he saw the police arrive at the top of the cul-de-sac. Someone did a slow clap when the police car rolled to a stop, and then others went back indoors.
The show was over.
And he'd done nothing about it.
The way he justified to himself now, slumped in the comfort of his cab, he was just doing what Brian had done; he was looking after his family. There was no reason to feel guilty about that. And the odds would have been against them even if Gav had lent a hand. So he didn't need to feel guilty about that, either. But he did.
A noise up ahead caught his attention. The sound of shoes scuffling on concrete, someone trying to kick their way along the pavement. Gav thought he saw something moving up by number thirteen, a brief block of one of the lights in the window, then a ripple through the shadows at the end of the street.
Another noise. Gav rolled down the window a little. Listened hard. Someone was talking, their voice low. Someone else with them, their voice muffled and distressed. He sat forward in his seat, watched the road in front for any change in the orange glow from the street lights.
Nothing.
Then, up by the second light, a shadow spread across the orange. A shape, dark and jerking, took over the light for a second before it disappeared.
Gav squinted. Couldn't quite make out what was happening, but the noise was sickeningly familiar.
Then the shape passed the second light, was illuminated for a split-second and the situation came into sharp focus.
Two men, one dragging the other. The man being dragged was attempting to dead-weight his way out of the other man's grip, his hands together and pulled high on his back, his balance inconsistent and footfalls irregular. The man dragging him did so with an iron grip and a steady pace. The pair disappeared briefly into the pool of darkness in the middle of the road, and then reappeared on Gav's side of the street, heading towards his cab.
Gav shifted down in his seat again, glad of a dead engine and a silent radio. The two men drew closer, and there was that muffled noise again, now recognisable as a grown man screaming through layers of fabric. The noise turned percussive as the bloke made a break for it, a sudden exertion followed by his trainers kicking concrete.
Coming closer ...
Gav didn't see it, but he heard the blow to the man's head and that was enough. He felt the cab rock as the runaway slammed into the side. Another short, thick sound, a clout across the back of the head that sounded hard enough to split the scalp.
There they were, right at the passenger window. He didn't see the restrained bloke, guessed he was somewhere on the ground. But the other man stood, his back half turned to him, his breath misting, catching the light. Something about the man suggested that
he was wearing a mask, but Gav knew he wasn't.
A moan from somewhere near the back tyre.
"Shurrup, man."
The voice, low but clear. Something caught and tensed in Gav's throat like a yawn waiting to break. The bloke might have been whispering, but Gav still knew the voice.
Joe Warren heaved the bloke up against the side of the cab to get him steady, then shoved him to the side to get him moving again. Gav watched them in the side mirror as they made their way up the street.
Up towards Brian Turner's house.
The pair disappeared into the darkness. The street fell quiet again. Gav waited, listening. He didn't know what to do. Didn't know if he should do anything at all. Part of him screamed to be involved, blood pumping; the other part of him was scared to death and screamed just as loudly that he'd been right all along and the soldier was a fucking mental case and that he'd be safer doing exactly what he'd done when he'd seen Brian Turner getting brayed. If he kept out of it, kept his head, kept his distance, it would all play itself out, no harm, no foul.
Gav closed his eyes. Thoughts whirling. It was too much. He breathed through his nose until the whistling sound got on his wick, then he opened his mouth.
And then, finally, when he was absolutely sure everything was quiet on Kielder Walk and that there were no further surprises lurking in the shadows, he started the engine, turned up the radio and took the first fare he heard.
12
When he heard the first noise, Brian dismissed it as either the film on the telly or else some weird side effect of the booze. The film was French, something he remembered seeing at university, a thriller about a bunch of itinerant workers in South America pressured into delivering nitroglycerine to the middle of the jungle. It was the kind of thing he loved when he was half-cut; it made him feel clever and cultured, even if he wasn't exactly acting that way. The booze had been strong enough to muddy his vision and muddle his coordination. He kept banging his bandaged hand, kept needing a drink to dull the pain, and that new drink tended to set his mind wandering. So he was glad he'd already watched the film, because he wasn't paying it that much attention.
Brian needed a job. Before he went into the hospital, he'd been applying for everything and anything because he knew his days of being picky and looking for a career were well behind him. Unfortunately, as had become abundantly obvious, he was overqualified for shit work and underqualified for everything else. A politics degree from Warwick University didn't mean much, and neither did ten years with the civil service and a seven-month stint working as an office temp at the cokeworks. Used to be, you got enough qualifications, that was you sorted. Now it was all vocational. There was no sense in theory; every skill had to be practical. As a result, he didn't even get an interview for Dixons. Not good enough for a job with a Sta-Prest uniform and a boss twenty-five years his junior. But no, that was okay. They could shove that job up their collective arsehole. He didn't need that job. He didn't need to go into retail. He had brains, for Christ's sake. He had brains and he still had some pride left.
Course, that bottle of whisky, already two-thirds gone and diluted with backwash, said otherwise.
No. That was for the cold. It was freezing in here, and his hands ached in the cold, so the whisky was medicinal. The heating was too expensive to have on just for one person – he'd let Danny have it on whenever she liked – and anyway a bottle from the Bamburgh Road offie was cheaper. That off-licence was a corner shop, too – owned by Mr Khan, who put up with more bullshit from the locals than he deserved. Fluorescent cardboard stars fought for supremacy with backs of crisp boxes in the large, barred shop windows. There were normally a couple of young lads – bigger than their bikes, but still not old enough to drink – asking anyone going in to buy them two fours of Skol and a pack of B&H. They stopped asking Brian a while back. Now when he approached all they did was gob at the ground.
Mr Khan was pushing seventy and, judging by the gut on him, that pushing was the only exercise he got. He watched his customers without blinking, and his gaze frequently became a stone-eyed stare if the kids got too close to the ten pence mix-ups or the porn. Brian would take a tour of the shop, biding his time. He'd pick up a loaf of bread he didn't need, some butter he also didn't need, maybe a Pot Noodle, a four-pack of Carling, and then he'd return to the counter. He would give Mr Khan a smile; Mr Khan would attempt something similar, but it would never sit right on his face. Then Brian would appear to notice the spirits for the first time. "Oh, just one more thing ..."
Thinking, as long as he stuck to a name brand, he'd be all right.
Thinking, as long as he kept his drinking to the evenings, he'd be all right.
Thinking, as long as didn't drink the whole bottle, he'd be all right.
And then he'd nod at the Bell's for Mr Khan to ring up. Behind the counter, a portable television showed the news before hissing to white noise.
Brian jolted awake. A tense dream of closing walls and the smell of raw meat.
And that noise again. The telly was snow. Not the film, then.
He blinked. A sharp rap echoed in the house. He raised his head. His mouth was dry. His head spun. He put one hand to his forehead, swallowed painfully. There was only one bar on the fire, but when he moved his leg, his hot jeans burned his skin.
A snap. A scream, muffled.
He froze.
Wait, no. It wasn't a scream. Couldn't be. Daft to think that. And even if it was, it wasn't human – probably them-up-the-way's cat getting territorial again. Fucking thing made a noise like a baby in a blender some nights; it scared the shit out of him. So it was probably just that. He'd half-heard, half-asleep, and all he really needed to do right now was get himself to bed—
Another scream. Definitely human, but muffled. And cut short.
He wanted to clear the web from his throat, but didn't dare, just in case he made a sound and that sound was heard outside. He wanted to swallow, but he didn't want to in case he flinched and that flinch was seen outside.
A knock. But not at the front door, not where you'd expect it. The knock came at the back door and echoed loudly through the house, becoming louder the more he focused on it. A sharp, metallic interruption to his thoughts, like a chisel to the brain.
Brian shifted from the settee and killed the telly. He approached the door and peered round the corner, down the hall and into the kitchen. Something shifted behind the frosted glass pane in the back door. Someone was out there, their shoulders hunched, trying to keep out of sight and doing something else, holding something, something else moving.
He leaned against the doorway to steady himself. He couldn't make out what was happening, didn't know if it was his own double vision throwing him off or something weird outside. He had to think, but he couldn't. Nobody came round the back. There wasn't even a way round the back that didn't involve scaling the fence, and the side lane was blocked up with bin bags. But then – no, remember now – he could've moved them the other day. Yeah, out of spite, because he'd almost done a hungover header over one of them. He rubbed his eyes and wondered what day of the week it was. Monday, was it? Tuesday?
Shit, was it already the weekend?
There was more movement; the noise slapped him back and a twist in his bowels told them that it didn't matter about the fucking bin bags because it was one of them out there. They knew where he lived, and now they'd come round to finish him off.
Brian moved from the doorway, hugging himself now. He looked at the phone on the hall table. He thought about calling the police. But what the fuck good had they done him last time? No reason to think they'd turn up any quicker. He'd be two hours cold before they deigned to knock on his door.
A barrage against the glass. Brian flinched towards the hall. A tiny voice in the back of his head asked him where he thought he was going. He didn't know. The voice came again, same question, sounded external and frightened him even more. He braced himself against the wall for a second, then pushed forward into the
kitchen. Ducked out of the way of the back door and pressed himself against the kitchen cupboards. He eased open a drawer, closed his fingers around the handle of a knife. He waited until there was another knock on the door, then pulled. The blade chimed against the inside of the drawer, rattled other cutlery, on the way out.
A voice outside, a harsh whisper: "Brian."
His bottom teeth ached with the cold. He shook his head. His voice came out scratched and frightened: "I don't ... I'll fucking, I'll fucking kill—"
"Open up."
Didn't sound like one of that lot. Then again, he couldn't be sure. They were whispering this time. He approached the door, stayed well back from the glass just in case they decided to put the pane through.
"Brian." The voice was quieter now, as if they knew he was closer. "It's me."
Brian stared at the chessboard lino. The knife shook in his hand, tapped against his leg.
"You know me, mate. From the hospital, remember? I've got something for you."
It was the soldier. Brian wanted to cry. "Go away."
"Open the door."
He looked up at the ceiling and tears spilled out over his cheeks. Pawed at his face, almost took his eye out with the knife. Didn't want to open the door. Didn't have a choice.
He opened the door.
The soldier peered at him from the dark. Something moved behind him, but Brian couldn't see what it was. A low, liquid sound drifted on the breeze, like someone being choked. Brian wondered if the sound was coming from him.
The soldier brought something out of his pocket. Brian flinched. A click, and a torch beam hit the ground. The soldier stepped out of the way, turned and swung the beam up the back path, finally fixing it on a bundle of clothes that had been apparently planted in the dirt border that surrounded the back lawn. Brian squinted at the bundle, thought maybe it was moving, but it could've been the drink and the wavering light. The soldier nudged the bundle with his foot. The bundle moved then, appeared to unfold and a face – lit phantom white and streaked black with blood – flashed into view.
