by Ray Banks
"Jesus Christ."
"That him?"
The bloke on the ground knelt awkwardly, his face creased with pain and fear, his eyes slitted against the glare, one of his cheeks already thickened and coloured dark by a nasty bruise. Under a battered nose, a moustache of dried blood coated his top lip. Under that, something soft and bulky had been wedged into his mouth like the apple in a suckling pig and then taped in place. His hands were bound behind his back. As he swayed forward, the torch caught the sparkle of the stretch of ratty green tinsel that hung loosely around his neck.
Brian didn't say anything. He remembered Danielle and her mates talking about this one in a hushed, giggly way. Like this was the good-looking one, the dangerous one, the Smash Hits pin-up drug dealer, Heathcliff of the estate, the pretty boy.
Not anymore.
The dealer lowered his head.
The soldier dug him sharply with his foot. "Look in the fuckin' light."
The dealer did as he was told.
"Well?"
Brian couldn't stop staring. "Why did you bring him here?"
"So it is him."
Panic revolving, building, and he couldn't stop it. "Why'd you bring him round my fucking house?"
"Christmas present."
"What?"
"However you want to handle this, it's all right. No pressure."
Before Brian could ask him what the hell he was talking about, the soldier took a step away from the dealer. There was something in the soldier's other hand, which he now held out to Brian.
A short, thick wooden bat. Looked like the kind of bat they used for rounders at school, except this one was painted black.
"Take it."
Brian shook his head.
"Go on."
"I don't want it. I never asked for this."
"Aye, you did."
Brian shook his head. "I was kidding."
"No, you weren't."
The dealer started talking behind his gag. He sounded as if he was trying to plead with Brian. He scraped his knees against the concrete path. The soldier whipped the bat away and jabbed the dealer in the side of the head – not too hard, didn't want to spoil him, but it was enough to make him shut his yap and freeze him to the spot. Then the soldier turned back to Brian. "Nobody's going to know except you, me and this cunt here. I brought him to you, so I'm not going to judge. You know you'll feel better for it. And as for him ... I don't think you really give a fuck what he thinks, do you?"
The dealer struggled against his bonds. Something bubbled inside Brian when he saw the fear in the man's eyes, then saw the fear flicker into something else, something a lot darker in hue, something less passive. Something that looked a lot like blind, uncontrollable rage, a rush of what he was going to do if he ever managed to get his hands free, an expression that screamed bloody revenge on the soldier, Brian and both their families. It was the expression that belonged in the facial lexicon of a woman-beater, a drug dealer, a future murderer, someone for whom other people were a means to an end, and utterly disposable. And when Brian thought about Danielle again, and what had happened, his chest burned.
"You told them, Brian. All I did was tell them the same thing with a bit more of a full stop to it. And you know what I found out? I found out that they can hear a lot better once they've lost a little blood."
Brian kept quiet.
"So what are you going to do? You going to forget about this? You going to carry on getting piss-mortal every night because you're too scared to leave the house?"
Cold sweat prickled the back of Brian's neck. He swayed. Couldn't focus on anything for longer than three breaths, but he kept trying because he knew this was important. He watched the dealer, the heat in his chest unbearable. When the dealer made another noise, it was obvious that his previous fear was now pure contempt. He didn't think Brian had the bottle to do anything, and Brian extrapolated that noise into a million fuck-yous in an instant, rolling it out so that a few drunken seconds later he was convinced that this bastard had known exactly what he was doing when he sold Danielle that 'teenth, that it wasn't about scoring a couple of quick quid on a small-fry deal, that it was about ensnaring a thirteen-year-old girl who he could see had a bit of a crush on him, taking her into his spell and setting her up for some kind of long-term dependence on him, and in the process shoving a handful of electric eels into Brian's head. He cried. He embarrassed himself. He hated himself. The soldier became a shadow in the shifting darkness. For all Brian knew, the soldier wasn't there at all; he was just an hallucination, the same as the shimmering shit in front of him.
"Here."
The bat was cold. Heavier than expected. Rough to the touch where the paint had been daubed on too thick. Brian's fingers closed around the handle, the cold worming its way into his joints. He dropped the knife onto the floor as he brought his damaged fingers over his left hand, relishing the pain that provided a clean, biting clarity and settled the spin in his head.
"Merry Christmas, Brian."
Brian approached the dealer and lifted the bat. "Thank you."
SPRING, 1987
13
After Christmas, Gav fell into a routine. He managed to stay on the road most of the day, which meant he missed out on the petty day-to-day bollocks that came with running the office, and he spent the nights working at home, trying to get all the admin done. It wasn't easy. The drivers had a way of nagging him, even if he was on a fare. The coffee machine was knackered – when was it going to get fixed? Alan Harris needed more time off because of his kid, who appeared to be turning into Ed Gein. There were problems between Rosie and Scouse Clive – apparently he'd said something off-colour to her that she refused to repeat on the grounds that it had been "sexually-based an' that". Fat Bob and Viv Francis swapped shifts so much, Viv reckoned Bob owed him one, but didn't know for sure and could Gav sort out the rotas? Then there was the overtime and the fuel allowance and Gav was positive a couple of the drivers had been skimming fares. Oh, and some bright spark had decided to graffiti the outside office wall with the word WAZZA, whatever the fuck that meant, and Neil fucking Bigelow might as well have died on the operating table, the amount of help he'd been.
The whole situation was a nightmare, because as much as he was running the place, Gav was starting to think that he didn't have any real power, and when it all started piling up like that, he began to get an ache in the back of his head that persisted until he drank it away.
Then there was that thing with Andy ...
Andy had never been much of a problem before. He was a bright lad. Not too bright, which was good because no father ever wanted a son cleverer than himself, but just bright enough and active enough to act like a boy. He played football, he got into fights, he maintained average marks at school and sometimes he got into trouble. Wasn't normally an issue – boys will be boys and all that – and normally Gav didn't give it a second thought. These days, mind, his imagination had a way of building up steam in a negative way, and he wasn't the only one. He only had to take one look at Fiona's face when he got in that night to realise that there was something bad brewing. Her cheeks were flushed and her eyes were blue ice, and stayed that way all through tea. She didn't say a word until the kids had left and it was just the two of them.
"Andy's been hanging out with Wayne Orton again."
He sighed. "Right."
They were in for a conversation.
The Ortons were known all around the Hall. The father of the family was on a five-year bit in Frankland. Nobody knew exactly why – some said it was armed robbery, others said it was burglary, but what everyone could agree on was that Jim Orton was a fucking animal, and not the kind of bloke you wanted to get on the wrong side of, or leave anything of value near. As for Jim's wife Sharon, Gav always suspected that Fiona didn't like her purely because she was fat and loud. Everyone else didn't like Sharon Orton because she was a pub slag and a fucking mooch, used to go down the Long Ship of a Saturday looking to cadge drinks, tabs, a
bag of crisps, while the kids were supposed to look after themselves at home. As for the kids, there were two of them. Jason was the elder. He was a hollow-eyed speed freak, skinny and jittery. He owned a Capri that hadn't been driven since he went inside six months ago on a possession charge. Word was, he was as hard as his dad. Not that you'd know it to look at him, but then appearances could be deceptive. It was the skinny ones you had to watch out for. In Gav's experience, it was the skinny ones who didn't stay down, didn't give up, and who normally prevailed through sheer force of will. Gav wouldn't have been surprised if Jason used to work out of number thirteen. Last time he'd seen him, he had that look about him.
Then there was Wayne. The youngest of the family, maybe a year older than Andy, but Wayne could've passed for twenty, no word of a lie. Last summer, they'd all been playing out in the street. Water fights with pistols and balloons, that kind of thing. It'd been so hot a lot of the boys had been running about stripped to the waist. Not Kevin – he was too flabby and self-conscious, and anyway he wasn't the kind of kid to indulge in physical fun when he could live vicariously through his superheroes – but Andy and Wayne were out, and the sight of a half-naked Wayne stuck with Gav. He wasn't just muscular, but he was ripped in an animal kind of way, the way you can see the muscles working under the skin of a stray dog. As if there were little in the way of body fat on him, as if his muscles had been forged fighting for his life. Wayne Orton was a refugee kid. Had the eyes to go along with it. And when he turned those eyes on you, there wasn't much you could do except weather the drop in temperature. Gav could understand why Fiona didn't want their Andy hanging out with him. The kid was a fucking psycho.
Then again, there wasn't a lot they could do about it. "Jesus, Fiona, I mean ... what you going to do, tell him no?"
"I didn't say that."
"You can't ground him because of his mates." Gav leaned against the sink and looked at her. "You know, it's like, the lads are going to find their own mates – they have to find their own mates – and make their own way in the world, know what I mean? You start—"
"Me? I'm alone on this? You're not interested?"
"All right, we start laying down the rules—"
"Better."
"—and what's he going to do?"
"Do what he's told?"
"Oh aye, and maybe just after that, I'll catch one of them flying pigs to work, eh?" He gestured to the front room. "Maybe Kevin. Maybe he'd do what he was told. Maybe my little princess."
"That's not fair. Kevin's not—"
"I meant the bairn."
"Ah." Fiona blushed and turned her attention to the washing up. "Right."
"Maybe those two'll do what they're told, but one's too young and the other's not normal."
"Now I know you're having a go."
"I'm not having a – Lookuh, the lad's different, I know that. We're not talking about him, anyway. We're talking about Andy. And I'm telling you, you go in there and lay down the law, he's going to do everything he can to break it."
"I know."
"So, then."
"So then what?"
"So then there's nowt you can do about it. Let boys be boys."
She regarded him for a long time. He shrugged and smiled and moved away from the sink. He was about to go into the front room when she spoke. "They've been up to the dealer's house, you know."
He didn't get it at first, thought he must have misheard. "You what?"
"Janice saw them."
Who the fuck was Janice? He blinked, shook his head. "When?"
"Yesterday."
"What were they doing?"
"She said they were just hanging around."
"What's the story?"
"I don't know."
"I mean, were they on anything?"
"Come on, Gavin ..."
"Were they buying?"
"No. She didn't think so." Fiona shook her head, smiling.
He didn't see what the fuck she had to smile about. "So what were they doing, then?"
"Apparently Wayne was talking to one of the dealers."
"So they were buying?"
"No, just talking. Janice said Wayne looked like he was pally with the lad."
"Which one was it?"
"I don't know."
Gav looked at the door to the front room. Andy and Kevin were sitting in there watching telly. Sophie sat in the corner with her dolly. He breathed out sharply through his nose.
"If you think about it, it makes sense. I mean, the older one’s always looked like the type. I didn't want to say it, but—"
"No, I know." Still staring at the door. Angry for some reason. Betrayed. Didn't want to hear the sound of Fiona's voice. He wished he'd never been told. But then that wouldn't have helped anything, would it? If Fiona had kept it to herself, what was stopping him from ending up like Brian Turner? Trundling through life, thinking everything's fine, and then suddenly confronted with his son's drug use – and Christ, didn't that idea burn him the fuck up? – and then what? Lost his temper, lost the plot, gone over to talk it out and wham, end up in the hospital. Imagined himself waking up in a hospital bed next to Neil Bigelow – "Hey, how you doing? Who's looking after Puma Cabs?"
Gav nodded. "All right, I'll have a word."
He stuck his head round the door to the front room. Kevin was in the corner, his head in a book, his mouth hanging open. Andy watched television. Something American. Flash and noisy. "Andy, get in here."
Andy didn't turn. "What?"
"Don't what me, son. Get in here now."
The tone made him turn. He looked suspicious. "I've done nowt wrong."
Fiona's voice was raised: "Listen to your father."
Gav bristled. He didn't need Fiona's help. He certainly didn't need her prompting the lad. Andy got up and trudged through to the kitchen. Gav closed the door on Kevin's curious expression.
"Sit down."
Andy sat down at the kitchen table.
"What's this about you going round number thirteen?"
Andy glanced at his mother, then stared at Gav. "I never."
"With Wayne Orton? Yesterday?"
Andy's lips tightened. He didn't say anything.
"Listen, son, I don't care who you're mates with, all right?" Gav shrugged off a sharp look from Fiona. "As long as you're looking after yourself, I couldn't care less who you're palling around with. You're old enough to know what you're doing, and I trust you."
Andy nodded. Didn't know where this was going.
"But your mates are another kettle of fish. What's the story with Wayne Orton?"
"He's all right."
"That's not what I heard."
"What'd you hear?"
"He's talking to dealers, Andy."
"I know."
"So what's he talking to them about?"
"It's his Jason. They're just talking about cars an' that."
"Cars?"
"Jason's just got a wick Capri."
"Wick?"
"Like it's got everything on it. It's awesome. Carl was just saying—"
"Carl?"
"He's the ..." Andy scrunched up his face as he looked for the word.
"The dealer?"
"He only deals sometimes."
"It's how he makes his living. It's where he gets his money from. That's what makes you. You deal drugs for a living, you're a dealer."
Andy nodded.
"So Carl's into cars, is he?"
"Aye." Andy glanced at his mother. "Yes."
"And that's what they were talking about?"
Another nod from Andy.
"That's your story, is it? Nothing else to tell us?"
Andy looked up. "I never did nowt wrong."
"All right."
Andy looked around him. Didn't appear to know whether he was allowed to move or not. Fiona nodded at him and he scraped the chair as he stood up and left.
"Close the door."
Andy closed the door. Gav looked at the floor. He could feel Fiona
watching him.
"That's how you want to handle it, is it?"
"What d'you mean?"
"You trust him to do the right thing. That's it. Thanks for the information and go back to the telly?"
"What do you want me to do?"
"Tell him to stay away."
"From Wayne?"
"From the house at least. Gav—"
"Why don't you go and tell him that, then? You're so fuckin' good at this, you go through and you tell him he's barred from the house."
Fiona frowned, surprised. "What?"
"Or what, you're going to ban him from seeing his mate an' all, are you?"
"Calm down."
"You know what, Fiona, you don't like the way I deal with the kids, do it yourself."
"I just meant—"
"I know what you meant." He looked around the kitchen. He felt as if he should sit down and sort this out, but there was too much electricity in him to stay still. "I know what you meant. You tell me what's going on so I can sort it for you, so you don't have to sort it yourself. So I'm the fuckin' bad guy—"
"Gav. Come on. Language."
"Hey, you're not my mam. I'll talk any fuckin' way I want to. It's my house."
"What's the matter with you?"
"I'm just saying, I'm already ... I've already got enough on my plate, know what I mean? With the office and everything."
"Okay."
"And I'm working hard, you know?"
"I know you are."
"Pulling doubles, one in the office, one out in the car. Trying to get enough money to make ends meet. It's harder now than it was before. I mean, if Neil Bigelow actually ever said anything to us, so's I'd know what was going on, then maybe it wouldn't be so bad, but ..."
"Nothing?"
"Fuck all." He caught the irritation in her face, and waved it off. "Sorry."
She smiled, approached him, slipped her arms around him. It was momentarily ticklish and then she hugged him tight. He couldn't stay angry like that. He felt himself relax a little.
"You need a night off."
"I can't."
"You can."
He checked his watch behind her back. "I should be getting on shift soon."
