by Ray Banks
"Come on. Take a night off. We'll go down the pub."
"I can't, love. I'm the boss."
"Which means you get to enjoy some of the perks. What're they going to say? They going to grass you up to yourself? Who cares? You need to unwind."
"What about the kids?"
"Let Andy look after them."
He laughed. "You're kidding, right?"
"Hey, you said yourself that you trust him."
"Aye, I did an' all." He laughed again. Fuck it, he did need a night off. The office had been braying his head to bits. "All right, love, I'll take you down the pub. Show you a good time."
"You're so romantic."
He kissed her twice. The first time, they bumped teeth and laughed at each other. The second was a direct smooch that held for a few seconds, and she gave him a dazed and glazed look afterwards that made him forget about everything else, at least for the moment.
14
Danielle's room was just as she left it: the bedspread still buckled from where she'd sat, the shape of her head still dented in a cockeyed pillow. Brian sat on the edge of the bed and stared at the floor, smoking one of the B&H he'd found three months earlier. A warmish breeze came in through the open window.
It was only tack, and it was only a 'teenth.
It was insignificant. A ten-pack of B&H (three and a half left), a torn-off pack of Rizlas (the cardboard made a better roach than Metty tickets, apparently), the Clipper with the loose flint rod (for packing) and finally – and most importantly – the pebble of chocolate brown resin, scraped right down, all of which he'd found tucked away at the back of Danielle's knicker drawer. Her twin idols of Harket and Berry looked on disapprovingly as he rifled through the drawer, and they turned that same empty, pouting stare onto Danielle once he brought her in to talk about his discovery.
The first thing out of her mouth was denial. The second and third weren't that much different. She showed her mother's genes – when confronted, it was all dig in, lash out, and deny-deny-deny with that shrill twist that was supposed to play as outraged innocence, but which had the opposite effect.
She sat clutching her pink bedspread as if she'd been thrown there. Brian noticed a curl to her top lip, but as much as she squared her jaw and played it hard, she couldn't hide the water in her eyes.
"Can't do this, Danny. You know what your mam's like."
"She never comes in."
"She can still smell it. And when she does, what's she going to think? That it's you? No, she's going to think it's me, and then I'm in the shit. Is that what you want?"
Danielle puffed a breath. She looked at her knees for an answer. It wasn't forthcoming.
"If she has reason to believe there's drugs in the house, then she'll push for full custody, you know that. And you know something else? There's a bloody good chance she'll get it."
She looked at the door. Blew air. Sniffed her next breath, tried to be all so what about it, her eyes glass and her chin pocked with the effort. She blinked, jettisoning fat tears into a dam of mascara, which burst and started to streak. She swallowed and rubbed at the water with the heel of her hand. "What're you going to do then?"
"I don't know."
"I won't do it again."
"Yeah, okay."
"I promise."
Corn-fed porky, that one. She wouldn't do it again. For a while. And then she'd make doubly sure that she wasn't caught. The only lesson learned for sure was to be more careful about where she hid her stash. And still, there it was, wide-eyed and pleading, the kind of hope that Brian hadn't seen on his daughter's face since she'd asked Santa for a pony.
"I can't forget about this."
"It's all right, though."
"It's not."
"Dad, man, honest—"
"Where'd you get it?"
Hope turned to stone suspicion.
"Was it the lad up the street?"
She didn't move. Didn't deny. Controlled herself. Didn't do anything, which was all he needed as confirmation. The lad at number thirteen wore tight jeans, ripped at the knees. He was tall, brown and slim. Danielle and her mates thought he was lush, their quiet voices erupting into giggles and shrieks whenever they talked about him. They fancied him, but they were frightened of him, too. And rightly so: the lad and his mates drank LCL, played loud music, didn't work for a living. They were criminals. The house lights burned twenty-four hours a day, its occupants as wired as the jacked electric meter. They dealt drugs out of that house, and there was a lean and yellow cast to those that bought, something popping behind the eyes of those that sold. Just the look of them shook Brian to the core. They made him feel ancient.
But he still did something about it. Told Danielle that she had to come straight home from school, and that she was grounded until further notice. She complained and shouted; he waited her out. She kept going until a knock at the front door cut her short. He knew who it was, and so did she. Tania, Tea Bag, Little T, whatever nonsense nickname Danielle and her mates were using this week, as if their given names weren't exciting or cool enough.
"Dad—"
"I'll let them know you're staying in tonight."
Clicked the door closed, went down to where two girls waited behind frosted glass. He opened the front door to be greeted by a couple of slack jaws. They hadn't expected the dad to turn up; they didn't have any small talk, and so they didn't know what to do with themselves. If he remembered correctly, Tania was the one as wide as she was tall. She'd been dragged up with a Shields dummy in her gob and hadn't been able to pass up a sausage roll since. The other one, the banana-headed girl with enough dark freckles on her face to qualify as a disfigurement, was Shannon. She was mute, or as good as. But that was okay, because Tania had enough mouth for the pair of them. "Is Dan coming out?"
Tan and Shan, asking after Dan. He ignored Tan, stepped out of the house. Up the road, music blared, more industrial than melodic. Rain spotted his face. It was dark already, but he could still see the man he wanted – the lad stood out front of number thirteen, his hands stuffed into the pockets of his zip-sleeve leather.
"Uh, hello?" There was an uncomfortable giggle in Tania's voice.
Brian showed her the plastic bag, shook the resin in the bottom. The giggle jumped an octave as if she'd been goosed. He heard movement behind him. Turned to see Danielle standing at the top of the stairs, hugging herself against both the cold and the humiliation.
"Danielle's grounded." He pulled the front door shut. The letterbox rattled. "You two should go home."
Tania and Shannon didn't move. Too busy giving each other worried looks and sticking out their chins. Trying to come up with an alibi.
"I mean it, girls. If you're staying, you're going to answer some questions about this bag. And if I don't get answers from you, I'll ask your mams."
That got them moving. Tania led the way, one hand out in front of her. She was quick for a fat lass, apologising in a breathy voice as she nudged past Brian and out onto the street, Shannon following quickly behind. They came together on the road, then tumbled away. He watched them pair up again under a street light – the two girls became a double-headed orange cartoon watching him as he turned back to number thirteen.
Thinking back, he would've been better off going back inside and talking it out with Danielle. She should have been his priority. And normally, she'd would've been, but she wasn't the problem right then.
He walked until he saw the lad's biker boots, then he watched the ground. He knew this kind of lad. They walked around in packs, like stray dogs. You couldn't make eye contact with them – that was an aggressive move, and aggressive was the last thing he wanted to be.
"You selling there, son?"
"You what?"
Brian looked up. Saw a smirk twitch the lad's bum-fluff moustache. The lad was younger than he'd thought. Nineteen, twenty, something like that.
He showed the bag. "My daughter bought this off you."
A sniff. The lad barely acknowledged th
e bag. "What is it?"
"Resin."
"Tack?"
"Yes."
"So what's the problem?"
Brian swallowed. His throat hurt. "She's twelve."
"Oh aye? Doesn't look it."
Brian wanted to clamp hands around the lad's throat and throttle the sleaze out of his voice, but he kept still and tried to remember that everyone was a horny twat when they were his age. "Listen, I'm not being funny, all right, but I don't want you selling to my daughter again."
"Eh?"
"I'm asking you nicely."
"Who are you again?"
"I'm – look – I'm no one, mate. Really."
"Oh aye?"
"Seriously."
"Fuck do I care, then, eh?"
It hurt him to say it, but it was the only thing that might work: "Her step-dad's a copper."
A pause. Another sniff.
"Fuck you doing?"
"Nothing."
"You making threats, like?"
"No."
"You fuckin' threatening us—"
"I'm not – listen to me – I'm not threatening you, all right?"
"Aye, y'are."
"I'm just saying."
The lad stepped forward.
"Listen, now." Brian stepped back. Held up his hands. "I don't want any trouble."
There was movement in the house. He glanced up to see shadows rippling in the hall, dancing in a grey-white television light. Other people had heard what was going on and wanted a visual to go with the soundtrack. Brian couldn't see how many, but in his mind they were already mob-handed, tooled up, and ready to kick off.
He held up the bag. "I really don't want a fight—"
"Fuck off, then."
The lad jerked his shoulder like he was popping it out of his socket. Brian flinched at the sudden movement and shame stuck him in the gut. He held the bag at arm's length – the tabs, papers, tickets and tack swung between finger and thumb.
He tossed it in front of the lad. "Please. I just, I don't want it in the house, all right?"
Shadows spilled out of the squat into the front garden. A light clicked on in the hall, threw a bare-bulb glare across the dandelions and dog shit. A fat man in stonewashed denims with a huge cowboy belt waddled into view behind the lad, chewing with his mouth open, a mess of white struggling against teeth and tongue. The fat lad plucked one long, floppy chip from the tray in one hand, and then flung it at Brian. The chip landed at his feet. Someone laughed in the darkness. It sounded female, that laughter. The fat bloke licked his lips and dug around for another flinger.
"All right." Brian nodded at them. "Okay."
He heard the words come back at him like an echo, someone he couldn't see taking the piss. It was punctuated by another laugh. Definitely female, harsh and half-cut.
"We understand each other?"
Another chip hit the pavement.
"All right, you've been warned, the lot of you. Keep this shit up, we'll get the police out."
"Oh aye?" A voice off to the left.
"Fuckin' oh aye." A man's voice off to the right. Too loud, too close.
Brian turned back home, glad that the whine had left his voice long enough for him to say what he had to say. Glad that he said it, too. Glad that he didn't back down, that he'd made his point and made it clearly despite his fear. More than all of that, though, he was glad that he couldn't hear much over the sound of his heart banging in his ears, because he knew they were shouting after him. If his lungs hadn't felt starved of air, he might have broken into a run.
They moved behind him. His heartbeat grew quiet, and as it did he heard them fall into step, following him. He heard laughter. Heard trainers scrape against tarmac. He felt the rain thicken as he walked. A chip hit him in the middle of the back. More laughter. There was gravy on it, obviously.
Something else bounced by his right foot. Not a chip. Masonry. A half-brick.
Another rock bounced off his heel as he sped up.
He wanted to run.
He refused to run. Not from these bastards.
Someone made a grab. He shook it off. They grabbed again. He half turned and yelled. A punch exploded against his right ear. He jerked away. Another punch to the back of the head. They surrounded him. Fist to his cheek, one to the small of his back. He arched, then curled. More fists, a battery of hard rain. He hunched over, tried to run – preservation trumping pride – but something snapped against the back of his legs and he staggered instead.
He tried to call for help, but the breath wasn't in him.
He tried to look for escape, but he couldn't see for bodies.
He tried to push back, but they hit him again. His legs turned to water and the tarmac lunged for him. A crack of bones on the ground, a flurry of punches, and then all he saw were fists and feet, pain like a flash bulb, throwing tableaux of his attackers into stark relief. And there, in the distance, a familiar shape. Danielle. Outside, watching.
And then it went out from under him.
But that was then. Brian took another drag on the Benson, blew smoke at Morten Harket. Squinty bastard. Judging him.
A new year was all about new beginnings, and since he'd healed there were more interviews in the pipeline, or one interview in the pipeline, which was more than he'd had the whole of 1986. He was dressed for it right now. He wanted to laugh at himself for wearing a suit to an interview for a cleaning job, but the sick truth of it was that he didn't want to take any chances. The sooner he got a job, the sooner he was earning. The sooner he was earning, the sooner he could move out, get a flat somewhere else and stop waiting for the day when that lot at number thirteen realised that it was him who'd put one of their prettiest dealers into the hospital with a fractured skull and couple of broken limbs.
He'd made a decision then, drunk as he was, and dizzy with adrenalin. He wasn't going to be pushed around anymore. He was going to be the bloke he needed to be instead of the bloke he was. He was going to get a job and he was going to do the one thing he should've done that night: look after his kid. And he could do it. He had it in him. He just needed this first step to land without him falling on his arse. Because that was the only way he was ever going to see Danielle again.
15
Gav unwrapped his sandwich and stuffed half of it into his mouth. Clingfilm fluttered around the other half that sat on the bonnet of the Escort. He chewed without tasting and gazed out across Dunston Park. The roundabout squeaked; the empty swings rocked in the breeze. The dented concrete slab that used to be home to a rocket-shaped climbing frame before it was ripped up and sold for scrap had been tagged with spray paint. Tin foil and a couple of used needles littered the ground by the springy horse. As he ate, a piece of paper skimmed into the side of his foot. He looked down, saw a torn page from the Sunday Sport, various glamour models advertising 0898s.
He moved his foot, and a gust of wind snatched the paper away.
Inside the cab, the radio crackled with pick-ups, banter and bursts of white noise. It reminded him why he was out here in the first place. Any escape from that lot was a welcome treat, even if it was just for the time it took to eat his bait, and it was especially welcome when he felt something nagging at him like he did today.
First he thought it was something to do with Kevin's birthday, but then he was sure all the presents and cake were already there waiting for him for when he got home from school. Course, it might have Kevin himself, because the lad was a recurring worry these days. Nine years old and turning ten, but he looked about six. Gav wondered when he'd get that growth spurt that had happened to Andy, and wondered if it had anything to do with the way the kid acted. The way Kevin walked around the house on the balls of his feet, the way he stood with all his weight on one leg, the way he used his hands when he talked, the way he got excited and thought he was being funny, it was all Gav could do not to slap some self-awareness into him. He wanted to tell the lad to buck up, act like a boy. Fiona knew; she'd seen him cringe every time the
lad minced into the room. And that was why he couldn't say anything. If he so much as hinted that Kevin was acting poofy, that was him armpit-deep in an unwinnable argument. More than that, he knew if he ever mentioned it to the boy himself, it would be a sure-fire way to ensure the kid ended up bent as a nine-bob note. And Gav had no idea how he'd deal with that.
So he had to leave it and hope for the best, but that didn't mean he couldn't sway the lad subconsciously. Like this year, he'd made sure that Kevin's birthday was hetero as fuck – the cake was a Bat Signal; one of the games had Batman in it too, even though the pictures on the back made him look like a tubby dwarf. The other game – The Way Of The Exploding Fist – looked like it was mainly about smacking seven shades out of your opponent with karate or kung fu or something, so that was fine. He also made sure he got a shitload of comics with burly blokes and busty birds from his brother in the States. He knew Kevin would go mental over those, so it was worth having to talk to Steve to get them sent over. About the only time he talked to his brother these days was birthdays and Christmas, and that was just fine by Gav. Two-three times a year was enough. It cost a bomb to call him and he spent most of that money hearing how mint it was in America and how they should really come over for the summer or something. He didn't need that, especially didn't need the lads hearing it – dangle a trip to the States in front of them, they'd be unbearable. And while Fiona said she understood the situation between him and his brother, she really didn't and she never would.
Gav went for the other half of his sandwich and shoved it in. Thought, no, it wasn't the birthday he was worried about.
So what else? Could've been Bigelow. The fat prick had been avoiding Gav's calls ever since he came out of hospital. Two months running Puma Cabs on a driver's wage, and the whole idea of buying the place was beginning to feel like a joke. He was overworked, underpaid, and there was no end in sight. But that whole thing was more like a running irritation. Frustrating, yes, but it was background noise. This new nagging feeling was something else. And if it wasn't Kevin or Bigelow, then it had to be the soldier.
