Angels Of The North

by Ray Banks

He heard an engine. Saw Phil's Granada rolling his way. It was a big car for a big fella; there was no way Phil could've squeezed behind the wheel of an Escort.

  Gav reached for his other sandwich. The Granada slowed, pulled up alongside Gav's Escort. "Y'alreet, bonny lad?"

  "Fair to middling."

  Phil got out of the car. Rolled-up sleeves revealed tattoos that veined his arms, a jumble of Celtic symbols and creepers in which the only things legible were JUSTINE and KARA. Gav hadn't seen Justine, but he still hoped that Kara took after her mam in the looks department because otherwise she was an Easter Island head in a wig. Phil turned his face to the sun and blinked. "Getting warmer."

  "Aye."

  "Have the Bermudas out next week."

  "You do and you're sacked."

  "Top legs me, man. Everyone says so."

  "I'll have to take their word for it."

  "You finish your bait?"

  Gav held up the sandwich. "This is the last of it."

  "Chew slower, then." Phil dug around in the front seat of his cab, brought out a white carrier. He took out a bundle of slapdash sandwiches wrapped in half a box of Clingfilm. He dumped his lunch onto the bonnet and started picking at the plastic with one bitten-down fingernail. "Like breaking into Fort Knox, this." He broke the first layer, tugged the plastic off with his teeth, then picked at the wrapping again. His nose wrinkled. "Oh, and ya bastard, she's give us ham again."

  "What's the matter with that?"

  "She got it cheap from work." He sniffed a sandwich. "I reckon it's gone, like."

  "Gone?"

  "Off. Here."

  Phil held out his sandwich. The smell of car-warm cooked meat wafted in Gav's direction. It was all he could do not to fan it back. "I reckon you're right."

  "She brought loads home an' all. Already had it four days running, I'm sick of the fuckin' sight of it." Phil rammed half the sandwich into his mouth, chewed with his mouth open. "I mean, it's got to get ate, like. That's why I'm eating it. I'm eating it so I don't have to eat it anymore, know what I mean?"

  Phil's bait was always a sore spot. Justine worked down the Spar on Alnwick Road and the way Phil told it, just because she pulled a couple of shifts a week, she thought it gave her licence to do sweet fuck-all around the house, which boiled Phil's piss no end, because it wasn't like Kara was going to pick up the slack. The one thing he'd managed to put his foot down about was his bait. Wives made their husbands' bait of a morning. It was tradition, so he made her do it. She could try poisoning him, but to do that she'd still have to make the food first. He'd eat it, too – didn't matter if it was peppercorn steak or white dog shit. Phil was the kind of bloke who normally won through sheer bloody-mindedness.

  Which was why he was here now. Didn't matter to Phil that Gav liked to get away by himself this time of day, didn't matter that they weren't even really mates, even though they'd known each other since first school. Gav reckoned Phil took it as duty. After all, Gav was the gaffer and Phil his second. Only right they should spend time together, just the pair of them, so they could talk about the world as important men did.

  "You heard owt from the big lad?"

  "Not yet, no."

  "Uh-huh." Phil's tongue pushed out his top lip, dug around, then he smacked his lips. "You know where he lives?"

  "I'm not going round. He's not well."

  "Still owes you an answer, though, doesn't he? How long's it been now?"

  "It's all right."

  "Don't mind us saying, you're a fuckin' softarse if you keep on with this. Least he can do is give you an idea of when he's looking to sell."

  "That's the way it is, Phil."

  "You want, I'll have a word with him."

  "No."

  "Go round his house with a fuckin' plank and break his legs."

  Gav laughed. "A plank now, is it? It was a baseball bat a couple months back."

  "He's not worth a bat."

  "We'll just leave it, see what happens. And we'll try to keep it civil, eh?"

  "I'm just saying, if this keeps up, I might have to find someone else to protect."

  "Protect?" Gav looked around. "Am I in danger, then?"

  "You know what I mean."

  "Aye, and I don't need fuckin' protection, Phil."

  "Fair enough."

  "I'm still in charge an' all."

  "Course you are." Phil reached for the other half of the sandwich and took a large bite. He clicked his fingers as he chewed. "I meant to tell you, I had one of them peddling bastards in the back of my cab the other night. Paki lad. Not that there's owt wrong with being a Paki, but he was one, so there you go. Say what I see."

  "How'd you know he was a dealer?"

  "He fuckin' telt us, didn't he? I asked him what he did for work, just cracking on an' that, the way you do, and just came out with it. 'I'm a dealer.' And I go, 'What, like cars?' And he's like, 'Nah, benchod, not cars.' Laughing at us, the cheeky little bastard."

  "What's benchod?"

  "Swear word. Sister fucker, I think. Something like that. They're all about the sister fucking, man."

  "You do owt?"

  Phil shook his head. "I wanted to, mind."

  "Glad you didn't."

  "Wanted to put the little cunt's head through the window. Especially when I got him talking. Because I was pretending to be interested, playing him along, all fuckin' clever and everything. 'Oh really, you're a drug dealer, are you, fuckin' hell, good on you, son. Fuckin' entrepreneur an' that, am I right? Lot of money in drug dealing, is there?' Like we're just a couple of gadgies out to make a living. And he told us, right, he said the way they're expanding, they're selling to kids. Getting kids to sell to kids at the school. Because if the polis come round and the kid dealer's holding, it's a fuckin' caution. Also, they don't know the value of what they've got on them, do they, so they don't get any daft ideas. And it made us think about that poor bastard who got done over, you remember, before Christmas?"

  Gav shook his head, stuck a tab in his mouth. "Not offhand, no."

  "Ah, you know the one I'm talking about, man. Happened up your way."

  "Aye, I think I remember something now. The bloke who was all shouting at them—"

  "I heard different."

  Gav shrugged. "Whatever it was. He got brayed, didn't he?"

  "That's right."

  "Turner, I think his name was." Gav picked a shred of tobacco from his tongue.

  "Were they not selling to his kid?"

  "Something like that."

  "Tell you, if it was down my end of the street, I'd do something about it."

  "He tried."

  "I'd fuckin' succeed." Phil tapped the side of his head. "I've got ideas, me."

  Gav wanted to ask what he meant, but instead he smiled and said, "You get it sorted, you let us know, eh? Meantime, the rest of us'll be waiting for you to clock back on." He finished his tab, dropped the filter under his sole.

  "You on, like?"

  "I'm always on. Just because I'm the boss, doesn't mean I can skive." Gav tossed his empty bait box into the cab. Pulled open the driver's door and said, "Just promise us one thing, will you?"

  "What's that?"

  "You feel like smacking shit out of one of your fares, do it off the clock, all right? That lad might've been a prize prick, but I don't want us getting a reputation for leathering our customers. It’s not good for business."

  Phil squinted as the sun broke the clouds. He lit a tab. "Yes, Chief."

  "That's the spirit."

  Gav got into the Escort, started the engine. The radio buzzed. Rosie's thick, rasping voice asking if there was anyone around Pilgrim Street, anyone around Pilgrim Street, got a pick-up at Pilgrim Street. And then a roger-that from Scouse Clive who was dropping off at St James' Park. Brief pause, then Rosie asked if there was anyone closer, because Rosie was the kind of women who'd rather get someone to drive an extra twenty miles than hand off a fare to Scouse Clive, because she hated him like he was made of salad. But n
obody spoke up, so Clive got it.

  "Where are you, three-four?"

  Gav picked up the radio. "Derwent Park."

  "You all right for a QE?"

  "Wey aye."

  He put the cab into gear. He looked at Phil. Phil had ideas, just like Brian Turner had ideas, just like that fucking soldier had ideas, all of them revolving around the same thing. But out of all of them, it was the soldier who'd made the most sense, especially when Gav managed to dig up some information on Curtis Sliwa, former McDonald's night manager turned unarmed peacekeeper with the rest of his subway-riding brethren. The man might've looked a twat in his beret and satin jacket, but there was still something in the story that made Gav read it again. And he had to admit, he hadn't bought that unopened copy of The Art of War just because some yuppie on the telly said it was his business Bible.

  Then again, maybe Fiona was right. Maybe he was a fur coat away from being a teddy bear. Maybe he didn't have it in him. And that was what had rankled him more than Bigelow dodging his calls: the thought that maybe, just maybe, when Kevin minced into the room, he was taking after his dad.

  16

  The Long Ship on a rainy Saturday night had the rank ambience of a drunk's mouth. It was a brown pub, trying to skew itself towards old-fashioned and traditional which meant snugs, panelled walls and richly patterned carpets, a kind of Hall version of the Rovers Return, except all the local characters were off their heads and boozed to belligerence. Joe sat in the corner, his back to the wall. A scrap of tinsel hung from a bit of sticky tape. He picked at it. Michelle sat next to him. The old man was looking after the bairn, so Joe and Michelle could enjoy a nice night down the pub in mutual silence.

  Michelle had noticed the change in Joe. She knew something was wrong and had only recently accepted the fact that he wasn't going to answer any questions about anything beyond the day-to-day. The less he had to talk to her, the better. She'd grown flabby and dull, couldn't talk about anything more interesting than the bairn. Her world was miniscule, her worries petty and irrelevant. This wasn't a new phenomenon; he'd heard about it before. Men came back from a stint overseas and the last thing they wanted to deal with was domestic life. And so he had fallen into a routine with Michelle made up of gestures that were as empty as the pint glass in front of him.

  Joe didn't know what had happened, and didn't like to think about it too much. He just knew that he was useless here, and waiting for something exciting to happen. In the meantime, he sat and he watched the other drinkers as if they were under glass, trying to figure out which one he'd turn into, given enough years and enough alcohol. He ended up picking the old guy perched on a stool at the end of the bar, barely awake, a face like a haemorrhoid under a shock of hair that had turned as yellow as his fingers thanks to the tab twisted in the corner of his mouth. Somewhere, Joe thought he could hear the croon of Tony Bennett, which was about the closest most of this lot in here would get to a good suit outside of a court appearance. He breathed in their smell – wet, stale and hopeless – and figured enough was enough.

  "I'm going on the machines."

  Michelle sipped her cider and black. Said nothing. Joe stood and went to the bar. Got another pint in and took it over to the fruit machines. He lit a Regal and pushed a twenty into the slot. A trill as the machine kicked into gear and announced its attention, barely heard over the constant dirge of slurred conversation from the packed bar behind him. Joe let the reels spin and felt the alcohol sharpen his mood.

  Come back to Civvy, and this was the good life, eh? This was the Elgar England they were fighting for, Gawd bless yer, ma'am. Sunday roasts and strawberries and cream, warm beer and cold women, cricket on the village green and grousing about the weather. He should have been proud. Others should have made him feel that way. But every time his mind wandered, he heard the off-key refrain of "I Vow To Thee, My Country" and remembered him and thirty-five other sad-sack troopers running in circles against wind that could take your face off. He remembered four weeks of wearing some other scruffy bastard's PE kit and throwing your knees up to your chest until you felt like spewing your fucking hoop. All good character-building stuff. All good soldier-building stuff. Sergeant and second lieutenant told him he was dog shit, that the only reason it hurt was because he was a fucking bairn, and if he couldn't hack this, he couldn't hack life, and he should fuck off back to his mam and get a good mouthful of tit. And there were times when escape sounded great, except it was a pipe dream. Because unless you were dead or dying, that was you stuck where they told you to be. And where you were was in the middle of nowhere, the arsehole of the countryside where the mist swirled around your feet and the air smelled like manure, running manoeuvres in scratchy shorts until the taste of metal washed your back teeth.

  Break 'em down to build 'em back up, so brutally effective that it worked even when you knew what the craic was. Couple of weeks later, the sarge still shouted at you, but then he told you how to fix yourself. He gave you pointers. Week after that, if you hadn't fucked up too much, you might get a uniform (which you 'd fucking well cherish) and maybe they'd even let you listen to Radio One for a bit, allow you a bit of the outside world, even if it was all boys dressed as girls singing songs about love. Never in his life had Joe been so happy to hear Mike Read's voice. It was a sick way of training, but it worked. You wanted to do well just so you'd stop feeling like shit. And when you found yourself functioning without thought, when you'd bonded with the bastards you wouldn't piss on back in the real life simply because you bunked in the same cold hall, when you were content – couldn't imagine yourself more content – to be a tiny, insignificant cog in one massive, grinding war machine, then that was you sorted – and what a soldier you were, my son.

  When you were a soldier, you couldn't do much else. Didn't matter if you were sitting at home with a family that you could barely stand or doing your best to forget that family by getting shitfaced on a Saturday night, you still had that same old tune – I heard my country calling, away across the sea – lurching through your skull.

  Joe nudged, lost the spin. Took the tab from his mouth and blew smoke. Then he put another twenty in the slot and slapped the button to spin again. He saw movement out the corner of his eye that didn't quite fit the mass that spread out from the bar. He moved his head slightly so he could get a better look. Gav Scott stood off to one side, staring at him, a pint in each hand.

  Joe watched the lights on the machine. "What do you want?"

  "I didn't know what you were drinking, so I just got you a Carling."

  Gav put the extra pint on top of the machine. Took him some concentration to do it, and Joe guessed he was a hair from full-on mortal. When he glanced at the man's dead eyes, the guess was confirmed. It had taken him a lot of Dutch courage to get to this point.

  "You got a minute, Joe?"

  The reels hit a small win. The machine hacked two pound coins into the trough. Joe scooped and pocketed both, stuck another twenty in. "What is it?"

  "Not here."

  "Fuck it, then. I'm not going out in the pissing rain just so's I can have a chat."

  "All right." A slurp as Gav took a drink. Then he leaned in. "I know what you did."

  "What did I do?"

  "I saw you."

  "You saw me?"

  "Before Christmas."

  Joe nodded. "I thought you didn't want to get involved."

  "I found out about that bloke you mentioned. That Curtis Sliwa."

  "And?"

  "Is that what you're planning, is it? Guardian Angels?"

  "I'm not planning anything, Gav. I don't know what you're talking about. I'm just playing this bandit. You're the bloke with the plans. All I did was give them bastards a warning."

  "They never took it, though, did they?"

  "Did they not?" Joe fixed him with a stare. "You didn't notice?" He turned back to the machine. "You didn't notice, you weren't paying attention. And I never said it was going to be permanent." The reels spun into gibberish a
nd the machine made a plaintive electronic sound. Joe ignored it and fed the slot. "I can't bring the whole place into line, can I? One bloke can't do that. It's not plausible. All I can do is mess with their heads for a bit. I already told you I need someone who can get people organised. I thought you were that bloke, but you told us you weren't. So that's it, end of story."

  There was a gust of cold air and Charva Don came through the double doors, Head bag bulging with the usual duty-free tabs, booze and perfume. He showed splintered teeth when he smiled. "Gav, how you doing, mate?"

  "Not so bad, Don."

  "You after owt?"

  "Hang on to a couple of boxes of Embassy, I'll catch up with you later."

  "Anything else? Got some litre bottles in here."

  "Nah, I'm all right."

  "What about you, mate?"

  Joe shook his head.

  “Suit yourself.” Don coughed and excused himself, headed for the crowd at the bar. Brian waved Don over, his other hand reaching into his back pocket.

  Gav licked his lips. "What if I wanted in on it?"

  "In on what?"

  "Whatever you're doing."

  "Then I'd wonder what'd changed."

  "It's my lad."

  "What about him?"

  "He's in with bad company."

  Joe glanced at him. "He buying?"

  "No. Fuck, no. Christ, what kind of dad d'you think I am?"

  "You could be a shit one for all I know."

  "I'm not."

  "All right, then."

  "It's him and his mate. His mate's the one I need to watch. His big brother knows one of the dealers, like. They were talking."

  "So there's nothing to worry about."

  "Not for now, no. But I was thinking for later."

  "Okay." Joe hit a nudge.

  Gav sipped his pint. "Besides, you said I wouldn't get hurt."

  "Aye, that's right. But what about the other side? You going to bottle it the first time you have to chin someone?"

  Gav's voice hardened. "Fuck's that supposed to mean?"

  "It means things have changed."

  Because if Gav had said yes straight away, then he probably could've been trusted to throw a few solid punches. The bloke had the build of an ex-brawler, wide and low to the ground. But he was too much of a thinking man now, a family man, and if it had taken that much booze for Gav to pluck up the nerve just to talk to him, then Joe reckoned Gav would need to be paralytic before he'd curl his hands. Consequences still mattered to Gavin Wilson. He still couldn't function without thought. He hadn't been broken down yet.