by Ray Banks
Gav took one look at the wound and went several shades paler than he'd been. He blew air. "Fuckin' hell ..."
"It's all right."
"Doesn't fuckin' look all right."
"Never as bad as it looks, man."
"Couldn't be much worse. Ah, fuck ..." Gav breathed through tight lips. He looked at the ceiling. "Ah, Jesus. I don't know what to ... I don't feel well."
The shock of all that blood had weakened him to sludge, his legs bent awkward and useless in front of him. Gav closed his eyes.
"Here. Don't pass out." Joe prodded Gav in his good shoulder. "Don't do that. Stay with us." He snapped his fingers. "Hey."
"I'm up, I’m up."
"Stay that way."
Brian shuffled his feet in the doorway. He sniffed.
Joe glanced back at him. "You got any antiseptic?"
Brian appeared to recognise the word, but his brain apparently didn't want to throw up a meaning for it. "Antiseptic?"
"TCP? Something like that?"
"How." Gav opened his eyes again. "You're never putting TCP on us."
"I don't know. I might have an old bottle of Dettol lying around somewhere."
Gav became rigid. "You're not using fuckin' Dettol, neither!"
"All right."
"All right?" Gav shifted in his seat. "Fuck you mean—"
"That'll do." Joe nodded at the door. "Go get it."
Gav tried to get up. "Fuck off with your Dettol—"
Joe pushed him back into his seat, held him there with one hand to make sure he stayed put. "You want to get infected, Gav, you keep playing funny buggers."
Gav glared at Brian. "You come anywhere near us with a bottle of fuckin' Dettol, I'll kick you all over, you fuckin'—"
"And then your arm's going to rot off." Joe looked at Brian, who was shuffling again. "He's not braying nowt. Fetch us the Dettol, will you?"
Brian did as he was told. Joe went to the sink. He found a cloth and twisted the hot tap. Spread the cloth and held it under the tap to rinse it out.
"Fuckin' mess, isn't it?"
Gav was half turned towards him. He swayed. Blood ran the length of his arm.
"Aye." Joe tipped out the washing bowl, gave it a wipe and filled it up with hot water. "But it's nowt we can't fix, all right? You just need to stay awake and calm, and it'll all be fine. Don't worry."
A series of thumps above, which made Gav gaze dumbly at the ceiling, and then the sound of Brian coming down the stairs. Joe grabbed Gav's arm, the washing up bowl on the floor next to him. He set about cleaning the wound.
As it turned out, Gav's wound was exactly as bad as it looked. A seven-inch gash, thankfully pretty clean, that ran down his right bicep, scratching and turning off at the crook of his elbow. As Joe cleaned the wound, it appeared to grow longer, more vicious, more alive. The tissue around the wound was already swollen and puckered. Gav couldn't help but move his arm, and under the skin and fat, there was the hint of clenching muscle, moving in the middle of the wound.
Brian swallowed loudly, sounded as if he was about to spew. "Jesus."
Joe grabbed the dusty bottle of Dettol. "Aye."
"What happened?"
He upended the bottle into the water, put a little on the cloth. "You really want to know?"
"No."
Gav leaned forward on the chair. His face was ashen, his bad arm like string in Joe's hands. He looked as if he was about to topple forward, but Joe kept him right. Gav's eyes rolled every now and then, snapping front and centre every time Joe dabbed the antiseptic near the nerve. The smell of blood and fear-sweat thickened the air in the kitchen, only to be sliced through with the Dettol steel whenever Joe upended the bottle. It was heady in here, Joe's skull swimming with the events of the night, unable to think beyond cleaning the wound and making sure that Gav didn't pass out. Beyond that, really, there was nothing to think about. Beyond these four walls, there was nothing at all.
"You'll need to wrap it."
Gav was croaky. "I want to go home."
Joe shook his head. "You can't."
"I want to go to bed."
"Got any bandages, Brian?"
"No."
"All right. Gav, look at us. Gav. Wake up, son." Gav looked at him, his eyes glazing over. "Brian doesn't have any bandages."
"Why the fuck not?" Gav turned to Brian. "Why don't you have no fuckin' bandages, Brian? Fuck's the matter with you?"
"Listen to me. We're going to have to get you to the hospital."
Gav didn't say anything. His eyes were glass. He licked his lips and stared at the blood stains on the linoleum.
"You hear me?"
"What's that now?"
"We're going to have to get you—"
"No." Gav spoke to the floor. "I don't want to go to the fuckin' hospital."
Brian's voice was weak. "You can't."
Joe turned on him. "What?"
"I'm not ... the ambulance can't come here. I mean, I'll phone for it and everything, but I can't have it coming here. You need to move on."
"Howeh. you've seen him."
"It was them up the road, wasn't it?"
"What difference does that make?"
"Ambulance comes round here, they'll know where you went. They'll be watching for it."
"They're not watching for nowt, Brian. Believe me."
Brian's eyes narrowed. "What did you do?"
"Doesn't matter. Can you drive?"
"No."
"Seriously?" Joe stared at Brian.
"I've had a drink."
"So?"
"I've had a lot of drinks."
"I've got a better idea." Gav tried to stand again. Joe eased him back into the chair. "Ayah, ya fuckin' ow, man. Gerroff."
"Lean forward."
"Fuck off."
"Lean forward and breathe, Gav."
"You fuckin' breathe." But he did as he was told. He leaned forward. He breathed. He spoke to his shoes. "Phil."
"What's that?"
"Phil Cruddas. He's on shift tonight. Call him. He'll come and pick us up."
Joe didn't move. Neither did Brian. Gav lifted his head and looked at the pair of them like, why wasn't someone already on the fucking phone? Well, because Joe thought he knew who Phil Cruddas was, that's why. And he was precisely the kind of bloke they didn't need in on this. Phil wasn't trustworthy. He wasn't a known quantity. As much as Brian was scared about them up the road and their retaliation, there was something to be said for staying discreet about all this, at least for the time being.
Gav levelled his gaze at Joe. "I'm fuckin' serious, man. Brian's right, we shouldn't ... we can't be here, man. We fuckin', we bring this to his front door, that's – I'm sorry, Joe – that's out of order, mate. We can't do that. We already came in here, we can't call an ambulance here an' all, can we? That's not fair on Brian, is it?" He shook his head, moving it around in a kind of drunken circle. "No, we call Phil. Call Phil. It's all right. He's a good lad. It's fine. Don't worry." He tried to tap his nose with one wayward finger. "He'll keep it quiet."
"He'll have to say something."
"Then – fuckin' hell, man – he'll say what I fuckin' well tell him to say, won't he? I'm his gaffer."
Brian moved to the hall. "What's the number?"
Gav pulled a sour face. "Just bring us the phone."
"I don't know if I can."
"Fine, then. Fuck's sake ..." Gav struggled forward. Joe let him stand this time. He helped him through into the hall and told Brian to hold the sweater against Gav's arm. Brian refused. He backed off into the front room. Joe watched him go, watched him close the door behind him. He stared at the door as Gav called the cab office and asked for Phil to come and pick him up at Brian Turner's place.
"You sure you can trust him?"
Gav nodded. "Hundred per cent."
"When's he getting here?"
"Five-ten minutes."
"You lot always say that. You all right here?"
"Aye."
"Make sure to keep the sweater on it. Don't want you bleeding out."
"Where you going?"
"I'm going to have a word with Brian."
Joe pushed into the front room. Brian was sitting on the settee in front of the electric fire. He had a glass of whisky in both hands, his elbows drawn in at both sides. Looked like he was rocking slightly. Joe closed the door behind him and stood silently for a moment, watching. Brian wasn't ready for this. He wasn't prepared. He wasn't able to take it all in, sad old pisshead that he was.
“You okay?"
"I don't want to be involved."
"Okay. I'm sorry."
"Shouldn't have come here." Brian sipped his drink. "I mean, I know maybe you thought we had something going here because of what happened before Christmas—"
"No."
"But if that's the case—"
"It isn't. I told you at the time, didn't I? That was different. Unrelated."
"Unrelated?" Brian snorted. "Oh yeah, fucking right. Unrelated."
"It is. And I'm sorry, I told you that. I couldn't think of anywhere else to go."
"What about that mate of his?"
"I don't know him."
Brian nodded. "Then you don't know what's going to happen, do you?"
"Aye, wey, it was never going to stay a secret, was it?" Joe reached for Brian's tabs, took one out and lit it. "We'll deal with it."
"You will."
"All right."
"There's no we here, man."
Brian drained his glass, and his lips went thin. He reached for the bottle and held it in one hand for a moment, weighing it up. Looked like he wanted to wrap it around Joe's head. Joe waited, but Brian tipped the bottle into his glass.
"What about you?" Joe squinted at him through the smoke.
"What about me?"
"You going to say owt?"
Brian narrowed his eyes, pushed up from the settee in a sudden, awkward movement and stepped up to Joe. "I never asked for this, all right?"
"I know you didn't. I said—"
He pushed Joe hard. "All I wanted was to be left alone."
"All right, calm down."
"Get the fuck out of my house."
Another push, harder this time. Joe took a couple of steps back. Something fell out of his pocket. His heart stopped.
Three plastic bags on the floor. Powder in two of them, green buds in the third. Joe bent and scooped them up, shoved them back into his jacket pocket. Outside, there was the sound of a car engine. Their ride was here.
Brian stared at him.
"You didn't want to get involved." Joe nodded at him. "Right?"
Brian sipped his drink, then nodded in return.
Gav sounded as if he was trying to get up. The letterbox rattled. A couple of thumping steps and the sound of Gav fiddling with the chain on the door.
"You better help your mate out."
Joe regarded Brian a moment longer. Memorised his face. The contempt that moved under the placid exterior. One of these days, he was going to stove that expression right the fuck in.
But not tonight, and Brian knew it.
"See you after."
"Aye." Joe moved to the door. "Take care."
19
Gav stared at the roof of the cab as Peter from Shields droned on: "You ask me, Alan, it's a crying shame. It's a disgrace, that's what it is. These lads, they've given the best years of their lives fighting for their country. Not just the World Wars an' that, but like I'm talking about Ireland, I'm talking about the Falklands, I'm talking about all the rest of 'em that the Yanks got us involved in, like Oman an' that."
"Oman?"
"Aye, it's near Saudi, like. Five years down there, and not a word, eh?"
"Right."
"And these is good lads, these lads. They was there the whole time, like, and there was a secret war going on, Alan."
"A secret war. Right."
"Too right. Communists, Alan. Rebels, man. All over the place. Government didn't even know about it. Our lads was over there helping the Sultans keep the reds down. I was reading this book about it, like. They was proper heroes, man. I mean, it's still going on, isn't it? Them lot on the other side of that wall, the Krauts an' that."
"And what was it you wanted to do for the lads again?"
"Eh?"
"You mentioned something about a veteran's club, Peter."
"Oh aye, yeah. Well, these lads – all these lads – they did us proud, and all they want is a ramp so's the ones with nae legs can get into the club and have a sup like a normal human being. So we're asking—"
"Any Night Owls want to help with Peter's fundraising, give us a ring – that's 0191 488 3188 – and we'll put you in touch with Peter. Thank you, Peter."
"It's not a lot we're asking for. These lads lost limbs for you. These lads lost their lives for you—"
"Oop, bit of a naughty word there. Sorry about that, Peter, but it's why we have the delay. Anyway, we've still got your number, so ... Yeah, my producer's nodding away there, so we've still got Peter's number. Any Night Owls want to donate to a very good cause for our servicemen, please do call in and we'll take it from there."
An advert for tiles interrupted the low buzz of the radio. If Alan Robson was still on, it meant it wasn't two o'clock yet. That was good. Still time for Gav to get himself sorted before he went home. A couple more adverts – carpet warehouse and a Metro Radio roadshow – and then it was back to the golden tones of Yer Flashing Blade. The sound of him and his callers filled the car along with the stuffy warmth of the heater and the smoke from Phil's cigarette. Gav let his head rest against the back of the seat. He couldn't think straight. When he looked down, he realised why – he'd lost so much blood he was almost see-through. Well, no. Not lost. He knew exactly where it was. Most of it was on the back seat. Some of it was in Brian Turner's kitchen. A bit more spattered the wall of the landing at number thirteen. But it was the sight of it on his trousers and the cab upholstery that quickened the spin in his head and turned the tremble that had taken hold of his fingers into a full-blown palsy. He breathed in through his mouth to avoid the smell of the blood, the cigarette smoke, whatever it was that had got stuck in the car heater and died. As he breathed out, he became drowsy. He leaned against the window, fumbled for the handle and rolled it down a little more. The white noise of the wind whipping by the side of the car muted the radio, blurring it into a sound that made his eyes heavy and his brain run away into abstract thought. He wanted to go to bed. Knew that he couldn't. Couldn't go to sleep. Not if he knew what was good for him.
"Gav."
"Muh."
"You all right, marra?"
Gav looked up. He saw Phil watching him in the mirror and nodded.
"You want to stretch out a bit, you can. Don't worry about the seats or owt."
Gav moved one hand weakly, half-shook his head. Standard answer. Same thing he'd done when Phil tried to start a conversation about how the toon were still bottom of the fucking table, and if Gav reckoned the young Gazza and Goddard'd be able to pull it off.
"I've heard Willie's going to sell Beardsley. You hear that?"
Another half-shake. Phil had tried to talk about the kids, about the soldier, about what had happened, now football – anything to keep him awake.
Gav closed his eyes.
"Gav, stay with us."
Gav snapped awake. Thought he heard Joe.
But Joe wasn't there. The absence made Gav feel a bit sick. The soldier did a bunk as soon as Phil took over. Dumped him in the back of the cab and took off. Looking after himself. Fuck it, he wasn't needed now anyway. His presence would bring up more questions than it answered. Better to have Phil take him in.
"Fuck it."
"What's that?"
"Nowt."
"You know what you're going to say, Gav?"
"Aye."
They'd already sorted Gav's story. He was at work, he was on shift, usual quiet night until he picked up a dodgy fare. They weren
't common, but there wasn't a cabbie in the world hadn't picked up a nutter in his time. This one was drunk – you could smell it on him, stank like a fucking brewery – and the booze gave him daft ideas like thinking if he kicked off hard enough, he wouldn't have to pay for his ride, and what the fuck did Gav think he was going to do about it? Well, seeing as this fare was a streak of piss (Gav already had Brian Turner in mind should they ask him for a description), he thought he'd put up a fight, defend his fucking rights. So he did his bit, tried to get the bastard to pay, until the bastard pulled a knife, a little Stanley. Thinking, right, this cunt wasn't a carpet fitter, so he was the kind of care in the community case who liked to cut people. And Gav thought then, well, fuck that. A night's takings weren't worth getting perforated over, so he did the sensible thing and made to give the mentalist the cash. Except this cunt – being a cunt – had already run his notions through to their natural conclusions and decided that he was going to ribbon Gav whether he gave up the money or not. Next thing Gav knew, there was blood everywhere, and this bastard's done a runner with the takings. He's slumped in the front seat, his arm's a fucking mess, he can't drive anywhere, so he got Phil on the horn and told him to come pick him up. And Phil – being the solid, stand-up bloke he was – did the decent thing, God bless him.
"I see." The nurse narrowed her eyes at Gav; they became black slits in her face. She smelled of rubber and bleach. "Have you called the police yet?"
Gav raised his head and squinted at the light. He was cold. He couldn't remember being moved from the cab.
"Can you hear me?"
Gav nodded.
"We've called the police." Phil stood somewhere off behind him. His voice was calm. "Not that it'll do any good."
"You never know."
Gav tried to focus on the poster on the far wall. He couldn't read what it said, but there was a cartoon dog on it. Looked like the dog was in pain. Then he wondered if Phil had skipped the hospital and brought him to a vet instead.
"Worst thing's the back of the cab." Phil sniffed. "Blood all over."
"Clean it, then."
"Will do, Chief."
Not what Gav had meant to say. He'd tried for light-hearted, ended up sounding pissed. He smiled and tried to keep his eyes open. Probably looked even more pissed. It didn't matter.
