by Ray Banks
"All right." Joe stepped back, shrugged out from under Phil's hand. "I'm going."
Phil cricked his neck and showed a crooked grin. Gav regarded Joe with barely-concealed disgust.
"Let's get started."
Gav raised one hand and the collective roar of the radios cut out. He smiled. He was organising them, playing general, and they were following his orders to the letter. Or rather, Joe noticed, they were following Phil, watching for his nod then acting accordingly. Gav might have been in charge, but he wasn't the one with the power. Which meant that trying to talk to him was useless.
Gav turned back to the house and bellowed: "You got ten minutes to clear out. Ten minutes, then we torch the place."
Silence from the house. Movement in the windows. Phil gestured to a ginger cabbie and his stringy, grey-haired mate. They struggled along the path with four buckets of sloshing petrol and put them down in front of Gav.
"See that?" Gav made a show of pulling a tab. He took out a disposable, lit the cigarette. Spoke through the first puff of smoke. "Nine minutes."
Joe forced his way past two of the drivers. Cheap aftershave and cigarette smoke. Sweat and Dutch courage. They followed him with their glares. He didn't care. There were people out in their front gardens now, confident enough to come out and get a better view. Joe pushed on, his chest tight. Black flies danced around the edge of his vision. He made back to his front fence before the wobble in his legs forced him to stop and take stock. He didn't dare look back, something inside jerking him into a cringe at the thought of what he might see. He pushed off the gate, gestured to Michelle as he entered the house. "Lock the door. Double lock it."
Gav's shout: "Eight minutes!"
Michelle busied herself locking the door as Joe took the stairs two at a time. He went straight to the bairn's room and dropped into a crouch. He pulled up the floorboards. More than itch now; this was a full-blown medical emergency. He snatched up his works. He heard the old man's voice, an inquisitive tone, no doubt wondering what was going on. Joe pushed into the bathroom, shut the door and moved to the bath. He was shaking. He sat, looked at the floor. His lungs felt swollen. He rubbed at his eyes, tried to focus on the floor.
He heard Michelle say his name.
"I'm all right. Just give us a second."
Outside, Gav yelled a six-minute warning.
Joe blinked until he could see clearly, then he reached for his works and unrolled them along the edge of the bath. Just a pinch. That was all he needed. He wasn't fucking daft. A pinch would be enough to level him out, settle the anxious tremor that had him sweating right now. Fear rolled his gut like a bowling ball. He had to concentrate. Kill the fear, and then figure out what to do. It had worked in the past, and it would work again. He just needed to keep his hand steady enough to cook and draw, which he did like a pro junkie, pausing to twist the cold water tap so it sounded like he was doing something else. He flicked the needle twice, then heeled off his right shoe and rolled off the sock with his free hand.
"Four minutes!"
A knock on the bathroom door. It sounded heavier than Michelle's. The old man spoke, a touch of worry scratching his voice. "Joe—"
"Fuck's sake, I said I'd be out in a minute."
"I know, but—"
"So fuck off, will you?"
Joe found the sore spot between his second and third toe and popped just under the skin, made sure to turn the needle so pain mingled with the first wave. Count of three, and the first rush grabbed him in a sudden, lung-emptying hug; the second softened the ache in his chest; the third made him blind and warm. Joe closed his eyes. He sucked the spit from his teeth. He let out an involuntary grunt as he breathed out.
Gav called two minutes, but it was muffled and miles away.
Different country. Different planet.
Joe leaned forward on the edge of the bath and leaned on his knees. He dragged his bare foot across the lino and left a faint red smear. He stared at it, slightly disturbed, absently wondering why he'd bled so much this time. Then he closed his eyes. Gav shouted again outside, but Joe didn't hear what was said over the sound of other men shouting and the clatter of feet against pavement, people running – it sounded like applause. He felt like taking a bow.
A breeze glanced across his face, as if someone had just opened a window.
Joe opened his eyes.
The old man stood in the doorway. Joe looked at him. The old man looked at the works, then at Joe. He looked as if he was trying to say something. His mouth moved. His throat moved. "Joe—"
"I told you to fuck off, didn't I?"
He reached forward and slammed the door in the old man's face. The noise shook the room. Joe leaned forward and clamped a hand to his head.
The old man was talking outside. Pleading with him. Joe couldn't hear what he was saying, and wouldn't have cared even if he had.
24
So they came out of the house. Gav hadn't expected that. Would've been a lot easier if they'd stayed inside. That way he could've kept barking orders, and Phil and the rest of the lads could have done the dirty work instead of him.
But no, they came out, two of them – a reed-thin Asian lad and a fucker who might've been pretty at one point, but now looked rugged with scars. Handsome was the leader, his chin up, confident. Obviously taken one look at Gav and the rest of the lads and thought he could Stallone the fuck out of them, figured them for a bunch of bottling busybodies in need of a professional kicking.
Handsome opened his mouth, curled his top lip – whatever was coming out wasn't going to be pleasant – and Phil cut him short, hefted the fat end of his snooker cue, then smacked it full in his face. Handsome rocked but refused to drop. He let out what sounded like a curse followed by a gobful of blood. Phil swung the cue again – there was a sharp crack as it connected with the bony part of Handsome's head. The dealer swayed, spluttered, and then dropped to the pavement like someone had cut his legs out from under him. That was the seal breaker the rest of them had been waiting for. Four drivers roared ahead and launched themselves at the skinny Asian, who managed to land a few weak slaps before he succumbed to a tidal wave of Reeboks and fists.
After the beating came the petrol. Smokey Benson and Scouse Clive grabbed the buckets as Phil let Fat Bob and Viv Francis go on into the house. Gav watched them go, his fingers tightening around the rounders bat as he heard further shouts.
Go on.
All this time, he'd thought he was a coward for not stepping up when he saw Brian Turner getting brayed. All this time he'd fucking hated himself for trying to stop Fiona from calling the police. All this time he'd remembered the fear that grabbed and twisted his heart, froze him to the spot, eyes wide and shining, hands trembling, unable to speak, barely able to breathe. How he'd told himself that he was just looking after his own, right? That was what he was supposed to do, that was his first instinct, right? But then what if his first instinct was nothing but self-preservation. What then?
It wasn't. It was protection. He knew that now. He needed to protect his kids. He wasn't afraid of conflict. He thrived on it. He was the head of his family, the boss of his business, leader of this band of blokes who were currently taking care of their community.
Gav entered the house like Patton, saw that the troops had their hands full, but they were still dealing with the situation, running on adrenalin and pride. An Asian dealer screamed past him, running with the limp Gav had given him the previous week. As Hopalong went past, Gav lashed out with the bat, caught him in the ribs and sent him spiralling out onto the front path like a dancing toddler. Gav followed him out. The dealer jabbered something, unintelligible because of his sobs, hands held up in front of his face as weak protection.
Gav turned to see the longhair stumble out of the house. He watched the hippy bastard give him a wide berth and then stagger off down the street. The skinny Asian was helping Handsome to his feet. Both were bloody and dizzy, shuffling in circles. He leaned over, grabbed Hopalong's hair an
d started dragging him down the path. Dropped him outside the gate. "Now fuck off."
Hopalong rolled around on the ground.
Gav kicked his foot. "Go on. Else I'll chuck you back in there to burn."
Hopalong scrambled to his feet and limped away.
Gav went back into the house. They hadn’t lit the place up yet, but the buckets were standing by. Both doors were open, and the place was sweating. He put one hand to the radiator – it burned to the touch.
"Keep the gas going, don’t they?" Phil came down the stairs. "Nobody’s paying for it, so they run it till the gas board cut it off, and then they jack it elsewhere. Scum, man, I’m fucking telling you."
There was a scream upstairs. It sounded female. Scouse Clive appeared on the landing with the girl who’d cut Gav the other night. He watched her as she kicked and screeched her way down the stairs. She was missing one of her front teeth. Gav told Clive to hold her up for a second, then knocked another one out for her. She wilted in Clive’s hands and he had to drag her out of the house.
Gav shook the ache out of his hand.
Phil sidled up to him. "That’s not the plan, Gav."
"She deserved it."
Someone called Gav’s name from the kitchen. He went through, Phil following. A fat lad in his skivvies shivered on his knees in the middle of the kitchen. Blood all down his face and gut, which wobbled as he breathed. His hands were up and behind his back. He was spluttering something incoherent, a string of spittle so thick it looked like a popped word balloon. Viv Francis had his hands on him.
"This is the one." Viv nudged Fatty. "Tell him."
Gav drew closer. "You got something to tell us?"
The lad shook his head and breathed through his mouth.
"Viv says you do."
Viv nodded at Fatty. "He’s the one chucked the bat through your window."
Gav backed up a little, leaned over and got a better look at the bloke on his knees in front of him. He looked too young and too soft to be threatening anyone. But then blood on a bloke’s face had a way of making him look like a victim.
"All right, let him go."
He heard thundering footsteps, sprinting and tumbling down the stairs. Heard the whoop of the blokes upstairs enjoying this a bit too much. Gav didn’t take his eyes off the lad. His skin was yellowish, his hair the kind of bristle-black that meant this bastard was foreign, maybe third or fourth generation but, as Phil liked to put it, with his feet well under the table. Gav heard Scouse Clive come into the kitchen.
"Upstairs is clear."
"Then douse it and we’ll get going."
"Right y’are."
"You can go an’ all, Viv. Help Smokey and Clive out."
"Where's Bob?"
"Probably having a sly tab. See if you can find him." Gav caught Fatty's eye. "Last thing we need is someone left behind, eh?"
Viv nodded and left the kitchen. Phil moved to the kitchen door and pulled it shut. Fatty brought his hands round front and rubbed his wrists. Gav heard the drivers come back into the house and trudge upstairs with the buckets of petrol. He heard footsteps overhead as they went from room to room.
"What’s your name?" said Gav.
"Mark."
"Good English name."
Phil laughed.
"You a hard lad, Mark?"
"No."
"Aye, you are. Proper fuckin’ hard. You need to be if you’re hanging round here. Why’d you chuck that bat through my window, Mark?"
"What bat?"
"This bat." Gav laid the rounders bat on Fatty’s shoulder. "Remember?"
"I don't know what you're—"
Gav hefted and brought the bat down on Fatty's shoulder, felt the crack of bone, sent the fat bastard buckling to the floor. Fatty's forehead made a sticky sound as it pressed against the greasy lino, and the dealer let out a high-pitched yell.
"You remember it now then, eh?"
Fatty reared up, tears in his eyes. "Fuck off."
Another swipe, connected with the side of his head, bounced the dealer off the cabinet. He dropped to one side, one of his hands fluttering up to the broken skin around his temple, his mouth open in a silent moan, his eyes nothing more than wrinkles in his head.
"You still hear us in there, son? Still picking us up?"
Gav brought his foot sharply into the bloke’s shivering gut and curled him double. He listened to the lad wheeze for a minute before he moved away to the middle of the kitchen. He heard something that sounded like coughing, but had another tone to it.
Fatty was laughing.
"Something funny?"
"Nah, mate."
"You got something funny, I’d love to hear it. Fuck knows I could do with a decent laugh now my front windows have been put through."
Fatty leaned back against the cabinets and grinned with a bloody mouth. "You’re scared."
Gav kicked him again. Harder this time. Kicked him in the face for good measure. Snapped the bloke’s head back into the wood. Gav looked down at the blood on his shoe. Phil handed him a stained tea towel.
Gav wiped off his shoe. "Fuckin’ bleeding on us ..."
The laughter continued, but it was lower in tone, sicker, more liquid. The bloke spat blood at Gav and showed pink teeth. "Think you’re ... better."
"What’s that?"
"Fuckin’ gangster, man."
"Eh?"
"Rip us off."
"I never stole nowt, man."
"Fuckin’ money going. Fuckin’ smack going. You and your fuckin’ ... mate."
Gav glanced back at Phil, who shook his head. Tapped his watch. "Time’s getting on."
"You’re the same. You’re –"
Gav went in with the bat, bounced it off his head and brought it down on his back. He felt a rib snap under the blow. Fatty jerked and hissed breath. Turned his face up to the ceiling. Blood ran out of his mouth as he blinked the tears out of his eyes.
"You’re nowt." His lips slick with blood.
"I’m nowt?" Gav nodded despite himself, heart racing. "I’m fuckin’ nowt."
Gav tensed up, the bat tight in both hands. He raised it, felt the weight.
Then he dumped it off to one side, marched over to the bloke on the floor and brought his heel down square in the middle of his fat fucking face. Once, twice. The third time, he had to lean into the cabinets to keep his balance, breathing harsh and moaning. He didn’t stop until Phil pulled him away. Gav stumbled, hopped, held onto Phil, and then pushed himself away.
"That’s it, Gav. All right, son."
Gav looked back at the bloke on the floor. Fatty was moving, but only just. Phil opened the kitchen door and told Viv to get his arse in here, there was some clearing up to do. Viv came in and looked sick at the prospect, but grabbed the bloke under the arms and dragged him towards the door.
Phil stopped him. "Back door. We’re not having Chuckles here make us look bad."
Viv dragged the dealer out into the back yard and dumped him. Phil and Gav left through the front, and Phil told them to douse the ground floor. The girl was screaming again, hysterical and incoherent without teeth, screeching the same two syllables over and over again – "tuh-beeeeeh, tuh-beeeeh" – like a demented sheep. Fat Bob held her arms behind her back. When he loosened his grip, she made a break for the house. She didn’t get far before Smokey Benson grabbed her around the waist. She kept screaming, almost put the weedy old bugger to the deck. Fat Bob was quick to back him up.
"Need to do something about her, like."
"She’ll calm down."
Phil gestured at Smokey to get the silly bitch out of sight, which he did, piling her off into the nearest cab and slamming the door shut on her wailing. Apart from her and her muffled screaming, the street was dead quiet.
When the last of the drivers, a beaming Scouse Clive, came out of the squat, Phil turned to Gav.
"Just give the word."
Gav looked around him. Everyone waiting for him to say something. And beyond the people o
utside in the street, he knew there were more behind net curtains watching every move he made, listening for the next thing out of his mouth.
He gave it to them.
"Burn it."
Scouse Clive brought out a six-pack of bog roll from the boot of his cab, handed one each to the drivers. They approached the house, lit the bog roll and tossed them through the front door. They bounced, unrolled, sending a strip of fire into the house. Two more rolls joined it. Viv got close enough to hoy his roll up the stairs, even though the flames were already catching in the hall. Smokey did the same, gave it a proper punt, too, right up over the banister and onto the landing, his grey ponytail bouncing against his back. Phil put a brick through the front window first before he launched his like a cannonball into the front room. Fat Bob just watched.
The girl in the cab tripped the lock and came barrelling out of the cab. She threw herself at the house, screeching. This time Viv grabbed and pinned her. She kicked out and screeched even louder. Viv looked as if he was enjoying the struggle. Gav ignored her. Hysterical fucking junkie bitch. He approached the front door of number thirteen. He could feel the heat on his face, smell burning hair and petrol. He lit one end of the bog roll with his disposable and then tossed it into the fire. The tissue flared orange, then he had to turn away as the smoke billowed out into the street.
The girl had stopped screaming now. She sobbed, her face cut and bruised. Gav looked down at her and for a second felt something approaching pity, but it didn’t last long. Especially when he saw Phil’s grinning face.
Someone cheered. Then someone else. A third person started clapping, softly at first until others took up the beat and spread it into applause, which grew in volume until it sounded like the whole world was cheering him on. And Gav knew that somewhere in his house, his missus had been watching, and she wouldn’t know what to make of him, who this bloke was who was stood out here, the hero, in front of his colleagues and neighbours who were now clapping and cheering now, making a right racket. Fiona wouldn’t know who he was, because he wasn’t sure himself right then. But he had a sneaking suspicion he was the bloke he’d always wanted to be, the bloke he was destined to be.
