Angels Of The North

by Ray Banks

  In short, the pressure was on Joe the JNCO at all times. And training only went so far.

  So it was no wonder that when the gunman took aim at his brick one cloudy Belfast morning, Joe's mind was elsewhere. And when the first shot hit the concrete, a part of his brain dismissed it as irrelevant. It was only when someone shouted behind him, a gruff barking sound, that he looked over his shoulder. Another two shots. One round caught a lad named Stuart Wilson, clipped him on the cheek. Wilson yelled, struggled to stay upright, and then dropped. Someone grabbed him, but his legs were already weak. Another shot. A dry crack and concrete kicked up dust. People running all around him. Joe watched it and couldn't focus. Couldn't think, a knot between his eyes. The rest of his brick struggled with Wilson. A hearty fucker named Petrie pointed at an open window and dragged Wilson towards the building, out of the line of fire. Joe watched them move and remained motionless. He watched everyone run away from him, watched the brick break in front of his very eyes. Blood in his ears. Blood on the concrete in front of him. More running feet, but it could have been his pulse. He watched his brick cluster at the doorway to the building. Watched them look back at him. Eight pairs of eyes, one of them clouded with blood from his wound and blowing blood bubbles out of the hole in his cheek. All of them watching him, none of them willing to step forward and pull him out of there.

  Joe understood. They knew what kind of man he was. Weak in the head, smacked up and incapable of leading, yet given the stripes and the authority to do so. Unwilling to delegate to better men. And now about to die because those better men refused to help him.

  Couldn't argue with that.

  Joe looked up at the window, saw the curtain moving like it was waving goodbye. He saw nothing in the frame, but that didn't mean someone wasn't there. He stared up at it, a dark hole, darker than he'd ever seen before, the rest of the building a thick, grey monolith against an even greyer sky.

  And he kept staring. Come on. Get it over with. Make sure you aim right and enough of this fucking about. Standing still, so a head shot might be on the cards. Otherwise, one right in the centre mass. Whatever it took to put him down for good.

  Praying for it.

  Time stretched. Joe flexed his hands around his gun. Something creaked.

  He waited.

  Nothing happened. Just the soft brush of cold breeze against his face and the sound of spluttering Stuart echoing in the building doorway.

  He walked away, shaking his head. Muttering to himself: "Fuck this, fuck this ..."

  Of course they found their gunman. Or at least the patrol report said they did, and that he'd resisted arrest, and had to be shot. They didn't come quietly, that lot. Hell of a temper on them. Sometimes the best thing to do was put them out of their misery right away. What had happened was they'd raided each and every flat in the block, kicked down doors and held the residents at the end of a rifle until someone's lies proved too shaky to stand. A little more pressure, maybe a name was uttered through smashed teeth. One early morning roust later, there was blood on all their hands and a smeared report told an official lie to hide an inconvenient truth. Wilson was already home by that point, but it had never really been about Wilson. It was about atoning for a shown weakness.

  Shortly after that, that weakness got his discharge. Drugs were an automatic boot. Joe took it without complaint. Life was too short and too dull for complaints. Life was too short and too dull full stop.

  And now what? Methadone and meaningful conversation? A series of substitutes and twelve steps to recovery. For what? What was the big golden prize at the end of it all? A sad, suffocating life in this house, and maybe some labouring job.

  No. Not for him. Not yet. He didn't need that. He didn't need salvation. What he needed was to get out of this house for a few hours and find somewhere to disconnect, seeing as he was under constant fucking watch here.

  He pushed up from the bed and headed down the stairs.

  "Joe?"

  Joe ignored the old man and grabbed his coat.

  "You going out?"

  "Aye."

  "When you going to be back?"

  Joe didn't reply. As he passed the front room, he heard that Conservative party political broadcast, blaring "I Vow To Thee, My Country". The tune snapped him straight long enough to slam the door on his way out.

  27

  "Fuckin' hell, how the other half live, eh?"

  Neil Bigelow had a place out past Saltwell Park, a nice semi on a new-build estate that boasted such things as trees and tarmac driveways. The house screamed money to Gav. Going off the look on Phil's face, it said something far more insulting to him.

  "Seen better." Phil pulled the cab in to the side of the road. He glowered at Bigelow's house. It was large, flat-fronted, lots of double-glazed windows. The front lawn was immaculate and as flat as everything else. Gav pictured a large back garden with sliding doors to the kitchen diner. He pictured an ensuite bathroom. He pictured Neil Bigelow in a new recliner chair in front of a large television, and maybe even a games room or something in the basement, if there was one. He pictured all this and took a moment before he realised that Phil had stepped out of the cab and was already halfway to the house. Gav grabbed the documents from the dashboard and followed at a trot. Phil carried flowers in one hand. He looked like an angry suitor.

  "So what's the plan?" Gav looked at Phil.

  Phil didn't look back. "No plan. Just ask him to sign the contracts. We'll play it by ear from there."

  "He's going to say something."

  "I know he's going to say something. That's what he does. He's a fuckin' weasel. We know this."

  "So what then?"

  "Then ... let's just see what he says. See how it goes."

  Phil leaned on the doorbell. When nothing appeared to be happening, he leaned on it again.

  "You sure he's in?"

  "Where the fuck else is he going to be?"

  A shape appeared in the hallway through the frosted glass, shambling towards them.

  Phil smiled and stepped back from the door. "Do your stuff, Chief."

  The door opened to reveal Neil Bigelow. He'd lost weight. The skin on his face hung around his cheeks. His eyes were dull, his teeth looked too large. His skin and hair looked greyer than usual, and for a second Gav wondered how long it had been since he'd last seen the man.

  Bigelow grinned at Gav. The grin wavered when he noticed Phil. "Gentlemen. What can I do for you?"

  "Thought we'd pay you a visit, Neil. See how you were doing an' that. See how you were getting on."

  "That's nice of you." Bigelow moved away from the door, ushered them into the hall. "Come on in. I'll get the kettle on. You lads want a cup of tea, right?"

  Phil smiled. "Wouldn't say no, like."

  "Excellent." Bigelow glanced at the papers in Gav's hand, then the flowers in Phil's. "They for me, are they?"

  "Aye."

  "I'll put them in some water." Bigelow took the flowers from Phil, nodded to an open door. "Go on in, make yourselves comfortable."

  Phil marched in.

  Gav hung around. "You sure you don't want a hand with the tea?"

  "I can manage. Go on."

  Gav turned back to the door. Saw Phil watching him. Then watched Bigelow shuffle off to the kitchen. Gav went into the front room. Phil was smiling at him.

  "I don't know, Phil. This is ... I don't know if this is a good time."

  "This is the perfect time." Phil looked around the room, apparently admiring the pale, bland decor. "He looks like shit, doesn't he?"

  "Aye. And that's what I'm saying—"

  There was a noise from the kitchen, the sound of mugs clattering together. Gav and Phil both turned at the noise. Phil moved to the door. "You all right in there, Neil?"

  "Yeah, no, I'm fine. Just a little ... I'm fine."

  "See?" Phil grinned at Gav. "He's fine."

  "He doesn't fuckin' look it. Isn't acting like it, either. Where's his missus?"

  Phil shru
gged. "Didn't know he was married."

  "Look at this place. Course he's married."

  "I always figured him for one of them."

  "Eh?"

  "You know." Phil cocked his wrist.

  Gav frowned at him. "Fuck off."

  Bigelow was heard out in the hall. He shuffled into the front room with a tray in both hands. A teapot in the centre of the tray, a range of cups and saucers around. The cups and saucers, as well as the small sugar bowl and milk jug, were gilt-edged and flower-patterned. Gav looked up and saw Phil's cocked eyebrow, then helped Bigelow with the tray, easing it down onto the coffee table. Bigelow thanked him and waved a hand, urging them to sit down. They all sat. Gav couldn't help himself; he looked at Bigelow's left hand. Noticed the absence of the wedding ring. Phil saw him looking. He was staring with a smile in his eyes when Phil looked up again.

  Bigelow poured the tea. "So what's been happening while I've been away, then?"

  "Quite a bit." Gav cleared his throat. "Been busy."

  "Glad to hear it." Bigelow handed Gav his cup. "Milk?"

  "Yeah, aye. Thanks." Gav poured milk. Normally he took sugar, but he couldn't bring himself to use the tongs. He suddenly felt as if he was playing house with a little girl, and he didn't want it to taint what he had to do. Maybe it was a diversionary tactic on Bigelow's part. He'd seen the papers; he must've known why they were here.

  "How are you?" Phil accepted his tea. "You've had us all worried."

  Bigelow smiled and waved him away. "I'm as well as can be expected."

  "Doctor tell you take it easy?" Gav sipped his tea. "Hell of an operation to have."

  "Yes, take it easy, lose weight, watch how much I drink, the usual stuff." Bigelow plucked two sugar cubes with the tongs and dropped them delicately – with tiny splashes – into his tea. "But what do they know, eh? Everyone's different."

  Phil smiled. "Some more than others."

  Gav glared at him. Not the time.

  "Very true, Phil." Bigelow replaced the tongs on the tray and settled back in his chair with some discomfort. "Some more than others. But you didn't come here just to make sure I was still breathing, did you?" He nodded at the papers on Gav's lap. "You had business in mind."

  "Yeah, we did."

  Bigelow nodded sagely, and not a little smugly. He sipped his tea. "So what's the issue, gentlemen?"

  "We drew up a proposed contract."

  "We?"

  "Me and a solicitor." Gav put the cup and saucer to one side, pulled up the papers. "Just a basic contract, really. As plain English as possible." He smiled. "I'm not into all that legal jargon, you know."

  Bigelow held out one hand for the papers. "Best way to do it. Nowhere to hide. Let's have a look." He scanned the papers in front of him and the smile on his face curdled into a pout. "Some bold proposals here, Gavin."

  Gav exchanged a glance with Phil, then leaned forward. "Thought you'd think that. But the thing is, Neil, you've not been at work for a good couple of months now. Not since before Christmas."

  Phil nodded. "Almost seven months."

  "I've been convalescing." Bigelow cast a wary glance at Phil. "I didn't realise I had a deadline. I was under the impression that I'd left the business in capable hands."

  "You have." Gav caught his eye, dragged him back. "You did. That's kind of the point, though, isn't it? You left it with me, I've been getting a bog-standard wage for the last six months."

  Phil chipped in: "Seven."

  "Yes, but that's the price you pay for experience, isn't it? When it comes time for you to take over the place, or maybe a place of your own, that'll be essential knowledge."

  "Except you haven't been back to us about that, have you?"

  "About what?" Bigelow frowned, then seemed to understand. "I'm sure we discussed something—"

  "No. No, we never discussed nowt. Not finally, we never did. We talked about it before you went away, but there was nothing signed over. I was working on faith."

  "On faith? No, you were in charge."

  "Aye, and making less money than if I'd been behind the wheel."

  Bigelow shrugged and returned his gaze to the papers. "I can't help that. I can't think of everything."

  "I know." Gav gestured to the contract. "That's why we drew this up. So we could be done with it, once and for all."

  "I can see that." Bigelow's frown deepened. "This is a different offer."

  "I know."

  "This is less than we discussed."

  Oh, he remembered discussing it now, did he? Yeah, of course he did. Soon as money got involved, his mind was a steel trap. "That's the new offer."

  "And what about negotiation?"

  Gav shook his head. "My final offer. And I'm going to need an answer today."

  Bigelow lowered the contract, the corners of his mouth twitching up. "Since when did you become a businessman, Gavin?"

  "Don't think I'll dignify that with a response."

  "You just did." Bigelow tossed the papers onto the table. "Listen, I appreciate all the good work you've been doing out there on my behalf. I dare say you've done a fantastic job all round, but the bottom line – and it's all about the bottom line, Gavin – is that Puma Cabs is still my business. It's a going concern, and the profits are mine. I still run it, whether I'm there or not. So I know you probably think you've come here today with some kind of ace up your sleeve – oh, I've been running it for six months and so I know everything about the business – but let me assure you that isn't the case. You have no trump card. You have no hope. And you will not get my signature on this ... insult." He smiled. "Have I made myself clear?"

  "Aye." Gav smiled back, but he couldn't hold it for long. He was too disappointed. Of course he'd hoped that Bigelow would see the situation for what it was, but at the end of the day he was just another old, former fat man who'd been out of the game for too long. He placed his cup and saucer back onto the tray. Phil did the same.

  Bigelow watched the pair of them with a smug, wet and familiar smile. "If you'd like to discuss your previous proposal, perhaps, where there may be room for negotiation ..."

  Gav shook his head. He stood up. "There's no point."

  Phil reached into his pocket and pulled out a claw hammer. He dropped it onto the table. The cups shook in their saucers. Bigelow stared at it, frowning. Then looked up at Phil. Phil looked at the hammer.

  Gav went to the window, surveyed the front garden and beyond. The street was dead, as these new streets on these new estates always were. Dead and gone. No community here. "Couple of things happened while you were away, Neil. Should've probably told you before, but you weren't around to tell. First thing was a little kerfuffle at the end of the street." He turned and pointed at Bigelow. "You remember the drug house?"

  "Drug house?" Bigelow looked confused.

  "Nah, you probably don't. Anyway, it doesn't matter – there's no dealers on our street anymore. They've all fucked off somewhere else. Not heard anything from them in months. But the reason I'm telling you this is that the community would like to be self-sufficient."

  "What?"

  "We'd like to manage our own."

  "I know what self-sufficient means, thank you."

  "Course you do. Sorry. Sometimes I have to do that. Sometimes I have to say the same thing twice, dumb it down the second time. Well, you know yourself, when you're dealing with people with fuck-all education, they can get a bit lairy when they're confronted with a word that they don't understand, can't they? They think you're taking the piss."

  "What's your point?" There was an edge to Bigelow's voice, but it was restrained. It was the edge of a man in fear, not angry.

  "My point is that the community is in charge of itself. We got a hairdressers, we got the corner shop, the chippie, and we got the Long Ship. Only thing we don't have at the moment – at the moment – is Puma Cabs."

  Bigelow laughed. "Oh, what, and you think this is going to change that?"

  "I'm saying you don't have a choi
ce."

  "You what?"

  Gav smiled. Phil reached forward and picked up the hammer. He weighed it up in his hand.

  Bigelow pushed out of his seat. "The hell do you think you're playing at, Gavin?"

  Phil sniffed. "You're going to sign that piece of paper."

  "And who the hell are you?"

  Once more, in that slow, even tone: "You're going to sign that piece of paper."

  Bigelow looked as if he wanted to smack Phil in the face, but he didn't have the guts.

  He looked back at Gav."What is this, Gavin? What kind of tactics are these?"

  Gav shrugged. "It's me doing what needs to be done. It's just business."

  "This isn't bloody business, it's coercion."

  "Semantics."

  "It's illegal."

  "Only technically. You exploited me, I'm coercing you. I'd say it evens out. Look, I'm running that place better than you ever did."

  Phil nodded. "Too right."

  "And I've turned it into a proper little community enterprise. Everyone's engaged with the business. Everyone's looking to make it successful. It's all very heartening. You should be proud of what you started here."