Angels Of The North

by Ray Banks

  Bigelow trembled. His face was grey. His hands clenched and unclenched. Phil watched them with a cockeyed look. Looked as if he was willing the man to make a move. His own hand tightened around the handle of the hammer.

  "I don't want to hurt you, Neil. You've been through enough already what with your operation and everything. I want to make this as easy as possible. Which is why I'm asking you nicely, do the right thing, will you?"

  "Right thing for who?"

  "For everyone. I get the business that I've been running since last year. You get some money to enjoy while you're recuperating. The community get something to call their own. It's all for the greater good, Neil. You know, it's just what Her Down South is talking about. Small businessmen of the world unite. Grab your opportunities where you can and make the most of them." Gav smiled. "So do the right thing, eh?"

  Bigelow didn't say anything to that. He looked across at Phil. Then he sat back in his chair, his shoulders sloped, held his head in his hand for a minute. Phil looked as if he was about to say something, but Gav narrowed his eyes and kept him quiet. Wait it out. Let him think about it. Let him work it through – it had to be his decision.

  Bigelow snatched up the contract once more. He blinked at it as he read, his lips tightening.

  Finally, he cleared his throat. "Can't sign anything without a pen, can I?"

  28

  Brian wiped condensation from the bus window as the countryside turned to concrete and the sky became cluttered with buildings. He rubbed the water into his jeans, gazed out at the scenery. A cliché because it was it true: he remembered this when it was all fields, back before the walls went up, back when it was just a power station ash dump, a hundred-odd acres of clarty, minging ground that nobody wanted. Then the Tories came along – Gawd bless yer, Ma'am, and your iron ways – and took one look at both position and potential before they tagged it an Enterprise Zone and transformed it into a building site.

  The biggest shopping centre in Europe. A dream come true for the council. They saw pound signs and press coverage, so they jumped at the chance to turn a wasteland into a business proposition. Grand plans, big thinkers, glorious, bright new futures in the offing. It hadn't been that long since Dan Smith had thrown a motorway through Newcastle city centre and engineered concrete skyways that looked like something out of J.G. Ballard's worst nightmares, but this was better because this was progress, not the futurist imaginings of the Mouth of the Tyne.

  And now this, the vision of the North East to come. The MetroCentre. Half finished, and hunched on the horizon like an ogre's shoulders. The Red and Green Malls were already up. They'd crawled out of the freshly poured foundations, struggling upright over the course of three months before they stood now, squat and solid. One thick macadam arm reached out and grabbed the A69 in a fist of metal and concrete. The road was a link to the world beyond this patch of Gateshead muck, and one that guaranteed long-term commerce. Brian had already seen cars dotted around the huge parking lots, some of them quite fancy, as people drove in to see what all the fuss was about. The rest would be along quickly enough once word spread about all the shops they could visit without getting rained on. As the bus pulled in, Brian noticed the signs for the new malls – Blue and Yellow – which were set to complete the kindergarten colour scheme, promising a bowling alley, a multi-screen cinema and even a bloody theme park. On top of all that, they were talking about bus and rail stations, so that you didn't even need a car to get here.

  A theme park. Jesus. Disneyworld in Gateshead. Nobody could have expected that. Closest they had to a theme park round here was the decommissioned Vickers Viscount in Saltwell Park, and you had to make sure your tetanus was up to date before you set foot on board. So now Brian worked there, what did that make him? Mickey Mouse?

  Fucking Goofy, more like. Or better yet, one of them weird shaved-dog creatures that made up the numbers in the crowd scenes. Nobody special, nobody noticeable. Just there to empty the bins, mop out toilets and buff the floors.

  The cleaning job hadn't turned out to be as bad as he'd expected – his dear old dead dad's advice ringing true once more – except when he pulled a five-to-nine and made up the six-strong crew on a night shift stuck on a long, gritty clean. The other blokes weren't really worth the breath to talk to – most of them didn’t speak that much English anyway – so conversation was almost non-existent. Brian spent most of his time avoiding his reflection in dark shop windows. Every now and then, he'd catch a glimpse of his face, see the scar under his eye, the indentation in the side of his head buckled grotesquely in the reflection, and for just a moment he wouldn't recognise himself. Not long, but long enough for a twist of panic to root him to the spot. He was terrified; then knotted up with embarrassment; then angry, pissed off with himself for jumping at shadows and memories.

  He turned away from the window, looked at the back of his book, but didn't open it. He still had the lingering daze of a drunken weekend. They all drank, except for a couple of the coloured lads. It was part of the reason why they had the job in the first place, and the most plausible reason why some of them just didn't bother turning up after a week or so. Brian was determined to stay, mind. Ironed shirt, clean trousers, shower and shave and brushed his teeth twice before he came to work. He didn't want anyone smelling the drink on him. On the nights, it wasn't a problem; on the days, it was another matter entirely. They watched you on the days.

  The other problem with the day shifts was keeping out of the way of the shoppers. On the weekdays it wasn't so bad – the Red Mall was deserted most of the day apart from lunchtime. But on the weekends the place kicked into gear at about ten o'clock and stayed chocka right through to the night lads who came on at five. The only way to deal with it was to keep your head down and hope there were no major spills that demanded a mop-up there and then. Otherwise, you'd be an obstacle for people to bump and berate for however long it took to clean up the sick/piss/blood/food/lager or combination of all five you'd been left with. People hated it when something stood between them and their shopping. They turned surly. They acted out.

  Brian didn't care that much as long as he was kept busy. He wanted a moveable shift, both levels, because if he wasn’t moving then he was either up to his ankles in piss-water in the gents, or else having to talk to John the Security, who had more stories about "them thieving Paki bastards" than there were scrunchies in Clare's. Not that there was actually that much wrong with John the Security's company – under the uniform and Daily Mail bollocks, he was probably a decent enough bloke – it was just that him and Brian didn't see eye-to-eye on anything, and while they never actually got above hardening their voices, it was tiring talking to someone who you knew was just going to disagree with everything you said. Plus, he was positive that John the Security used to say a lot of stuff just to wind him up.

  So he kept moving through the crowds. A day like this, when he was sober and mobile, he could feel the air-conditioned air cold in his lungs and his blood pumping again. He'd had a thousand coffees and was running speed freak through his daily chores. Almost enjoying it. A kid spewed on the floor outside Marksies. Another spew on the first. One was pink, the other blue, both of them courtesy of the shop at the end of the Red Mall that sold old-fashioned sweeties. The stench of mint and aniseed was enough to make Brian feel like adding to the mess, but he swallowed back his nausea and went at the puke with a mop, concentrating so hard that he didn't notice the familiar voice until it had already passed. In fact, he only noticed it when he heard Danielle's name.

  "How, Danny, is that your da?"

  Shannon. Clicking the chud in her mouth as she said it. She wasn't alone. Shannon, Tania and Danny, all dressed up and trying to play older than their years. Brian hoped it was something that Lynne didn't know about, but knew secretly that she probably encouraged it. Danielle turned and looked at him, and she couldn't – didn't even try to – hide the shock and embarrassment while Shannon put a hand up over her face and giggled like a stoner. "Oh
. Ho-ho-ho. Shit."

  Is that your da? Like it was a joke – what's your dad doing these days? Oh, he's a cleaner.

  Fucking hilarious, Shannon. And didn't he just want to smack the freckles off her stupid banana head. She caught the glare and turned away, suddenly coy, the laughter gone and her eyes bugging. Tania grabbed her and pulled her off to one side, leaving Danielle alone.

  Danielle looked at him; he looked at her. The pair of them frozen, equally mortified.

  He made the first move. Straightened up with the mop in his hand and cleared his throat, made sure his voice was strong when he spoke. "Y'alright?"

  Now she couldn't meet his eyes eyes. She shuffled her feet. People were glancing at the pair of them, and the puke still steamed on the floor by his foot. Neither moved beyond that initial shuffle, caught in a tableau of discomfort.

  "How you doing?"

  She muttered something under her breath that sounded pained, surreptitiously searching for an exit.

  "What's that?"

  "I'm all right."

  "What you doing here?"

  "Nowt."

  "Just hanging out?"

  She rolled her eyes. "Aye, suppose."

  "With these two." He nodded at the two other girls. Shannon pretended not to see it and Tania nodded back, smiling. "Doing some shopping, is it?"

  "Aye."

  "Get anything nice?"

  Danielle didn’t say anything. Her cheeks were red. She looked at the pool of sick by his feet and swallowed hard. She moved her hand and the carrier bag she was holding rustled.

  He adjusted his grip on the mop, fought the urge to step over there and hug the shit out of her, tell it was all right, there was nothing to be ashamed of. But he knew as soon as he moved towards her, she'd run away. "Listen, I’ll be round your mam's in a couple of weeks with your birthday present. Do you want us to phone ahead?"

  She narrowed her eyes. "Why?"

  "I thought maybe we could have a catch-up, you and me."

  She nodded, but her voice was distant. "Yeah, okay."

  "Right, aye. Well." He was nodding too, matching her until she stopped. "I better get on then. Have fun with the rest of your day. See you later, Shan and Tan."

  Shannon giggled again, which brought a fresh blush to Danny's cheeks. When she looked at him again, she was flushed with rage. He didn't understand it. Embarrassment, aye – you go out with your mate, you see your dad pushing a mop through a pool of kiddy spew, you’re going to get embarrassed, he could understand that. But anger? That was something else.

  He called after her as she walked away.

  She didn't stop, didn't acknowledge him. If anything, she looked as if she sped up a little. He thought about calling her again, but something dried his throat. And by then she was already halfway down the mall. He didn't want to shout after her. No, he did want to shout after her. But he couldn't.

  He watched her go. Felt like an iron ball in his gut, weighing him down. He breathed out and his throat hurt.

  Then he went back to mopping up the spew. When he was finished he went out for a tab break. The Tory candidate, some plummy twat in a tailored suit, was spinning his spiel for a crowd of no more than twenty. Brian stopped far enough away from the hustings to avoid contact, but close enough to listen to the lies.

  Ah, but they weren't lies, were they? All Brian had to do was look at the achievements of the last eight years – really just look at them. Anyone with eyes in their head could see how strong Britain was now, both economically and politically. They could see how respected Britain was both on the world stage and at home. It was a well-known fact that Britain's industry was competitive and, more than that, growing because of the changes that the current government brought about, changes that enabled people – anyone, regardless of education or class – to be enterprising. And that was all about individual enterprise, which took the power away from the trades unions and put it back in the hands of the people who deserved it.

  More people arrived at the edge of the crowd.

  And that policy was going to continue. The government was all about individual enterprise. Because the way this guy in the blue tie saw it, people had a right to know that they could improve their standard of living through their own sweat and be sure that the government wasn't going to take the fruits of those labours away from them.

  Someone cheered. "Too bloody right."

  And as for the north ... Well, there'd been talk of a north-south divide, which was just preposterous. Now it was true that most of the industries that the north were once known for – the coal, the steel, the ships – were now based abroad, but there were new industries, service industries, that would replace them. Otherwise, what would happen when the coal ran out? Where would the opportunities be then?

  Brian blew smoke. The crowd had grown by another twenty bodies. They were mostly older couples, the kind of people who could afford to drive out into the middle of nowhere to shop on a weekday afternoon. Brian regarded them with the same disdain he had for the candidate. He wasn't interested.

  Oh, but Brian had to be interested in opportunities, and the Conservatives' purpose was to give opportunity to people wherever they were. They didn't look at Britain and see a divided country. They didn't see Britain as a broken country. No, they saw Britain as a breeding ground for business, an incubator for enterprise and opportunity. And their purpose was to allow new industries to develop and expand, to get more people into self-employment, because it was business that created jobs, not government. And in the north, they had more self-employed, more enterprise and cheaper houses. Salary for salary, people in the north actually did better than anywhere in the country. Really, they'd never had it so good ...

  A familiar voice: "Brian."

  He turned and saw Gav Scott walking towards him. "All right?"

  "Not bad." He stopped at Brian's side and nodded at the candidate. "What a fuckin' ponce. Should be a law."

  Brian smiled.

  The candidate pouted and frowned, trying to look like a fearless, longstanding leader of men. "We say: it does not matter who you are, where you come from, you shall have your opportunity and you too shall own property; you too shall have the chance to own shares and build up your savings and make a difference to British industry."

  "That's the way to one nation." Gav sniffed. "Sieg heil."

  The crowd applauded the candidate. He gave them an open-mouthed smile and held his hands up as though he'd just been elected president.

  "How's the arm?"

  Gav flexed. "Not bad. Bit stiff. Can always tell when it's going to rain."

  "They sorted you out all right, then. At the hospital."

  "Aye. Nae bother."

  "You shopping?"

  "Nah, I've come to see you."

  Brian swallowed and dropped the rest of his cigarette. "I heard about the window. But I didn't tell anyone, Gav, I promise."

  "I know. It's all right. I was just wondering, what you doing out here?"

  "Working."

  "Someone said you were a cleaner?"

  "That's right."

  "Can't be making much money."

  Brian shook his head and watched the candidate push through the rapidly dispersing crowd. "I don't."

  "You drive?"

  "Eh?"

  "Can you drive a car?"

  Brian blinked. "Yes. I mean, it's been a while, but—"

  "You got your licence, is what I'm asking."

  "Yes."

  "All right. Then how about you come and work for me?"

  Brian stared at him, wondered what the catch was. "I don't know. I thought you needed to have a special licence or something."

  Gav waved him off. "Don't worry about that. I'll sort it."

  "I don't know—"

  "I'm trying to do you a favour here, mate."

  "You don't owe me anything."

  "Course I do. If you'd not let us in that night, I would've been fucked. Way I was bleeding, there's a good chance I could've di
ed. So, you know, I was just trying to think of a way to make it up to you, and I was thinking if you needed a job – a decent job – then I've got one for you. And I know you've got shit with your ex an' that, so we can work shifts around whatever you need. We're flexible."

  Brian didn't say anything.

  "Anyway, give it a think. There's no hurry." Gav slapped him on the shoulder. "You know where to find us, right?"

  Brian nodded, and watched Gav head back to the taxi. He glanced over at the hustings. The candidate was gone, the crowd scattered, but Brian couldn't help but think that some of the promises remained.

  29

  The lads at Puma Cabs were a bit stand-offish at first, but once Brian managed to show them that there was nothing to fear, that he wasn't going to make them feel stupid by using big words or showing off how much he'd read, they began to include him in their conversations. Course, it was mostly football and off-colour jokes about women and racial minorities, but Brian could fake interest and amusement better than most: he'd had plenty of practice over the years. Mostly you just had to agree with them about everything they said and nod a lot, and they reckoned they were on the same level. Like the man said, if you want the mob to agree with you, you just need to agree with the mob.

  And there was something of the mob about them, something serious binding the drivers together as a unit, especially that tight-knit little group which included Viv Francis and Phil Cruddas, some shared dark thing that made them relate to one another with crooked grins and the old nudge-nudge wink-wink when they were together. It was something to do with drugs, he knew that much – they alluded to drugs and money whenever they could, and they weren't that discreet about it. So when Phil Cruddas took him off to one side and asked him if he wanted to make a bit of extra money, Brian naturally assumed that the drivers had taken over the distribution. It gave him pause – he didn't really want to get into a disagreement with big Phil, especially given how little time he'd been with the company – but then he realised that it probably wasn't anything too bad, was it? If this lot had managed to justify whatever it was, then he should be able to do the same, shouldn't he?