by Ray Banks
32
Joe stood by the open window, frowning at the street below. Behind him, stretched out on the floral print settee, Dylan rolled and licked papers. The television was on, the volume low enough to be audible if you concentrated, but otherwise a low chatter that kept the flat from feeling like a cell.
"What is it, polis?"
Joe shook his head. "Cab."
"Puma?"
"Aye."
"Cunts."
Joe didn't say anything. He tried to see who was in the car. Looked like two up front, but he couldn't see in the back.
More rustling from Dylan. "You know what they're doing, that lot?"
"Aye." They were patrolling the estate, looking for dealers and anyone else who might be up to no good. He'd seen a brick-looking bastard grab a couple of gas-sniffing kids and smack the shit out of them one night. The driver sent them off bleeding. Joe watched from the shadows and did nothing to intervene because he was carrying a tenner bag. "I've seen them rolling around."
Dylan snorted a laugh. "Aye, they're rolling around. They're fucking people up an' all."
"That's what I heard."
"Did the house at the end of your street, didn't they?" Dylan licked again, pressed a loose corner to the joint and then blew on it. "Burned a bairn."
"Yeah. Accidental."
"They burned a fuckin' bairn and nobody does nowt about it." Dylan lit the end of the joint. The flame popped and crackled. "Fuckin' disgrace, you ask me. Something should be done about it. Community should do something about it. Thatcher's Britain, eh? You want on this?"
Joe shook his head.
"They don't even fuckin' care, man. You know what I think? I think they did that house and they thought, what the fuck, we got away with killing a kid, we're writing our own rules now." He exhaled a thick plume of smoke that sweetened the air. "I know people that lived there, you know."
"Really?"
"Mate of mine, Carl. Proper fuckin' hippie. Former soldier like yourself. Just couldn't handle it, did some stupid shit, hooked up, twocked some tapes out of Our Price, ended up inside." He shook his head, exhaled through his nostrils. "Delicate bloke. Life just ruined him, man. And then he got pulled out of his home by a mob. Thinks it's all him, like he's cursed or something. I told him it was just cunts being cunts, and not to worry about it, but it's sad how they carry on, know what I mean?"
"Where is he now?"
"He's living over in Collingwood Court. Got a flat with some lass he met down the chemists. He's on the jellies and everything. So, you know, some good came out of it, I suppose. I mean, I never sold to him, so it's no skin off my nose, is it?"
"Suppose not."
Dylan kicked out a foot, used the other to toe off a slipper, and then settled back on the settee. He sniffed and regarded the end of the joint. Blew on it to make it glow. "Vigilante armies, man."
Joe squinted. "What's that?"
"What d'you think that cab's doing down there?"
Joe looked back. "I don't know."
"Doing a recce. You know how they've been patrolling?"
"Aye."
"And they've been beating the fuck out of anyone who looks like a dealer. Take 'em out to the park, bray fuck out of 'em, rob 'em and then dump 'em out by the fuckin' motorway. We never did nowt to deserve that kind of treatment. All I'm doing is providing a service to someone with a need, isn't that right?"
Joe nodded. Thought about Dunston Park. Felt sick.
"I'm not doing anyone any harm. I mean, some of them, the ones what're all chewed up with the uppers, grind their fuckin' teeth to gums, they're maybe a bit more territorial, but me? I'm just a peace-loving individual. I'm a small businessman." Dylan laughed. "I'm living the dream."
"Except you can't leave the flat."
Dylan toasted him with the joint. "Except I can't leave the flat."
Joe forced a smile and turned away from the window. "Small businessman going to do some small business or what?"
"Did we not already, then?"
"No." Joe pulled a couple of chewed-up fivers from his pocket.
Dylan looked at the money, plucked the joint from his mouth and offered it to Joe once more. Joe shook his head and waved the smoke away. He didn't want to be stinking of skunk when he got home. Dylan took the cash, tugged it out to examine the ink, and then stuffed both notes into the watch pocket of his jeans. He hauled himself to his feet, gave Joe the hang-on-a-second before he left the room. There was a procedure, some vague nod to security, even though Joe knew exactly where he kept the gear – along with all the rest of the drugs, it was stashed in a shoebox under the stained mattress and metal rack that Dylan called a bed. He watched Dylan on his hands and knees, joint in his mouth, belly swinging under his T-shirt. He could take the lot right now. He could go in there, fuck Dylan up and take everything he had. Nobody would know, nobody would be able to do anything about it, and it wasn't as if Joe hadn't had the practice.
But those days were over.
Dylan came back into the room, tossed a bag onto the table and announced the deal with a flourish of his free hand. The joint was already half gone, and Dylan's skin had grown pale. He dropped onto the settee and blew smoke. Something ticked in his chest as he exhaled. Joe picked up and weighed the bags in the palm of his hand.
Dylan grinned at him. "You fuckin' serious?"
"Just making sure." Joe smiled back and crossed to the window. The smile disappeared when he saw the cab still outside. They were waiting for something. And talking, too – Joe could see the hands moving as if trying to make a point. The driver slapped the steering wheel and pointed straight ahead. There was the flash of a face – looked like Gav's mate, the big bastard who'd taken him off to hospital that time, Phil something – and then he disappeared into the dark once more.
Joe couldn't get out and go home, not with the gear on him. His grinding paranoia told him that the cab outside was waiting for him, and even if they weren't, he couldn't leave Eldon Court without them seeing. And then what? He'd already seen a driver bust a couple of kids' heads, so what would they do to him?
"You all right?"
Joe nodded.
"You don't look it."
"I'm fine. They're still out there."
Dylan twisted round on the settee. "The cab?"
"Aye."
He pulled himself up again and came over to the window. He peered out at the taxi. "They're planning something, I'm telling you."
"You think?"
Dylan nodded, took a large drag then licked his lips. "Too right. That there is them doing a recce like I said." He let out the smoke and moved away. "I'm going to have to find somewhere else to live. It's getting too dangerous round here. We're fuckin' marked. It's only a matter of time."
"They wouldn't do anything. They haven't got the bottle."
"Don't need the bottle when you've got the manpower." Dylan dropped back onto the settee. "You of all people should know that."
Joe snapped his head round. "Fuck's that supposed to mean?"
"You being in the army an' that." Dylan focused on the television, then looked around for the remote. "Strength in numbers, isn't it? You've got a bunch of lads who're scared to death, they can't admit it to anyone else, so as a unit – where is that fuckin' thing?" He dug around under the settee, pulled out a handful of fluff and the remote. He shook off his hand and brushed off the remote. "As a unit, they're fine." He raised the volume on the television a couple of notches. "That's all I meant."
"Right." Joe moved away from the window. "You mind if I do this here?"
"No problem. You don't mind us putting the telly on, though?"
"Nah. Your flat. Where's the kitchen?"
Dylan jerked a thumb at the hall. "Through there."
Joe crossed into the hall, and followed the odour of old food to the kitchen, where he did his best to avoid the rotten plates in the sink and poured a small glass of water. Then he returned to the front room. He set the glass down on the carpet and f
elt around for his works. Dylan glanced at him, then went back to watching the horses on the telly. Joe cooked and prepped carefully, then he snaked off his belt and slumped into a beanbag by the window. He tied off, tapped up a vein, then pricked and pressed. As the warmth spread, he tugged off the belt, felt the blood spread through the rest of his arm. His fingers tingled. His eyes went heavy, his body making a hissing sound as he relaxed into the beanbag.
They would get him. Gav and his mate and all the rest of them. They'd come for him sooner or later, if they were intent on ridding the estate of junkies and dealers like the righteous crusaders they were. One day he'd be tied off and tired, and they'd kick down his door and bray fuck out of him, and there'd be nothing he could do about it because he'd be weak as water and disconnected, all training gone, all defences down. He thought about that, and then he tried to think of something else because that made him want to cry. He swallowed. It felt good, as if something large and obstructive had been removed from his throat. On the television, there was an advert for Burtree caravan centre. He nodded at it, closed his eyes. Thought about Sandy Bay caravan park and the waves on the stony beach. The thought curdled as the waves became higher.
Soul music played, that jeans advert. Stand by me.
What if they knew he was in here? He tried to blink himself awake, but the warmth was in full control. What if tonight was the night they made a move on Dylan's flat? He said himself that they were planning something, so what if this visit wasn't their first? Joe couldn't be here when that happened. They'd kill him, he knew it. It would be too much for them, finding someone from Kielder Walk nodding their fucking box off. They'd take it as a personal betrayal, get vindictive about it. And if they were battering dealers they didn't even know, what would they do to someone they did? Dylan was right: a man could justify anything if he was operating as part of a larger unit. Christ, Gav Scott's lot had justified killing a bairn, hadn't they?
So where did that leave him? Fucked, that's where.
Joe opened his eyes again, tried to concentrate, his paranoia battling with his slow blood. He swivelled in the beanbag and grabbed a hold of the windowsill.
"Where you going?"
"I'm ..." He couldn't speak. Had to concentrate. Pulled himself up carefully, his ankles weak and his fingers tingling again. He didn't seem to have any strength. Every muscle in his body was asking him to please just sit down, telling him there was nothing he had to do that was so fucking urgent. Just relax and let go.
"You all right over there?"
Joe smiled, but didn't have the energy to look at Dylan. He reached the lip of the windowsill and rested his head against the glass. It was cold. He blinked the blur out of his eyes and looked down once more at the street.
The cab was gone.
Thank fuck for that.
He fogged the glass with his breath, then slumped back into the beanbag. He heard the television. Heard Dylan saying something to him, but couldn't make out what it was until he concentrated on it, then he heard Dylan asking if he was all right again. Joe nodded, smiled, closed his eyes, let the television and Dylan fade into white noise. He was all right. He was safe. That was all that mattered.
33
Brian spent ages looking for Danielle's birthday present. It had to be right, or else it wasn't worth bothering with. The last thing he wanted was to give her something half-arsed. Most potential presents were either too expensive or too girly, and the more he looked, the less he knew what he was looking for. He didn't understand teenage girls. He didn't know what they liked. It was hopeless.
And then he found the locket. It was small, made of sterling silver, with an enamel painting of a blue butterfly on the lid, and it didn't cost the earth. She loved blue, she loved butterflies, and it was jewellery, so it wasn't a little girl present – it was a special grown-up present, the kind he thought she'd cherish. It was also something to remind her of her dad, something to remind her that there was someone out there who loved her and would support her even in the worst times. At least, that was the idea. The woman in the shop said the locket was a perfect gift for a girl on her thirteenth birthday. Brian thought so, too. He just hoped that Danielle agreed. He went to the library and tried to dig out that book of poems she liked so much when she was a kid, the Shel Silverstein one, "Hug O'War". He found it, and copied the poem out in tiny letters on a small piece of paper, then placed the paper in the locket. He wouldn't tell her about the poem. Let that be a nice surprise for her. Then he wrapped and rewrapped the locket, trying to make sure the paper stayed crease-free and that the ribbon he'd planned on tying around the package didn't wrinkle or wilt. The whole wrapping took him most of a Saturday afternoon, but he did it, and now he glanced at the present, safe and solid at the bottom of a gift bag on the passenger seat, as he drove his cab out to Low Fell.
Rain spotted the window. He hoped it wouldn't get much harder. He didn't want to turn up at the house looking like a drowned rat. This was a new Brian, after all. This was the Brian with the full-time job and a nice little sideline in smacking around dealers for fun and whatever was in their pockets. The job paid the bills and kept him sane. The sideline brought him a little extra and worked out his anger. They'd pulled another Dunston Park drop the night before. A young white boy who looked as if he'd been made hurriedly and then sent out into the world half-formed. It hadn't been very satisfying, that one. The kid was obviously out of his box on something, eyes rolling like penkers in his head, and he took every blow without complaint, but he'd had a little money in his pockets that was quickly spread out among the four of them. So the drivers were happy, even if Brian had been left unsatisfied. When they screamed and swore, he felt vindicated. When they went limp, he felt like a sadist, willing them to react.
"Never mind, Bri. It's all good exercise, isn't it?" Phil had grinned at him as he handed over the cash. "Nowt the matter with that. Long as you're getting your aggression out in a controlled way, it's healthy, isn't it?"
Brian had nodded, but it was obvious he wasn't convinced.
Phil threw an arm around him later that night when they were all down the Long Ship. Whispered to him that it was okay, they'd never let him go too far. Nobody wanted a death on their hands, did they? "Believe me, that's the kind of shite that'll linger in your conscience. And nobody wants to be a part of that. You're all right. We're watching. You're doing a good job. Tell you, there was a time there, I thought you was proper stuck up."
Brian didn't know what to say.
The other drivers laughed.
"Nah, nah, I'm telling you, proper stuck up. Like, you used to read books an' that."
More laughter.
"No, wey, I'm not saying there's owt wrong with reading books, am I? No, it's the way you hid 'em whenever someone came in."
"Aye." Viv glowered at Brian. "That was rude, like."
"Like we wouldn't get what you was reading."
"I'm sorry." Brian smiled. "I didn't mean to offend anyone."
"Or like we'd fuckin' ask you about it or something. How, you want to read, you read. Don't think just because we drive cabs for a living, we don't read."
"Oh aye, we know a reader." Viv nudged Phil. "Winston fuckin' Churchill, the lot."
Phil laughed. "Aye, our fearless fuckin' leader. Course." He winked at Brian. "You keep reading, you might end up in a position of power like our good mate Gavin, eh?"
Brian laughed along with them, but there was an undercurrent that confused him. They were taking the piss – it was a rare moment when these lads weren't taking the piss – but there was a spiteful quality to it whenever they talked about Gavin Scott. As if their "fearless leader" was anything but, and they knew it. Best just to play along as he always did. These boys weren't as clever as they liked to think they were, but they weren't exactly thick, either. And Brian needed all the friends he could get.
"You know what I think it is?" Phil didn't wait for an answer. "I think it's like, as soon as you get to be the boss, that's when you sta
rt bottling it. Like once you got the power, you don't want to risk it. And then you forget the people what gave you that power in the first place."
Smokey Benson showed his teeth. "You seen him now, man?"
"The suit." Viv looked like he wanted to spit.
"All he cares about is how he fuckin' looks, man. It's sad."
Fat Bob opened his eyes wide. "You think he's gone queer?"
Brian shook his head in a roundabout, drunken way. "He's a megalomaniac. He doesn't want to be loved."
"What's that?"
Brian spoke up. "The megalomaniac differs from the narcissist by the fact that he wishes to be powerful rather than charming, and seeks to be feared rather than loved. To this type belong many lunatics and most of the great men of history."
Phil opened his mouth, obviously impressed. "Couldn't have said it any better myself."
"Neither could I." Brian nodded. "That was Bertrand Russell."
"Who?"
"Philosopher."
"You see what I mean?" Phil looked around at the other drivers. "See that? Fuckin' hell. That's what reading does for you. Lets you remember shit like that – fuckin' spot on, son. Spot on." He regarded Brian with a newfound respect, then glanced around him. He leaned in. "You're a good man, Brian. I'm glad to have you on board."
And Brian was glad to be on board, even though he wasn't sure what "on board" meant. On the face it of it, it was friendship, comrades, a community of likeminded individuals. If you wanted help, you only had to turn to your neighbours.
Course, there was only so much they could do, wasn't there? And of course the chief talent of the group was finding and braying people, which wasn't exactly something Brian could use to help his situation, not unless he arranged for Michael Crosby to take a Puma Cab somewhere, preferably out to Dunston Park.
Now he came to think about it ...
Brian shook his head. It was a nice thought, but it was a thought and that was all it was. Crosby might have been a colossal arsehole, but he was still a copper, and there were rules about dealing with coppers. Number one was you had to be bigger than the police force to mess them about. And Brian was nobody – in case he didn't know that already, he had it brought home when he knocked on the door with Danielle's present in his hand. Lynne opened the door with a sigh already in her lungs waiting to break out.
