Angels Of The North

by Ray Banks

"I think that's finished now."

  "Maybe next year." He blinked in the smoke. "Mind if I open a window?"

  "I can do it."

  "Nah, you're all right." Joe got up out of his chair and went to the window. He pulled it up a little, the paint cracking. Breeze came through. It collided with the smoke in his lungs, and he pictured it swirling and dancing before he breathed out. Then brushed the paint flecks from his hands and turned back to Dr Kelly. "We'll do the silent thing next week, okay?"

  "Okay." She checked her watch. "We've still got twenty minutes left. You want to call it a session?"

  He crossed back to his seat. "Nah, fuck it. We can talk for a bit. I've got nowt better to do."

  42

  Gav sat in his office chair and stared out of the window, clicking a pen in one hand. He was still the better man, but after five weeks, he was beginning to think the better man had been forgotten about. Bernie King and Alan Dryden were clearly cut from the same cloth. Neither of them returned calls, or else their secretaries were shite. And now, without a peep from either man, Gav was beginning to think that the Eldon Court thing had blown his fucking deal, because that was the only thing he could think of that would give him his one-way ticket to Coventry.

  He thought he'd explained himself. Maybe he hadn't done a good enough job. So he put the call in to Andrea Lynch. After all, if he couldn't talk to the monkeys, maybe it was time to get the organ grinder involved. She was the one who'd been enthusiastic about his Neighbourhood Watch, she was the one who'd instigated all this; maybe she'd also be the one to get things moving, grease those squeaky wheels.

  The phone rang for a while before it was picked up by a woman who sounded like she belonged in a hairdressers, her nasal voice an assault to the ear: "Good afternoon, Andrea Lynch's office."

  "I'd like to speak to Andrea, please."

  "Who shall I say is calling?"

  "Gavin Scott."

  "Gavin Scott? Let me just check for you."

  "Thank you."

  There was the clatter as the phone receiver went down, but not on the cradle. He heard the secretary talking to someone in the background. Must have been Andrea. Gav took a deep breath, decided he was going to play this as cool as possible. He wouldn't let Andrea know how desperate or angry he was. He'd get into a nice, easy conversation, a catch-up, and then maybe he'd mention that he had lunch with Alan and Bernie a month back, and wasn't it weird, but he hadn't heard anything from either of them since? Gosh, he'd say (though maybe not "Gosh"), he hoped that nothing had happened to either of them. And then she'd promise to get in touch with them herself, and everything would be back to normal.

  "I'm sorry, Ms Lynch isn't in the office at the moment."

  Gav was stunned. He didn't say anything.

  "Hello?"

  "I'm still here. What d'you mean she's not in the office?"

  The secretary could barely keep the contempt out of her voice. "I mean she's not in the office. She's stepped out."

  "Do you know when she's likely to be back?"

  "I'm afraid I don't have that information."

  "You're her secretary."

  "If you'd like to leave a message—"

  "Well, yes. If Andrea could give me a ring as soon as it's convenient." He shook his head. "No, actually, as soon as she can – that would be better."

  "Shall I say it's urgent, then?"

  He thought about it. "No, it's not urgent."

  "All right, then. Does she have your number?"

  "I'll give it to you again, just in case." Gav rattled off the number. "Will it be today, d'you think?"

  There was a pause at the other end, and Gav knew that Andrea was not only still in the office, but watching over her secretary.

  "Probably not today, no. She's booked pretty solid."

  "Whenever she can manage it, then." Gav kept his voice as neutral as possible.

  "Okay."

  He hung up, but his hand stayed on the receiver. He wanted to pick up the phone and hurl it across the office. He opened his fingers and sat back in his chair. He couldn't act out. Not in the office. After the fracas with Phil, the drivers might start to think he was unstable, and that wouldn't do. Gav grabbed a stick of gum and chewed it vindictively for a few seconds before he suddenly pushed up out of his chair and then out of his office.

  Not that the drivers were that stable themselves. Which got Gav thinking that maybe it wasn't just Eldon Court that had banjaxed his deal.

  Rosie was behind the dispatcher's glass, reading a book with a pink cover. Gav saw Brian dump his empty coffee cup into the bin and turn to leave.

  "Brian."

  Brian turned back. He looked shifty.

  "You clocking on or off?"

  "Off."

  "Thought you were on the days."

  "I am, but I've got to knock off early."

  "Why?"

  "I told you. I've got an appointment at the solicitors."

  Gav didn't remember. "Of course you did, aye. Hers or yours?"

  "Hers. I don't have one."

  "You want to get one, mate. Man needs legal support in this day and age. You never know what kind of arsehole you're going to have to deal with." Gav narrowed his eyes, pictured the triumvirate of twats he had to manage. "First rule of anything, that. Way people are, they'll get legal at the drop of a hat. And once the law gets involved, things get more complicated than they need to be. Especially in cases like divorce. You watch yourself she doesn't take you for everything you've got."

  "I don't have anything."

  Gav gave a dismissive wave. "Custody, then."

  Brian nodded. "That's what it's about, I reckon."

  "Then you be prepared." Gav popped the gum. "Unless you reckon there's a chance of sorting it out."

  "How d'you mean?"

  "Like getting back together."

  "No, that's not happening."

  "Shame."

  "She's got a boyfriend."

  "Ach, you never know." Gav patted Brian's shoulder. "Don't lose hope, mate. At the end of the day, it's all any of us has, eh?"

  Brian gave him a half-hearted smile. "I'll try not to. Anyway ..."

  He made a move for the door. Gav followed him out. Made a show of being the matey boss, even though he was still bristling at the earlier brush off. "You're going to make it up on the night, though, aye?"

  Brian nodded. "As soon as I get back, I'll be on."

  "Good, because Alan Harris has called in sick, and I'm not bothering Phil with a Thursday night when he's got the Friday-Saturday this week."

  "I know."

  They stepped out into the sunshine. Gav accompanied Brian to his cab. "Listen, while I've got you, there's something I wanted to talk to you about."

  Brian stopped, looked worried. He glanced at his watch. "Gav, I should be getting on."

  "Won't take a minute. You'll be all right. It's just, I wanted your advice on something."

  "What is it?"

  "Been hearing rumours."

  Brian looked even more worried now. "About me?"

  "No, not you. Just general." Gav moved in front of the cab, looked over Brian's shoulder at the office. "I mean, this goes no further, right?"

  "Right."

  "I know I can trust you."

  "Absolutely."

  "I've been hearing stuff about cab runs. Pick-ups."

  Brian was trying to look blank, but the fear was apparent. "I don't follow you."

  Gav stared at him. He wasn't this fucking daft. Out of everyone, Brian knew all too well what was going on. Gav wouldn't have been surprised if the bastard was a part of it. "You know what I'm talking about, Bri. Phil Cruddas, his lads."

  "They got arrested, didn't they? Smokey and—"

  "It finished then, did it?"

  Brian looked flustered now. "I don't understand what you're talking about."

  "Me and Phil talked about something once. He had this stupid fuckin' idea about taking people out to Dunston Park and braying fuck out of th
em."

  Dunston Park – two words that smacked Brian so hard he refused to maintain eye contact. "Gavin, seriously, I don't know anything."

  "He's still doing the Dunston Park pick-ups, isn't he?"

  "I'm going to be late—"

  "I fuckin' knew it." Gav backed up, watching Brian, who looked as if he was about to burst into tears. "All right."

  "Wait, no. Hang on a second. I didn't tell you anything, Gavin. I told you, I don't know anything about it. I've just been driving. I've been doing my job. You know that. Whatever you think I'm involved in, I'm not. I swear to God ..."

  Gav watched him babble on, lying through his fucking teeth because he was afraid Gav would give him the boot. He knew about Dunston Park, he was probably involved in Dunston Park, and now he was terrified that he'd be an unemployed grass. Pitiful, really. Try to do a bloke a good turn, and this is how it turns out. Gav waved him into silence, then pointed at him. "Do yourself a favour, Brian. Next time it comes up, stay out of it. I'm going to give you this chance because I know how much you need the job. Anyone else, they'd be out on their arse—"

  "But I didn't—"

  "I know. You didn't tell me a fuckin' thing. But if I catch you at it, you're finished, you get me?"

  Brian nodded. "I appreciate what you've done for me, Gavin."

  "All right, then. On you go." Gav walked away. "Have fun at the solicitors."

  As he approached the office, Gav thought that he could've handled that better. Shouldn't have pushed it with Brian. Shouldn't have tipped his hand that he knew. If Brian was loyal to Cruddas, he'd be telling the big man the game was up as soon as he could. That could work out all right. If Phil actually stopped the Dunston Park runs for a while, that was. But Gav doubted it. Phil would just move them somewhere else. It was only a matter of time before the police caught up with him, and as soon as they did, that would be Gav's arse on the bonfire, too.

  Gav punched the coffee machine until it gave him a white tea, then he went through to his office. He shut the door, sat down. Spat the gum and reached for his Regals.

  It did his head in. Phil Cruddas, Bernie King, Alan Dryden. Fucking Andrea Lynch. No respect. Wasn't like it was much better at home, either. Things were beginning to slide, and he didn't know how to stop it. It was like everyone had forgotten what he'd done for the estate.

  Actually, no, not everyone. Not old Mrs Blaney. She grabbed his sleeve when he was down Mr Khan's with Fiona the other day. Mrs Blaney must have been ninety if she was a day, her back curled into a question mark and the odd smell of attic about her. She showed him her teeth and asked him if he was Gavin Scott.

  "I am, yeah."

  "Oh, I'm so pleased to meet you. I was at the party. I didn't meet you, but I wanted to."

  Fiona rolled her eyes. Gav frowned at her, shook Mrs Blaney's delicate hand. "Well, I'm pleased to meet you, too."

  "I just wanted to tell you how grateful I am for everything you've done, Mr Scott."

  "Oh, it's nothing."

  But it was everything to Mrs Blaney. She appreciated the new safety of the estate. She told him a long story about how her and her husband had moved out here, and how happy they'd been because the council were moving out the flats. They didn't like their flat much. It was small and the walls were paper thin, and they could hear all sorts of awful things late at night. "Mr Blaney had to wear ear plugs, you know. They gave him infections."

  Then the council moved them into a real house on the Derwent Hall and what do you know, it had a garden. Could Gav imagine it? Yes, he could, quite easily, because he had one of his own. But it was like winning the pools for the Blaneys, having a garden. It was a dream come true. And maybe Gav hadn't realised that for some people a little bit of grass was the end of the rainbow.

  But after a while the Blaneys' dream spoiled. It was the young people who did it, the drugs, the crime. The heart attack that took her George away from her. She was alone, too afraid to leave the house in case she got mugged – "It never happened to me, thank the Lord, but I know it happened to some people." And Gav couldn't possibly know how frightening it was. "I lived through the war, you know. And that was frightening, but at least you were all in it together. At least there was a sense of community. But when the drugs are there, there's nothing. So I just wanted to thank you for what you did." Because as much as modern life was still as brash, aggressive and loud as it was before, at least the drugs were gone, and with them the "unsavouries" and the dark faces that had worried Mrs Blaney into reclusion. And while her life was still mostly about counting the days until she joined her George, it was coloured a lighter shade of grey. She was gardening again, at least. "Out there whenever I can, you know. Whenever my knees let me." Showing false teeth in a genuine smile, a twinkle appearing behind the milk bottle lenses. Gardening was a small thing, she said, but an important one. "These days, people don't think the small things are important, but they are. They're the only important things. Your home, your garden, your kids. I see them on the television, they're all chasing money, the what-do-you-call them, the yuppies." She blew air. "They look like spivs."

  Then she put that brittle hand of hers onto his arm. It looked like the skeleton of something small and precious.

  She blinked at him behind her glasses. "And then I see you, Mr Scott, and I think about what you and your boys did for me, and I know that you've got your priorities straight. You're not bothered about the money, you're bothered about your people. God will bless you for that."

  He'd smiled at her, gently prising her hand from his sleeve. He assured her that the community was his priority. That would never change.

  And then he noticed the look on Fiona's face. It was as if he was taking the mick out of Mrs Blaney, and they were the only ones who knew it. It was an ironic look and it pissed off Gav no end. If they hadn't been out in public, he would've said something to her, tell her to change her fucking face, because Mrs Blaney was right: he had done a good thing, and he wasn't one of them yuppies out chasing money, either. He was a man of the people, a man of business, a man of his community. He was a fledgling great. And he was sick of being surrounded by people who refused to acknowledge that.

  People should show him some fucking respect. The politician, the union man, the businessman. They all owed him, but they were holding off until they were sure he was the man for the job. In hindsight, he didn't blame them. If you're going to bet on something, you want to check out the odds first.

  Gav stubbed his cigarette, blew out the last of the smoke.

  So all he had to do was clean up. Brian would take the warning back to Phil. The Dunston Park runs would stop. And then, once Gav had agreed this deal with Bernard King and taken over Five Star, he would discreetly kick Phil Cruddas to the kerb. After all, a great man couldn't afford to surround himself with short-tempered mediocrity, could he?

  43

  Brian didn't go on the night shift after the appointment at the solicitors. He didn't feel up to it, couldn't imagine himself working after the day he'd had. So he drank himself into a malaise, ended up feeling a bit sick, a bit angry, a bit wrong.

  When he arrived home, he didn't turn on the light in the front room. Didn't need to. He'd spent enough nights drunk in the darkness to know where everything was. Didn't even stumble anymore. Only trouble was, those half-bottles weren't really cutting it, and as much as he'd cut down his drinking, it was the oblivion he wanted, not the slow-blinking sponge-headed stares. But he was buggered if he'd do it with the no-name rotgut he'd been drinking before. No, he was a working man now. He had his pride. It was a full bottle of a brand-name booze or nothing. And he'd entered the corner shop with pride, the one thing he had left after he'd endured Lynne's full-blown character assassination that afternoon.

  Yeah, but she wasn't far off, mind, was she?

  She'd been detailed and specific in her jabs. She kept her voice neutral, didn't use emotional language, but the upshot was the same – Brian Turner was a bad father and a terrible role mo
del for his daughter.

  Brian grimaced and addressed the front room: "If that's the case, then I'm entitled to get piss-mortal whenever I want, right?"

  The empty room agreed.

  "That's what I thought."

  He'd started on the Skol, but it was difficult to get anything more than a full bladder on that stuff. Wasn't long after his sixth can, guzzled with the needle, that he switched to the Grants. Now he sat slumped on the settee, staring at the glow of the electric fire. His eyes felt dry.

  Couldn't shake the memory, couldn't drink it out of his head. Part of him wanted to wallow in it. It was only right to wallow.

  He saw Lynne sitting in a rough fabric chair. High ceilings, painted white. Old building, old office, lots of money for this brief, he could tell. This kind of silence didn't come cheap. And there she was, one hand on the arm of her chair, fingernails pristine and dark red, trying her best to look both poised and relaxed when she was neither. A hand moved on top of hers, and the sight of it made Brian think that he'd opened the bedroom door at the wrong time, made him recoil. That hand, hair on the knuckle, scuffed skin, belonged to Crosby.

  The pair of them made a perfect couple, he had to admit – very business-like, very successful, very much made for each other. Poster boy and girl for the new Tory bastard.

  Brian sighed. Rubbed his head. It had started to pound.

  He should have known it was a fucking trap when he was invited. The moment he stepped into that office, all became clear. Alarms bells deep in the back of his head started ringing. This wasn't going to be an informal chat; they wanted to decide things. They wanted him to sign things, oh yes. No messing around. And there he was, dressed for work but hardly smart business wear. Dressed like a taxi driver. The disdain in the room was fucking palpable. It sharpened their knives. They'd been waiting for him.

  Brian sat opposite the solicitor, moved around in the overstuffed antique chair before he was comfortable. "Sorry I'm late. Got caught up at work."

  "Not a problem." The solicitor was a balding man, white tufts inside his ears. He wore half-moon glasses and his accent might have been North East, but it certainly didn't come from Gateshead. This lad was Royal Grammar School posh. He busied himself with some paperwork in front of him. "Whereabouts is it you work, Mr Turner?"