Angels Of The North

by Ray Banks

  Gordon flapped his mouth. Looked around for support, but most of the others were too scared to move, let alone speak. Phil watched with amusement, his arms folded.

  "Answer me."

  "Aye."

  "Then you'll do what I tell you, and you'll do it now. And if I find out that you dumped him somewhere, I'll make sure you do a stretch. I'm not kidding. You know that. I've got no time for vigilantes."

  Phil laughed.

  Gordon grabbed the Asian lad under the armpits. Viv helped him drag the lad to the cab and into the back seat. Gordon pushed the lad's legs in and shut the door. Then he moved slowly round to the front of the cab and gingerly slid behind the steering wheel. The engine growled. Gordon reversed the cab away from the circle of light and the brake lights showed the cab's stuttered progress as it rolled off towards the road.

  There was a long silence after Gordon left. The drivers remained still. Brian watched Gav and Phil continue to stare each other down.

  In the end, it was Phil who broke the silence. "So what now?"

  "Give us your keys."

  "Fuck off."

  "Nah, I've had enough. You're out, Phil. Effective immediately. Whatever you've got in your pocket and tonight's fares, that's yours. Otherwise I don't want to see you again. Now give us your keys. I'm not going to tell you again."

  Phil laughed again. "Get fucked."

  He turned to go back to his cab. Brian saw Gav's hand twitch, wanted to shout a warning, but it was already too late. Gav brought the bat down on the back of Phil's head, a short crack that sent Phil stumbling forward into the bonnet of his cab. Gav stepped forward and swiped Phil's left leg out from under him. Phil's chin hit the bonnet and he dropped to the ground. Phil opened his mouth to say something, but Gav kicked the wind out of him and put his back to the headlight. Phil wheezed for a moment, struggling to his feet, hopping round the side of the car. Blood on his mouth, his face screwed up in pain, one hand out trying to defend himself. "Fuh-fuckin' cunt ... you doing that for?"

  Gav leaned in and swiped at Phil's other leg. He missed, connected with the side of the car. The impact threw a vibration into Gav's hand. He swapped the bat to his left and followed Phil.

  Nobody said anything. Brian had to shout. "Gav, don't do it, man. Come on."

  Gav didn't hear him. He was muttering something. Brian couldn't make out what it was, but it sounded staccato and heartfelt.

  "Gav, leave it."

  Phil straightened up. Looked like he was about to say something. Gav didn't give him the chance. He clutched the bat in both hands and swung for the stands. The bat connected with a crack that made everyone look away. There was a tattoo as Phil's fingers scrabbled against the roof of his cab, then Brian looked up to see the big man drop once more.

  Gav moved the bat from hand to hand, stretching his fingers. Phil made snorting noises. He rolled from side to side, trying to pull himself up. Blood ran black in the light from his split scalp right down to his ear.

  "Gav, that's enough." Brian stepped forward. If nobody else was going to do anything, then he had to. He put a hand on Gav's shoulder, felt the sudden tension on contact, and removed it almost immediately.

  Gav stared at him, didn't appear to recognise him for a moment.

  Phil spat. "Think you're ... think you're fuckin' special."

  "Phil, man. Shut up." Brian moved in front of Gav.

  "Think you're the fuckin' boss, you can't be hurt ..."

  Brian stared at Gav. "Don't listen to him, all right? You did what you wanted to do. Someone get Phil's keys, will you?"

  "You're a fuckin' hypocrite, Mr fuckin' Community. Fuckin' son's a pothead, man."

  Gav looked over Brian's shoulder. Stepped forward. "What's that?"

  "Nothing." Brian got in his vision. "It's nothing. He's just—"

  "Fuckin' hanging out with dealers, man. The fuckin' Ortons."

  Gav launched himself at Phil. Brian used his shoulder, kept him back. Viv grabbed Gav from behind and pulled him backwards. Fat Bob grabbed Phil and went through his pockets.

  "It's all right." Brian was close to him.

  Fat Bob arrived with Phil's keys. "I've got them, Gav."

  Gav stared at Brian now, that hatred turned on him. "You drive his cab back, Brian. And then get the fuck out of my sight."

  Brian recoiled. He knew something like that would happen, but he still wasn't prepared for it. The suspension was over. He held out his hand. Fat Bob pressed the keys into his palm. He moved away from Gav, felt his legs grow heavy as he trudged towards Phil's cab. He got behind the wheel and glanced down at Phil, who was still bloodied and moving like a dying worm in the mud.

  Then he slammed the door, started the engine and left Gav to do whatever the fuck he wanted.

  Brian didn't care anymore. He had his bottle. That was all that mattered.

  52

  Brian didn't take the cab back to the office. He didn't go home, either. He couldn't relinquish the cab. If he did that, he'd have nothing and he’d have to go home then, and there was nothing at home but a cold, empty house, the kind of memories he couldn't shake even when pissed, and the indefatigable notion that he was totally, utterly, irrevocably fucked on every conceivable level. That was the thing about hope – one day it had it, the next you embraced the void.

  He drank. He drove. He burned the road. He prayed for the strength to swerve into oncoming traffic, but it never came.

  It never would, either. He was weak and stupid. He must have been, otherwise he wouldn't be pinned like this.

  Crosby had already put him to the ropes, but it was as if Brian had decided that wasn't enough, that he had to run into the fist a few more times before he hit the canvas. Now Brian had been caught with Phil fucking Cruddas, that was the end of it. He couldn't get caught like that – supposed to be suspended, for fuck's sake, what was the matter with him? – and expect to come swanning back to work. Gav had done so much for him already, hadn't he? Brian knew that there'd be trouble the moment he saw Crosby, but Gav had tried to keep him on. He'd paid him, he'd promised that it was only a suspension ...

  And now what?

  For fuck's sake, what else could Gav do? He wanted to blame Crosby, but deep down he knew it was his own fault. If he hadn't been so easy to cajole, so weak in the first place, if he hadn't allowed himself to be flattered by Phil, if he hadn't carried that violence with him. Because the truth of the matter was that Brian didn't care that much about the money. That wasn't the reason he went to the Dunston Park pick-ups. He went because he needed the blood.

  He liked it. When Joe brought him that dealer that night, some seal had broken. He liked the feeling of it, that piece of shit dealer on the ground in front of him, bound and helpless, coughing blood.

  They were always defiant at first. They had to be. Defiant, or indignant, or something equally as dramatic because it was the kind of situation that demanded dramatic reactions all round. So they'd be defiant, especially once they managed to get a look at Brian through their blood-crusted eye. After all, Brian didn't look like much. He was too slight to pose a threat. He looked like what he was – a middle-aged man who turned to the bottle for comfort, slight and spindly, heavy around the middle and burst across the cheeks. Anyone even slightly criminal wouldn't look at him and think he was in any kind of trouble, even if he noticed the bat. But then they'd see something about Brian. They'd see the unwavering look in his eyes – he assumed it was unwavering, because it felt that way to him, a stare into the heart of them – and the stillness of his body. The stillness was always terrifying, and so their defiance would crack, and those cracks would spread, and soon they would be begging him for their lives. And that was almost the best part. The bit where their voices jumped in pitch, crackled with phlegm and pain, where their vocabularies contracted into simple pleas and grunts, a feverish kind of begging, the kind of noises that made him feel the best he'd ever felt. Here was someone begging him. Here was someone who would normally be stronger than him, who w
as weaker, made weaker by him, now begging him for his life.

  There were few things in this world better than that.

  And one of those things followed next. That first impact, the crack of wood on bone. Swift and brutal, and a release like nothing Brian had ever encountered before. The phrase "better than sex" was overused and rarely accurate, but Brian could use that phrase without fear of contradiction. When he took that moment of utter weakness and turn it into annihilation, it felt beautiful and right. To feel the ache of a vibrating bat in his hand as it struck muscle and bone, to feel the yielding of an ulna as the bat smacked against a defensive arm – that bend, snap and tear – and to watch the strong buckle, then become jelly at his feet. To have that power. To exercise that power. To own that moment. Brian hadn't owned a single fucking thing in his life, not like that. Even when he was married, Lynne ran the house, treated him like a second-class citizen. At work, at home, even sometimes in his own head, he was a mediocre person, but in those fleeting moments of headlight glare and blood on the grass, he felt like he could eat planets.

  And now?

  Now he drove, didn't stop. He traced his old routes up to the airport, across to Central, back to Whickham and beyond and then down to Gateshead once more. He kept driving, and he kept drinking while he drove. An irrational fear that if he stopped either, even for a second, then Gav and the rest would come out of the shadows and take the cab away from him, leave him stranded on the hard shoulder and he'd have no will left to move. He would die on the tarmac.

  While he drove, he still had his job, even if he wasn't working.

  But that wasn't true, was it?

  As the alcohol slowed and smothered him, it became all too obvious that he didn't have his job, no matter how much he tried to sell it to himself. There was no job. There was suspension and there was the impending dole, and that would be it, back to square one. Do not pass Go, do not collect £200.

  No. Worse than that. No family, no money, a middle-aged man adrift (on the hard shoulder, alone in the dark, crying at the stars and dying inside) and drunk.

  And drinking. And drunk. And fuck them.

  He screamed in the car, long and loud until he ran out of breath and his head spun.

  Brian's foot eased off the accelerator as he returned to the outskirts of the estate. His radio churned. He heard Rosie asking where he was. "Brian, if you're out there, love, give us a buzz, will you?"

  He kept quiet, afraid that if he said anything, she'd hear him.

  Rosie had nothing to say to him. He didn't want to hear the news. He knew what would happen. If he was still out in the cab, they would sack him. He didn't want to be sacked. He didn't want to go home. All he wanted to do now was drink, and cry while he did it. He could do that. He should be allowed to do that. He deserved it. He pulled in and killed both lights and engine. He lowered his hands from the steering wheel, let them sink and die in his lap. He lowered his head too, rested it against the steering wheel. Let out a quiet, high-pitched moan that spluttered into tears.

  There was nothing left, was there? Nothing at all. All he could see was shadow. He felt little beyond the whirl in his head and the strange yet familiar heaviness in his limbs. He wanted to say, "I want to die" but he knew he would never be able to utter it without stumbling or slurring. And besides, there was no one around to hear it, was there? And if there was, there was nobody to care.

  "Ah, fuck. Fucking shit."

  He sat back in his seat, his head against the rest, his throat exposed to the world. He let out a moan, his eyes screwed shut. He started hitting the steering wheel with the heel of each hand, once in a rhythm, slow and sure, then off-rhythm, unhinged, hitting them hoping to hurt himself, smacking his palms until his fingers were numbed and his hands felt swollen and bruised. He leaned forward and brought his head hard across the top arc of the steering wheel and screamed at the same time. He did it again. Something split his skin. He felt the sudden bloom of pain, a cut from a bruise and settled back, putting one numb finger to the blood on his head. He adjusted the rear view mirror and looked at himself. He wanted to cry, but he couldn't find the emotion. The self-pity well had run dry.

  Or close to.

  He stared beyond the mirror. Across the street was a large brick wall, which had been orphaned of its house thanks to recent renovations. It was solid. It taunted him. It said that it would be there far beyond whatever few years Brian might have left on this grey, poisonous little planet. This wall, it was an indelible thing. Strong, unmoving and unmoved. Brian was soft, weak. He was scared. He'd always been scared. That was why he needed his victims pre-tenderised and piss-stained before he'd take the bat to them. It was why he didn't just tell Danielle what was what in the first place. No drugs in the house, flush them down the toilet, that would be the end of it. Listen to your father, he knows best.

  He didn't need to talk to that dealer, did he? He'd only done it to ...

  What?

  He shook his head. It ached. He thought he was bleeding.

  "I don't know."

  Provoke? Did he do it to provoke the guy?

  He breathed out. A string of spittle jumped over his bottom teeth and swung onto his chin. "I don't ... I don't ..."

  Provoke. Yes. Rage. Be a man. What was that? Storm up to that lad and tell him, "NO MORE!" Throw the tack in his face, turn on your heel and walk away. Show them who's boss in order to show his daughter the same thing and – by extension – Lynne. He was a man, a father and a man. He deserved to be listened to. He was a man. He was a man and he deserved a bit of fucking respect, didn't he?

  Didn't he?

  Yes.

  Nodding now, his head loose on a rubber neck.

  Yes, he did.

  He raised his head. Stared at the wall. Here it was, this estate. It poisoned people. The cokeworks sat out there in the dark, the corpse of a monster that had once provided this place with fuel, employment, money. Now it was dead, so was the rest of the estate. They walked about, they pretended to give a shit, but they were all dead, every last one of them, stumbling about in an ignorant fog. What was the point? Outside money had given them the MetroCentre, but it was a sickly kind of existence, reliant on big business that had made little real investment – say what you want about the cokeworks, but the bosses didn't want that place to go down any more than the workers did, and these new businesses weren't from around here. They were national, sometimes international. They were London-based, they were smarmy and suited and unpleasant. They were yuppie businesses, condescending and greedy and fickle, and Brian knew that the moment the North provided a profit margin that wasn't large enough for them, every single one of these businesses would up sticks and skedaddle, leaving nothing but the husk of their endeavours and a million unemployed. And then what? Too far away from the city to be suburban, at once too far away from the city and too close for the middle classes to be interested.

  So they'd be left to rot. And rot they fucking well would.

  Brian shook his head. He'd never been a member of this community, anyway. He was educated. He spoke well. He was disrespected because he was poor – according to his neighbours – by choice rather than circumstance. They would never understand. Just like the posh people he'd known growing up, this bunch of ignorant fucks wouldn't be able to listen to what he had to say beyond hearing his accent and diction.

  Well, fuck them. Fuck all of them. Fuck them, and fuck Lynne and fuck Crosby and fuck Gavin Scott and Phil Cruddas. And fuck Danielle, too. They would all see soon enough. They would all know what they'd done. They'd understand and they'd be fucking sorry, every last bastard one of them.

  Brian started the engine. The lights came on. He turned them off. He didn't need them.

  He revved the engine over and over. Relished the noise.

  They would all see. He would show them. He wound down the window. Drained the last of the whisky and hurled the bottle out onto the street. It smashed.

  The wall beckoned.

  Brian a
nswered. Pedal to the floor. Roaring engine, deafening in his ears as the cab shot forward – an arrow headed directly for its target – and then the quality of the engine noise changed, became stereophonic, switched out to his right ear.

  And he turned his head, saw the glare of headlights.

  He saw two faces, underlit and young, pale like masks.

  Then the impact and the sound of shattering glass.

  53

  As Gav washed the last of the blood from his hands. he wondered if he'd gone too far. Maybe he had. Maybe he'd let his emotions run away with him, and maybe Phil hadn't deserved the kicking he'd got, but nobody could blame him for doing what he did. It wasn't as if he'd caught Phil by surprise, wasn't as if he hadn't been provoked. Phil wanted to push this to its logical conclusion, and he'd suffered the consequences. And aye, it might've looked like two stray dogs fighting over an upended bin, but at least Gav wasn't the one to leave beaten, bloody and hungry.

  He flicked the water from his hands and grabbed a paper towel, turning away from the mirror as he dried off. After Phil, he'd been in no state to go home. The bastard had bled too much, and Fiona would've asked too many questions. So he'd come back to the office to get cleaned up. Now that he was, he still didn't want to go home. There was nothing left for him there except grief and earache. One of these days he'd have to sit down and sort it out, but it wasn't going to happen any time soon. He had too much to do otherwise.

  Gav left the bathroom and stopped at the coffee machine on the way back to his office. As the cup filled, there was a commotion at the front desk. Phil was there, slumped on one of the seats in the waiting area. He looked worse in the light. Blood and mud all over him, clearly in pain and barely conscious. Rosie rifled through her handbag. Alan Harris held a cup of water and watched her. Nobody bothered to acknowledge Gav except Phil, who watched him with one animal eye. He huffed through his mouth, shifted in his seat, moving away from Gav as he approached. He looked cornered.

  Rosie fetched a pill pack from the handbag, handed it to Alan Harris.