Angels Of The North

by Ray Banks

  "How many?"

  "One." She squinted at Phil. "Nah, two. Go on, two."

  Alan pressed out two pills and handed them to Phil, who slapped them to his mouth and then held out his hand for the water. The only time his gaze dipped away from Gav was when he swallowed, and only then because it hurt him too much to swallow with his eyes open.

  Gav sipped his coffee. "What's going on?"

  "Someone brayed fuck out of Phil."

  Rosie tutted at the language and waddled over to the dispatcher's desk.

  "Sorry, Rosie-love."

  Gav frowned at Phil. "Who did it, d'you know?"

  Phil didn't say anything.

  "Some dealer, probably." Alan nodded to himself.

  "That right, Phil? Dealer do this to you?"

  Phil didn't move. He swallowed again, momentarily closed his eyes. One hand came up to his throat. He massaged his Adam's apple.

  "You want to call the police, Phil?"

  Alan shook his head. "I asked him that."

  "No?" Gav stepped forward, leaned over to listen. "Why not, Phil?"

  Phil glared at him.

  Gav straightened up again. "You look like shit, Cruddas. Want to get yourself to the hospital, get yourself looked over."

  Phil huffed and tried to get up. He planted a hand on the seat next to him and grunted as he got to his feet. Alan helped him up, one hand under his armpit.

  Gav nodded at the front door. "Al, take him to the hospital, will you? I don't want him making the place look untidy." Another sip of coffee. "When you've done that, go back on shift."

  "Gav, he needs someone to stay with him."

  "I've got nobody on tonight. He needs someone to hold his hand, phone Justine. She can take care of it. It's her job."

  "Hang on a minute." Alan looked indignant, which was a new and ridiculous expression for a man who couldn't even control his own kid. "We should stick by him. He's one of us."

  "No, he's not. Are you, Phil?" Gav stared at the battered man. "Been a silly boy, haven't we, eh? Been naughty. Reckoned I wouldn't be in the office. Well, I am. And here we are, and there you go. Park your carcass somewhere else."

  "Gav—"

  "He doesn't work here anymore. Get him out."

  Phil hobbled towards the door, Alan helping him along. Alan stared at Gav over Phil's shoulder. Frowning. He couldn't understand what was going on, but then Alan Harris had never been the brightest bulb in the fitting.

  "Attaboy." Gav pressed on towards his office. "And listen, Phil, you take all the time you need, eh?"

  Phil grunted once more as he was led slowly to the front door. The phone rang. Rosie answered it in her usual bored tone. Fat Bob arrived in the front door just as Phil approached it. He was flustered, blushing, his face slick with sweat despite the temperature. He pushed himself through the door. Alan had to shuffle Phil off to one side.

  "Howeh, Bob." Alan gestured to Phil. "See what I'm fuckin'—"

  "Sorry, Al." Fat Bob thundered into the middle of the room. "Gav, I've been trying to phone. Your missus said you weren't in."

  "What it is?"

  "There's been an accident up on Elswick Way."

  "So?"

  "It's a right fuckin' carve-up. There's two young lads just been pulled out of a Capri, taken to hospital."

  Something grumbled in Gav's belly. He tried to shrug it off. "Who's got a Capri round here?"

  "I don't know," said Fat Bob. "That's not what I was talking about."

  "What is it, then?"

  "The other car's a Puma cab."

  "Fuck's sake." Gav pushed through and past Fat Bob, out into the cold. "Whose cab is it?"

  "I don't know." Bob struggled to keep up.

  "What d'you mean, you don't know?"

  "There was nobody in it when I got there."

  "You what?"

  "Swear down, Gav."

  They walked up to Elswick Way, but Fat Bob was slow on his feet and dragged them to a waddle when the incline became too much for him. When they arrived, the flashers were still going and there was an odd smell in the air that reminded Gav of the night in Brian Turner's kitchen.

  The council had just done a load of renovation up here. They'd pulled down the old pub that used to stand right at the end of the street and left a brick wall that looked like an abandoned stage set, especially now there was a diorama of metallic carnage neatly arranged against it, lit in various hues of blue. The cab had hit the Capri on the passenger side and rammed it into the wall. The cab's bonnet was concertinaed, the driver's door hanging open, glistening with blood. Gav heard the ticking sound of the indicator, but no light to accompany it. The cab was totalled. Gav stared at it, didn't know if the insurance would cover it. This was the last thing he needed. Losing drivers, losing cars. Whoever it was, if they weren’t dead already, they were about to be fucking murdered. The Capri was crushed round the bonnet of the cab like a discarded Coke can. There was blood on the white of the body, the windscreen was shattered and there was more blood on the inside of the car, hand smears and spatter.

  Gav recognised the Capri, and suddenly the mangled cab was less of an annoyance. This was Jason Orton's car, and from the look of the interior, Jason was no more. Good fucking riddance. Two young lads – him and his little brother, probably. Driving around the estate at high speed – everyone knew what kind of reckless bastard Jason Orton was once he got behind the wheel – and this cab comes out of nowhere, wham, hits them, and that's it, end of story. From the look of it, the driver got away. Hurt, but walking.

  People were out of their houses now. Shaking heads, the low murmur of protracted worry and sympathies expressed with all the theatricality they could muster, which was quite a bit; they'd had practice over the last year. Gav felt the heat rise in his face. The ambulance had been and gone. The scene was taped off, a couple of police hanging around on the inside of the tape. Fat Bob was watching him, waiting to see what he'd do. The low crush of the radio in the cab played against the ambient noise.

  Gav went up to one of the coppers – a stringy youth in an ill-fitting uniform – and jerked a thumb at the crash. "Whose car is it?"

  The copper pulled a face. "Who are you?"

  "I'm Gavin Scott."

  There was no sign of recognition. Obviously the lad wasn't from around here.

  Gav pointed to the cab. "I own that cab company."

  "Puma Cabs?"

  "That's what it says, aye."

  There was a tweak of something in the constable's expression. Something registering. Like maybe this was Gavin Scott – ah, that bloke, the one who runs Puma Cabs, the one Crosby knows, the one who burned down that dealer house, a potted history flitting through his mind – and the constable nodded, pursed his lips. "Right. You'll want to speak to my gaffer when he comes on."

  "What happened?"

  "That car – your cab there – hit that Capri."

  "I can see that. How many hurt?"

  The copper narrowed his eyes. "All of 'em, I'd say."

  "You don't know?"

  "They only pulled two out of the Capri, and they were both breathing when they put 'em in the ambulance."

  "What about the driver of the cab?"

  The copper shrugged. "I told you what I can tell you. You want to hang around and talk to my gaffer, Mr Scott—"

  "That won't be necessary." Gav went to the tape, made to duck under.

  "Oh, hey." The constable stepped in front of him. "Oh no, no, no, no, you can't do that."

  "It's my cab."

  "It's your cab?"

  "I own the company, so it's my cab. I want to know what number it was. I need to know who was driving."

  "You've got the registration."

  "I can't get it from here. Look, just let us have a peek, I'll see if there's anything that tells us who was driving."

  "You can't go over there."

  "Why not?"

  "It's all evidence."

  "Evidence?"

  "That's right."


  "It's an accident."

  "I can't have you contaminating the scene."

  "You what?" Gav stared at the copper, incredulous. Contaminating the scene? Fuck's sake, he just wanted to know who he was supposed to sack. "What's the crime here?"

  "Judging from the bottle of whisky, I'd say your man was up for drunk driving at least."

  "Whisky?"

  The constable nodded and then stared off into the middle distance. He'd said as much as he was going to say and was now attempting to look fucking sage about it. Anything else, Gav would just have to wait for the gaffer to arrive.

  But Gav had heard all he needed. He knew who'd been driving, because he'd put the bastard behind the wheel in the first place. And he couldn't sack the fucker because he'd already suspended him. Gav scanned the area for signs of escape, saw blood drops leading off towards Kielder Walk. Should've known better than to trust him to drive. You didn't trust a fucking drunk to do anything but drink. So he was still pissed, most likely, which meant he couldn't have got far. With a little luck, he'd have gone straight home to sleep it off, which meant he'd be nabbed soon enough.

  "Who is it?"

  Gav turned to Fat Bob. "You what?"

  "Who was driving?"

  Gav didn't answer. He heard his name shouted. Turned to see Rosie flapping up the street. Wasn't like Rosie to be out of the office, and it certainly wasn't like her to run anywhere. She looked daft, and Gav became aware that she was drawing attention. She stopped ten feet away and crumpled a little at the stomach, breathing heavily, a noise like gravel coming down a metal chute.

  "What is it?" Gav walked over to her.

  "Got a ... call." She waved a hand. Had to catch her breath, but she was desperate to speak.

  "From who?"

  "Hos ... Hospital."

  "Brian Turner, is it?"

  She shook her head, frustrated at her breathlessness. She pulled a face and tried to straighten up, one wrinkled fat hand pressed to her side.

  "Who, then?"

  "It's ... Andy, Gav." She swallowed hard. "You need to go. He's been in an accident."

  54

  Time died slowly in the waiting room at the Queen Elizabeth A&E. Hours gone and they hadn't seen Andy. The last Gav had heard, he was in surgery.

  Gav checked his watch and realised that it had only been five minutes since the last time he looked at it. It felt as if he'd been stuck here for months, his arse welded to this plastic chair, surrounded by his mute, tattered family. The conversation had long since dried up – he and Fiona had nothing to say to each other beyond platitudes and grunts – and he'd read all the posters, so now he let his mind wander, because he wanted to think about anything other than the present situation. Watching the other people in the room, he could tell they were trying to do the exact same thing.

  Group denial.

  Everything was going to be all right. Everything was going to be fine. A repeated mantra, becoming increasingly desperate with every passing hour.

  Repeated it: nothing truly bad could happen to Gav, because that was the kind of stuff that happened to other people. It happened to the rest, the rabble. He was better than that. He deserved better.

  There was a dress code at this time of night – anything too formal stood out. You were supposed to wear dressing gowns, slippers, hastily thrown-on wrinkled shirts, smelly bed T-shirts worn under winter coats, shoes without socks, sometimes even socks without shoes. Hair was always flyaway, skin laced with bed scars. It was purgatory for the sleepless and concerned. Gav was the only normal-looking one here. His family were another matter – Fiona wore her slob-arounds, Sophie in her nightdress on her lap, and Kevin was swaddled by his winter coat. He wore his pyjamas underneath, and each glimpse of the tartan under the coat made Kevin look younger and more pathetic. Gav couldn't help but feel ashamed that this was what his family looked like when things went to shit. He'd expected more, a certain capability, a certain unflappable quality that he embodied himself. What he'd been given was a family of refugees, weak and ragged.

  He didn't know how Andy managed to end up in the passenger seat of Jason Orton's Capri, but he could take a wild guess. That car and that family had been irresistible to Andy for a long time now. Gav didn't know why. Andy had a family of his own, and it was much better than the bundle of bastards that comprised the Ortons. Jim Orton still holding up the walls in Frankland, Jason Orton just out of prison, and there were rumours that Wayne Orton already had his cell booked at the age of thirteen. Then there was Sharon Orton, fuck anything after a pint of Woodpecker and black, a drunken slag whose parental love manifested itself in not beating her kids as much as she should.

  So why? What was the attraction?

  The only thing Gav could think of was that Andy was on something, and that something had been provided by Jason Orton. Jason had been a friend of one of the dealers at number thirteen, hadn't he? Stood to reason he'd know where to score, even if he wasn't dealing himself. Then there were the mood swings, the sullen attitude, the wilfully aggressive way he'd been relating to Gav. Made sense that there was something else going on and Gav couldn't think of any reason that wasn't chemical.

  So what was it? Tack? Unlikely. He would've smelled it on the boy's clothes. Not glue, either – those spotty, moon-faced bastards might as well have worn sandwich boards. So it must have been something harder. Pills, maybe. Smack? Gav didn't like the thought, but it was a possibility, wasn't it? These things had a way of escalating quickly if someone was slack-minded in the wrong company.

  Gav shook his head, some memory nagging at him. Fiona saw him, but offered no comfort.

  He looked at Kevin, who sat shivering in his coat. Maybe it wasn't drugs. Maybe it was something else. Maybe he'd got it all wrong and maybe Andy was the poof in the family. Maybe he was in that car for some other reason. What if this Jason Orton had turned nonce inside? It happened. Gav had read about it. What if he'd forced Andy to get in the car? What if he hadn't needed to force him? Jesus Christ, what if—

  Stop. Reign it in.

  Gav shuddered and got to his feet. He felt sick. Ran a hand over his face. Searched for a coffee machine and found it propped up against a wall on the far side of the room. He felt around in his pocket for some change, came up with coppers, decided to go for a cup of water instead. It was warm and tasted dusty.

  As he finished off the water, a doctor came in. All eyes went to him. He was a messenger, and whatever he had to say wasn't good – he had that stone-faced look of someone who had terrible news to relay and none of the compassion to relay it – another shitty facet of an already shitty job.

  He looked around the room. Everyone tried to avoid eye contact.

  "Mr Scott?"

  Gav nodded at him.

  The doctor took a deep breath, and let it out with bad breath and "We're very sorry."

  Gav blinked. Thought he'd misheard. "What's that?"

  "There was nothing we could do."

  "Do?" Gav shook his head. Behind him, he heard Fiona crying. The sound irritated him. "What're you talking about, do? Where's Andy?"

  "Mr Scott—"

  "When can I talk to him?"

  The doctor stammered, didn't appear to know what to say. "I'm sorry."

  "Sorry?"

  "He's gone."

  "Gone where? He was brought here in a fuckin' ambulance."

  "Gavin." Fiona's voice, far far away, like a muted scream.

  "He didn't just walk out, did he? Where's my boy?"

  "Please, Gavin."

  "They lost him, Fiona."

  The doctor gestured to Fiona. "Mrs Scott, could you—"

  Gav grabbed the doctor and forced his attention back. "Where's my fuckin' boy?"

  "Gavin, let him go." Fiona was sobbing now. "Let him go."

  Gav did as he was told. A terrible weight pressed down on his shoulders, trying to force him to his knees. He wouldn't have it. Wouldn't give in. He whirled away from the doctors, eyes and throat stinging. He saw ever
yone watching him and pretending not to. He felt alone and surrounded at the same time. He ran a hand under a snotty nose and turned back to the doctor. "What about the Orton lad?"

  "He's stable. His parents—"

  Gav didn't let him finish. He left the room, stalked towards the ICU. He heard Fiona and the doctor shouting after him, but the words were lost in the torrent of white noise that had filled his head. He walked on, saw the Ortons in the waiting area, skinny Wayne and his fat mother. As soon as he appeared, Sharon drew Wayne closer to her and her eyes grew wide. She worked her mouth, her nostrils flaring.

  Gav pointed at Wayne. "You."

  Fiona grabbed his arm, pulled him close. "No. Leave it."

  "He's dead." Gav's voice cracked as he yelled at them. "He's fuckin' dead and it's your fault."

  "No, it's not." Fiona pulled on his arm, ushering him away. "Come on."

  "How, we never put him in that car." Sharon had both arms clamped around her son. "We never forced him."

  "What's that? The fuck are you saying? You saying it's my fault?"

  "We never crashed into them, did we? My boy ... my boy's in the fuckin' ICU. Who are you? Who the fuck put you in charge? You're nowt."

  Fiona tugged again, her face turned away from the argument, her attention solely on getting Gav out of there. He dug in.

  "Should’ve burned you out a long time ago, you fat fuckin' cunt. You and your scum family. I'm going to sort you out now, swear to God."

  "We didn't do nowt."

  "You were there."

  "That lad was a friend."

  "Was he fuck. He was under your boy's influence."

  "He was a friend to the family."

  "Fuck off."

  "You know why he was around all the time?" Sharon moved Wayne behind her and stormed forward. "Because he was scared of going home, that's why. Because his dad's a fuckin' maniac, that's why. Because he's beating up his fuckin' kids, that's why. You want to know why him and Wayne get on so well? Because they both got shithead fathas. Wayne's dad used to beat the shit out of him when he was drunk. What's your fuckin' excuse?"

  Gav pulled away from Fiona in one movement, enraged, launching himself at Sharon Orton. He hit her once, a glancing blow with the side of his fist that put her back against the wall. Wayne dropped between them, curling and screaming and crying. Gone was the ripped little bully who used to terrorise the other kids, now replaced by a frightened, mewling kid. The noise threw Gav off. He stepped aside, his head hurting. Sharon Orton leaned against the wall, one hand up over her curled, burst upper lip. Blood on her fingers. More on her teeth. Wayne Orton huddled near her, his face mucky with tears. Other footsteps coming. He turned to Fiona, but didn't know what to say. Nothing he could say would mean anything to her. She and the Orton woman had made up their minds about him already.