Angels Of The North

by Ray Banks

  Joe watched him as he left the room. He went through to the kitchen. His hands trembled. The old man handed him a mug of tea. Joe took it, but had to put it down. "Where's Michelle?"

  "Upstairs with the bairn."

  Joe sat at the table. He warmed his hands on the mug. The old man gave him a cigarette. Joe lit and inhaled. The tremors subsided enough to sip his tea without spilling. It was hot and sweet.

  "What happened to him?"

  Joe shrugged through the smoke. "I don't know. He's been drinking, but I don't know how drunk he is now. Doesn't look like he got in a fight, so I'm guessing he smashed up his cab or something." He sniffed, tapped ash. "He's scared about something, I know that much. I don't blame him, either. If Gavin Scott finds out he totalled his cab when he was pissed up, that's him out on his arse." He shook his head. "I don't know. He's hurt. Got a gash in his head that's spraying blood every time it isn't covered. Probably concussed an' all. To be honest, I don't know how long he's going to stay conscious. We need to get him to a hospital, but he won't go without a fight."

  "Why not?"

  "Like I said, he's scared. He goes to the hospital, they'll have to notify the police."

  "So?"

  "So he's scared of the police. He won't go."

  "He doesn't have a choice, does he?"

  "If we call an ambulance, Dad, he'll try to leave."

  "It's not like he's going to get far, though."

  "That's what I'm worried about." Another sip of tea. "If he gets worked up, he's going to die. I mean, he's all right for the moment. I've got him busy with the towel, and I think he's relaxed enough to maintain."

  "So how long do we wait?"

  Joe glanced at his watch. "Give it another five-ten minutes, make sure he's calmed down, then I'll go in and distract him while you call, all right?"

  "All right. You're the boss."

  Joe looked at the old man. He seemed sincere.

  "Here, listen, you're the one who's got experience in this kind of situation. You've been there, right?"

  Joe looked at his watch again. Decided to give it two minutes instead. The way Brian was, two minutes would probably feel like two hours. And then they had the ambulance waiting time to take into account. Joe didn't want to take any chances, because he really didn't want this poor bastard to die in his house. There was something desperately wrong with Brian Turner, something soul-sick. It wasn't just that he was terrified of being found out – there was something else, something worse. Yes, the man had probably crashed his cab, and yes, he'd probably done it while piss-mortal. But the man on the settee wasn't worried about losing his job. That wasn't a fear of unemployment; it was a fear of Hell. It was a fear that attacked a man regardless of religious beliefs, a primal moral terror – I have committed a terrible act – and it ate at you until you couldn't stand it anymore. That was why Brian Turner was afraid. That was why he wanted to die.

  And Joe understood it all, because like the old man said, he'd been there. And seeing Brian Turner was just like looking into a mirror from a couple of months back. He only hoped he could help Brian before it was too late. Because the alternative didn't bear thinking about.

  57

  Brian's eyes were closed, but he was still awake. He pressed the towel to his head, even though it had been there long enough to have dried at the wound.

  It was warm in here. He remembered seeing an electric fire, turned up to three bars. It smelled of babies and milk, of cigarettes and beer and dinners. It was a family home, and the smells reminded him vaguely of what it used to be like when Lynne and Danielle were still with him, but this place was more honest than his memory. This house seemed happy. The thought made him smile. He'd come to the right place. He'd known deep down that Joe wouldn't turn him away. Joe was a good man. He had good intentions, even if other people hadn't been able to see it. Brian had known. Maybe not right away – and if he was honest with himself, there was a time last year when he was actively frightened by Joe – but any concerns had been quickly obliterated in the last few minutes. He'd been looking to protect his family, that was all. That's what a husband and father did. He protected.

  Brian opened his eyes. He stared at the orange glow on the ceiling. His stomach rumbled and rolled. The booze had left his system now, to be replaced with the start of a nasty hangover. A deep, throbbing ache ran from the wound on his temple to the centre of his skull. He turned onto his side and saw a pint glass of water sitting on the floor next to the settee. Just the sight of it made him thirsty. He reached for the water and gulped down as much as he could, half sitting up. When he put the glass back, it was cloudy with blood. He felt dizzy. His stomach lurched. He told himself not to spew and lay back down on the settee.

  "Dad."

  He heard the word, but didn't recognise the voice at first – it was too soft, too feminine.

  "Dad."

  He looked up and tried to focus.

  Danielle sat in the chair opposite in a position that recalled her mother, her legs pressed tightly together, with a neat look on her face. She was dressed in her school uniform, her hair pulled back into a ponytail and just a trace of make-up, enough to make her pretty without alerting the teachers.

  He smiled at her, and found himself able to speak: "Hey."

  One of her cheeks caught a small line, which he guessed was a smile in return. "How are you feeling?"

  "I've been better."

  "What happened?"

  He tried to sit up, but couldn't manage it. "I don't know."

  "Really?"

  His smile became sad. "No." He sighed. "I did something silly."

  She looked disappointed. "Dad."

  "I know."

  "No, it's not that. You can talk to me like I'm an adult, you know."

  "You're thirteen."

  She nodded, and repeated herself. "It won't kill you."

  "All right."

  "So what happened?"

  "I did something fucking stupid."

  The crease at the edge of her mouth was joined by another on the other side. "That's more like it. What did you do?"

  "I tried to kill myself."

  "Why?"

  He looked at the carpet. His throat hurt. He wanted to cry, but he swallowed it back. He couldn't cry in front of her. He wouldn't allow himself to wallow in self-pity while she was around. "I didn't see the point in carrying on."

  "Why not?"

  He laughed. "I don't have anything, love. I lost it all."

  "Not all of it."

  "I lost your mother, I lost my job, I lost you."

  "You didn't lose me."

  Brian shook his head. "You said you wanted to live with your mother. I got the solicitor's letter." He felt around in his back pocket, but the letter wasn't there. He must have lost it in the crash. "I had the letter. I don't know where I put it. It doesn't matter."

  "It's okay." She paused. "I'm going to live with Mam, but I'm not gone."

  "Yes, you are." He blinked tears out of his eyes. Hated himself for doing it. He rubbed at his face. It hurt and the pain made Danielle shimmer in the orange fire light. "You don't want to live with me. You don't want to see me anymore. I'm dead to you already ..." He closed his eyes for a moment. "It's okay. You don't need to lie to me."

  "I'm not lying. Now isn't forever, is it? It's a moment. And moments pass. Everything passes. Everything goes. You just need to hang on, Dad. You just need to wait. You know there's going to be a day sometime in the future when I look back on what happened between us and maybe I'll regret it. And maybe when I regret it, I'll want to do something about it. I'll get into a big fight with Mam, and she's going to say something that lets me know that she's been lying to me about you all these years, and I'm going to lose my temper and say some hurtful things, and maybe I'll leave and I'll come and live with you. But you need to be there to live with, Dad."

  He smiled until his face hurt. "Whatever you say, love."

  "Don't do that."

  "Don't do what
?"

  "Be subservient."

  "Christ, they're teaching you all the big words at that posh school, aren't they?"

  "And don't take the piss, either. Come on, Dad. I'm trying to talk to you."

  The smile disappeared. The settee felt softer than before. "I'm sorry, love. I know. I'm tired, that's all. I just need a little sleep."

  "He told you not to do that."

  "I know. But it's been a rough night."

  "Dad."

  "I'll just have a little snooze—"

  "Dad, listen to me." Her voice was closer now. "Please."

  Brian opened his eyes. She was still sitting in the same chair. He blinked. "What is it?"

  "You're not gone yet."

  "I don't know. I think I might be." Water ran from his eyes into his ears. He didn't have the energy to rub it away. "I killed someone, love."

  "Who?"

  "A little lad. Maybe two lads. I don't know. I didn't stay."

  "Did anyone see you do it?"

  "I don't know."

  "You don't know much."

  "I was drunk."

  Her voice was close again, almost as if she was whispering into his ear. "Listen to me. They can't prove anything at the moment. You're under a lot of stress. There are always mitigating circumstances. So you need to stand up for yourself and take what's coming, for good or bad. So what if you're in trouble? You'll be alive, Dad. And that's all that matters. Sometimes the worst things happen for the best possible reason."

  "I don't know." His voice was a whine. "I'm tired."

  "Don't do that. You're acting like a bairn. I'm supposed to be the child here"

  "Please—"

  "What did I tell you?" Harsh now, a stridency to her tone that reminded him of her mother again. He tried to move away from it, but she must've moved closer. "Open your eyes."

  He opened his eyes. She was back in the chair.

  "Sit up. Drink some water."

  He did as he was told. His mouth tasted like pennies. He washed it down with the cloudy water.

  "Feeling better?"

  "Yes."

  "You sure?"

  "I'm sure." He smiled to prove it.

  "You just need to hang in there, Dad. Believe me, it's going to be all right in the long run. If you just hang in there and stay positive, everything will work out just fine." She smiled again, showing teeth. Her eyes twinkled. "Okay?"

  "Okay." Brian shuffled forward to the end of the settee and reached for her. The moment his fingers brushed her skin, he was afraid of leaving blood on her face, but there was nothing when he removed his hand. He wasn't even sure if he'd touched her, or if the warmth was a result of moving a little closer to the fire. He didn't care. She was there, and around her neck was the butterfly locket.

  He leaned on his knees. "You like your present?"

  "I love it."

  "I will not play at tug o' war ..."

  "I'd rather play at hug o'war. It's my favourite, Dad. Thank you."

  "You're welcome, love."

  "Are you going to be okay?"

  "I think so. But I need to rest for a while."

  "Okay."

  He lay back on the settee and raised the towel to his head once more. The smell of the crusty towel made him want to retch. He threw it to one side. It knocked over the empty glass. It didn't matter. He wasn't bleeding anymore. He lay back and breathed deeply.

  "Danielle?"

  "Yes, Dad."

  "I love you."

  "I love you, too. And I'll see you soon, right?"

  "Right."

  He didn't hear her leave, but he knew she was gone. His tongue became numb once more and a thick layer of sweat made his face itch, but he didn't have the will to scratch it away. She loved him. That was all that mattered. Everything else was a waste of fucking time. He opened his eyes and saw a flickering orange sky above him, dotted with tiny fluffy clouds. He smiled at it, even though a part of him screamed that this was Hell.

  Well, if this was Hell, then wasn't it pretty?

  He closed his eyes and felt the settee rise up to hug him to sleep as blood filled his mouth one more time.

  58

  The urgent battering at the door made Joe think twice about opening it. Sounded like police. No, sounded worse. Sounded like a mob, except the only voice belonged to Gavin Scott, screaming through the letterbox: "I know he's fuckin' in there, Warren! You bring him out here!"

  Joe pulled the door open. Gav stepped back. Looked as if he was one harsh word away from going berserk. His eyes were glassy, his posture rigid. He appeared to be swallowing constantly.

  "He's in there, right? Isn't he?"

  "Who?"

  "Brian fuckin' Turner."

  "Why here?"

  "Because he's not over there." Gav pointed back at the house across the road. The dead house. Nobody home there. Not even trying.

  "What d'you want him for?"

  "I need to talk to him."

  "No."

  "No? Fuck off. I'm going to talk to him."

  "What happened?"

  "None of your fuckin' business."

  "You come round here in the middle of the night, braying on the door, screaming the street down, trying to get into my fuckin' house, too right it's my business. Now what happened?"

  The old man appeared behind Joe, his stick thumping against the floor. "Everything all right, son?"

  "Just dealing with it, Dad."

  "Need us to call the police or anything?"

  "I don't think so."

  "Listen, mate." Gav looked over Joe's shoulder and modulated his voice a little. "I don't have any quarrel with you."

  "Doesn't sound like it."

  "I don't want any trouble."

  "Then what you doing here? You get the idea we were friends?"

  Gav's nostrils flared. He swallowed again. "Can we talk for a second, d'you think? It's important, man."

  Joe stared at him, then stepped out of the house, closing the door behind him, forcing Gav further back up the path and into the cold. Jesus, it was freezing out here. The rain had stopped, but everything was covered in a frigid sheen. Joe shivered in spite of himself. "What is it?"

  "What's he like in there?" Gav kept looking over at the front window. He was edgy, nervous about something.

  "How d'you mean?"

  "Is he hurt?"

  "Aye."

  "Bad?"

  Joe nodded. "I've called for an ambulance."

  "When?"

  "Fuck difference does it make? It's coming."

  "Fair enough." Gav nodded. Looked around. Breathing heavily. Then, after a brief lick of his bottom lip: "You know what he did?"

  Joe shook his head, didn't take his eyes off Gav.

  "He killed my son."

  Joe stared a little longer before he answered. "Fuck off."

  "No, he did."

  "Fuck off, Gav. I'm not in the mood."

  "There was an accident—"

  "No."

  "You didn't hear about it? Up there. Elswick Way. Two cars. One cab, one Capri. His fuckin' cab."

  "Then it was an accident." Joe turned round to the front door, dismissed Gav with a wave of the hand.

  Gav chased him. "He drove his fuckin' cab into the Capri."

  "No."

  "My son was in the Capri."

  Joe kept walking. "I don't care."

  Gav put a hand on Joe's arm, dug his fingers in.

  Joe turned, tried to shake him off. It didn't take.

  "My son's dead. My son, Andy. He killed him. Do you understand what I'm fuckin' telling you, Joe? He's a murderer."

  And Gav was out of his mind, clearly. Something in the air tonight, making everyone desperate and bloody and violent."You think he's a murderer—"

  "I know he fuckin' is."

  "Call the police."

  "What, you kidding or what?" Gav shot him an incredulous look, impossible to miss even in the gloom. "I'm not going to call the police."

  "Then leave i
t alone." Joe shook the hand off and knocked on his own front door. "It's me. Let us in."

  The door opened. Gav sprang into action, both hands on Joe, shoving him out of the way. Gav barged through the gap in the door, pushed Michelle against the wall. She shrieked. The old man stood in Gav's way. Gav showed his teeth. "Shift, Derek. I mean it. I don't want to hurt you, but I fuckin' will if I have to."

  Joe barged through himself. Grabbed Gav by the collar before he got a chance to turn round. Gav started to say something – swearing, shouting – swung a fist, but his hand connected sharply against the hall wall before Joe made his face follow suit. There was a dull thud as Gav's head hit the plaster. Joe held it there. Gav spluttered a curse against the wallpaper. Joe moved out of the way of Gav's struggling limbs. Gav spat against the wall as he tried to breathe through a mashed face. He bucked against Joe's arm. Joe thought about grabbing one of the old man's sticks from the stand by the door and thrashing fuck out of the bastard, but held him firm instead. Better to hold this one until he got tired. No sense in stirring him up any more than he was already.

  Gav turned his face, red and sweating, contorted in desperation, his ear pressed to the wall. He gasped for breath and started chattering:"You don't ... You don't understand, Joe, all right? You don't get it. He ... Please. Howeh, just let us go, all right? I'm not going to do owt, I promise. I just want to talk to him."

  "Bollocks."

  "I mean it—"

  "You don't want to talk to him."

  "I'm serious." Gav threw a curled hand against the wall. The knuckles banged, sounded like it hurt. His face bunched in frustration and he let out a scream. "You don't fuckin' understand. You don't understand. You don't understand." And he threw himself against the wall, then back, going berserk under Joe's grip. Banging his head against the wall, screaming, throwing himself against every solid object until Joe let go and Gav slumped against the wall, breathing heavily. Tears shone from his flushed face. His hands were bloody and shaking as he raised them to his cheeks, pushed the tears away, but left bloody streaks in their place. He shook his head, made a face like he was crying, then stopped and muttered something about his son. Joe, the old man, and Michelle watched Gav try to stay upright against the wall. He cradled his busted hand, his shoulders knotted, let out a whine that ended with a sniff.