Crusaders

by Richard T. Kelly

  ‘What’s your line of work, then?’ Gore asked between sips of beer.

  Coulson opened his hands as if this were a complex matter, one on which he was often questioned closely. ‘What I am mainly, what I call myself now, I’m a security consultant.’ He dipped into the top pocket of his jacket and produced a business card, designed in blocks of black and white, bearing the legend SHARKY’S MACHINE.

  ‘It’s a lotta things these days, security. You’ve the pubs and clubs and that. Then you’ve businesses, minding premises. And there’s bodyguarding, if we have to.’

  ‘Right. Gosh. How long have you been at it?’

  ‘Whey, for what – ten, fifteen year? Started on the pub doors me’sel. Just a hired hand, y’knaa? Now look at us. I’ve got employees, man. I have to pay tax and national insurance on these lumps here.’ His look of long sufferance was comical. ‘Aye, I ought to put this boozer down on wor card, man, it’s like wor second office, y’knaa? This here corner right here.’

  ‘You should pay owld Peter ground rent, Stevie,’ offered Dougie.

  ‘Aye, or compensation, like,’ Simms hooted. ‘For wearing all the covers off the seats with wor arses.’

  Stevie showed another hard face. ‘Eh, Simms man, what sort of talk is that?’

  Gore raised his glass, sniffing a chance. ‘Don’t mind me. We’ve all got arses.’

  Mild jollity, and Simms gave Gore a thumbs-up. Gore saw too that Coulson, between casting imperious stares about the table, always met his own eye with a wink.

  ‘So you gentlemen keep the peace all over town, is that it?’

  Again Coulson appointed himself spokesman. ‘Aw aye. You get a lot of bad uns about, John, specially in the bars and clubs and that. Worky tickets, y’knaa what I mean? You’ve always got some want keeping in line. Some want a right fettlin’ an’ all. For their own good.’

  ‘Aye,’ grunted Shack. ‘It’s a public service.’

  ‘Some of them buggers, it’s a bliddy pleasure.’ Dougie smirked, as if imparting the trade secret that manners normally forbade. But Gore chuckled and reached for his glass. He was starting to enjoy himself.

  ‘Have you got plans up your sleeve, then?’ Coulson asked. ‘For getting folk along to your church?’

  ‘Well, I reckon at least it’s a day out. Cheaper than a seat at St James’s.’

  ‘Eh, now you’re talking.’ Simms whistled through his teeth. ‘Eh, Stevie gans to all the games free, but. Cos of his big mate. Did y’knaa that, Smoggie?’

  So addressed as the idiot child, young Robbie made a startled face.

  ‘Aye, Rob,’ said Dougie, ‘and did you know it’s your bliddy shout?’ He waggled his sudsy pint glass, and Robbie hastened to his feet, clutching his head. Simms watched him go and then, with surgical precision, poured the dregs of his beer onto the seat of Robbie’s low stool. ‘Ye canna get the help these days,’ he snickered.

  ‘Aye, but guess what, Fatha,’ said Dougie, leaning into Gore mock-conspiratorially. ‘Stevie gans to the Toon but he’s a Mackem, y’knaa?’

  ‘Oh? You’re from Sunderland?’ said Gore.

  ‘Washington, County Durham,’ Stevie replied somewhat reluctantly. ‘Before it was part of Sun’land.’

  ‘Aye, so. A Mackem supportin’ Newcastle, like,’ Dougie persisted.

  ‘Fuck off out of it, Dougie man.’ Coulson reddened, then rounded on Gore. ‘I’m sorry for that one, Father, just popped out.’

  ‘Not at all. I understand the, uh, passions of it. The rivalry.’

  ‘Where you from then?’

  ‘Framwellgate Moor.’

  ‘Aw aye? A Durham lad and all? Do you follow football?’

  Gore nodded gamely. ‘I’m black and white.’

  ‘Good man. Like Tony Blair, aye? He’s Durham, but he’s black and white. Most of Washington’s black and white, man, it’s sound. Washington, Consett, Chester-le-Street … I mean, you get a bit both, you’ll have seen that, aye?’

  Gore nodded, though he had never much cared for the distinction.

  ‘Naw, it’s alreet, Sun’land,’ Coulson persisted. ‘Got some canny bits to it, like where me nana lives. Me grandda, now he was true mackem. Worked on the ships. He used to come in at night and sit in his old chair with his cap on, just bloody ragged, man. I couldn’t believe such a skinny fella could work that hard. He’d say to us, “Stevie, lad, them ships gan off into the sunset but me, I stop here. Bloody shipwrecked.” It was all true, but – they mack’em and tack’em.’

  ‘How soft is that?’ Dougie crowed. ‘Being proud of summat people slag you for?’

  ‘Nowt wrong with it,’ Stevie insisted. ‘That was the start of the rivalry, that was, the Tyne and Wear. Fighting owa the ships.’

  ‘Balls, man,’ frowned Shack. ‘It was cos of the bliddy civil war, wasn’t it?’ Coulson’s men seemed to want to fight this one out. Robbie returned with a tray of pints, set them down and reclaimed his seat, his face then twisting in outrage as the others sniggered. ‘Aw ye buggers …’ Somewhat apart from the high-jinks, Gore found that he had all of the boss’s attention.

  ‘I meant what I said, John, earlier. I can tell, see – you’re a professional, you are. And a good man. I respect that. Here’s to you.’ Coulson raised his iced drink and clinked Gore’s ale bottle.

  ‘Well, I hear you’re a man for a good turn yourself.’

  ‘Says who?’ Coulson’s eyes narrowed partially.

  ‘Bob Spikings?’

  ‘Aw aye. I used to kip in that church of his some nights, y’knaa? When I was a lad?’

  ‘You slept rough?’

  ‘Aye. Y’knaa how it is. Got wrang at home, so I ran off. Ended up round here. This is near on twenty year ago, mind. But this here boozer, it was me first proper job for money. Then I met some people, thank God, they looked after us – you know how it is, when you’re young, you need someone to shout for you, don’t you?’

  Gore nodded keenly, though he had no clue what Coulson could be talking about. In respect of youthful role models, he supposed they had admired different sorts.

  ‘Are you still a churchgoer, Stevie?’

  ‘Not so much. Not so much. There’s only so much I can stay on top of. We’re all backsliders, aren’t we’s? A bit, like?’

  ‘Oh, we surely are.’

  ‘As long as you’re doing right by people, in the main, eh?’

  ‘Without a doubt.’

  Stevie nodded, satisfied. ‘Cos I want to be square, y’knaa, by the man upstairs?’ He raised his eyes, waved a finger. ‘Against thee and thee only have I sinned.’ Gore smiled, mindful not to rile his new friend’s po-faced calm, and wishing he could place the biblical allusion. ‘Naw, but I find it very peaceful in church. It’s a good proper quiet you get. Private time. Time to think. We all can do with a, what’d you call it? A place like a sanctuary?’

  Coulson lowered his chin to his chest, pensive for a moment. Gore contemplated the profile. A shaven scalp had always seemed to him a vulnerable sight, fragile, like an egg, and yet Coulson’s looked as if it might deflect an axe blow. He had never encountered such a jumble of elements in one man, solemn and fierce and jocular. Nor such a gargantuan frame. A bit of a character, yes, no question. Now he met Gore’s eye once more. ‘Listen, would you do us a favour, John?’

  ‘What can I do for you?’

  ‘Owld friend of mine, her name’s Eunice, Eunice Dodd. Lives local. She’s getting on, see, and I’ve not been round a while. Used to pop in regular. Bit bad of me. She’d be ever so glad of a visit.’

  Gore shrugged. ‘Well, would you like me to call in on her?’

  ‘Would you? Aw, good man, you. It’s Biddle House on the Crossman Estate. Number seventeen.’

  Stevie leaned back in his seat. Gore, too, considered the transaction a success, for the commitment seemed a simple one.

  It was then he sensed that Coulson’s good humour had been displaced somehow. Now, in repose, his great bulk seemed the very substance of displeasure
. Glancing about their neglected tablemates, Gore saw that they remained jovial, save for the dour Shack, whose grim disposition seemed terminal. Like Stevie, though, Shack was looking to the bar, and Gore followed these baleful gazes.

  Three men stood there, in showy coats and shiny shoes, evidently new arrivals, seemingly desirous that all of the Gunnery’s meagre clientele be made aware of their advent. Certainly it was impossible not to hear that they were making a garrulous job of getting in their drinks, browbeating the barman for an apparent failure to oblige their preferences.

  ‘Haven’t you got it in bottles? Nah, draught’s horrible. Piss.’

  ‘What about that glass of wine, our kid? Have you not got a list?’

  Then they stood back, these three, and surveyed the room, bold as brass knockers. The tallest, catching Gore’s curious eye, raised his glass. Gore looked aside and made to drain off his ale. He had achieved a nice little bit of progress here, undoubtedly. It seemed prudent to quit while ahead.

  ‘Well, that’s me, I’d say,’ Gore announced to the table, setting down his glass. ‘Two is my absolute limit.’

  Stevie’s smile was clenched at best but Gore saw no grounds to take it personally – no more than Shack’s odd distracted gesture of sniffing at his fingers before accepting Gore’s hand as he offered it round the table.

  Out of doors, twenty yards hence down the keenly nipping dark of Hoxheath Road, Gore turned on his heel momentarily and peered back at the facade of the squat pub. No question, it was fatally unappealing to the eye, but not nearly so bad within. And it felt like territory gained, a flag planted, if provisionally. His steps were sprightly, for he was consoled in himself, confirmed in his abilities, reassured a little in his purpose.

  *

  Stevie was properly put out. So much for the quiet evening. Banter had been building nicely, now it was flattened, and for the sake of three numpties, three smug ugly faces in a row. His mobile should have rung, his lookout should have done the job assigned him, but that was past. His professional vigilance had rebooted. Saturday night was work-night once again.

  He had assessed and named them. Big Chief Numpty, the eldest, the broadest, likely the hardest, undoubtedly the one in charge. His probable deputy? Shoulders, broader there than in the chest, but potentially a handful. And then the Squirt – physically negligible, making up the numbers, therefore most likely to be hiding tools about his person. Hardly the world’s most shit-scary troops. It was their very presence, though, that rattled him – here, of all places, at this unlikely hour. On whose intelligence? Worse, he had been warned, he could not say he hadn’t, he had frankly discounted the threat, and now here it was.

  Shack, at least, had seen it too. Why was it only ever Shack with his eyes and his wits about him? The rest of them talked like they were combat veterans. And yet here they sat, yacking still, horizons no higher than the next round, the next pub, Keegan’s best eleven, what one would pay for a cordless drill at Argos. Lately he had thought a fair bit about the role of delegation in leadership. Nights such as these reminded him sharply that he remained the chief asset of his business. At 9.47 p.m. he stood, pushed back his chair, vodka-tonic in hand, and strode toward the trio at the bar. The two juniors made to drain their glasses in unison, a pleasing sign. The eyes of Shoulders darted to the door. As for the Squirt, both eyes and body seemed to jerk in that direction – a bag of nerves, Stevie decided, the sort who would fill his lungs before throwing a punch. But Chief Numpty stood firm in his black suede jerkin, meeting Stevie’s eye. A roll of cash lolled before him on the bar, as if that was cool. How much was he acting it? How true the show of strength? This much Stevie was bent on establishing.

  ‘Ye’s not for another there, lads?’

  ‘No chance pal, just dropped in,’ said the Chief. ‘Reckon we can do a little better than this old shithouse the night, right?’

  ‘Where’ve you’s come from?’ North-west was what Stevie was hearing.

  ‘Roundabouts,’ said the Chief.

  ‘What’s it to you?’ offered Shoulders, another Manc.

  ‘Divvint let us see you back in here.’

  Silence. The Chief seemed to be chewing over the challenge.

  ‘What’s the matter wi’ yee, like?’ piped the Squirt, in broad Gateshead.

  ‘You fucken know, you little bollox, so shut yer yap.’

  ‘Well, see, Steve, we saw that Lexus of yours outside, so we had to look in.’ And Shoulders grinned, as if the knowledge revealed implied mastery.

  Stevie levelled a finger. ‘You’d better not have touched that, mind.’

  Chief Numpty laid a comradely hand upon Shoulders. ‘Look, here’s what it is, Steve. We’d a friend of yours in our local the other night. Lad name of Mickey, yeh?’

  Inwardly Stevie kicked the wall. These days he had more associates than he was comfortable with, and Mickey Ash was not the one he would have chosen to represent him in a tight corner.

  ‘Where the fuck’s your local then? Old Trafford?’

  ‘Waallsend, Stevie, Waallsend,’ said Numpty, in a gruesome stab at an accent. It was contemptible, yes, but Stevie’s spirits were rising on the assumption that this shifty shower of shit was the best that Big Mister Skinner of Manchester could send in his direction. The threat had declared itself, but with merely a fraction of the heft he had been keyed up for. Were matters graver, then Shoulders would not have his hand so near the heavy glass ashtray on the bar – though the detail was certainly noteworthy.

  ‘Aye, right, so you saw Mickey, so the fuck what?’

  ‘Well, he didn’t stop. Ran off again sharpish.’ As if this Numpty would stand his ground in all weather, outnumbered by however many. ‘Now, he’s the one you wanna tell not to be back,’ he added, terse. ‘Best do that, Steven.’

  ‘Am I your fucken messenger boy?’

  ‘You’ve been telt,’ offered the Squirt, squeakily excitable.

  ‘And this’ll be from Lawrie Skinner, right?’

  ‘You’ve been telt, man.’

  ‘I hear you. Just tell us who I’m telt off.’

  ‘I speak for meself, Steve,’ said the Chief, chest forward.

  ‘Whey you maybe do, but you divvint think I’ll listen to a word out of a long streak of piss like you?’

  The Chief took a step closer, which Stevie thought intriguing. ‘I’ll tell you this, Steven. We see any more of your ratty little scrote pals round where they know fine well they’re barred – we’ll have to give ’em a proper spanking, yeh? Then we’ll have to take it up with you. And we’ll find you. If it means coming back to this shithouse. Then there’ll be more of us, knobhead. And if that happens, Steven son, then you – are fookin’ – dead – yeh?’

  Stevie didn’t weigh up the singsong threat: in truth he hardly heard it. He had decided to deck this insufferable cunt during the trashing of Mickey Ash. The mere talk, the rash swagger, had dispelled his worry about weapons inside those down-filled coats. And now – like a rank amateur – the cunt had only done him the favour of stepping into Stevie’s sweet spot, just a little to his left, where any excuse for a right he might throw would take about a week to land, time in which Stevie could play at leisure. His choices made, Stevie switched his drink to his left hand, reweighed and confirmed his advantage, then took the executive decision to ram it home.

  He jerked his left wrist, tossing what remained of the vodka into the face of the hated one, who was blinking and spitting still as Stevie dropped the glass and raised his fists. The glass shattered as Stevie threw the right-hand jab, breaking Numpty’s nose – he felt the pleasing give – and dumping him onto his arse. As Shoulders ran at him, Stevie was atop his momentum, shoulders relaxed, all power in his hips, and he pivoted smartly, swung a left-leg roundhouse kick to the abdomen, booting the twat, who crumpled and crashed back into the Squirt – a poor outcome for the pair of them. Now Stevie heard scraping chairs behind him, knew without looking that his boys were up and at his back. Shack would shortly be wadi
ng in. He glanced to the door, for the front bar was fast emptying of its patrons, much too fast for the Squirt to push his way through to the street. So now he was groping in his coat, and – yes, there it was, predictable as rain – a flashing blade, of an evil length. Stevie revised his estimate quickly, but not dramatically. There was no conceivable outcome – not a cat in hell’s chance – but that the Squirt and friends were bound for the General tonight. They would not be home for Match of the Day.

  Book Two

  BIG STEVE

  Chapter I

  SIZE AND AUTHORITY

  Stevie didn’t speak of his past, not with mates nor lovers nor comrades. As far as he was concerned he had been born unto himself, somewhere round the age of eighteen. The years before had amounted, he would say, to ‘a sack of fucking misery’, from which nothing useful or pleasing or consoling could be fished. There was, though, one sole fragment of an anecdote he would gouge from himself, if set before a receptive audience, strong drink taken, and one or more parties unable to stay silent on the matter of how Big Steve ever got to be so rock – when and how those quads and lats and biceps began their fearsome inflation. If Stevie didn’t mind his inquisitor – thought him genuine, not some chancer probing about for a sore spot – then his tumbler of Johnny Walker was raised to the light, the amber inspected.

  ‘To Jim Doggett. Who made us what I am the day.’

  Invariably the toast was fudged and muttered in the seconding, the big lads almost pitifully solemn to Stevie’s eye – believing, perhaps, that they were saluting some hard-wearing owner of a fighter’s gym or, better yet, a professional trainer. Inevitably a lad who was no fool would decide it were a better thing to stick one’s head above the parapet than to persist in vulnerable ignorance.