by Conrad Jones
“The judge and jury didn’t think so,” Bryn countered but they didn’t look away from the screen. “Anyway, I’m off to be a knob in the park with the dog.”
“What have I told you about giving your smartarse backchat?” his dad mumbled with a shake of the head.
“I don’t think you ever mentioned it, dad.” Even his sarcasm couldn’t break their concentration. To be fair, it looked like a paternity result was about to be revealed by Kyle so he could almost understand their anticipation. “See you later,” he sighed. Their response was the same, numbed concentration.
He grabbed his bubble jacket from beneath the pile of coats that was permanently on the newel post at the bottom of the banister. Every three months or so, his mother would kick off and hang them all up in the cupboard beneath the stairs. She would threaten terrible things upon any who dared to dump their coats there ever again. The ban would last a few weeks before coats appeared there sporadically, earning the culprits an earbashing. Eventually she would become exhausted by the constant monitoring and the pile would slowly begin to grow again. Eventually they would drive her insane and the cycle would repeat itself.
“Come on, girl,” Bryn said to the excited staffie who was circling his feet, wiggling her backside and wagging her tail at a hundred wags a minute. “Let’s go to the park and find me a girlfriend who looks exactly like Jourdan Dunn. You never know who will be walking their dog.” He checked his appearance in the mirror. His closely cropped hair was no more than a dark shadow on his scalp and despite his years, his nose was already slightly misshaped by his hours at the boxing club. He was capable but not a future champion. The girls at school swooned at his blue eyes and broad shoulders but he lacked the confidence to exploit his assets. Alice looked up at him; her staffie smile wrinkled her face. “Don’t look at me like that. A boy can dream.” She had no idea what he was saying but she loved him anyway. Bryn clicked the lead to her collar and headed for the front door.
As he opened the door, the shadow of a large male loomed, approaching quickly. The dark clad figure was dressed head to toe in Adidas, the hood pulled over his head covering the top half of his face. Alice reared up onto her back legs and barked excitedly. The man stopped still and swore under his breath as he removed his earphones.
“Alright, Squirt,” he said rubbing Alice’s head and punching Bryn in the shoulder playfully. “You made me jump.”
“Try taking your earphones out sometime.”
“What did you say?”
“Funny.”
“Where are you off to, Squirt?”
Bryn held up the lead and shrugged, “Take a wild guess. I’ve got the dog on her lead so am I...going shopping, to the snooker hall, going swimming, popping down to the gym or none of the above?”
“You’re a dick,” his older brother, Mark punched his shoulder again, harder this time. They trained at the same gym. Mark was six inches taller and two stones heavier than Bryn. His most recent fight was at light heavyweight, a three round war, which he won on points. Mark was shaping into a successful amateur with the professional ranks in his sights. “Your smartarse mouth will get you into trouble one day.”
“You sound like the old man.”
“Are they okay?”
“Yep.”
“What are they doing?”
“Watching shite on telly, eating crap and smoking fags.”
“Same routine?”
“Not exactly the same.”
“How come?”
“Well, they got out of bed and cooked a packet of ‘low fat’ sausages.” Mark raised his eyebrows in surprise and made an impressed whistling noise. “Then they added a packet of bacon, placed them between a loaf of bread slathered in butter and ketchup and wolfed the lot in front of the telly.”
“Yes, but low fat sausages?” Mark cooed. “That’s a step in the right direction. Where are they?”
“In front of the telly.” He smirked sadly. “And that is where they’ll stay until second breakfast.” Mark raised his eyebrows in question. “It’s their snack between breakfast and lunch. Mum’s buying low fat stuff but they eat more of it.”
“That’s one of the reasons I left,” Mark shook his head. “It’s frustrating watching it every day. Good to know that they’re following the doctor’s orders.”
“They’ve given up, Mark,” Bryn said walking down the path with his head down. Alice was pulling, eager to go to the park. “They’re just doing whatever they like and waiting to die.”
“They might have the right idea, Squirt,” Mark winked but Bryn noticed that his eyes were touched with sadness. “You had better get her to the park before she pulls your arm off. I’m going to sit with mum and dad for a while. I’ll see you when you get back.”
“Okay,” Bryn smiled. Mark was his best friend as well as his brother. “Are you training later?”
“Of course. I’ll give you a few rounds if you like.”
“I don’t want to tire you out.”
“Cheeky bugger.”
“See you in a bit. Put the kettle on.”
Mark nodded, waved and closed the door. Bryn waved back and walked down the path. Their garden was a mess in contrast to the neat and tidy ones on either side. His parents rented from a housing association while their next door neighbours had purchased their homes. It was a similar story across the estate. The privately owned properties stood out a mile, well maintained, freshly painted with tidy gardens. The rest of the estate ranged from average condition to shitholes.
“Hello, Bryn,” the elderly neighbour from next door shouted over the fence.
“Hello, Mr Dale,” Bryn said without slowing down. He didn’t want to get drawn into a longwinded conversation again. Mr Dale had a habit of wasting thirty minutes of his life every time he walked by.
“Taking the dog for a walk, I see?”
“Yes. We’re off to the park for a run.”
“They never used to walk their dogs around here you know,” Mr Dale said with a nod of his head. “They used to open the front door and let them out on their own!”
“Yes, you’ve said, Mr Dale,” Bryn nodded, a half smile on his face. “Wouldn’t get away with that nowadays, Mr Dale,” Bryn said trying to get away.
“You know thirty years ago, the estate was a dump.”
“Yes, you’ve said that before.”
“A lot of the houses were boarded up, gardens strewn with burnt out cars and discarded sofas it was,” Mr Dale said putting his pipe into the corner of his mouth. He gazed down the street as if seeing the memories in his mind. “People dumped stuff anywhere, broken washing machines and fridges became dens and climbing frames for the local kids. It was like a tip in places,” Mr Dale lowered his voice. “The council moved too many bad apples into this barrel,” he said in a conspiratorial tone, hushed with a knowing wink. “It was rough back then, I’ll tell you, no one walked their dogs on a lead; packs of mongrels roamed the streets crapping everywhere. You didn’t see people walking dogs on a lead back then.”
“It sounds terrible, Mr Dale,” Bryn said edging away slowly, Alice yanking at the lead.
“And imagine if you were seen picking up dog crap in a bag!” he grinned displaying tobacco stained teeth, “they would have thought that you were completely mad. You would have been arrested and sent to the looney bin!”
“Funny, Mr Dale, anyway I’ll have to get going,” Bryn said walking away quickly.
“You don’t see white dog shit anymore either,” Mr Dale looked up, happy with his realisation but not aware that Bryn was gone. “You used to see it everywhere back then,” he said, calling after him. An elderly neighbour was passing by and had only heard half of the conversation. She looked at him with alarm. “I was just saying to young Bryn, you don’t see white dog poo anymore,” he explained, tempering his language for the old lady. “You’ll be old enough to remember white dog poo.”
“Bloody idiot!” the woman snapped and walked on quickly, her head down and shoulde
r stooped with age.
Mr Dale sighed and looked disappointed, turning back to his garden, any chance of a conversation about the old days gone. When he was a safe distance away, Bryn slowed down. He couldn’t imagine those days gone by. Now, the council estates of old had become middle class suburbia. The ‘right to buy’ schemes had allowed families with nothing to get a foot on the property ladder and the working class became the middle class. But it had also bred resentment between the haves and have-nots. There was no doubt that some of the more unkempt properties were dragging the value of their privately owned neighbours’ houses down. Obviously the tower blocks in the middle of the estate were different. Three buildings with twenty floors of urban misery packed into them. It was a lottery which neighbours lived above and below, on either side, opposite or indeed, behind. Unlucky occupants could be bombarded with reggae, hard rock, dance, deafening video shoot em up games and domestic violence simultaneously and then there were the drug dealers. Their homes were easy to spot, fortified to the maximum with electronic gates sporting top of the range security cameras. Bryn knew who was dealing, the police knew who was dealing; everyone knew yet it still went on.
The garden gate squeaked on rusting hinges and Alice bolted through the gap. Her claws scrabbled at the pavement, desperate to reach the open fields of the park. Bryn held the lead tight as he closed the gate behind him. The sun was trying hard to break through slate grey clouds but was failing miserably. There was little warmth in its rays. A sharp wind grasped at his clothes, pulling at his tracksuit bottoms and its icy fingers tickled his scalp. He pulled woolly gloves and a beanie hat from his inside pocket and put them on as they walked briskly through the estate. The pavements were empty, mid-sized saloon cars lined the kerbs, some new, some old and some not far from the scrap yard. An even number of Liverpool and Everton stickers adorned the rear windows of most. Bryn was red but he secretly wanted the blues to do well too as long as they were below Liverpool, although he could never share his thoughts with anyone. The bitter rivalry between the two halves of the city had fallen into insignificance when compared to the hatred between Liverpool and Manchester United fans and no one dare mention the Chelsea rent-boys at school. Asking how they played could earn you a fat lip.
Bryn loved football but money was tight at home. His eldest brother, Simon, had access to a couple of season tickets so he quite often went to watch his heroes play. He was technically his step-brother, a product of his father’s first marriage. He idolised Simon, who was in his thirties even though he didn’t see him very often. Simon spoiled him whenever they went out. Nothing was too expensive, they ate in trendy restaurants where everyone knew his brother and Bryn usually went home with some new jeans or trainers. Simon had done well escaping the estate, escaping the mundane routine of marriage, mortgage and kids, escaping mum and dad; Bryn would give anything to escape.
As Bryn approached the local shops, an old copy of the Liverpool Echo unravelled from a litter bin. The front pages hovered in the air for a moment and then blew by on the wind. The headline was familiar.
‘Two Russian men gunned down in broad daylight as drug war escalates’
Bryn read the headline but it hardly registered. It was news from a different world, a parallel universe where drugs and money made the planets turn. He didn’t know much about the city’s criminal underworld apart from the facts that those who ventured into it died violently or spent most of their lives in jail. All the gangsters nowadays were foreign, their names all ended in ‘ski’ or ‘ov’; it was hard for a schoolboy to empathise with foreign criminals. His parents weren’t perfect by any stretch of the imagination but they had worked hard at stressing the downsides of drugs. Between them and his teachers, he had absolutely no illusions of how dangerous taking or selling drugs could be. The newspaper pages flapped as they tumbled by, their importance as insignificant as the headlines they carried. It was old news and the sad deaths meant nothing to anyone outside of the families involved and they were in Russia. Nobody else cared. Not really. Bryn heard people say that they cared about drugs but unless its effects touched their life directly, then it was just lip service. Why would they care? Their own lives were far more important than those of the people who chose to deal narcotics. Ultimately, it was their choice. As for the dealers, they made a lot of money and either retired abroad, rotted in jail or died young. Why would anyone care about them? Bryn didn’t care and he couldn’t see why anybody else would. He was going to continue studying hard at school, go to university and leave the estate behind him. Just like Simon had.
Bryn turned the corner and headed past the shops. Bargain Booze, Betfred, the chip shop, Domino’s Pizza and the Co-op. The latter attracted the kids from the estate, especially at night. Walking by them could be like running the gauntlet sometimes. Bryn could hold his own in the gym but he was average size for fourteen. When the older kids were out, he kept his head down and his mouth shut. His older brothers were well known and well respected so he didn’t attract too much abuse. He was thick skinned and could cope with the odd comment or insult. It wasn’t worth the hassle to answer back. If you made enemies on the estate then they usually remained enemies for life. Family feuds lasted from generation to generation. Bryn had no interest in them. He had no intention of sticking around.
As he neared the chip shop, the smell of vinegar drifted to him making his mouth water. They weren’t open but the doors were ajar while they heated up the vats and precooked their pies and sausages. The shutters were down on Bargain Booze. No doubt his parents would send him back there later to stock up for the evening’s session. Despite being underage, he was often sent on resupply runs. Mark had lent him some ID months ago and never asked for it back. It was easier to let Bryn buy their alcohol. Eight cans of super strength, four each and a bottle of cheap vodka. He dreaded asking for super strength. All his friends at school took the piss out of anyone who drank it.
‘Nine percent proof! Who would drink that fucking stuff? Its tramp juice, that’s what it is!’
Tramp juice! His mother and father drank tramp juice every night. That was a detail he kept to himself. Simon knew they had fallen into a damaging routine but he was removed from it; Mark knew all about it and pretended it wasn’t happening. Bryn had to watch them deteriorate but they never mentioned it. Not ever. Three brothers knew that their parents were killing themselves yet they did nothing to stop them. They had done it as long as Bryn could remember and probably always would. They drank tramp juice not for enjoyment but for the oblivion it brought. It blotted out everything that they had lost, for a while at least. He sometimes listened to them reminiscing about places they had been, tropical beaches and fragrant market places that Bryn could only relate to from the travel programmes they watched religiously. Their happy memories made him sad.
He turned the corner into an alleyway that led towards the park; the wind bit through his clothes and made him shiver. Bryn stopped in his tracks. A small crowd was gathered, blocking his path. Yellow crime scene tape flapped in the breeze and uniformed officers manned the cordon. He nudged his way through to a better vantage point. White clad figures crouched over the bodies of two youths and a forensic tent was being constructed to restrict the public view. Bryn listened to the onlookers gossiping.
‘The one nearest is the youngest Johnson boy.’
‘Bad bunch, the Johnsons.’
‘Mary from the Co-op found them. She was putting rubbish into the skips at the back and said she could smell something funny.’
‘I heard they’ve been shot.’
‘Did she see them up close?’
‘She said they’d been set on fire. Smelled sickly sweet and made her vomit, she said.’
‘Poor Mary.’
‘She said they’ve been battered to a pulp. She couldn’t recognise them.’
‘How does she know it’s one of the Johnsons then?’
‘Tattoo on his neck, apparently.’
‘Oh, yes. He does have a tattoo.
Under his ear it is.’
‘Which one is the youngest Johnson?’
‘David, I think. Nineteen he is, I think.’
‘Was.’
‘Drug related, I bet you.’
‘Well, you don’t have to be Inspector Morse to work that out, Beryl.’
‘I’m just saying. Drugs I bet.’
‘Wonder who the other lad is? Poor buggers. They don’t deserve that, no one does.’
‘Drugs. It happens all the time with drugs.’
‘You at the bingo later?’
‘Double jackpot today.’
‘I’ll be there. Our Sarah is coming with me.’ The tone of the woman’s voice became secretive. ‘Her fella has pissed off with another woman. She needs a trip to the bingo to cheer her up, bloody shame it is.’
‘Ooh, what a bastard. Do her good a trip to the bingo.’
As the conversation changed to the mundane, Bryn made his way out of the alleyway. He took an alternative route, which would take a little longer but would skirt the incident. He weaved his way through the estate until they reached the last row of houses before a zebra crossing that would take them into the park. Alice stopped to sniff a gatepost. Bryn laughed at her and waited while she sniffed the layers of scent built up over years by hundreds of animals who had walked by that way. He looked around while she decoded the doggy messages. It had been a long time since he had ventured to this part of the estate. The gate post belonged to a house that was surrounded with ornate metal railings fixed to a new brick wall. There were cameras on every corner of the building.
“That dog had better not be taking a shit on my pavement!” A voice growled from beyond the high fence. Bryn turned around and saw a morbidly obese man waddling out of his house. He was six feet four at least and Bryn guessed he weighed somewhere between twenty-five and thirty stones. His facial features were almost lost in the fat that surrounded them. He had no cheeks or chin or neck, just rolls of flab that joined his head to his shoulders. Bryn had never seen anyone that huge. “I’ll kick it up the arse! What are you staring at, you gormless scrote?”
