The Folded Man

by Matt Hill

  Brian has a plastic bag filled with hair. He is quiet. He is numb. He is Samson, shorn bald. Medusa, beheaded. King Nisos, bereft.

  The bag of hair’s in his lap. Something lost he must preserve.

  Noah starts the car.

  All right. Good lad. Now, we go yours first, he says. Got the medals in the boot. We get ready there –

  Brian feels scared and cold. No longer comforted by a myth he’s made; no longer protected by the strange habits of superstition.

  I don’t want you at mine, he says.

  For now, till the stubble grows out, he’s been forced from a habit formed on the back of his mother’s words.

  Formed on a belief system fuelled by encyclopaedias and legends; ancient tales of boats led to rocks where sailors drown.

  Rocks where survivors eat the flesh of sirens – kill and eat the harlots who brought them so close to death.

  Eat them and live forever.

  Another stop, this one for petrol and limp butties. Two men from the margins at the old Texaco on the edge of town. Right on the edge of all things light and everything good – the dusk yards they call it round this way. The dusk yards being a line you cross to find yourself tipped into night and all things worse. Tipped beyond the city – where roads are blacker without neon and street-lamps. No curfews. No law.

  Brian stays in the car on account of his tail; stays in the car to cut another pair of lines for them both, to straighten his tie and smooth his collar.

  Want owt? says Noah.

  Nah, says Brian, playing with the baggie.

  Brian hears Noah fill up the car. Smells petrol, breathes it down. Brian pours the coke and starts to smooth the lines. Sees Noah by the pay-grate, stacking up tight in a queue three-long. Sees the shotgun pointed outwards.

  Brian edges the lines. Cuts them. Edges them again. He looks up at the splitting canopy, across at the empty boxes for the old free press. The rusting pumps. A bush of nettles. Rainbows in puddles –

  These broken things you don’t forget. These photos your brain takes.

  Fell a long way our city, he thinks, looking down at these posh clothes and this bloody meat he’s got for legs. A long, lengthy way. He looks up. Sees Noah coming back. Noah smirking.

  But we’re still scrabbling on the walls.

  Noah gets in all lumpen, banging the door and blurring the coke in Brian’s lap. Says, Shit – sorry mate. Only ham here as well; gutted.

  Ham because pigs are the only things worth farming.

  Brian, he looks at his life from a distance, on this forecourt, with these dreams and this tail. Polarity, animosity. Duality.

  No handles to hold, no harness to lift.

  He leans down –

  Rails everything in the tray.

  The pair of them, clipping from Manchester towards the Woodhead Pass at a flat sixty, Brian wired, half-cut, head out the window with a stomach turning over and over, too wired for nerves.

  Noah is suited and booted, enjoying the corners, teaching Brian a different sort of line. Lines to learn; lines about his role in the war, where he served, who he served with. Noah’s talking about gallows humour and one-liners for big grins, saying things like, Good things don’t come in small packages, Brian. Letterbombs do.

  They pass signs to Sheffield – green signs scrubbed and crossed through, overwritten with graffiti – A57 Crater one says. Never a good place to visit, everyone thinks. Rarer still to drive out this way, up and over the tops.

  Manchester, that tall city in their mirrors, waits to turn on. Manchester, the shrinking city in their mirrors, quickly gone.

  They hit the M67, windows flashing grey and flickering with shadows and skeletons from the foot bridges and bare bushes. Five miles of motorway to themselves. The hills loom closer, four PM on the nose, dusk falling by increments.

  Rain clouds roll in to slate the biggest roof.

  They cover the last stretch of unlit motorway and pay their dues; pull away from the tolls by Hindley’s Hattersley and edge downhill to dodge so many potholes. The fear of blockade gangs. No lights or holo-boards down this way. No cars either; nobody heading anywhere, the only noise from a couple of patrol levs whining over.

  Through villages, grim grey villages – Shipman’s Mottram, Tintwistle, all empty you’d think but full with ills – and on again, down and up, before the road cuts into dark green proper. Before the smell of death comes through all the windows. Before the rain can start.

  Grim up north, says Noah, the Nissan pushing fifty in old thirty zones. About fifty more than it should manage, the way he drives it.

  All around, the Pennines, these endless moors, crowd the car with long shadows. Once, it was a beautiful drive, the A628 – and not only if the light was right. It’s thoroughfare, yes, a long bridge between Manchester and Sheffield, but to have so much green so close to a city was once seen as lucky –

  Now, it’s all weeds and damaged road surfaces. A ragged scar on the face of nature. Cracked tarmac scattered with bits of dry-stone walls pushed over by unpruned trees. And every hundred yards, an old orange SOS phone stands rotting, while the ghosts of freight lorries and tailgaters, the traffic you’d see here till four or five years back, echo and echo as memories.

  The road winds on and up, ponderous. There’s a funny camber to the corners. The men look into valleys, down into empty reservoirs; into the lay-bys and up the slab-sides of limestone. Ahead at the clouds, above at the trees. The rain chases them. And they see the walls with orange nets pinned on, the walls where people didn’t brake soon enough. They remember dark stories of rapes and shallow graves. Imagine the dread –

  The big open space makes for powerful wind. These hills are bleak; cold and shattered by gales.

  How far from here? says Brian, chewing his face, gurning at the blackening sky with eyes cranked wide.

  Flouch roundabout and a bit beyond, Noah says. Old farm buildings up that way.

  Time we due?

  Five, but can’t roll in till Garland gives me the nod.

  You know who you’re looking for?

  Aye. Two in particular.

  He knows I’m with you?

  No. And won’t.

  How come?

  Because it’s all about format. Let him think he’s got me climbing drains. Romantic that way.

  They’re just past Flouch roundabout, towards Langsett, towards the M1 – the motorway you don’t drive without armour or escorts. Past Flouch roundabout, on more winding roads to nowhere, when a pair of Defenders pull out in front.

  Noah swerves, the offside bumper already gone up the wall. The car stalls, a wash of tyres over gravel – the whole thing as fast as that.

  Next: three men in balaclavas, balaclavas with surplus army jackets; three men in balaclavas with guns. And Brian holds his ears, the coke biting now. Fear chewing his stomach out.

  Rifles pointed through glass. Rifles and eye-holes, eyes and mouths, men barking, Out! Out the fucking car!

  Noah and Brian raise their hands – that universal reflex.

  Out!

  Noah shouting, Easy! Easy!

  Two men at the doors, gun barrels in two frightened faces.

  While shepherds watch, one man says.

  Another: Out fucking car, pair of you.

  Noah spills from the door, stumbles out on to the road, looking back at Brian. Brian’s trapped inside with both hands over his head; sweating and puffing, very red.

  Gentlemen, the man in front of the car says, his rifle high. Not right road for you pair, this. Right turn were few mile back, actually.

  We’re –

  Hush now. What’s up with him in there, the man asks, pointing. Daft, is he?

  He needs his wheelchair, Noah says. You’ve misunderstood. He can’t get out, he’s a –

  The man kicks Noah’s car. The hanging bumper rattles. The echo rolls.

  Speak up, lad. Matter with you.

  He’s – he’s disabled.

  Mong, aye?

&n
bsp; Where you off? asks one of the men.

  Meeting. A meeting. And I’m his carer.

  Meeting where?

  There’s a farm –

  Get mong out the car, says one of the men.

  Noah raises his hands. Noah protests. But he needs his chair, he says.

  One man points to another, back to Noah.

  Where you driven from? he asks.

  Manchester.

  And this meeting?

  Noah’s eyes narrow.

  You know what I’m on about. Thinking, Yorkshiremen don’t carry rifles like that for sweet F-A.

  Open boot, the man goes. And say owt more you’ll be swallowing teeth.

  The man pointing a rifle at Brian pauses. Pauses and thinks. Thinks and moves, still pointing. He walks round the back of the car and opens the boot. The third man looks on.

  He tuts.

  Nowt here, he says to his pals, lying to his pals in balaclavas with their guns. No chair.

  He points his gun at Noah. Noah begins to panic. He can think fast, Noah, but not like this.

  In the car, Brian pulls the blanket from his lap. Brian opens the passenger door. Brian keeps his hands high. He hears the guns creak, sees the rifle tremble.

  Brian puts a hand on the door. Pulls himself round. These aches and pains. The coke.

  Brian slips on the door sill, falls to the ground hard, making a scene. Brian sits there, stunned and shaking and waiting for the crack.

  The men laugh. The men point. Laughing and pointing as Brian sweats and crawls.

  Got a name, has mong? Fuck’s he doing?

  Noah tries to stand. Wants to help Brian. His old buddy, his old pal. Brian crawling round the car, dragging his smart clothes and sorry bones across the tarmac.

  Leave him be, says Noah. He’s a soldier. A vet.

  Soldier? says the man nearest Brian. This shite on floor?

  The man rolls Brian on his back with his boot. The man notices Brian’s body, the special shape in the special trousers – the ones Brian has for smart occasions. The ones now covered in grit and muck.

  Brian, he’s silent, still gasping –

  Lads, says the man in the balaclava. Cunt’s only got one leg!

  The men start to laugh again.

  Landmines were it? Landmines? Get lad up.

  The man grabs Brian under his armpits. Tries. Tries harder. Up, fatty, he says.

  Brian puts weight on his feet. Onto his fused, flattened feet. Feels himself pulled up; feels his armpits burning.

  Brian leans heavy against the car door.

  Noah’s kneeling up now, angry and helpless. Hopeless. The man nearest asks what for. He says, Why you kneeling, cocker?

  Noah says, Just look in the bloody glovebox. Medals are there. Falklands and the rest.

  The three men in balaclavas look at each other, all eyes and mouths.

  Brian slumps, sliding down, the man having to push him back up every few seconds.

  The glovebox, Noah says again. We have somewhere to be. Better plans than this. There’s cash in my pocket if you’re after cash. I’m not a man to tell lies. Let him go – bloke deserves better than this. Let him go and see us on our way.

  To go where?

  To our meeting –

  A meeting you’ve driven from Manchester for.

  If you’re security, you’ll be off work tomorrow, says Noah. I can make sure. You know what I’m on about.

  Now watch them lips and don’t tell fibs, lad. Told you once. Idle threats aren’t for keeping.

  No fibs, Noah says. He’s important, this bloke. Stocks and shares. Knew what’s good for you, you’d do something else with your afternoon. Mither some other poor bastards.

  Brian slides to his backside, too heavy now.

  Red or blue? the man by Noah says.

  What?

  Red, or blue? Simple enough.

  Quiet. The longest quiet.

  Red.

  Or.

  Blue.

  Blue, Noah says. True blue.

  True blue – knowing all colours out this way are better than red.

  Without a dream in my heart, he says.

  The man in the balaclava shows his teeth. Greatest loss were national game, he says. Donny Rovers myself. What were last match you went?

  City Blackburn, Noah says, snatching at names. March . . . 2011.

  The man sniffs. Looks at Noah a while longer. The man nods. He points at the car. Check glovebox, one of you.

  One of the men leans inside. Across blankets and spilled powder. Opens the glovebox. Pulls out tobacco tins and papers. Pulls out a medal – a medal with the Queen’s profile, the blue and yellow ribbon. He picks out another medal – a yellow, blue and red ribbon.

  Good fakes, Noah’s thinking. The right kind of fakes.

  A pause. Wide eyes bright in those holes to see.

  Give over, the man in the car says. Not lying, were you?

  So help him into the car, Noah says, pointing at Brian. Scared the bugger silly haven’t you.

  The man nearest Noah nods again.

  Noah stands up and brushes himself down. Looks at the man straight. The man all eyes and mouth. A flinch now and the game’s up. Flinch now and you’re swallowing teeth.

  The man in the balaclava sniggers. Looks away –

  Were only joshing, you know, he says. Got to look out for these pakis an’t we?

  Noah smiles his thinnest smile.

  Now skedaddle. ‘Fore I change mind.

  No, Brian’s not all right. Brian’s learning how fast you can sober. Gets to thinking about this mud on his trousers, these scuffs on his shirt. Grateful this once for a blanket round his legs – the warmth and the smell of damp wool.

  They’ve moved a hundred metres. Noah’s out the front, kicking seven bells out of the bumper. Muttering and running up, trying to get the rest of it off.

  Noah pulls the whole thing off. Throws it over a wall.

  Headlight’s bust and all, Noah says, getting back in his seat. And what’s that look for? Going on bloody expenses isn’t it. Garland doesn’t want to lend us a tank, Garland gets bills to settle.

  Brian snorts.

  Any road. Never met a good Yorkshireman, Noah says. Isn’t anything good comes out of that bloody county. But we’re right, son. We’re okay.

  Well if that was the welcome, Brian says to Noah, eyes still sore, what’s the front door going to be like?

  Wangle something, won’t we, Noah says. Would’ve been different if we had a swish motor I reckon. Just bad luck. Bad luck and bad men.

  Noah stops the car there. The engine ticks, clicks, choking oil.

  Noah takes off his seatbelt and pushes the chair back. He says to Brian, Let’s have a look at you then.

  A look at what?

  Noah does the once-over, poking and prodding. Noah frowns. Noah pulls a tissue from his shirt pocket and spits on it. Leans over and wipes muck off Brian’s face – wipes away the dust.

  Brian winces and pushes his hand. He says, Hell you doing? Get us halfway to killed, halfway up these moors, and now you’re spitting on my face?

  Noah laughs.

  Tough at the top, kid, he says. You’re a good man you are. A right bloody ’nana most of the time, but a good man. But I have to look after you don’t I? So we’ll do what we came to do, and we’ll go home richer. For better or for worse.

  Brian looks ahead. Gazing to hazy lights not far off.

  Just have to trust me, won’t you.

  Brian still has snot down his chin. A polo of coke left on his left nostril.

  So come on. Let’s not be a fanny, says Noah. You’re a soldier out this way, remember.

  Brian goes to say something. Brian stops.

  Brian’s seen Noah reaching into the door pocket.

  He watches Noah turn back with a can of something –

  Does nothing, says nothing, feels nothing.

  While Noah sprays him with air freshener.

  Smells good that, Noa
h says, laughing a bit. Smells ­better.

  And Brian looks back, at his eyes and at his mouth, tasting the air while smelling it – a bad crack at vanilla.

  At Noah’s face and hands.

  Brian narrows his eyes. He calls Noah the worst word he can.

  5.

  Noah and Brian pile through a rotting fence on to a dead field. Into grass two feet deep – the old car up to its A-pillars in brown straw.

  Noah’s laughing at Brian’s face. Tells him the reason’s three-fold, and not to fret. Says, Son, here’s why we’re on this field.

  They drive straight, wobbling, cutting new ditches through mud. Ploughing the field. Tilling the land.

  What a man sows –

  For one, Noah says, we’re going round another way. Coming in from a direction we didn’t really.

  What’s the bloody point? says Brian. He smells like bad soap. What’s the point when them bastards back there already clocked us?

  Nowt saying they’re in radio contact, Noah says. Nowt saying they’ve not called ahead. He smiles then.

  Second reason is I’ve rigged a mic to your chair and need to tell you about it –

  Brian sniffs hard. Feels it in his throat. The drip. The sour taste.

  Rigged my chair? When?

  Doesn’t matter when, he says. Ninja aren’t I. But the signal’s connected to your tape bank at home, plus a box in our boot. Failsafe’s in your tie – they’ll be running jammers if they’re touchy – and the rest. So: you’re running a closed circuit too. Local receiver’s taped under your seat. A smart way to take notes if nothing else.

  Brian shakes his head. Brian in his chair on the moors at the deepest end.

  Third reason? says Brian.

  Noah slams on the anchors. Noah spins them a hundred degrees. The car digs in, rumbling. Noah near as stalls it. Noah laughs, drums the steering wheel. Undoes his seat belt and lights up a fag. Noah pulls out his tie. Noah points at Brian’s jacket, still swinging on a hanger from the back window.

  Time to be a real Flash-Harry, he says. See how our ­little mermaid scrubs up.

  From here it’s another kind of fortress. The farm, that is. A stone cottage and a barn on a big plot with watchtowers for corners and grubby weather for cover. They pass it from the right, on the field still, seeing the compound over the privets. On all sides there are trees and high ground. Another place for men to run from something, to hide from the world.