by Jules Grant
I’ve seen it on films where they punch someone hard, expect them to go down but they don’t. Never actually happened to me in real life, until now.
Tricks gets me in a headlock, punching at my face, starts to drag me to the exit. Then I hear a crack above my head. Not the crack of a gun but that sick kind of sound, like a rounders bat on bone.
All of a sudden Tricks lets go and I fall forward, turn to see Carla clinging on to her back, smacking her round the head with a full bottle of Becks, cap still on. Now you’d think that’s got to hurt. To be honest it just bounced off but it was enough to stun her a bit, let me go.
Now it’s full-on and our girls wade in behind us, glasses and bottles smashing, chairs flying through the air, the lot. Lise standing on the sidelines, swinging her arms and snapping her head like a conductor at a concert. I should mention that Lise got a pass when it comes to fighting and everyone knows it, so nobody picks on her if they can help it. She’s useless when it comes to anything with her hands, can’t change a plug or hotwire a car, and if someone tries to punch her she wraps herself up in a little ball on the floor and shouts for help. Which means me.
Well by this time Salford get wind and wade in about thirty strong, three deep, the front doors of V-Bar a funnel for all the door-staff on Canal Street. Football girls don’t look so cheerful now and it’s worth a good pasting just to see the look on their faces.
Jump the bar, there’s a back way, says Carla, dragging Lise by the arm. Still conducting.
I nudge Sonn, Let’s get out of here.
Are you fucking kidding me? says Sonn. And miss this? She launches herself at a slaphead.
By the time the rest of us get out back, Patsy holding the door open, we’ve got the giggles. Ah, fuck it, says Carla, that was fun.
Out in the alley we split up and then split, all except me and Carla.
She looks up Canal Street. So which one you fancy then? she says. What about the S&M club we got barred from last year? We could turn over a few more tables?
I look at her. Don’t be mad, they’ll never let us in.
Well, it’s not like there’s anyone on the doors right now, she says with a smile looking back at V-Bar, sound of glass smashing on cobbles.
Hey, let’s do it, I say.
The hearse pulls up at the lights. I scan the pavements and the road in front, force of habit. Have to remind myself to calm down. I see Carla, that day she got so pissed off with the lights on Hyde Road she paid Sparky to fix them, skip red. Went from amber to green and back again for a whole month before the council clocked it. Seemed we laughed all the time back then. Then I’m wondering who’s gonna have my back now, who’s gonna make me laugh.
I look round at the girls, bikes so close together when they turn into the corner like one long smooth wave, makes my eyes smart.
After the Chapel we carry Carla through the cemetery, Father Tom at the front.
Someone’s put a plastic cover over the other two holes, and now there’s just hers, yawning out like a cold wet mouth, pile of earth at one side. My heart feels like it’s stuck in my throat. I look over the edge, try to gauge how deep the water is, then try not to think about it.
People don’t think about kids when they get themselves buried, otherwise they’d never put them through it. Well worse than standing in the Crem with your key worker, watching the red curtains pull over, gentle music and stuff. Can’t think how I’d have stood it if I had to watch them put me mam in the ground, everyone watching.
Father Tom says some stuff, long gown flapping, wind cutting his voice out at the important bits. Then he looks right at Ror and he winks.
We’re gonna sing a song now, for Carla, he says.
What the fuck is he up to? This wasn’t on the itinerary so it better be good. Ror’s smiling right back at him, looks like she knows what’s coming.
Then Father Tom turns his face up to the rain, sings loud as he can, and all the time he’s smiling at Ror and she starts singing along… you are my sunshine, the tune that Carla used to sing her when she couldn’t sleep, or when she hurt herself, just to make her smile.
Everyone’s looking at him now like he’s gone loop but he just carries on. Ror’s beaming at him now and she claps, then everyone catches on and claps and then we’re all smiling, and I want to go right up to Father Tom and hug him for making a fool of himself and not caring just to make Ror smile, but I don’t know what the rules are on hugging a priest, so I don’t.
It all gets easier from then, even the bit where he goes ashes to ashes, and throws the bits of earth on.
After it’s done, I wait and make sure everyone gets away, Ror and Marie in the car with Geeta. I walk over to the bike, get ready to head out.
There’s nothing much on my mind. To be honest I’m thinking would it have been so bad to keep the belt buckle, just for something to remember her by, and now I wish I had. Then I’m remembering Mina’s face as we threw the earth on, how she looked to me for something, how I just blanked her.
In the back of my mind Carla smiles, shakes her head at me. Harsh.
Jesus, Car, give me a break, I can’t look after everyone all the time, I say.
I catch something moving, just out of range, duck back, just as Kim comes out of the trees. She walks over to where Carla’s just a pile of fresh earth now, gets down on her knees in the mud. I can’t move, can’t go anywhere or make a sound: who knows whether Fatboy’s with her?
After a while she gets up slowly, turns and sees me, jumps a mile. I signal her to be quiet.
It’s OK, she says, no one’s with me.
That’s all I needed to know. I turn and fire up the bike, get ready to shoot off out of there, then all of a sudden she’s right beside me, face teary, mascara everywhere.
I’ve gone back, she goes. Like you said.
She’s got two new black eyes, so obviously.
I can see that, I goes, and I care because?
I need to tell you something, she says. It’s important.
I’ve had enough for one shitty day so I shake her off, rev up the bike. She grasps on to my leathers at the elbow and I nearly lose my balance, makes me see red. I push her in the chest, not hard but she goes over, makes a little cry as she falls, pathetic. Then I’m out past the Madonna, hit the parkway at eighty, don’t give a crap who sees me, I’m too far gone.
That’s the thing about having a temper then losing it: it’s not clever. Makes you do stuff you’d never do if you stayed cool. Losing your temper almost never pans out good and mostly I try to hold on to mine for that reason, but now I’m so angry I’m not even looking for the tail. Might as well put a blindfold on, both hands tied behind my back, stand in the middle of the Ordsall Estate and tell everyone I fucked their mother.
I don’t even see the car pull out behind me as I swing into the Close, just feel the whump of something hitting me, full force in the back, knocks me clean off the bike. I hear the sound of metal on tarmac, sparks flying out in my face, and somehow I see the bike skidding sideways away from me as I come to a stop and my lid hits the kerb.
I must have blacked out for a minute and when I come round I try to move but I can’t. Can’t even breathe. Somewhere faraway I hear tyres squeal as a car turns on the road up ahead of me, comes racing back, brakes and skids to a stop. I hear a car door slam and I wait for the bullet, wonder if I’ll see Carla, what’ll happen to Ror.
Then all of a sudden I hear someone shouting, the tikka-tikka blast of a Skorpion behind me, hear everyone scatter, car doors slam and the tyres screech away. My chest breathes in on its own and the pain makes me feel faint.
Mel’s face looms over me. Jesus Donna, are you hit?
I can’t lift my head but I manage a smile. Got a vest on, I tell her. Fucking hurts though. And where the fuck did you come from?
Came back to check on you, hon, she says, saw the whole thing. Can you sit up?
She pulls me up until I’m sitting on the kerb, pain white-hot in my shoulder. I t
hink I’m going to be sick.
Who was it? I ask. As if I didn’t know.
Audi, she says, snide plates. Didn’t see the shooters. Can you walk?
I’m not sure so I lie back on the pavement to get my breath. How’s the bike?
Turns out there’s not much damage to the bike. I’ve lost some skin in one or two places, nothing that won’t grow back, but it hurts like hell to breathe. Mel shakes her head, prods my chest. Coulda broken a rib or two there, she says, And you’re bleeding.
She puts her hand on my shoulder and when she brings it away it’s all bloody. Better check it out, she says.
I try to sit up, head swimming. Oh right, smart-arse, go to A&E and say what?
Then I must have passed out.
There’s a ton weight pressing down on me. For a second I think they’ve buried me alive and I’m panicking, until I open my eyes, see light coming in through the van windows, hear the hum of the engine. We jolt over something and the pain’s so bad it makes me cry out. I can make out Mel, leaning over me, someone else in the background. I try to tell them I can’t breathe but nothing comes out. Then it all gets dark again. Now, see, this is the point where if there really was something out there you’d expect me to see it, bright lights and tunnels and shit. But I swear there was nothing.
Not Carla, not me Dad, not nothing. Just black.
They must be carrying me because everything’s weightless and I feel like I’m floating, voices coming and going. Then they must have put me down again because the pain shoots through me, up through my chest and my shoulder, white hot, and then hands touching me, pulling at my shirt.
I grab at the hands, try to lift my head but I can’t, try to focus.
There’s a face looking down at me, and even though it’s all blurry I can tell it’s not someone I know, sends me savage. Touch me again I’m gonna kill you, I say.
People laughing way out in the distance.
You’ll have to cut the shirt off, someone says.
It must be a while before I wake up because now it’s dark, shafts of street-light coming in through a curtain. Then Mel’s right there, leans over me.
Where am I? I say.
Droylsden. Try not to move, she says.
Then there’s the face again, only this time it’s not so blurry, little pointy-girl face, ring in one eyebrow. She leans over me, touches something and I nearly go through the roof. This is going to hurt a bit, she says.
This here’s Sherry, says Mel, she’s a nurse.
It’s only later I find out she’s a midwife. Best they could do at the time I suppose, no point whining.
Behind Sherry and Mel there’s three other women. Jen’s one of them and she’s holding a towel. They all look at me.
What?
It’s a bullet, says Sherry, Your shoulder. Must have been a ricochet though because it’s stopped at the bone.
Now I can’t believe it. You mean they hit me, those useless bastards?
It’ll get infected, she says, if we don’t get it out.
Sherry holds out some kind of pipe, shoves the end of it into my hand. The pipe’s attached to a tall cylinder by a hose.
What the fuck is this?
Gas and air, she says. Just suck on it. Trust me, it helps. She waves a syringe. Pethidine for afters, she says, I can give you a shot.
Fuck that, I says, give me some K, knock me out so I can’t feel it.
Sherry shakes her head, Can’t gauge the dosage with ketamine. Too much and you’re not coming back, slows the heart rate right down.
Chrissake you’re a nurse I tell her, teeth gritted against the pain. I thought K was an anaesthetic?
Yeah, says pointy-face, for horses.
I look over at Mel. Get rid of her, I says, through gritted teeth. Then find a vet.
They smile at each other and I know I’m outnumbered.
Oh fuck, just get on with it then. I roll over and grab on to the pillow.
Jen leans over me, holds my shoulders down, both sides. I was right about the Grace Jones thing: that woman is strong.
Seems like the pain goes on forever, Sherry prodding and poking, and every time she moves those tweezer things about, I nearly pass out. And, just when I can’t stand it any more, I’ve found it, she says. It’s right there by the bone.
Dig it out then, I tell her, face right into the pillow.
I must’ve passed out again, because next thing I know she’s got the tweezers down near my face, waving something at me. Looks like a massive ballbearing but squashed at the top. Put it in my jacket, top pocket, I say. Then I feel the needle go into my hip and things slow down and get far away, and I must have slept for a while.
When I come round there’s nobody else in the room. The ceiling is all shadow-shapes, and I’m trying to work out what they are. Then I see the kiddies’ lamp turned on by the bed, tiny blue fairies with wings stretching their arms out to each other, on the shade. Weird how something so small can cast such a big shadow when you put a light behind it. Outside there’s just the sound of the rain.
I know I can’t just lie here, I need a plan or I’m on my way to hell in a handcart, no doubt about it. I think about who I can trust, come up with the answer I always come up with. Just us.
I touch the pad on my shoulder. Still hurts but duller somehow, or maybe that’s just the pethidine. I flex my hands, move the arm about. It hurts to lift it up, but I reckon I can still ride.
I sit up, feel like someone’s punched me in the chest. Seems like where I took the hit on the vest hurts way more than where the bullet went in. I reach for my shirt from the floor, get one arm in and go dizzy, have to stop.
Then I’m trying to get my other arm in when I realise there’s only half a shirt and one sleeve. Bastards.
Who cut my fucking Fred Perry? I yell. D’you know what they cost?
Jen’s face appears in the door. Awake then, sweetness?
Don’t push it, I say. And get me a shirt.
15
Half an hour later and I’m heading down through Gorton towards town, off my head on pethidine, trying to steer straight with one hand. Avoiding the corners.
The A557 heads out east from town, right through Ardwick, Belle View, Gorton, then it’s the A57(M), Denton, Ashton, Stalybridge, Hyde, and right out to the Pennines and High Peak. At the end of the dual carriageway you can turn right for Hattersley, though I don’t really advise it. Ricky Hatton’s a Hattersley boy but that’s about the best of it. Turn left and you’re down past Mottram Cut and out to Glossop Woodhead Pass or the Snake. Keep going, weather permitting, and you might get to Sheffield. Me and Carla loved that road.
Gorton’s the kind of place makes a person feel lucky to come from Moss Side. Or from anywhere really, seeing how Gorton’s a grade-A shithole. Five-lane carriageway, abandoned shops, grim little terraces standing on the sidelines, weeping in the rain.
Every so often there’s a patch of scrub and rubble in between the houses, where they knocked something down and forgot to put anything back. No grass anywhere, not even any gardens. This is where Myra Hindley grew up with her nan, and that’s no surprise to anyone, not when you think about it.
Round here people remember places by the murders, and we got way more than our share of those. East Manchester reads like a Brady and Hindley travel guide and Harold Shipman put that other shithole Hyde on the map single-handed. Seems as if everyone knows someone who knew someone who knew one of those bastards and Keith Bennett’s mam Winnie, must be seventy-odd now, still follows that road to the moors every week, like she has for forty years, searching. Pinning thin bunches of flowers to fence posts in the wind.
Every couple of years there’s a dig for Keith, and thousands turn out. Carla bought us both a new spade for the last one. Out there digging all night, only a Twix between us, till the fog came down so thick no one could see a hand in front of their face any more. Gave me a proper eerie feeling, I can tell you. No one found anything, they never do, and last time old Win
nie was on Granada Reports You had to wonder how someone could carry all that pain and still be standing.
Gorton, Droylsden, Ashton, Stalybridge, Hattersley, Hyde, our places are dark. We’re loyal and fierce but if you come from round here there’s a stain, a sort of shame that clings on to you that you just can’t wash out, can make you go savage. You have to know us to get it. We’re Mancs when all’s said and done so we hang on to stuff, even stuff that no one in their right mind should want, just because we get so much taken away. And that’s how come someone down south can make a picture of Myra made up of babbas’ hands, hang it up in the Tate, call it Art. As if it was just a thing that happened way back. As if poor Winnie Johnson didn’t even exist. Put that up in the Whitworth and he’d have been hanging up right alongside it before you could say Jack Shit.
I pull up at the traffic lights, Belle View, past the multiplex where Carla used to bring Ror when there was something worth watching. Then I’m remembering that time we all went to see Avatar, how me and Ror hid the 3-D glasses in our coats, took them home even though we weren’t supposed to, did our impression of Men in Black in the front room just to make Carla laugh.
I get to the traffic lights at Ardwick and turn off at the Apollo. I’ve taken some stick for living in no-man’s land, but I reckon it’s safer. Most people think I live at Carla’s and that suits me fine. This way, I’m harder to find, always got some place to go when the heat’s on. The block is full of kids having kids, then alkies, a few students, people coming and going all the time, nothing settled. No one gives a shit who I am, and that’s the way I like it.
I leave the bike round the corner behind the garages, walk to the block, take the stairs. Could kick myself now for bringing the Ducati, practically glows in the dark. Trust Carla to get a bike everyone wants to look at. Might as well get a tattoo on my forehead, Shoot Here.
