by Phil Redmond
That would be part of the theme of his speech tonight. Another after-dinner. He’d talk of those memories. The clichéd tales of waking up to iced-up toilets and curtains frozen to the windows. But as he always said, clichés were only clichés because they were truisms. Like, how do you break the chain that stretches from childhood poverty to adult crime?
Yes, he’d give the tale another outing tonight. How he and his siblings had started in deprivation but by their own endeavours were now doing relatively well. How their friends all took different routes but only a few followed a criminal path, and even then often through circumstance rather than choice. And now, how he is wealthy enough to have constant hot water and a body dryer, despite the angst around global warming competing with that instilled by the Christian Brothers, and how the Venerable Bede, the patron saint of writers, taught him to fight for the things you think are important. The things you cherish. Like your life. On the number 10 bus. A memory that took him to where he didn’t want to be. Remembering what had happened to his sister.
It was that same early education in survival that drove Joey, as he came out of the underpass and vaulted the fence into the car park opposite the station exit. He came up behind a parked Audi Q7 and, as he passed, tapped on the window and dropped his shoulder bag on the bonnet, nearly causing his wife Natasha to spill her cappuccino into her lap, but then watch, first puzzled, then with rising alarm as she saw her husband slip into that all too familiar purposeful swagger. Even under the bulk of the CAT insulated twill jacket that masked his fit but slender body shape, she could see him stiffen. Shoulders back, arms at his side, fists clenching and unclenching. Then she saw the spin of his hand. She started up and waited. For trouble. For someone.
Two miles further on, three girls were walking down the appropriately named Hill Street towards the equally appropriately named High Street.
‘I’m just saying, he’s a psycho.’
‘You think everyone’s a psycho.’
‘Five per cent of people are psychos.’
‘You just hate him because he’s foreign.’
‘Christ, will you two give it a rest.’ It was the tall one, Tanya Nolan, Sean’s niece, Joey’s daughter. The one with the ASOS oversized bucket bag. She was walking between her two friends, Becky, the short one, with the now scuffed Stella McCartney Python tote bag, and Carol, the medium one, with a leather Topshop slouchy holdall. All were in jeans. Parkas pulled tight and arms folded, huddled against the cold. They were all in boots. Tanya and Carol in worker’s. Becky in biker’s.
‘It’s five per cent are deviants. Not psychos,’ Tanya added as she hit the pedestrian crossing button but didn’t stop to wait for green.
‘Well, he’s a deviant, then,’ insisted Carol, following automatically.
‘What about hating foreigners? That’s deviant,’ countered Becky, as she hesitated and looked right, left and right again. But quickly.
‘It isn’t. Deviancy is when you stray from the norm. Right, Tan?’
Tanya refused to comment. She, like her dad, always seemed to end up playing the role of mediator. And like her dad, sometimes wished other people would sort out their own issues.
‘You saying that being racist is the norm?’ Becky fired back at Carol.
‘No.’
‘You just did. You said hating foreigners is normal.’
‘I didn’t.’
‘You did.’
‘What am I supposed to do now? Say “didn’t”? And then we grab hair and have a catfight?’
‘You said—’
But Tanya cut across them. ‘Will you stop it? It’s like a bad version of some big celebrity reality slag-off.’
Back at the station, two other deviants from the norm were about to collide as Joey’s bag came out of the door. The guy carrying it was busy checking back over his shoulder so had no idea that Joey was about to stand in front of him; no idea that Joey was pulling his beanie down to cushion his own forehead, nor any warning that Joey’s head was about to hit his own. He went down under the force and a cascade of sincere-sounding apologies from Joey.
‘Sorry, mate. Really sorry. You OK?’
This had the desired effect of guiding the slowing onlookers on their way. Especially as Joey knelt down as though to administer further aid. The guy looked far from OK. Groggy. Blood running from his nose.
‘Don’t move too quickly. Take it easy.’ Then, more quietly, ‘It’s not like on the telly, is it? It really hurt, yeah?’ Then quieter as he leaned in. Closer. And flicked the bagman’s nose. ‘Like that. Looks broken. Hope so anyway.’
Bagman was now starting to look more wary than shocked.
‘Yeah. Weren’t expecting that, were you? Like I wasn’t expecting you to carry me bag off the train for me, you thievin’ get. Now go, before I break every other bone in your body.’ Joey leaned back, with a cheery smile for the benefit of the last onlookers. ‘You’ll be OK, mate.’
Bagman hesitated, but saw the cheery smile fade and didn’t like what replaced it. He rolled to one side and was already up and running as a jobsworth approached from the station.
‘Oi. Did you just go over the fence on the other side?’
‘Yep. And?’
‘Do you have a ticket?’
‘For what? Jumping the fence?’
‘Don’t get smart with me, lad.’
‘OK,’ said Joey, handing over the ticket.
‘Then why did you jump the fence?’
‘Never been one for sitting on them.’ Joey turned and walked away towards the car park. He never saw the bag snatcher again. He didn’t want to and he didn’t care. His body loosened. His smile returned. His mind had already moved on. To Natasha. As she brought the Q7 alongside.
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Epub ISBN: 9781473536852
Version 1.0
Published by Century 2015
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Copyright © Phil Redmond 2015
Phil Redmond has asserted his right to be identified as the author of this work in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.
First published in Great Britain by Century in 2015
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A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.
