by SJI Holliday
Laura Goldstone reappeared from the changing room, dressed in a white gi like Gray’s, same black belt wrapped around her tiny waist, but one tag on the end, compared with Gray’s three. At sixteen, she was his second in command at the club and was more than capable of running the place without him. He hoped she wouldn’t give it all up when she left school and disappeared to uni or whatever it was she was planning to do. There was a lot she could do with the management skills she’d learned, not to mention the confidence from being fit and strong, and her refusal to be intimidated by men.
‘Right,’ she said, ‘how do you want to do this? I was thinking a basic intro by you, then a bit of a warm-up to get everyone ready, then split into two groups and we can take one each? I take it you’re just planning on basic defence stuff? Stuff that’ll get you away without getting you on a GBH charge?’
Gray laughed. ‘You know my preferences, Laura. Knee to the balls, two stiff fingers in the eyes …’
Laura rolled her eyes. ‘Well, duh – if you’re lucky enough for your attacker to walk out calmly in front of you! What about if he grabs from behind? Or rushes in fast from the front? Do you really think any of this lot are going to have the reaction speed to deal with the two fingers, one knee combo?’
‘If you can teach them anything tonight, it’s reaction speed. Be on guard. Be ready. Don’t be scared to poke someone in the eye …’
‘How about we just tell them to carry a bottle of hairspray in their bags? A squirt of that buys a bit of time …’
Gray took a deep breath, slowly exhaled. Normally he’d say no to this … but … ‘You know what, Laura. That might not be a bad idea at all. As long as it’s just hairspray, though. Something you could feasibly be carrying in your bag anyway …’ He remembered the incident down by the river path from a couple of years back. A frightened pensioner had sprayed multi-purpose cleaner out of her shopping bag in her would-be attacker’s face after hearing footsteps close behind her. The stuff with bleach in it. Blinded him in one eye. Worst thing was, he was only running up behind her because he’d seen her purse fall out of her bag and he was trying to return it. Poor woman had ended up with an assault charge on her record. Never mind the poor bloke, scarred for life. Gray wondered what had happened to him. Mark something. Used to work in the council offices. He made a mental note to look him up. After that, Gray had made a point of discouraging such methods of self-defence, tempting though they might be.
Hairspray, though – it’d give you a fright, stop you in your tracks. It wouldn’t be very pleasant, but it was unlikely to cause any lasting damage. Unless, of course, you beat someone to a pulp using the can. Gray’s imagination tended to turn to the darker side of what humans were capable of, despite living in a town where attacks were few and far between. He’d been brought up on Taggart, like pretty much everyone else in Scotland. Banktoun was hardly the mean streets of Glasgow though, thank God. Not that Gray had spent much time in that city. What was the need when he had Edinburgh on his doorstep? What was that old joke – what does Glasgow have that Edinburgh doesn’t? A great city forty miles to the east. He chuckled to himself. Must remember to tell that one to Beattie. His colleague had moved from west coast to east when he was twelve and still never heard the end of it. Bit of banter was all it was. Gray was happy enough to take it as well as dish it out. He never got bored of defending his music tastes to Beattie either. The younger man couldn’t understand Gray’s attraction to The Jam and The Who and ‘other old codgers’. Gray had tried and failed to understand why Beattie – or anyone, in fact – could let their ears be subjected to the likes of Dizzee Rascal.
Laura’s voice snapped him back to the present.
‘Sensei, are we ready?’
Gray took a small bow as he entered the hall, then jogged up the edge towards the front.
‘Hello,’ he said. ‘I’m sure most of you know me as Sergeant Gray’ – he paused – ‘or Davie …’ There were a few nods, a couple of shy smiles. ‘But tonight I’m not a policeman. I’m not Davie the Mod. I’m not anything else you might call me behind my back. Tonight I’m the sensei of this class – that means I’m in charge, and it means you need to listen to me carefully’ – he nodded towards Laura – ‘and Laura, who, I’m sure you all know too, is my assistant. My second in command. So you listen to her too, OK?’
There were a few nods, a couple of murmurs. A ‘yes, Sensei’ from Kevin Donaldson, who was staring at him with saucer-esque eyes.
‘Right, so here’s what we’re going to do …’
The class ran for two hours. At the end, Gray was delighted to receive thanks from a sea of red-faced, knackered-looking girls who had a new fire in their eyes that made the whole thing worthwhile. Keith Donaldson had been so excited about it all they’d had to practically scrape him off the ceiling. He hadn’t even minded when Sally Stevens, one of the more ‘rotund’ girls, had accidentally smacked him full-on in the eye during one of the structured sparring sessions.
‘Mind and get some ice on that eye, son,’ Gray called after him.
‘It’s fine, Sensei. Never even felt it,’ he said.
The lad bounced out of the door, grinning from ear to ear with an instant self-confidence that Gray hoped would become a permanent feature.
He turned to Laura, who’d just come out of the changing rooms in skinny black jeans and a silver T-shirt. Her face was pink and her long blonde hair was dark at the roots with sweat. She was one of those effortlessly good-looking girls that didn’t need – or even want – to wear make-up. She reminded Gray of someone he’d known once. Someone who’d once been fresh and carefree until life got in the way and changed it all. He hoped this didn’t happen to Laura. She was a nice kid.
‘Good work tonight,’ Gray said. ‘Went well, d’ye think?’
Laura grinned. ‘I just hope Track Man doesn’t happen to bump into Sally Stevens any time soon. I reckon she’d knock his block off. That right hook of hers was impressive, even if it was a bit … uncontrolled.’
He laughed. ‘I bloody hope he does – that’ll be one simple way to get rid of the dirty b—’ He stopped himself. He was sure that Laura was no wee angel, but he wasn’t going to be one of those adults who swore in front of kids. He slid his bare feet into unlaced trainers. ‘Poor Keith’ll have a shiner in the morning, eh?’ He picked up his keys. ‘Need a lift home?’
She pulled the straps of her backpack over both shoulders. ‘Nah, you’re all right. It’s not dark yet and I’m not going anywhere near the Track. I’ll be fine. Have you seen the power in these arms, Mr G?’ She lifted both arms to the sides, bent them at the elbows and flexed her biceps, which Gray had to admit were impressive. He doubted anyone would get far trying to mess with this lassie; five foot two and lean, but with enough strength to knock a grown man off his feet. He’d found that out the hard way.
‘Right then. See you tomorrow night for some proper training then, eh?’
‘Night, Mr G.’
‘Night, Laura.’
He watched her for a moment, until she reached the crossroads and turned the corner towards the High Street, then locked the front door and slid the keys into the side pocket of his sports top and zipped them inside.
He opened the storage box on the Lambretta, tossed in his bag and realised it was lucky she hadn’t wanted a lift. He’d forgotten to bring the spare helmet.
40
Laura battled silently with herself until she was almost halfway up the High Street.
Sausage supper? Chip roll? Just chips maybe …
No. Just walk home, Laura. Have a bowl of Frosties. Cheese on toast maybe.
Have chips! the devil on her shoulder shouted. You’ve earned them …
No! The angel shouted back. You want into those size 6 jeans, don’t you? Only another half a centimetre off that belly should do it …
‘Fuck’s sake, Laura,’ she said out loud. ‘Get a grip.’
Mad Mary, the tramp that always sat in the bus shelter, grunte
d something at her as she passed, making Laura flinch. She crossed the road.
Decision made.
There had always been two chippies in the town. It was the smell from the bottom one making her mouth water as she’d passed it that had put the idea in her head. She’d managed to resist, deciding to keep walking straight up the High Street and left up past the park. It was the longest way home, but it was well lit, and even though it wasn’t yet dark – the nights could stay light until past ten at this time of year – it was better to be safe than sorry. Laura had never worried about walking home on her own late before, but all this nonsense up at the Track had shaken her up. Even though she’d been doing karate since she was eight. Even though she could floor another member of the club with one perfectly executed punch or kick. Even though she was a black belt … Yet she’d never had to use her skills in a real-life combat situation. She often worried that when it came down to it, she would freeze. She’d never told anyone any of this. Everyone thought she was brave and fearless. She doubted anyone would believe her. They’d think she was just playing down her abilities to try to fit in. Like Catherine, who always said she was rubbish at maths, even though she’d got an A in the prelims without even studying. She told everyone she got a C, but Laura had seen the copy of the results sheet when it slipped out of her folder after double physics a couple of weeks ago.
Laura didn’t want to be seen as a fake.
She walked up the vennel between the hardware shop and the butchers, coming out directly across from the top chippie, not because it was better – in her opinion, they were both about the same, although she did think the staff in the top one were a bit friendlier – no, it was the top one because it was on the Back Street, the bottom one on the High Street – the High Street being lower than the Back Street, despite the name. Work that one out, if you can. These were things that were just known: to the locals, anyway. She had no idea how newcomers were supposed to find out about these things.
She decided on a chip roll, left open, loads of salt and sauce. The sauce was a runny brown vinegary concoction, the recipe secret and apparently only available on the east coast of Scotland. But as she’d never been to the west coast, let alone to a chippie over there, that was something she couldn’t confirm. Maybe this was where the newcomers would come in handy.
She wandered slowly out of the shop, fingers already coated in the slimy brown sauce as she fed the chips from the top of the open roll into her starving mouth.
‘You’d think you’d not eaten for a week,’ she muttered to herself. Her stomach groaned in response.
Rather than walk back down to the High Street and go the way she’d intended, she decided to take a short cut up behind the library, round the back of the row of houses that lined Tesco’s. After that, it was just a short walk home. There was only that one little dark bit that linked the library to the houses: the bit where the trees were too closely packed, blocking out the light. According to the Banktoun Mail and Post there were plans to thin these out, but so far nothing had happened because apparently the people who lived in the houses liked the fact that the trees blocked the roof of the Tesco back entrance from their gardens. Laura didn’t fully understand this, as all the houses had high fences – but, as was usual in Banktoun, people liked to make a fuss before they agreed to any change.
Christ, she couldn’t wait to get away from the place. She’d already started browsing through the UCAS handbook, trying to decide where to go to uni. Her mum and dad wanted her to go to Edinburgh so she could stay at home.
Fat chance!
She was already thinking much further afield; the London campuses looked particularly appealing. There weren’t many who were considering London, which suited her fine too. There was nothing wrong with her friends, but she had designs on a bit more of a cosmopolitan life. Funny, for a girl who’d never been further than her mum’s sister’s in Dunfermline, barely across the Forth Bridge.
She walked round behind the library, only vaguely aware of the light becoming dimmer, the last of the sun disappearing behind the trees.
Once she’d eaten enough of the chips to enable her to sandwich the roll shut, she nibbled round the edges, then rolled the greasy chip paper into a ball.
Maybe it was because she was distracted, daydreaming about her future life at uni, or maybe it was because of the noise of the paper being scrunched and her munching on the chip roll, but she never heard the footsteps until they were right behind her.
But she heard the panting, felt hot breath on the left side of her face as a black-clad arm snaked around her chest, grabbing tightly, almost pulling her off her feet.
It took longer than expected for her fighting instinct to kick in.
The remains of the roll flew from her hand as she bent forwards and to the right in one sharp move, her right elbow shooting back as she shrunk down and away, trying to slide out of her assailant’s grip.
He gripped tighter, pushing his weight into her back. Shoved her up against the wall. Hard. Her face scraped across the rough stone as she tried to wriggle free. He tried to pin her there with a knee on her back, a hand against her head.
She moved fast, felt the skin ripping on her cheek as she dropped lower, managing to free her elbow and jab it back into him as hard as she could.
He made a small yelp of pain and only then did she realise that she’d forgotten to scream.
‘Help,’ she screamed. ‘Help! Attack!’
His grip loosened slightly and she felt a burst of adrenalin surging through her body.
She was ten feet tall.
Sliding out of his grip, she spun round and gave him her best uppercut, but he moved just at the point of connection and it ended up glancing off the side of his face, hitting his cheekbone with a sickening crunch.
But it felt wrong. She hadn’t hit it hard enough for it to break.
He staggered back from her, a low muffled moan escaping from behind the wool of the balaclava, and she aimed a low kick towards his knee. But he’d found his way again and lunged towards her, and she ended up stumbling forwards as her foot missed its target, knocking her off balance. She ducked back from him and swiped at the side of his face, the bit she thought she’d broken.
Her fist connected again and she realised what the noise was. The crunch.
Plastic. His face was plastic.
She lunged in again, screamed into his face, ‘FIRE! Call 999!’
She made a grab for his face, managed a grip of the balaclava before he swatted her off, swaying back on his heels.
Was he dazed?
She didn’t wait around long enough to find out. She turned and made to run, fear burning through her veins. Then she was down, her foot hitting something slippery on the asphalt before she fell. Oh Jesus, she thought, floored by a fucking chip roll! She threw out her arms in front of her, but it was too late. She hit her knee, then her face as she crashed down to the ground.
The air left her lungs in a rapid whump.
As she lay, she heard a dog barking, a back gate slamming against the fence. Footsteps running. Two sets. A yell. ‘HEY!’
Another voice, quieter: ‘Are you OK, hen? Bloody hell … Trisha, phone an ambulance …’
Then … nothing.
41
Gray slowed the scooter until he was going slowly enough to edge it in through the gate. He dropped his feet onto the floor, turned off the engine.
Apart from the tick tick tick as it cooled down, the street was quiet.
He wheeled his pride and joy up to its space under the front window, where he has dispensed with the niceties of a garden to leave space for the bike and his various other bits and pieces around it. Technically, he was supposed to make the single gate into a double space, request that the council come and drop the kerb. At the moment his driveway was unofficial, but he preferred it that way. Less chance of anyone wandering in to have a look at the Lambretta.
He understood the fascination. With the bike, and with him. Some o
f the town’s teenagers didn’t quite get his style, his personality when he was off-duty, but he was more than happy to talk to any that did.
He’d been obsessed with the whole Mod culture since he was a boy – his dad had often regaled him with stories of gangs of Mods v Rockers; and Gray would’ve thought they were tall tales, until he started to buy books on it all. The fashions, the fights, the music. The girls.
The drugs.
That was the only part he didn’t embrace. Not because he was a puritan or a party pooper or anything of the like; only because ever since he’d been a kid, he’d wanted to be a copper.
And what could be more Modish than a uniform?
Despite the disappointment he caused for Phil Daniels’ Jimmy in the film, Sting’s portrayal of Ace Face in Quadrophenia was a classic. That Brighton Grand bellhop uniform. Gray would never use the word ‘dapper’, but he couldn’t find a better one. He still scoured eBay, looking for the costume. No doubt it was in the house of one of the legends that were Pete Townshend and Roger Daltrey. In fact, it was Daltrey’s look he carried off now – nothing over the top, just that hint of a bygone era. Nothing quite as obvious as the so-called ‘Modfather’, Paul Weller.
Somehow he couldn’t see the Big Ham putting up with that much of a hairstyle, despite purporting not to give a fuck about much at all. He’d been counting down the days to his retirement on one of those red and white desk calendars for months now. Gray had to admit he was looking forward to it just as much, if not more.
The only uncertainty was whether he’d still have a job himself. It seemed more and more likely that the station would be closed down, the town’s policing needs served by the county HQ, or whatever it was called now since the forces had merged to create Police Scotland. Gray had bet Callum Beattie that it’d be divided again within two years. A half-baked plan that suited the government’s pockets, and nothing more.
After locking up the bike and covering it with a tarpaulin, he headed inside.
