My disappointment wasn’t to last long.
CHAPTER 9
As I stepped out the back door I was alert for signs of Russians lurking in shadows. It would have been a stupid move on their part of course, and I was pretty certain that when it happened it would be well away from the club. But I learned long ago not to take chances.
There were no Russians, but I did hear raised voices. A couple arguing isn’t exactly a rare event after chucking-out time so I didn’t pay it much regard to begin with. They usually quieten down and bugger off when they see it’s me. It was only when I came out onto the car park and recognised one of the voices as Vicki’s that I took an interest.
She was standing next to her red Honda soft-top. The door was open and the interior light was on, like she’d been about to get into it. Next to it was a tidy looking Beemer, its owner leaning across the Honda’s roof, giving it loud. I’d never met Vicki’s husband, Vincent, in person but I knew him by sight and reputation. He runs a car dealership in the town and is known for putting himself about a bit. What little I knew of him had always made me wonder how they’d got together, though that could have been jealousy. I’d heard rumours recently they were having trouble.
As I headed for where I’d parked, I heard him shout. ‘Just for ONCE, will you do as your FUCKING TOLD? GET IN THE FUCKING CAR.We need to talk about it.’
I gathered he meant his car rather than hers. Glancing over I could see she was upset. I diverted towards them.
‘You’re drunk, Vinny,’ I heard her say. ‘And I’m not going anywhere with you when you’re like this. We’ve said all there is to say. Go home. I’ll ring you tomorrow.’
His response was to bang his fist on the Honda’s top so hard I was surprised he didn’t go through it. ‘FUCK tomorrow. I want to talk to you NOW. TONIGHT. Just, GET IN THE FUCKING CAR.’
I approached from her left, his right. ‘Everything okay here you two?’
She spun round. The sodium street lights lining that side of the car park rendered everything in grey-scale, nonetheless I saw her face darken with the blush. Before she could answer, Vincent turned his attention to me.
‘What the fuck’s it to do with you?’ Then he said to her, ‘Who’s this? Another of your boyfriends?’
I showed him my hands. ‘I’m not looking to interfere. I just-’
‘Well fuck off and you won’t.’
I looked at him, then her. Her lips moved but no words came out.
I said to her, ‘Would you like me to take you back inside?’
‘HEY, WANKER. She’s MY fucking wife. If you want to talk to her, you speak to me first, right?’
He was starting to get on my nerves. ‘Is that so?’
‘YES, it FUCKING is.’ He came out from between the cars. The way he was thrusting his chest out I could see where things were heading. But I wasn’t about to do anything she wouldn’t want me to.
She finally found her voice. Stepping quickly forward she put herself between us. ‘I’m sorry Danny, I don’t think you’ve met my husband, Vincent. Vincent this is Danny Norton.’ She said my name like it should mean something. She did it again when she said, ‘You’ve heard me talk about Danny Norton, Vincent? He runs the club’s door?’
Fascinated to hear she even knew I existed away from the club, my first instinct was to want to focus on what that could mean, pull it apart, analyse it. But before I even had a chance to park it for another time, something must have clicked with Vincent because everything about him changed, just like that. In the act of squaring up to me, he suddenly froze, before almost shrinking in front of us. He was still staring at me, but the fire in his eyes was suddenly gone.
‘Uhh… Danny Norton? Oh yeah. Uhh... I’ve heard of you.’
He backed off a couple of steps, switching glances between her and me. It was almost as if he was expecting I might pull a gun and shoot him. I waited and watched, saying nothing. He retreated between the cars. Apparently satisfied I wasn’t about to rush him, he turned his attention on her again, but not like before. ‘We need to talk, sometime.’ He checked me out again before finishing off with, ‘I’ll ring you. Tomorrow. Or Monday.’
He threw one last glance at me, made as if he was about to say something, but thought better of it. Wise move. Opening the door, he slid into the driver’s seat. A moment later I stepped aside as he reversed out. I saw him checking his mirrors so he could keep me in view. He gave Vicki one last withering look, another glance in my direction, then put his foot down. He swung left off the car park onto Arpley Street, and away.
I turned to her. Her eyes were tight shut. I could see she was struggling with how to handle it, what to say, what to do. I gave her a moment. We both started speaking together.
‘Are you al-’
‘I’m sorry about-’
We stopped. Smiled, weakly, at each other. She shook her head, still a bit tearful. I could see she was conflicted.
I said, ‘Are you going to be okay?’ I had no idea what was going through her head.
She took a deep breath, as if she was about to confess something. ‘Vincent and I split up a few weeks ago.’
‘Oh.’ What do you say?
‘I’ve been staying with a friend.’
‘Uh-huh.’
‘He knows where she lives.’
Ah.
‘If I go there now he’ll be round. Either now or later.’
‘Right.’
‘He’ll make trouble.’
I nodded.
She turned to face me full on. Whatever she was thinking, her face was entirely blank as she said, ‘I don’t know what to do.’
CHAPTER 10
Bravery is a funny thing. To my mind, people confuse it with heroism. For me, heroism is where someone does something amazing, like rushing into a blazing building to rescue someone or diving into icy water to save a drowning man. Or a soldier who takes out a machine gun nest on his own to save his unit. The trouble is that while such acts may be heroic, they aren’t necessarily brave. Sometimes people do things on the spur of the moment, without thinking. They act on instinct because to them, it’s the right thing to do in the circumstances. And because they don’t have time to think about it, they’re not scared.
Bravery on the other hand, is when someone does something, despite being scared.
I remember a young Welsh lad, Owen Jones, who came to work for us. He seemed okay on interview, but his first night on the door – a busy night at Midnights and we were short of staff - I knew it wasn’t for him. He looked the part, but soon as someone squared up to him, I could tell he was shitting himself. Some lads are like that. They think they can handle confrontation. They’re okay with someone next to them. But the first time they come up against someone who means business, they bottle it. Only Owen didn’t bottle it. He did what he had to do, though I could see his legs shaking, hear the crack in his voice. I realised at once and told him he could go home right after. But because we were short, he insisted on staying. He stayed right through the night. I knew he was hating it and scared to death, but he stayed nevertheless. Now that was brave. Last I heard, he was working in insurance.
The reason I mention all this is because people think I’m brave when they see me do what I do on the door. They actually say things like, ‘That was brave.’ Or they ask, ‘Weren’t you scared?’ But what I do when I’m working doesn’t involve being brave. I’m just doing what I’m trained to do. I’m never scared, so I never have to be brave.
Vicki, on the other hand, scares me to death.
Which is why, when she turned to me that night and said, ‘I don't know what to do,’ what I did next was, by my reckoning, the bravest thing I’d done in a long time. And it was how I came to be driving home at half-four in the morning trying to remember if I’d left anything embarrassing lying around. The scary bit was worrying she might burst out laughing, or respond with something like, ‘Are you out of your fucking mind?’ or be so outraged she’d say, ‘How DARE you?’ wh
en I said to her, ‘You can come and stay at mine if you like?’
It was big relief when, after thinking about it a moment, she simply said, ‘Is it far?’
I live in an end town-house in a quiet close on a newish development a few miles outside Warrington in an area called Whitely. It used to be just a small village but it’s expanded a lot over recent years. I bought it with Caroline a few years ago, but after she left she sold her interest to me. It’s got three bedrooms, which is handy, and more space inside than you’d think looking at it from the outside. It’s nothing special, but it does me.
By the time we got there, I was less worried about something lying around. I’d remembered that Jean, who does a bit of cleaning for me now and again, had changed her day this week from Friday to Saturday. She’d have been in while I was at Dad’s. When I came through the door, everything looked fine. The whiskey bottles were gone, tumblers washed and upside down on the drainer. Clothes either in the washer or hung up and put away.
As I went around putting lights on, Vicki looked the place over. The downstairs is all open-plan. Diner-kitchen, living area, bathroom off.
‘This is nice,’ she said. She sounded almost surprised. I wasn’t sure how to respond so I said nothing.
I came back to her in the middle of the room. We stood there for several seconds while I tried to think of the right questions to ask. My first thought had been, Are you ready for bed? Duhh.
She cocked her head at me, frowned. ‘Well?’
I panicked. ‘WHAT?’
‘Aren’t you going to ask me if I want something?’
‘Like…?’
She rolled her eyes. ‘Like… a drink maybe? Maybe… something to eat?’
I snapped out of it. ‘A drink. Yeah. Would you like a drink?’
‘That’s a good idea.’
‘Or food maybe? Are you hungry?’
She stared at me, shook her head. The frown again. She stepped towards me, looking deep into my face, seemed to realise something. ‘You don’t, do you?’ The surprise again.
‘Don’t what?
‘Do this.’
‘This what’?’
‘Bring women home.’
I felt myself turning red. ‘Er. No. Not often.’
She seemed to find that amusing. ‘When was the last time?’
I couldn’t believe she’d asked me. Like a moron, I repeated, ‘The last time? Er- well, it was, er-’
‘Never mind. Let’s try something else. What are the sleeping arrangements?’
‘Sleeping arrangements?’
She raised her eyes to the ceiling. ‘Jesus, Danny. You’re never like this at the club. Where. Am. I. Sleeping?’
‘Sleeping. Right. Of course.’ Daft as it sounds, I’d never given it a thought. I started to. My sister, Laura, had used the second bedroom about three weeks before. I tried to remember if Jean would have changed the bed.
I must have been taking longer than I thought as she broke in to say, ‘Okay. One step at a time. How many bedrooms are there?’
‘Three.’
‘How many beds?’
‘Two.’ Her face said, Why only two? ‘The third’s my gym.’
‘Right. Your bedroom is…?’
‘The front one.’
‘Okay, so shall I have the other?’
‘If you’re alright with that?’
She shook her head again. ‘What do you usually do when you get in on Sunday morning?’
‘I dunno. Couple of drinks. Sometimes a bit of breakfast. Check out the football. Bed.’
‘Sounds great. Any Vodka?’
‘Yes.’
‘Lemonade?’
‘There's some Sprite.’
‘That’ll do. I’ll have vodka and Sprite. And ice if you’ve got it. What do you normally eat?’
‘I sometimes make myself an omelette.’
‘That’ll be fine too. Do you have anything I can change into?’
I thought about it. ‘There’ll be some of Laura’s stuff in the second bedroom.’
‘Laura?’
‘My sister. She’s in London. She visits now and again.’
‘Housecoat by any chance?’
‘There’s a robe behind the door.’
‘That’s my boy. Shower?’
‘In the bathroom.’ Where else you pillock? ‘It’s a Power shower. Just pull the cord first.’
‘Right. You do breakfast and I’ll sort myself out, how about that?’
‘Sounds good to me.’
‘Okay.’ She headed up the stairs. Near the top, she stopped and poked her head down again, looking at me through the stair rails. I was still standing in the middle of the room. Putting a hand through the railings, she pointed round the corner.
I looked at the wall, then back at her. ‘What?’
‘Kitchen?’
I finally realised. ‘Oh. Right.’
I went to make breakfast.
CHAPTER 11
I was busy with the eggs when she reappeared, showered and wrapped up in Laura’s robe. Her drink was ready and waiting on the worktop. She picked it up and started to mooch around. I kept my head down and tried not to think about all the films I’d seen where, the morning after, the girl floats about the guy’s place wearing someone else’s clothes. As I brought the plates to the table I realised she was checking out the middle book shelf.
‘What’s all this?’
‘It’s, erm…’
She leaned in for a closer look.
‘Is this Open University stuff?’
‘Yeah. I, erm.-’
The look in her face as she rounded on me, she might have found my porn collection.
‘You’re doing an O.U. course?’
‘What’s wrong with that?’
‘Nothing at all. It’s just that-’ She turned back to the shelf. ‘What’re you studying?’
Before I could answer she picked up one of the Unit Guides. ‘English Literature?’ And there was more than a touch of amazement in her voice when she said, ‘You’re doing an O.U. Degree Course in English Literature?’
I felt myself bristle - the first natural thing I’d done since we’d arrived. ‘Why shouldn’t I do a degree in English Literature? Lots of people do.’
‘Yes, but not-’ She put the guide down and came back to the table. ‘I’d just never have figured you for the studying kind. And definitely not Literature.’
‘Right. So what would you expect? The History of Martial Arts Movies perhaps?’ I have to admit, I was playing up the Being Indignant, thing.
She met my gaze head on. ‘I wouldn’t have expected anything. But let’s be honest, bouncing and degree courses don’t exactly go together, do they?’
I could have kept it up a bit longer, but at the end of the day we both knew she was bang on. I shrugged. ‘You’re right. They don’t.’ I turned my attention to my plate. ‘And it’s Door Supervising these days, not bouncing.’
We ate in silence. As I concentrated on the eggs, I could feel her gaze on me.
‘I’m sorry,’ she said.
I looked up. Her expression was one I’d never seen before. A bit serious, yet also somehow sad. ‘What for?’
‘If I’ve offended you. I actually think it’s great you’re doing a degree.’
I nodded. ‘Don’t worry. Most people think bouncers are brainless idiots. It goes with the territory.’
What she did right then nearly sent me into orbit. Reaching across the table, she laid her hand on my arm, held my gaze and said. ‘I've never seen you as a brainless idiot, Danny.’ And I knew she meant it, one hundred percent.
We talked through the rest of breakfast. She had a couple more Vodkas, I stayed on beers. I didn’t dare open a whiskey bottle. She seemed genuinely interested in my course and why I was doing it. When I explained I’d left school without any qualifications – I left out the reasons why – but had always loved reading and books and wanted to understand more about the subject, she seemed genuinely impres
sed.
‘So who are your favourite authors?’
I had to think about it. Nobody had ever asked me before. ‘Graham Greene isn’t bad. At the moment we’re doing Steinbeck, who’s really good. But if I had to plump for someone, I guess it’d have to be Hemingway. You’ve heard of him? For Whom The Bell Tolls? The Old Man And The Sea?’
It was her turn to do the pretend-hurt thing. ‘Unlike some people, I did actually come away from school with qualifications.’ I was glad she was relaxed enough to joke about it. ‘But Hemingway was American wasn’t he? I thought you’re doing English Literature?’
‘Yes, well, the English part is actually a bit figurative.’
‘Ah. Figurative. Yes, I see.’
I stopped eating to look at her. Her face was all innocence. After a pause that lasted several seconds, we both burst out laughing.
By the time we recovered I felt relaxed enough to try a little exploring.
‘It’s none of my business, and if you don’t want to talk about it that’s fine. But you and… Vincent?’
It opened a flood gate. Over the next quarter hour or so I got her life story, or most of it. She’d left home at seventeen to share a flat with a friend while finishing her A levels. She hinted at problems she’d had with her Dad when she was young, but didn’t elaborate beyond the fact he was an, ‘Arsehole’. She was about to start Uni when she got pregnant by a boyfriend who joined the army the moment he heard. She dropped her studies in favour of a job in marketing. Her plan was to bring baby up on her own with help from her Mum, but she miscarried twelve weeks before he was due. She was about to go back to University when she got offered what she thought would be a plum PR job working for one of the big hotel chains. But the travelling didn’t suit her and she soon got fed up with lonely hotel rooms and having to ward off passes by trainee managers – boys and girls – who thought they were God’s gift. She returned to Warrington and a so-so marketing job and was given some work to do for Vincent’s dealership. He’d just made his first million. Over the space of six weeks he romanced her off her feet with flowers, weekends away and promises to help her start up her own business, which to be fair, he later did. Until that moment I didn't know Vicki also had a day job, running her own PR and Marketing company from home.
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