Midnight's Door

by Robert F Barker

  It prompted a discussion that probably got a bit more heated than it needed to. At some stage Grant disappeared upstairs, I'm not sure when exactly. I tried making the point that with a bit of regular checking up, Dad was still quite capable of looking after himself - for a while more at least. She argued that it was only a matter of time, maybe less than a year, before he would need full-time care. It was better that we got him to agree to move in somewhere early, so he would feel he was part of the decision and had time to adjust, rather than it all happens suddenly, when he gets to the point where he can no longer cope, or something 'bad' happens. I have to admit I could see her point, but I still felt inclined to let him enjoy at least a few more months of independence.

  Eventually she said, 'I don't understand your objection. If it's about the cost then I'm happy to-'

  'Whoa. Who mentioned anything about cost?'

  'Well, no one, but we both know residential care is expensive and it isn't like he's sitting on bank-loads of money, is it?'

  'No, but..' I wasn't sure where she was going with the subject. 'I'm not even thinking about the cost.'

  'That's the trouble, with you little brother. You don't think ahead. We need to be thinking now about the practicalities. The property market isn't exactly booming is it?'

  My brow furrowed. 'What's the property market got to do with anything?'

  She looked at me as if I was being stupid. 'The house? We'll have to decide what to do with it. Don't tell me you've never thought about it?'

  I looked at her stunned. 'No. I can't say I have.'

  'Well you need to. Unless you've got some pot of gold stashed away to pay for his care?'

  'You know I haven't.'

  'And neither have I.'

  'So you think he should sell the house?'

  'Not necessarily.'

  'What do you mean, not necessarily?'

  'It just so happens that Grant is a Solicitor. He specialises in property law. According to him-'

  Finally the penny dropped. I tipped my head back.

  'Ahh, fuck,' I said.

  She stopped. 'What?'

  'That's what all this is about.'

  'What do you mean?'

  'You know what I mean. You wanted him to put the house in trust twelve months ago. So we could rent it out. We decided against, remember?'

  'No, you decided against. I thought it was a good idea then. It's an even better idea now.'

  'Why is it a better idea now?'

  'Because he'll be ready to go into care soon anyway. Grant reckons that the way the rental market is right now, if we get the house put in trust to us, then when we come to rent it we'll get a better-'

  I raised a hand. 'Stop.' I gave her a long look.

  'What?'

  'Tell me you're not looking to put Dad in care because some pretty-boy city lawyer has convinced you that the finances will work out better if we do it now?'

  'I'm not. And don't call him a pretty-boy lawyer. He 's one of the best legal brains in the firm. But it just so happens that when I asked him about it he said-'

  'LAURA.' She jumped as I banged my fist on the table. 'He's our father. It's what's best for him that matters, not what's best for us.'

  'You don't need to tell me that Danny. Who is it spent three months looking after him after mum died?'

  I rolled my eyes. 'You did. But then as I recall, you were between jobs at the time.'

  She bristled. 'And you think I wouldn't have been there if I had been working? That I wouldn't have asked for compassionate leave?'

  At that point I was tempted to point out how there'd been no mention of compassionate leave those last weeks when Mum started to go downhill quickly and Dad had to look after her more or less on his own, with me running them back and forth to the hospital every couple of days. But I said nothing and just shook my head. It was a circular argument, one we'd had before.

  At the end of the day there’s a fundamental difference between my sister and I. Laura's job means she sees the world in terms of pounds and pence. Right now she was seeing Dad's house as an investment for the future. It's value, therefore, needed to be preserved. Me, I didn't give a toss about the house, or its future value. All I saw on my weekly visits was a lonely old man whose main pleasures in life came from memories. He and Mum had some good times after they took the decision to up sticks from Warrington and move into the nice semi with a big garden that Gran left to Mum when she died. The memories were rooted in the bric-a-brac Mum used to bring back from their trips abroad, the garden she loved tending, the family photographs that hang on every wall and which are a constant reminder of their life together. They would all disappear the day he moved into a care home. But it had been a long day. I wasn't sure I was up for another bout of arguing.

  'Tell you what,' I said. 'Let's wait until you've seen him. Then we'll talk about options.'

  'So that'll be tomorrow, then?'

  I sighed. 'Like I said, I'm not sure-' My phone rang. It was Eric.

  Before I could say anything he said, 'I'm coming back from B&Q in Winwick. There's a van tailing me. Only it's blue, not white. It was there on the way out as well. It's four or five up I'd say, I can't be sure. When I stopped at the garage to fill up it waited down the road.'

  I snatched up my jacket again. 'Where are you?'

  'Right now I'm going round in circles on the Padgate estate. I don't want to go home in case they make their move there. The kids are having their tea.'

  As I headed for the door, my brain was racing. Since my encounter at the Brigadoon two nights before, I'd been half-expecting something. But the timing could hardly have been worse.

  'Where are you going?' Laura said. I could hear the frustration in her voice. She'd obviously spent the afternoon rehearsing all her arguments

  'To even some odds,' I said, over my shoulder.

  'But Grant's done us a Spag Bol. It's his speciality.'

  Clever, I thought. Spag Bol has always been one of my favourites.

  'Keep me some,' I shouted as I ran out the door.

  CHAPTER 32

  'Eric?' I said into the phone as I left the house. 'You still there?'

  'Yes.'

  'Drive round for another ten minutes, then head for the new stadium site behind Morrisons. I'll be waiting.'

  'Are we going to sort these fuckers out, or what?'

  'I guess we'll have to.'

  'Cracker. It's about time.'

  'Don't try anything while on you're own.'

  'I won't. Just make sure you're there when I get there.'

  'I will be.'

  As I pulled away to head back into town, I brought up Gol's number on the car phone. It took half a dozen rings for him to answer. Gol's never got his head around voicemail.

  'Hello Boss?'

  'Where are you?'

  'At home. We're about to-'

  'Meet me at the new stadium site in nine minutes. Eric's got a vanload on his tail.'

  'Right.' He hung up. The good thing about Gurkhas. They never question.

  My big fear was I'd get snarled in traffic. The site of the town's new sports stadium was this side of the town centre on the old Greenall's site behind Morrison's Supermarket. Speed limits aside, it was easily reachable in ten minutes, but a jam through Stockton Heath could fuck everything up. As it happened, I sailed through and got to the site with a minute and a half to spare. It was all locked up, as I knew it would be. Work finished at six. I parked up against the blue hoarding perimeter fence next to the main gate. Eric would see me the moment he turned into the access road. I reached round into the back and pulled out the pick-axe handle that since Monday had become my travelling companion. Thirty seconds later, Gol's silver Toyota pulled up next to me. I dropped my window.

  'You ready?'

  He reached into the passenger foot-well and showed me what looked like the handle of a baseball bat.

  'How many?' he said, through the toothy grin I'd seen many times before. He wears it when he knows he'
s about to call upon some of the skills he learned over fifteen years’ army service in places as far apart as Northern Ireland and Afghanistan.

  'Five, maybe?' I said. ‘Possibly six?’

  'Good,' he said, meaning the odds. The three of us together had faced a lot worse in our time.

  We got out and stood between the cars, waiting. A minute passed. Then another. Then another.

  'He should be here by now,' I said, checking my watch.

  Even as I spoke, my phone rang, showing Eric's name. I just managed to catch his garbled shout of , '-ACKERS... BRID-,' before it cut off.

  'Shit,' I said. already turning back to my truck.

  'Where?' Gol shouted across.

  'Ackers Road Bridge.'

  Then I was back in the truck, spinning wheels on gravel as I made a quick reverse and took off.

  Less than a mile from the stadium site where we'd been waiting, Ackers Road forms the 'T' across the end of Ellesmere Road, a long, straight road that runs parallel to the Manchester Ship Canal. Part of the leafy suburbia that is Stockton Heath, Ellesmere is made narrow by the parked cars that line the side where the garage-less houses overlook the canal. It was pure luck there were no kids playing in the road that evening, or dog walkers crossing to use the canal towpath.

  Even before I got to the junction, I could see a line of cars backed up along Ackers Road, the bridge itself out of sight round to the right. In front of me, where Ellesmere joined with Ackers, half a dozen cars were also waiting in line, going nowhere.

  Pulling up behind the one at the back, I grabbed my stave and jumped out. As I pressed the 'lock' button on the fob, I was conscious of Gol pulling up behind me. I ran to the junction and round the corner. The line of cars stopped about ten metres short of the crest of the bridge where it was all happening. Some of the cars' doors were open with drivers and passengers looking on and pointing in horror at what was happening in front of them, though none were looking to get involved. Eric's old Mondeo was facing towards me. It was embedded in the green metal rails on the bridge's nearside. The blue van, showing the damage to the front where it had rammed Eric from behind to send him into the railings, was now stationary in the middle of the bridge, blocking traffic in both directions. One man was behind the wheel, another - the lookout - standing next to the open passenger door, checking the approaches. The other four were laying into Eric, who was on the floor, with staves, feet and fists. They were all wearing full-face balaclavas. As I ran towards them, I read what had happened.

  Having realised Eric was onto them - his driving in circles would have told them - they'd also have realised he'd most likely called for back-up. Knowing they needed to make their move before the cavalry arrived, they'd decided the bridge was as good a place as any. Easily defendable and with escape routes in both directions they'd rammed him into the railings, knowing that if he crashed straight through into the ship canal below it would just save time and trouble. Eric had had time for one last phone call before they'd either pulled him from the car or he'd tried to leg it. Only Eric isn't built for running.

  I was still about twenty yards away when the look-out saw me coming, shouted and pointed. I couldn't make out what he said but I heard enough to recognise it wasn't English. The group stopped what they were doing to Eric to turn and look. There were more shouts - Russian, I thought - as two of them peeled off to come and meet me, joined by the look-out. They were all carrying staves of one sort or another. I couldn't tell at that stage if they were iron or wood, but I hoped they were iron. Being heavier, iron bars are less manoeuvrable and therefore easier to avoid. And if a big guy catches you with a stave, believe me, it makes not a lot of difference whether it's iron or wood.

  As we closed halfway down the bridge, I saw there was another attacker I hadn't seen before. He was writhing on the floor, right next to and almost under Eric's car. He was holding his right leg and yelling blue murder. Catching him out of the corner of my eye I had the impression his leg was bent at the knee in a direction that didn't look right. Eric's favourite move in a tight spot is a knee-kick. At least he'd managed to give one of them something to remember him by before they put him down.

  We were about five yards away when, as I expected, the three coming at me stopped. The usual thing in such confrontations is that there is a stand-off - however brief - during which the respective parties weigh each other up, dance around a bit then select the tactic/opponent they are going to go for first. But I'd already decided I wasn't going to play that game. Apart from the fact that the two on the bridge were still giving it to Eric, good-style, the three facing me were all masked, which meant that there was no point in trying to weigh who was the weakest / the leader and should therefore be given priority / least attention.

  It only took them a second to realise that I wasn't going to stop, but added to that second was the time they lost taking their sticks behind them in search of the momentum they needed for a swing when they realised their mistake. Mine was already behind me and coming forward and round when I moved to within a yard of them. It connected with the one on the right on his forearm as he bought it up to protect his head. I heard a 'snap' and he screamed and dropped his stick. As the others reacted I let my momentum take me in a three-hundred-and-sixty-degree pirouette so I came straight round with a second swing that caught the middle guy on his left side under the arm. It also put me in the right position to block the swing coming in from the third guy on my left. There was a dull crack as the two sticks clashed - wood on wood. By now Gol was coming up right behind me. Behind the third guy’s hood, I could see his gaze flicking between us, taking in the danger, trying to work out what his best option was now that one of his mates had a broken arm and the other was still gasping for breath and holding his side. I made his decision for him, turning away to leave him for Gol as I carried on towards the bridge. By now the two on top of Eric had realised - or been warned by a shout from the driver - that all was not going to plan, as they turned round to meet me. This time their sticks were raised and ready as they came at me so I had no choice but to adopt a different tactic. Swinging my stick round my head as I ran forward, I launched it at them, full force, so they had no choice but to lift theirs to protect themselves, at the same time ducking and half turning away, as you do, instinctively, when a twirling stick that could take your head off comes at you. There was a rat-a-tat clatter as my stick crashed into theirs, before bouncing away, harmlessly. But by then I was in amongst them, close enough to plant a fist in the middle of the hood worn by the one on my left as he brought himself upright, followed immediately by me scraping my right shoe down the shin of the other as he was preparing to bring his stick down on top of my head. The first one staggered back, stick flailing the air and there was a howl of pain from the second - the shin scrape is one of the most effective 'distractions' I know. Off-balance, his stick went whistling past my right ear and shoulder to hit the ground beside me. The jarring impact of the stick hitting the road was enough to wrench it from his grasp and he staggered back realising he was not only hurting, but now defenceless. A shout from Gol, behind, made me turn just in time to duck away from the stick that was coming towards my head, aimed at me by the driver who had obviously decided his mates were now coming off worst and needed help. Even so it caught me a glancing blow on my left shoulder and an explosion of pain ripped through me. But by now Gol was nearly with me. Ten yards back, the man I'd left to him was also now writhing on the floor. God knows what Gol had done to him, but the guy didn't seem to know whether to hold his arm, his leg, his head, or all three. The driver was in the act of delving in the van for another stick and had it half out when I reached him. Stepping up close, I head-butted him straight on where his nose would be. Again, there was a satisfying crunch and he turned away, doubling up, hands to his face.

  Turning to check the others, I saw that those still on their feet were hanging back, reluctant to engage us now that that they'd lost the initiative and some of their number were now in need
of medical help. I pointed to the one whose shin I'd scraped.

  'You'd better pick your mates up and fuck off. Now.' He moved to comply, though slowly. 'And you can tell your boss he can expect a visit from me.'

  Satisfied it was over, I nodded to Gol - he still had hold of one, bat raised and ready - indicating he should watch and make sure there were no parting gestures while I turned my attention to Eric. As I jogged over to where he lay, he turned himself over onto his back. Bending to him, I guessed his turning over must have been some sort of reflex action because he was completely out of it. His face was a mess, his mouth a bloody black hole with gaps where some of his teeth should have been. Bloody Hell, I thought, Just like Vincent. In the distance, I could hear the woo-woo wail of sirens, but they were police rather than ambulance. I remembered what Carver had said earlier about not wanting trouble. Right, I thought. No need for him to find any. Checking Eric over as best as I could, I worked out he was just about moveable. I turned to see what was happening behind me. The gang were helping each other back into the van, the one with the shattered knee being carried, bodily, through the sliding side door by two others. There would be no further trouble from them.

  I shouted to Gol. 'Give me a hand, Gol. We need to go.'

  Together, we lifted Eric to a standing position - he’s no lightweight - then, one under each arm, we half-carried half-dragged him past the line of dumbstruck motorists back to my truck.

  CHAPTER 33

  It was around eleven when I came away from the hospital leaving Eric with his wife, Sally, and his eldest lad, George. By then the scan results had come back showing no sign of anything untoward around Eric's brain and skull, which was remarkable given the kicking he'd received. His main problems were concussion and a broken bone in his wrist. Lucky really. It could have been a lot worse. And it reinforced the fact that the attack was meant more as a warning rather than any real attempt to take him out. As far as I was concerned it didn't matter. A line had been crossed. Where it would stop, God alone knew.