Hymn From A Village (17 page)

Usually it was the things he didn’t say that gave it away. There were none of the jokes or details I’d looked forward to, and all I got to know were the facts and the things I heard through the boards.

I asked to meet her to put a face to the lady of mystery who had stolen my saviour’s heart. Should have known better. It was the only time he raised his voice in my company.

Love can do funny things to a man.

Not long after the paranoia started.

Dimitri came home one day and I could hear him pacing his sitting room. I could tell there was something wrong because he still had his shoes on. Normally, he changes into his slippers at the door. Even got his visitors to remove their outdoor footwear in the hall. Always found that a bit anal, you know, worrying about germs and dirt like that. Mind you, being a doctor, I suppose you’re careful about those things.

The pacing went on for about five minutes and then he closed all the blinds and shutters in the flat. Only time he ever did that was when he was expecting a lady, and even then he never bothered with the sitting room.

He explained it all later.

When he left the gym that evening he had a feeling he was being followed. Every couple of minutes he’d take the chance to look around and check. He didn’t do it in the way the average Joe might, not with all his training. No, he looked round only when he was crossing the road, used the reflections of windows, car doors and his mobile to take glimpses over his shoulder.

He took a different route, looped the loop, tied his laces and turned back to read posters in windows and saw nothing. Still, he said, he knew they were there, could practically smell them.

I couldn’t smell anything other than the curry he was carrying in the brown paper bag from the Indian take-away. He’d stopped in as an extra precaution.

Passed the whole thing on to me, he did, said he’d lost his appetite. It was the finest food that I’d put into my mouth since the soup, the melting potatoes in their coating of spinach and the cauliflower florets that were more ‘a la brink’ than al dente. The rice was cold and the nan bread softened by steam, yet I could have eaten it again ten times over. If they offer me the chance of a last supper, that’s what I’ll have, that and my Spanish omelette on the side.

For a few days I feasted on take-outs from every restaurant along York Way and the Brecknock. There were kebabs and pizzas and plain old fish and chips. The story was always the same. He’d not seen anyone, but they were there, lurking.

Can’t say I minded much if it meant me getting my fill of international cuisine. My heart was too firmly set on a Mexican for me to care too much how it came about.

Never got my burritos or my taco shells and curly fries.

Next day, when Dimitri was out at the surgery, there were some ferocious knocks at the door. Normally people go away when there’s no answer, but not these folk. They knocked once more and then, before I knew it, the door was opening and a heavy set of boots came clomping in above me.

Although I couldn’t see a thing, I had pictures in my mind of the three of them in their grey sashes pointing and gesturing as if they were in danger. Three boys playing at being soldiers. I’d put money on that Adam Harris was one of them, snooping around and leaving bugs and spy-sights wherever he felt like concealing them.

Only took five minutes from start to finish.

Soon as they’d gone I texted Dimitri just as we’d arranged.

“Not feeling so well. Meet at Pineapple instead? J.”

Since then he’s been more careful than ever. Can’t say I blame him. Maybe if he’d got rid of me he’d be here now, lying in the arms of his woman, feeding her strawberries or whatever he does that’s so irresistible.

We talked it over. I say talked it over, but it wasn’t that exactly.

To make sure there was no noise and that no concealed cameras would capture him shifting furniture and lifting the hatch, we exchanged written messages. Dimitri folded his up and dropped out knots of paper through the biggest gap in the boards as if getting rid of soil in the exercise yard of Stallag 13 or whatever it was. I passed mine back up in the space between the skirting and the rubber plant, which was safe as long as they hadn’t hidden anything in the leaves that pointed straight down.

We decided that there was no point in looking around for bugs or cameras, because they’d see what he was up to and pull him in. A lights-out curfew was imposed for 10 every evening and there were to be no visits at all. Food would be passed down under the cover of darkness and he set about emptying the objects from the drawers of the chest and rubbing oil onto the bottom of the frame so that he could move it as quietly as possible. I’ve lost many a meal to a last minute topple, I can tell you.

It’s worse when the spills are from the chamber pot.

That was a month ago now.

We thought it was going well, but maybe we aren’t as good at playing the resistance game as we thought.

Hang on. Here he comes.

I’ve been on at him to get the gate sorted since I arrived. Makes such a squeak it would wake the Pharaohs. I can feel the beats of my heart in my mouth.

I’ll play it cool. Give him a ticking off for leaving me on my tod with nothing but cold soup and dry croissants to keep me going, then I’ll come clean and tell him how I’ve missed him and his Muscovite ways.

It’s not him though. Not alone, anyway. Four of them by my count, possibly five.

Off the gravel and up the steps, one, two, three, four, five, six, seven. I know the rhythm like it’s engraved in my genes, single steppers, two at a timers and even for the postman - he’s a three at once guy. Must be a 6 six-footer at the very least.

There’s a key in the lock.

The swing of the door.

Stomping of boots. Definitely boots.

They’re going straight for the chest.

Doesn’t look like I’ll make it to the end, huh? And I had so much to tell you.

You’ll be lucky if there’s enough here for a short story.

I can hear her giving orders. She might well use her quiet voice, the bloody traitor. I’d know that accent anywhere. Aduke!  No doubt she’s used her dental skills for the odd unrequested extraction.

She’s not getting any of my teeth.

There’s a carving knife in the drawer. I’ve been saving it for an occasion such as this. It’s got her name on it. Unless I see Harris, in which case he’s first.

Should have paid attention to that bloody horoscope. “Aquarius - Watch out for strangers and nasty surprises.”

Later friend. Later.

L
efty had planned it like he were military.

First target were the police van that’s always there at weekends waiting for the clubs to spill their guts.

Turk’s crew went across all casual. Soon had it over. Smashed the windscreen and went at the outside like it were a steel drum.

Didn’t take long for the riot squad to arrive. One bus from the left, another from the right. It were going to be the pincer movement just like Lefty said.

They poured out of them buses like I’d seen down at the quarry, only this time it weren’t no practice. Visors down and shields up, they ran into neat lines and stood their ground.

Now it were our turn. The cops might have the pincer move, but we were the crabs’ claws.

Useless buggers from the Broadgate started up with their petrol bombs. Every one of them landed short. I were going to show them how our crew from the Tardy Gate handled things.

I lit mine off Raj’s zippo. Black flames curled into me eyes. Saw the bottle were a Bacardi Breezer. A bloody girl’s drink. Threw it like it were the Olympic games I were so pissed. Landed smack on the head of a copper who were facing the other way.

The flames covered him like someone were pouring orange paint. He span around on fire, hands pawing the air like he were swatting mozzies.

Another copper went over. Screamed at him above the sounds of brick on Perspex. Probably didn’t get the message. Hardly surprising when his ears had just melted onto the road.

I were ready for high-fives, only the lot of them were pegging it over to the cenotaph.

Me, I were rooted to the spot, like the North End were about to take a penalty.

Watched as someone popped an extinguisher and covered the guy in foam like he were the winner at the Grand Prix.

Show were over. Left the other gangs on the High Street clearing stores like it were the January sales.

****

S
lept like a log. Woke up like it were any other day.

Then I turned on the news. Were just like an action replay. Camera zoomed in. Me, bandana slipping low and me face filling the screen.

The copper were dead. Left a wife and three daughters. They showed a picture of his girls all sweet and happy. Heard them screaming, I did. Put me fingers in me ears – just made them louder.

Couldn’t say where the tears were from, just that they came out of me eyes and nose and mouth all at once.

Took a shower. Scrubbed me fingers hoping they’d to disappear.

Then me mum were at me. “What’s taking so long?” She coughed up some of the night before. “Give over playing with yerself.”

Couldn’t look her in the eye when I came out. Just stared at the tattoo on her shoulder, the big heart and me name underneath. Like I meant something.

Grabbed a few bits and bobs from me room and headed to mass.

Sneaked in the back and dipped me hand in the font. Didn’t make things any better.

I looked up at the cross. His eyes were cold. No way he were going to forgive me this time.

Went to me usual place at the docks. Broke in to the portacabin and curled into a corner. Tried to work out what next. Realized there were no next, not for me.

Filled me pockets with stones. Climbed up to the top of the crane.

Can see right into the posh flats with the view.

I want to jump, but me hands wrap round the bar. Soon as I get one off, the other tightens. And then I remind them what they did and me fingers go slack.

When they let go, I’m off.

The wind shouts in me ears but not loud enough to kill them screams.

I watch me life pass by. Don’t think there’s anything worth watching. First shag, maybe, or the day we got promotion.

Doesn’t take long. There’s hardly time to blink.

I pinch me nose and close me eyes.

Second splash I’ve made today.

And the water fills me ears and the screams get louder.

And louder.

T
ommy Atkins was made of bad things. Frogs and snails and puppy dog tails.

His parents knew it soon as he came out of the womb.

Bruce Robertson knew it more than most. He’d been Tommy’s muscle for a good while, twisting an arm here and there. Breaking or chopping them off if things got out of hand.

But Bruce didn’t mind. He was made of bad things, too.

People said he was rotten to the core.

Might have been better for him if he was. Wouldn’t have got himself into the mess he was in if they’d been right.

Somewhere in Bruce’s soul was sugar and spice and only Tommy knew it.

Most of the time Bruce’s nice side was about as easy to spot as a zebra on a crossing.

The night they went after Barnsey it was like an enormous zit on the end of a tiny nose.

Putting a bullet through a man’s head meant nothing to either of them.

Tommy took Barnesy out with a shot to the temple, no sweat.

It was the same with Barnesy’s wife. Bruce gave it to her while she slept. Let the pillow soak up blood and brains.

When it came to the kid, Bruce didn’t have it in him.

Hiding under the bed the child was a loose end that needed tying. But Bruce couldn’t tie it.

Sure, he squeezed the trigger, just not as hard as it required.

Instead of taking her out, Bruce walked away.

How was he to know she’d made them both? Was able to describe them to the police down to the finest detail as if it had been tattooed onto her eyeballs.

And now Tommy was coming for Bruce with everything he had.

They’d cornered him in the industrial estate on the outside of town.

Bruce laid-up. Hid in the attic of Cheeky Charlie’s. Only went down to buy food from the machines or when he needed the lavvy.

Three days and three nights he’d been there.

The diet of sweets and fizzy drinks had taken its toll and he was experiencing cramps from lying still for hours on end.

On the fourth day, he decided to give up. Lay and closed his eyes and willed himself to death. Only problem was his lungs wouldn’t stop and his pulse went on no matter how hard he tried.

And that’s when he saw it.

A spider wove its silken strands, threading and circling until a web was made.

Bruce felt a tear in his eye as the spider stood at the edge of its home waiting for unsuspecting visitors to call for dinner.

Patient it was, like a fisherman on the banks of the Tyne.

That night a storm pounded Charlie’s place. Made it rattle and shake as if it were about to cave in, but the metal sheets remained in place, not a bolt removed or out of sorts.

Only casualty was the spider’s web, ripped apart by a gust that whistled through the gaps.

The spider didn’t sit and mope, oh no. Just waited for the wind to end and started over, spinning and weaving like nothing had happened.

And Bruce was inspired.

Decided the only way to make a life was to get up off his arse and run for it. Start over in another town.

Besides, Tommy and his gang would have given up the ghost way before.

Took the spider in his palm and squeezed the life from it, then jumped to the floor, opened the door and ignored the alarm that sang out loud.

The first pop halted him where he stood. The second dropped him to his knees. The third, he knew nothing about.

I
don’t step on the cracks.

I’m not the only one.

Watch kids on the pavement and they know, too, short steps and long to stay on the stones.

I have the time to notice these things, see. All the time in the world.