Frank leaned across as Tonks drew level with the car, opened the passenger door so that it blocked the youth’s path. The gang leader, who had been in a dreamland imagining all sorts of revenge against Henry Torrance, pulled up short.
‘Still in orbit, are we,’ Frank said, gesturing for him to get in beside him, ‘or just got a pain in the backside?’
Tonk’s didn’t like the levity and it showed. Lips protruding sulkily, he climbed in. He sat hunched up staring out of the windscreen, not looking at Frank. The gypsy wasn’t sure whether that sullenness was meant for him or stemmed from a malevolence he was brewing in his heart against Henry. Whatever the cause, he would use the youth’s anger; it would make manipulating him much easier.
‘You can’t afford it,’ Frank said, shaking his head.
At last, Tonks looked at him. He was pouting and his eyebrows were down so his features were crowded together, as though a weight was sitting on his head squashing his face. Frank thought he looked like a Neanderthal.
‘What?’
‘Loss of face,’ Frank said, amusing himself.
Tonks couldn’t look at him, started to fiddle with his hands. ‘I delivered your message, didn’t I?’
‘It’ll get around that he threw you out. Your punters will get to thinking Tonks ain’t so hard so we can take advantage. Before you know it, you got challengers on your turf — I can’t afford that.’
Tonks looked perplexed. ‘But you sent me to him. Why, if —’
‘Thought you were up to it,’ Frank said, cutting him short. ‘Why I paid you.’
Tonks gripped the dashboard with both hands, dug his fingers in. Monkey face, monkey’s grip, Frank thought and wondered about his brain.
‘You giving me the push?’
Frank gave him his benign smile. ‘The situation isn’t irretrievable, Barry. I’ll keep you on the books, son. But you’ll want another job, won’t you, one that’ll hurt that feller, help you get back on that pedestal?’
‘I’d love that,’ Barry said, his face at last unfurling.
‘Good lad. I’ll let you know then.’
Barry started to get out of the car but Frank reached across, grabbed his arm.
‘That lad, Walsh you told me about, I think he’d be good in our line of work and I need another seller. Sound him out, eh!’
‘He’s never been interested.’
‘Try him. I’m expanding. He won’t interfere with you.’
Barry Tonks was relieved to hear it. The bottom lip that had started another sulky droop made a retreat. He got out and leaned back inside.
‘Thanks for keeping me on.’
Frank winked and started the engine. ‘Just remember who butters your bread and you’ll be fine. You’ll be hearing from me, kidda.’
As he drove away he watched Tonks through the mirror thinking there was one born every minute and good job too. The bottom of the pile was as far as people like Tonks were going and they made a good, soft cushion for him to sit on.
*
John Walsh was on a training run, blowing hard, sweat running down his back. He hadn’t realized how unfit he’d become until the big man had given him a couple of boxing lessons, left him labouring like an old man. Now he was running daily, trying to build his stamina, enjoying it more than he thought. His efforts to improve his reading and writing, combined with his fitness sessions, had introduced a routine to his days, alleviated the feeling of drifting rudderless on the streets. The big man said he was young enough for a fresh start if he made the effort, and he trusted him.
As he reached his house, he looked up at the sky. Perhaps his mother was somewhere out there in the universe, looking down on him. It was a nice thought. One thing for sure, she’d be pleased he’d turned down the offer Tonks had made for his boss two days ago. Tonks thought he should consider it an honour to be asked. John didn’t consider it that, was mystified why he had been asked to join the ranks of drug dealers.
He let himself in the front door, checked his father wasn’t home then made for the kitchen, figuring to make himself a meal while he cooled down before his shower. Afterwards, he’d tackle the homework Henry had given him.
The blast of cold air on his face when he opened the fridge was welcome. His taste buds were already at work; yesterday he’d done the shopping, bought bacon, eggs, sausages, chips, so was looking forward to a fry up. But he discovered the fridge was empty, apart from two lonely sausages and half a dozen chips sitting in the middle of a large plate, an insult even to a serial dieter. John heard his stomach rumble, protesting at the meagre repast set before it when it had been expecting a feast.
His father! He’d done it again, brought his friends home after a drinking session and they’d demolished what would have lasted two days. Why had he even bothered to leave anything? Were the sausages, sitting there in their splendid isolation, some kind of message designed to let him know who was boss? He wouldn’t be surprised if it wasn’t his old man’s idea of a joke, so that he couldn’t be accused of not leaving him a sausage.
Deciding he’d have to make the best of it, he put the kettle on and shoved the plate in the microwave. He’d fill up later with jam and bread, as long as the gods were smiling and his father hadn’t denuded the pantry of all things edible. When the kettle boiled, he made tea and cut the sausages and chips into smaller pieces and sat down. He tried to eat slowly to make each mouthful last.
Half a sausage and a chip were gone when he heard the front door open. He groaned inwardly. That would be his father. If he was lucky the old man wouldn’t come into the kitchen and he’d have peace to eat.
He knew that hope wasn’t going to be fulfilled when he heard a noise behind him and a shadow fell across the table. He turned to see his father’s burly frame filling the kitchen doorway. Father and son stared at each other without words. Even from a yard away John could smell alcohol, could see the glazed, absent look in his father’s eyes, as though an alien had insinuated itself into his body. His old man raised an arm, stabbed it in the direction of the plate.
‘You’re eating my tea,’ he slurred. ‘My s-sausages.’
His old man could be aggressive in drink. Through bitter experience John could read all the signs, knew he was looking for a fight and, in that mood, even a sausage could be an excuse for one. It would be better for him just to leave the kitchen. Yet he was nursing a sense of indignation, hard to quell. Against his better judgement, he set it free.
‘You and your spongeing mates have eaten two days’ food. You never thought about what I would eat, did you?’
His father lurched forward towards him, put a hand on the wall to steady himself. His head was bobbing. Blue veins, like ink lines, bulged in a face red from drink.
‘You’re the sponger here,’ he snarled. ‘Jus — a para-site, you.’
John felt his temper rising. He warned himself to control it but it kept on bubbling under the surface.
‘Like father, like son, is what they say, isn’t it?’
His father’s eyes narrowed to slits. He leered at his son.
‘Your mother made you soft,’ he said. ‘Me, I worked until I was made redun-dun-dant.’
‘Aye, and that was ten years ago,’ John fired back at him. ‘You aren’t fit to speak my mother’s name either. Don’t think I don’t remember how you treated her. She was too good for you, my mother.’
John had gone too far and knew it. His father came off the wall, threw a punch which, more by luck than judgement, caught him on the jaw. Even in drink his father was a powerful man and it knocked him sideways. He landed on the floor, stars dancing in his eyes. When he recovered his senses, his father was standing over him.
‘That’s where little slug-sh belong,’ his old man slurred.
John shuffled away from him on his backside, used the sink to haul himself to his feet. The pain in his jaw made him want to strike back, to hurt his father the way he had hurt him. Spinning in a vortex of anger, he drew his fist back to strike. B
ut then another thought flashed into his mind, the lesson he’d been learning in those boxing sessions with Henry, the emphasis on self-control outside the ring as well as in. He realized he was in danger of losing all control, and lowering his arm slowly to his side, he turned away from his father and made for the back door.
As he exited, he heard his father shout. ‘Teach you to eat my saus-saush.’
He waited in the back yard for a moment, drawing in deep breaths as he tried to calm down. Then he went into the alley, started walking, no idea where he was going, just wanting to be as far away from his father as possible.
He walked quickly, hoping physical effort would help, worrying how close he had come to unleashing his fury. Resentment at the beatings he’d received had been building like a torrent in his soul. Today that torrent had been on the brink of overflowing. Could he guarantee that next time it wouldn’t break its banks? His mother had faced up to his father for him many times; paid the price, too. Four years ago she’d died, and since then he’d had no one to help him through, nowhere to go for respite from his father’s moods.
He’d walked half a mile when a flurry of rain brushed against his cheek. The flurry developed into a downpour, rain bouncing off the pavements like an army of little devils throwing itself against the concrete in kamikaze attacks. John ran into a bus shelter which had just enough roof left on it to give him cover as he stared out at the bleak day. How he wished his mother had lived and found the courage to take him away. No doubt about it, one day matters had to come to a head with the old man. When they did he’d have to leave home. But where would he go?
Just as he’d resigned himself to sheltering until the heavens relented, a car drew into the bus bay and Henry Torrance wound the passenger-side window down.
‘You look like someone with time on his hands.’ Henry said. ‘Fancy a run out to the country? Micky’s driving me out there on business. You’re welcome to come with us.’
Managing a half smile, John stepped out of the shelter and climbed into the back of the car. The incident with his father was bubbling away at the back of his mind, but he was grateful to be out of that bus shelter and in the comfort the car.
‘Where are we going?’ he asked, trying to sound chirpy but conscious of the false note in his voice.
Henry laughed. ‘Believe it or not, we’re going to see a man about a horse.’
‘More than one horse, and they’re all damaged goods,’ Micky chipped in, adding as an afterthought, ‘You know, like some people are damaged.’
‘It’s a sanctuary,’ Henry elaborated. ‘A farm where they take in horses who’ve been mistreated. I’m hoping to get some work there.’
With a wistful air, John said, ‘They should have places like that for humans.’
Henry and Micky picked up on his tone of voice, exchanged glances.
‘You OK, son?’ Micky asked.
‘Yeah! Just don’t like this weather.’
Henry pointed ahead. ‘Looks like there’s a break in the clouds where we’re headed.’
‘You’re not going to give up the coaching, are you?’ John suddenly asked. ‘If you get the job, I mean.’
Henry shook his head. ‘Probably I’ll do more in the evenings, less in the days.’
‘That’s good, then, because I need your help with my lessons if I’m going to get anywhere.’
Henry turned to look at him. ‘You don’t think I would give up on you now, do you?’
They were out in the country, approaching Great Ayton, a small town near the Yorkshire Moors. John had a vague memory of being there before, many moons ago with his mother. They drove through an avenue of trees and the sun burst through the grey veil of clouds. Everything was suddenly brighter, as though a dusty painting had been wiped clean to reveal colours in their full glory. They turned onto the track that led to an old farm building which had been tastefully renovated so it retained a certain rustic charm.
‘Peter Fairbrother’s done well for a South Bank lad with a poor start,’ Micky said when they were out of car, ‘and he’s never forgotten where he came from.’
Off to their left was a field with a barn. Three horses were grazing there, their long necks stretching gracefully to crop the grass. The field was surrounded by green woods. To John, it was a picture of calm serenity, so different from South Bank. He thought Peter Fairbrother was a lucky man to have escaped to this.
His thoughts were interrupted when a tall man, with a ruddy, weatherbeaten face and an aquiline nose with a ridge where it had been broken, emerged from the house and approached them with a jaunty stride. Micky introduced Peter Fairbrother to Henry and John.
After preliminary pleasantries, the farmer said, ‘Well, we know why we’re here so we might as well take a stroll and I’ll introduce you to the horses. They’re the important ones.’
As they walked the farmer talked passionately about his desire to help mistreated horses. Currently, he could only cope with six animals, but this was only the initial stage of his project and he intended to have twenty or more. Already he’d been inundated with requests to take more and he was determined to release another field for the purpose as soon as possible.
The horses were grazing near the barn. They raised their heads and two of the three, obviously wary of the humans, trotted off, settled at a distance. The third, a chestnut, ambled towards them. Peter Fairbrother stretched out an arm and stroked its nose.
‘He’s fourteen,’ the farmer said, ‘and he’s a friendly old thing even though he has every reason to hate anything that walks on two legs.’
Henry ran a hand over its flanks, paused at three long scars that ran like tram lines from the horse’s shoulder to its belly. He screwed his face up in disgust.
‘Done with a machete,’ the farmer explained. ‘The owner was a bad-tempered drunk who took it out on the horse. That was his final coup de grace.’
John felt a rush of sympathy for the old horse. He reached out, stroked its nose. It looked at him with its gentle eyes, thrust its head forward and nuzzled his neck.
The landowner laughed, took a carrot from his pocket and handed it to John.
‘Slobbery old thing, ain’t he? Doesn’t do that to just anyone, you know. He obviously likes you. Give him this and he’ll be your friend for life.’
John held the carrot out. The horse took it and started munching.
‘How could anyone —?’
Fairbrother pointed to the other horses. ‘The black over there was blinded in one eye and had his belly slit. The grey was left in a field until it nearly starved to death.’
A melancholy silence fell on the group. It was hard to accept that men of flesh and blood like themselves could do that.
‘If you decide to employ me,’ Henry said, breaking the silence, ‘what would be my duties.’
‘Mucking out, ordering food, liaising with the vet. As we expand, I’d expect you to look at damaged animals for me, assess their condition, arrange for them to be transported here. Mick tells me you know horses, so I’d rely on you a lot.’
‘Sounds good to me, but it’s only fair to tell you I’ve no formal training. I was brought up with horses. They were part of my life until —’
‘Yes, I know,’ the farmer said, saving Henry from embarrassment. ‘Micky’s opinion is good enough recommendation. As for qualifications, I’m a self-made man with no qualifications myself.’
Henry looked him in the eye. ‘I won’t let you down and I won’t let the horses down. I like what you’re doing here.’
‘That’s it settled then,’ Fairbrother said. ‘Let’s head back to the house, and go over a few details.’
They strolled back to the farmhouse. John kept looking back over his shoulder. There had been something about that old horse that had struck a chord with him and he was reluctant to leave. He was glad the horses had a bit of peace in their lives. It meant there was hope in the world and he wanted to believe in hope.
Back in the house, Mrs Fairbrother, a t
all, willowy woman with dyed blonde hair and a reserved frostiness in her manner that contrasted with her husband’s open demeanour, served them tea and scones and made little attempt to respond to efforts to draw her into conversation. John was hungry and wolfed down two scones.
After tea the farmer walked to the car with them and noticed John taking a last look at the horses.
‘Bring the lad with you whenever you want,’ he told Henry. ‘He seems to like it here.’
Henry turned to John. ‘You up for that?’
‘Love it,’ John said, and thanked the farmer.
‘A satisfactory day,’ the old trainer said when they were back on the main road, ‘except for the cold spell.’
Henry looked across at him, puzzled.
‘Cold spell?’
‘The blonde ice queen. Peter’s a good sort but I think his wife would like to wear the trousers. Those were the vibes I got.’
‘You think she disapproves of me?’ Henry said, not referring directly to his criminal past because John was there, but knowing Micky would catch his drift.
‘Could be, son. I’d keep away from her if I were you.’
‘Got you,’ Henry said. ‘No worries there.’
That night Henry was in Mary’s flat for the first time. They’d enjoyed an evening at the pictures and were sharing a bottle of wine. The wine loosened his tongue and he was telling her about his day, how much he was looking forward to working with those horses.
‘I’m sorry,’ he said, thinking he was talking too much.
Mary misunderstood. ‘I’ve told you to stop worrying about being here. I’m a big girl. They can only sack me, not incarcerate me.’
Henry shook his head. ‘Not what I meant.’
Mary sipped her wine, her eyes sparkling over the rim of the glass.
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