by Luca Veste
The taxi rank's empty. The rain's pissin down. I'm lookin for Billy Maher. No sign of him. Reckon he's already inside, makin his way to the platform like Micky told him. When Big Micky tells you something, you just do it. There ain't no questioning. That's what I can't stand no more.
That's why I gotta get out.
I'm a married man, – got a kid – Sophie, her name is. Five years old. The apple of me fuckin eye. Been in school a year, she has – got her photo in me wallet with her little cap on and her hair in bunches and the biggest smile you ever see. Whenever the job gets me down, I get that photo out and it reminds me of the good things I've done. There ain't many, I can tell you, but it's all out of necessity, the bad stuff. I ain't never chose it. It ain't even if it's really bad when you look at it a certain way, I mean, we all gotta put food on the table.
My favourite poet – Walt Whitman. He's a Yank, I know, and bent as a nine bob note, but fuck me, some of the stuff he writ makes me fuckin cry. It's like he knew what it was like on the outside, he knew what it felt fallin between the cracks. He tells one about this child, this child what got up every day and everything he come across become a part of him. Flowers. Trees. Sounds. Just so fuckin beautiful, like this one child just took it all in – life, you know, like he just swallowed life. I spent half mine pushin it away, pushin people away. It's only when Sophie come along that poem made sense – the havin something become a part of you. Teach you the world, kids do. The fuckin world.
Platform Five, that's what Micky said. Blimey, it's stuffy down here.
Smells of death.
Pauline, that's me missus, she don't read at all. I don't get it, meself. I mean, how can you live this life and not have them daffodils what that Wordsworth geezer talked about etched on the inside of your fuckin eyelids? You know, just sittin there for you every time you shut your eyes when it all gets too fuckin much. Beats me, it does.
Still some punters about. Late night pissheads, mostly. Check me watch. Eleven fifty-one. I better put a spurt on.
I reckon I must look right funny sprintin through these tunnels and down these escalators all suited and booted like a city gent. That's what I've took to doin lately, you know, look the part. I know the job's shit and it's a long way from fuckin respectability but dressin up proper least makes me feel better on the inside.
There was this Indian fella once - Rabindrinath Tagore his name was – he writ some blindin bits of poetry. All his stuff's about devotion, you know, bein thankful for the simple things – nature, and all that. Loads about God and stuff but I never got that he meant, you know God. To me, I reckon he meant the essence, you know, the stuff what's at the centre of it all. The stuff what makes us who we are. He done one where this geezer's sittin in a load of chains – can't move. Not ever. And he don't realise he's been makin the chains himself, castin em with his own hands. That's me, that is. That geezer. That's why it's time to break free. That's why this is me last job for Big Micky.
There it is. Up ahead. Platform Five. And Billy, he's up on the last bench at the end near the tunnel where the train's gonna come out, just like Micky told him. He don't know why he's here, Billy. He's on his last chance so he don't even think about askin questions – not that there's any ever point with the likes of Micky.
I can hear the train comin, and me lungs is burstin.
Billy hears me size tens slammin on the platform, and he turns round. Big smile on his face. I've always had a soft spot for Billy, and he knows it. He's got a kid as well. Just born. Samantha.
'Woah there, big fella,' Billy says, as I'm comin close, puttin his hands out and backin away.
I slow down a smidge, and skid to a stop.
Billy's still smilin big, and puts his hand out to shake me hand. The train's clatterin and the breaks are hissin and the lights comin out the tunnel. And just like Dante and Whitman and Wordsworth and Tagore, my timin is fuckin impeccable. I grab Billy's hand and swing him onto the tracks just as the train comes screechin through. With all that screechin the driver's none the fuckin’ wiser he's just cut Billy in half.
And me, I'm walkin back up on the street in the rain with them daffodils in me eyes, breathin hard as I ever did.
BIO: Ian has had almost forty short stories published online and in print, and his debut novel - ABIDE WITH ME - is due for release in March 2012 from Caffeine Nights Publishing. ‘Big Micky’ returns in a new novella released next year, - JASON DEAN. He lives with his wife and three children in Romford, Essex, and is a lifelong Dagenham and Redbridge supporter.
A NEW ENGLAND
By
Nick Triplow
Welling, South London – October 1993
You never get used to that stink in the back of the Transit. There’s a dozen of us in riot gear sweating out last night’s beer and curry. I’ve got a couple of sticks of doublemint on the go. The brass have said today is about sending a message, tackling extremism at its roots and maintaining public order at all costs. I check my watch again and get a sharp elbow from Collins. ‘Will you fucking sit still. Every time you move, I get a dig in the ribs.’
‘Just making sure you’re awake.’
‘Bollocks.’
Nothing else is said as we drive out through the gates and into the grey, dawn lit streets. We know the route the march is taking and the route they’ll want it to take. Condon’s been all over the news this week gearing the public up for a riot. By the time we pull into the car park, we’re wound up enough to make sure he gets one.
We ease into the space; there’s a slap on the side of the van and the driver pulls on the handbrake. One or two of the new lads look ready to upchuck. I want to be out of here now, away from these sweaty bastards, get deployed and get on with the job.
We get our gear together. Check everything, then check it again. I stretch my legs and take a look around. Some of these old buses haven’t seen the light of day since the miner’s strike. I listen to Orgreave war stories from the Kent boys. We’ve got better kit these days and we’re better trained, they reckon. Anything kicks off and we’re ready. We’ve had six weeks being drilled into shape, taking bruises from rent-a-mob squaddies on their day out. Lessons in fear, how to stick together, keep our ground and give out bruises of our own.
London is our city and these streets are ours. God help any fucker who thinks different today.
Inspector Whitley steps up on a camera crate, calls us round. He’s found himself a loud-hailer. ‘Gentlemen, the British National Party headquarters is on Upper Wickham Lane. The Anti-Nazi protest march intends to proceed along Wickham Lane. They want to take their fight to the streets. That is not going to happen.’ The twat pauses for effect, gives it the full Winston. ‘The march will leave its rallying point on Winns Common at ten A.M. The protestors will be funnelled between our lines, which will be unbroken down every sidestreet, every cul-de-sac, every stretch of open ground. There will not be a metre along the route that we do not own. Once these people are on the march, they are committed. Mounted officers and dog section will be closing in behind. No one leaves the march.’
This last part is news.
‘Any questions?’
A sergeant near the front raises his arm. I strain to hear. ‘Sir, what’s the contingency if we get need to get people out, say for medical reasons?’
Whitley’s back on the megaphone. ‘For those of you who did not hear, I think I’ve been clear enough. No one is to leave the march. Those are the Commander’s orders to me and they, in turn, have come directly from the Commissioner.’
You get a sense of closed door decisions, Home Office politics played out in the streets.
***
I’m stationed on Wickham Lane with my back to Plumstead Cemetery wall. The squad are spread; Collins is a few metres to my right. The march passes slowly. There’s a nervousness, a raw tension that makes demonstrators shy away from eye contact. Most have been on demos before and they’re used to us walking alongside, but this time we’re static, going nowhere.
The boss told us there was to be no chat. Expect violence, he said. But I can’t see where it’s coming from. Parents with kids in buggies walk past. An older couple, tweedy, well to do, stroll by arm in arm. As they get close, the woman looks up and smiles. I don’t smile back and she looks away like I’m not who she thought I was. On the opposite side of the road at the ridge of the hill, some of the mounted boys are silhouetted against the sunshine. More of our lot patrol the top of the hill. The dogs are barking, their handlers winding them up.
***
What happens next is not written about in any of the papers I bought afterwards.
The diverted route down Lodge Hill is closed off. Our lads barricade the junction, which gives the main body of the march has nowhere to go and brings it to a standstill. There are marchers coming up the hill behind them. After a few minutes, a woman asks Collins to let her out. She’s feeling sick, says she’s going to faint, that she gets claustrophobia. There’s panic written all over her face. He shoves her back towards the crowd. She protests and a young bloke joins in on her behalf. There’s a scuffle and a few plywood placards come through the air. People get tighter, shoved into each other, the squeeze coming up from the back. Then someone mentions Hillsborough. The word spreads through the crowd. An old man breaks through. He’s wearing his regimental beret, medals on his blazer and he’s asking what we’re doing about the build up? Is there anything he can do to help? There’s a woman with a kid in a buggy. He pleads with me to let her out of the march. To my left, our reserve lot in the cemetery deploy forward. It must be kicking off at the Lodge Hill junction, but no one’s giving instructions. We’ve got loudspeakers on a scaffold overhead and they’re silent.
‘I’m sorry sir, we’re not permitted to allow you to leave the demonstration. If you’re just patient you’ll be fine.’
‘I know, son. It’s for this lady and her little girl.’
‘Just the same sir, step back and you’ll be alright.’
It’s bullshit and the old soldier knows it.
The stewards struggle to maintain calm. A woman in a yellow ANL armband tells the marchers to sit down. It’s idiotic, but a few do. She’s got her hands up as she walks towards Collins. He orders her back.
‘I have to speak to someone about this. Who is in charge?’
‘Step back now.’
She appeals to him. Puts a hand on his arm. ‘Please—’
‘I’m telling you to fucking step back.’
Her voice rises above the agitated crowd. ‘Let these people out, can’t you see this is dangerous, it’s a disgrace, people are going to get hurt.’
‘They shouldn’t fucking be here, then.’
A bottle comes over the top and lands behind us. She turns to see where it came from. Collins hits her from behind. I see her go down, blood on her t-shirt.
A line of horses forces a path through the static crowd. There’s panic as those standing try to pull up others who’ve sat down. The crowd has nowhere to go. It surges forward and spills out, sending us all back against the cemetery wall. I feel the weight of bodies. The wall gives way. I’m down and for what feels like minutes, I fight to breathe. When I drag myself out, I’ve lost my baton. I fling my helmet aside and fill my lungs for a few seconds. I help people up. There’s a bloke in bent up glasses, blood smears from a black gash across the bridge of his nose. He looks at me like shit and throws off my hand.
A bunch of geezers, Class War activists in full face crash helmets, step through and grab armfuls of bricks from the wall and make their way towards the front line at the crossroads. A bloke pats me on the shoulder, ‘Cheers mate, nice one.’
I help a young woman, holding her up as her legs buckle. She’s in tears. ‘Where do we go, please just tell us where to go?’
I help her across the wall. I tell her to go round, double back, but just take a wide route, get on a bus, get a cab, just get the fuck away. Others have heard me. They follow her and I help them across the wall. I wade through the crowd looking for the woman with the buggy, but I can’t find her. There’s a kid on his own. I carry him to the side. I ask his name, who is he with? Then shout across the noise. ‘Tom Shaw, Tom Shaw, your son’s here, Danny’s here.’ I hear myself and know I sound stupid, but when the bloke falls through almost at my feet, he’s crying and grabs the kid in his arms. ‘Where do I go, where do I go?’
I take him through the wall.
‘Just keep on walking, mate. Keep fucking walking.’
BIO: Nick Triplow is the writer of the South London set crime novel Frank's Wild Years, published by Caffeine Nights, in March 2012. He has written a number of pieces of short fiction and the social history books, The Women They Left Behind and Distant Water. He co-wrote the script for Ted’s Return Home, a short film about Ted Lewis, author of classic British crime novel Get Carter. Originally from south London, now living in North Lincolnshire, Nick is writing a biography of Ted Lewis and working on re-writes for his conspiracy thriller, The Paradise Man.
For further info, contact: www.nicktriplow.blogspot.com or www.caffeine-nights.com/nick-triplow
SHEILA TAKE A BOW
By
Charlie Wade
His wife was right. The yogurt stain on his trousers didn’t look like yogurt. Rick hadn’t noticed it until she’d pointed it out.
The bruises would heal though. They always did. She was also right about whose fault they were. His, for employing the silicon secretary instead of the spinster one. He wondered what he’d been thinking then remembered exactly what he’d been thinking. He’d been stupid. Stupid to think he could have hid a secretary. Stupid to think an attractive woman half his age would be interested. Stupidest thing of all, nothing actually happened.
‘Ah, Miss Jones, come in.’
She walked in, all hair, smiles and cleavage. Sitting down, she crossed her legs then looked at him. ‘Mr Henry?’
‘Yes, urm, I’m afraid it’s the downturn.’ He turned and stared out the window, as he always did. His father would have said he’d no backbone.
‘I’m afraid it’s a case of last in first out.’ He looked round, fixed his eyes on her mass of hair. Blonde with dark roots showing. ‘I want you to understand I’ve done everything to avoid this.’ He shifted his gaze to the coat stand behind her. ‘But, it’s just one of those things.’
He turned back to the window and ran a hand through his hair. Greasy. That new shampoo was terrible. Wiping his hand on his trousers, he looked at her.
Her big blue eyes stared at him. Pleaded with him to reconsider. A tear rolled down her cheek. She sniffed then wiped at it with the back of her hand.
Pulling a handkerchief from his pocket, he passed it to her. More eye contact. She was stunning. That’s why he’d employed her in the first place. He looked back at his desk. The envelope.
‘Here’s two months pay and a reference. As I say.’ He looked back at the window. ‘I am sorry.’
She took the envelope and made for the door, pausing by the coat stand.
‘Thanks for the opportunity, Mr Henry.’
He nodded as she left.
***
Home was quiet. Chops, mash and silence the only dish on the menu.
‘I, urm, I made her redundant,’ he said.
She looked up. Those harsh eyes he’d come to hate over thirty years bored into him. ‘Good. Let’s hope that’s ended your mid life crisis.’
Washing the dishes, her mother didn’t believe in dishwashers, he looked out the window at the well tended garden. That was Sheila’s domain. He often wished she’d do something else, get a job or help out in a charity shop. She wouldn’t though. Garden and golf. That was her life.
‘I’ll put this coat in the wash.’ She walked into the kitchen with his work jacket. ‘It’s looking grubby.’
‘Mmmm,’ he mumbled.
Stood next to him, she turned the pockets out. He’d left a sweet wrapper in a pocket ten years ago that’d jammed the pump. She’d never forgotten.
> ‘What the hell?’
He looked round. Her eyes burned as she stared at his monogrammed handkerchief. Lipstick, a perfect set of lips imprinted. He shook his head as she reached for her golf clubs.
He shouldn’t have bought her those clubs for her birthday. That’d been a mistake. All those hours in the 14th bunker had honed her sand iron aim.
Still, cracked ribs would heal. It barely hurt if he didn’t talk or move. Miss Jones must have slipped the handkerchief back in his pocket, lipstick stains and all.
He shook his head and winced at the pain. Maybe he’d deserved it?
Work the next day was quiet. Maybe everyday was, but having her as a secretary made it seem busier. God knows what she’d actually done all day. Maybe he’d just invented work. It always seemed to involve bending over and the bottom drawer of the filing cabinet. What a fool he’d been.
He left early and stopped for petrol on the way home, his side aching as he used the pump. He thought back to better times while the super unleaded guzzled into the car. It hadn’t always been like this. Him and Sheila loved each other once. Many years ago.
The car full, he headed for the kiosk. A box of chocolates, exorbitant price, would help tonight. Things might get back to normal soon. At least he’d get a break for two days; the annual stationery conference in Harrogate. Hotel room for the night, drinks with the delegates. His two days a year off. He was surprised she’d let him go. She insisted on coming with him last year, but the day after tomorrow her mother was having new dentures fitted. Some things were much more important.
The car felt different as he got back in. He didn’t know why, just different. He’d forgotten to lock it too. His head just wasn’t there.
The chocolates went down well, he was more than surprised to be allowed back in the house to sleep for the night. She wasn’t all bad, just suspicious. Separate rooms, but it beat sleeping in the shed. She even apologised for hitting him so hard.