by Trevor Hoyle
Kenny bit off a hunk of chocolate. ‘Oh aye,’ he said.
‘More reason to stay away.’
‘You reckon,’ Kenny said.
‘We’ve enough on our plate without a bastard in the family. This year hasn’t started well for us but let’s not make it any worse.’ She put her hand on his, the one that held the half-eaten bar of chocolate. ‘Love, you’ll be out in four weeks. Your dad and me will help you. Forget her, all right?’ He didn’t respond. She tried to smile. ‘All right?’
Kenny didn’t take his eyes off her as he crammed the rest of the chocolate into his mouth.
• • •
The boys filed past the officer on duty at the door of the dining-hall, collected their food at the serving-hatch and took their places; the officer scrutinised each boy as he went past, looked for a moment into their indifferent eyes as if to remind them of their position and keep them in check for a further few hours. Not that there was any danger of them rebelling: it was merely standard procedure based on official policy and institutional psychology.
Kenny sat with Barry Keesig and one or two other lads who formed their group, wolfing his food, as far removed from his surroundings as it was possible to be. He was counting the days. He was being very careful to keep his nose clean. He was also plotting revenge. He had, so to speak, clamped his mind shut so that nothing existed beyond certain set priorities: count the days, keep out of trouble, think and plan and scheme for the day of reckoning. There was Janice and Vera to sort out; that was Priority One. There was the future with Barry and the other lads to think about; that was Priority Two. And he hadn’t forgotten about the three boys in the showers; that was another sort of Priority altogether, yes definitely another sort.
There was a commotion at the end of the table – nothing serious, just a few of them flicking spoonfuls of rice pudding at one another – and the officer walked along the line watching the faces for a clue as to what was going on, who was causing it, and why. Everyone was eating studiously, hiding their smirks behind spoons and dishes. As the officer turned back to his post a sticky gob of rice pudding landed on Kenny’s forehead and bits of it splattered in his eye. He wiped the mess away and swore under his breath.
‘No talking,’ said the officer coming up behind and pushed his face into the dish. There were snorts and muffled laughter along the table; Kenny again wiped his face and sat without moving; he refused to meet anyone’s eye because he suspected that if he did there would be no telling what might happen. He had his Three Priorities to think of and could allow nothing to get in the way of them. Count the days: keep your nose clean: plot and plan for sweet revenge.
Andy came to see him on the next visitors’ day and it seemed to Kenny that, with two weeks to go, he could scent freedom. His guts ached with the desire to get out, to be Outside. Life somehow seemed to be waiting for him now – as though suddenly he had been given a purpose and had something to accomplish.
‘You look thinner,’ Andy said.
‘Yeh, the screws have a joke about it,’ Kenny said. ‘They say if the cops caught before you came in they won’t catch you after you get out.’
‘Not long to go now.’
‘Thirteen days.’
‘Is that all?’
‘If I keep my nose clean and get full remission.’
‘What are you going to do when you get out?’
‘I got a few plans,’ Kenny said, his eyes veiled and heavy-lidded. ‘Met some blokes in here I’m going to team up with.’
‘Doing what?’
‘Oh, different things.’
Andy went away, suitably impressed, Kenny felt. Of course they were in different leagues now. The old days had gone forever. No more of that childish pissing about selling blues and bombers at the Pendulum or taking a Paki for two or three dabs. He wouldn’t waste his sweat on that now. And to think he’d been nabbed for just seventeen quid! He must have been simple.
Each day appeared to stretch out longer than the last so that it seemed he would never reach the end. Spring was coming too, and Kenny felt a strong physical urge to break free of this set, orderly, regulation existence. At times he was almost exploding with suppressed action, like an engine at full power chained to the track. He began to sleep badly and went on sick-parade to ask for some tablets. The doctor gave him three which Kenny was on the point of taking and then decided to save. For twelve days he saved three a day, hiding them in a matchbox underneath his locker. He hadn’t clearly decided what he was going to do with them; it was instinct that told him they might come in useful.
Three days before he was due to be released, Kenny received a letter from Margaret saying that she had seen Janice and her mother shopping in Yorkshire Street. Janice was looking well, Margaret said, although she hadn’t spoken to her.
‘Don’t do anything stupid when you get out,’ Barry Keesig told him.
‘Such as?’
‘No bird’s worth it. You’ll be on a loser if you start something: they keep an eye on you for at least a year after.’
‘They’ll have to sweat dustbin lids to pin anything on me,’ Kenny said.
‘Just watch it, Seddon, that’s all.’
‘Okay Keesig.’
Kenny walked out of Buckley Hall on a bright, cold March morning, a brown paper parcel under his arm and enough bus fare in his pocket to get home. The sky was a fresh, washed blue; it looked a lot different on the Outside. He had counted the days, kept his nose clean, had his revenge. In exchange for a small favour Desperate Dan had collared the boy who had masturbated in Kenny’s face and between the two of them they had forced all thirty-six tablets down his throat. Kenny was there to see the boy lose consciousness but didn’t stay around to discover what else Desperate Dan had in mind.
END
IT IS VERA, NOT JANICE AT THE DOOR AS HE HAD HOPED, and Kenny barges past her and is halfway up the stairs before she can find her voice. The TV is blaring out to an empty living-room and Kenny stands in the middle of the floor breathing hard, his fists working. The fact that Janice isn’t here disconcerts him. He had thought up a plan in his mind. Now he doesn’t know what to do next – except maybe put his boot through the television screen and kick the furniture to pieces.
Vera says, ‘Outside. Come on, you bloody bastard. You can see she isn’t here.’
‘Where is she?’ Kenny says without turning round.
‘She’s not here, I’ve told you. If you don’t leave I’m calling the police. I mean it.’
‘I said where the fuck is she?’ Kenny says, staring straight ahead at the wall above the television screen.
‘Don’t threaten me,’ Vera says. ‘Don’t swear at me. If you’re not out of this flat in one minute I’m calling the police. Don’t think I won’t do, because I will. We’ve had enough of you. Janice as well, your fighting and trouble-making and getting into bother. You’re out now but they’ll put you back in bloody fast if I tell them you’ve been round here pestering us.’
‘Look,’ Kenny says, turning round to face her. She sees that his eyes are bulging and bloodshot, and the finger he points at her is shaking. ‘I don’t want any more out of you, you old cow. It was you landed me in it. I want to see Janice, it’s got nothing to do with you, so you’d better tell me where she is.’
‘Oh aye?’ Vera says, stepping inside the room. ‘Or what will you do? You’re a mug, Kenny, do you know that? Straight out of borstal and straightaway you come round here making threats. One word from me, the police would be here in ten minutes and you wouldn’t have a leg to stand on.’ Her voice suddenly rises and she puts her hands on her hips. ‘Now are you going to clear out this minute or do I have to bloody call them?’
‘Do what you like,’ Kenny says. ‘I want to see Janice first. You sent her away to keep her from seeing me, didn’t you? Fucking interfering jealous old cow, that’s all you are.’
‘Jealous of what?’ Vera says. ‘Jealous of you? Jealous of you? My God, I’d be jealous of Quasimodo if I
was jealous of you.’
‘You sent her away to Halifax.’
‘You heard about that, did you?’ Vera says, her head nodding mechanically. ‘Well it had nowt to do with keeping her away from you. She wouldn’t have been up to see you even if she hadn’t gone away. It was to clear up your bloody handiwork, you big dozy lummox. Had your fun and left our Janice to cope on her own with what came after. That’s bloody typical of you, a selfish ignorant pig like you.’
‘Where is she?’
‘If you think I’d tell you—’
‘Where is she?’ Kenny says again. ‘I know she’s not still in Halifax because she’s been seen in Rochdale…’ There is a thought niggling him but as yet he can’t place it. He rushes on headlong: ‘You can’t keep us away from each other. I know she wants to see me—’
‘That’s where you’re wrong,’ Vera says tartly. She strides across the room to turn the television off. ‘She doesn’t. That’s where you’re bloody wrong. Do you really think after what you did that she wants to see you again? You must want your bloody slates attending to. You!’ She screws up her face as though at an unpleasant smell. ‘Somebody who’s been in borstal! Who can’t hold a job down! Who gets a girl into trouble and leaves her to fend for herself!’
‘Look, woman,’ Kenny says quietly but getting really angry. ‘I didn’t know anything about that till I was inside, did I? Did I? What did you expect me to do – break out of the place? And by that time she was in Halifax anyway…’ The same thought continues to niggle him. He stares at Vera, his eyes protruding under the heavy lids, and says slowly, ‘You sent her away to get rid of it.’ He is genuinely shocked by this. He wanders round the room looking at the furniture.
Standing by the television set Vera says, ‘What did you expect? Did you think I’d let her have it? Your bastard? You must be bloody thicker than I thought you were. Do you think I’d allow my daughter to be lumbered with a kid of yours?’ The venom is spilling out now. ‘A girl that age having to bring up a child whose father isn’t man enough to hold down a job for two minutes. You must be bloody joking. I wouldn’t give a brat of yours house-room. What, lumbering my Janice with a kid and her still at school? Your kid? Jesus Christ!’
Kenny comes partly to his senses and stops looking at the furniture to gaze at Vera. She holds her ground but for the first time begins to realise the strength within him and the dangerous nature of the situation. She has to get rid of him, she can’t keep him talking, not with Janice in the bedroom.
‘You fucking twat,’ Kenny says. ‘You made her have an abortion. You forced her into it. What’s up with you, are you mad or something?’
‘Oh,’ Vera says. ‘Oh yes. You’d have kept it, would you? You’d have supported it, would you, on bloody nothing, on sweet F.A. I can just see it – aye – a dead-leg like you, settling down with a wife and kiddie. You can’t support yourself without robbing folk. The way I treated you, as one of the family, eating here, sleeping here, and all you can do is steal money from me. That’s all the thanks I get. I might have known it, a bloody deadbeat like you.’
‘Aye,’ says Kenny cunningly, ‘one of the family all right. You weren’t so bloody choosy when I slept here, were you? Couldn’t keep your hands off me dicky—’
‘Shut up,’ Vera says. ‘Shut your fucking dirty mouth. And get out. Get out, I’m calling the police. I mean it this time.’
‘Jealousy, that’s all it is. I knew it.’
‘I will,’ Vera says. ‘I will call them,’ going for the telephone. Kenny moves forward, not standing in her way, but adopting an attitude which makes her think twice. She stands with her white strained face, arm reaching out, uncertain what to do.
‘Go on,’ Kenny says. ‘Fucking call them. Go on.’ He would really like her to do it because it is the excuse he needs. Their mutual hatred feeds on itself: the absolute repulsion of two people who have once liked each other. Strangers could not have loathed each other with half the intensity.
‘I will,’ Vera says.
‘Go on then.’
‘Don’t kid yourself I won’t do it.’
‘I know you will,’ Kenny says. ‘I wouldn’t expect anything else of a slag like you. That’s why I feel sorry for Jan, being brought up by somebody who trades it all over Rochdale. What do you charge, Vera, five quid a night and ten bob for a quick knee-trembler? Christ, it’s a wonder they don’t need climbing boots and a rope-ladder when they have a go at you. Course they can always get help from the blokes already in there. Stand on each others’ shoulders and form a rescue party.’
‘Right,’ Vera says. ‘Out of my way.’ She swings at him and Kenny parries it easily. He raises his fist as if to strike her. ‘You just bloody do,’ Vera says. ‘I can have you right now for breach of the peace. You lay a finger on me and it’ll be assault as well.’
‘Yeh?’ Kenny says. ‘You’d better make sure you’re in a fit state to call the police.’
‘What?’ Vera says. ‘What? You threatening me? Are you bloody stupid or something? You’ve only just been let out and you’re asking to be shoved right back inside – only this time it won’t be just borstal.’
‘That won’t help you though, will it?’ Kenny says.
‘Don’t talk so bloody daft,’ Vera says.
‘No…’ Kenny says, and stops. He has noticed a cardigan on the arm of a chair. It is Janice’s cardigan. He looks swiftly round the room, realising how stupid he has been, and sees two half-empty beakers of tea on the coffee table. ‘She’s here,’ he says, going out quickly before Vera can get in his way, along the passage to the door of Janice’s bedroom and grasping the handle. It is locked. Vera comes up behind him. ‘Don’t open the door,’ she calls out in a voice thin with panic. ‘Come on, you bloody bastard,’ getting hold of his arm and trying to drag him away.
‘Jan?’ Kenny says.
‘Don’t open the door,’ Vera says, striking him on the shoulder.
‘Jan, it’s me,’ Kenny says. He hunches his body to protect himself from Vera’s attack, then, losing his temper, suddenly snarls and lashes out backwards with his fist. Vera is thrown against the wall.
‘I’ll get the police, Janice, I’ll get the police. Don’t open the door.’
‘Jan, open the door,’ Kenny says, ‘it’s me, Kenny.’
‘Janice!’ Vera screams.
‘Fuck off,’ Kenny yells, swinging at her again and missing. She tries to kick him but Kenny thumps her in the chest and she falls on the floor.
‘He’s attacking me, he’s insane,’ Vera screams. ‘Don’t open the door whatever you do.’ She gets to her feet and runs into the living-room.
‘Are you coming with me, Jan?’ Kenny says. ‘Don’t be scared, she won’t hurt you. Are you all right? I know about the kid, I know she made you get rid of it. It doesn’t matter, honestly. We can still go away, the two of us. Don’t be frightened of your mother, she won’t hurt you. Janice? Janice?’ He bangs on the door with his fist. He can break the door down easily, he knows that, he can handle that without any trouble. What he can’t understand is why she won’t answer him. Why won’t she talk to him? He feels strangely weak because of this. The least she can do is talk to him after all he’s been through. He can hear Vera speaking in the living-room. He bangs on the door again, becoming desperate. This is the one thing he has; the rest doesn’t matter if he has this. She can’t let him down, she can’t do, it isn’t fair. He’s done his share, he’s waited two months, he’s counted the days.
‘Janice,’ Kenny yells. ‘Open this fucking door!’
There is a sound he can’t identify – yet something human – behind the door. He grasps the handle but doesn’t attempt to force it.
‘Jan,’ Kenny says in a quiet, reasonable voice, ‘please open the door. I only want to talk to you. Look, if you don’t want to come away with me it’s all right. I’m not going to force you or anything. Let me just talk to you at least. Your mother won’t touch you, honestly, I promise.’ He waits for a
moment. There is another sound behind the door, as though somebody is standing very close to it, leaning on it, yet almost not daring to breathe. Kenny puts his mouth to the door; there can be no more than an inch or so separating them.
‘Jan?’ he says softly. He can hear breathing.
‘Go away,’ Janice says.
In the living-room Vera has put the phone down and is lighting a cigarette to steady her nerves. She takes a long deep drag and looks at her watch.
‘Jan,’ Kenny says. ‘For fuck’s sake.’
‘They’ll be here any minute,’ Vera calls out. ‘Then we’ll see how tough you are. Striking a woman, that’s just about your bloody mark.’
Kenny slams the door once with his fist and runs out of the flat and down the stairs. It is now completely dark and the yellow street-lights are shining palely as the cold northern night comes on; it isn’t raining but there is the threat of it in the air. He looks towards town and then walks along Bury Road in the opposite direction.
Rochdale Observer, 2 February 1974
BOROUGH MAGISTRATES
WEDNESDAY
PROBATION OFFENCE – K______ H______, aged nineteen, of no fixed address, was, sent to Manchester Crown Court to be dealt with for a breach of probation. The order had been made by the court in March 1973 when H______was convicted of burglary and theft. He was ordered to report to Rochdale probation officer, Mrs Jean Greenhalgh. But Mrs Greenhalgh told magistrates H______ had failed to report to her from last May. He had given himself up to the police at Kidder-minster, she added.
AFTERWORD
USUALLY I HAVE ONLY THE HAZIEST NOTION OF HOW A particular novel came to be written – the spark that ignited the idea in the first place. This one is the exception; I know exactly when and where and even why Rule of Night came into being.
It was one Saturday afternoon in the early Seventies. I was standing on the terraces at Spotland, a keen Rochdale supporter (someone has to be; we each have our cross to bear), though from a distance of 30 years I can’t remember who we were playing that day. In the novel I reprinted an item from the Rochdale Observer, ‘Soccer Mob Runs Wild’, about a match against Blackburn Rovers (imagine – the Dale playing Blackburn Rovers!) when ‘a mob of about 100 Rovers supporters’, according to the report, ran amok through the town centre, breaking windows and creating other kinds of mayhem. Although I’m pretty sure this wasn’t the afternoon or the match in question, no doubt I drew on it as useful fodder and background for my book. This was the era of the ‘bovver’ boy, usually a skinhead: a new breed of identifiable hooligan with his cropped hair/shaven skull, braces on display as a fashion accessory, jeans cut off below the knee and bulging, menacing Doc Marten bovver-boots. You could spot his type coming a mile off – thank goodness – which gave you time to cross the road out of harm’s way.