I don’t smack him though. Na. Instead I just get him up against the wall, my forearm across his throat and a fist pressed into that soft bit below his rib, knuckle-first. It’s a power point move some lad showed us inside. He’s bigger than us like they always are, but I’ve got the element of surprise on me side, and anger an all. Proper brooding, boiling, quiet anger. And Wisdom blood.
Then he sees it’s me, he recognises us, and he’s not sure whether he should be scared or relieved because to him I’m just some wee loner streak of piss ice cream lad, but on the other hand I’m the same wee loner streak of piss ice cream lad who just panelled his supposed hard lad of a marrer, the cock of the midden, and now I’ve got him pinned to the bricks like a bloody lab rat.
It wasn’t me he blurts, straight out, the silly twat. He practically shouts it before I’ve even said owt to him.
What wasn’t you?
Eh, he says, confused. Eh? Nowt.
Yes it was, I say anyway. It was you.
It wasn’t. Swear down.
Aye it was.
I shove me forearm tighter across his throat.
It wasn’t, man.
You killed me dog. You killed our Coughdrop and now I’m going to kill you the same way.
Howay, leave us man. It wasn’t me. I’ve never touched that dog.
I move my hand from his solar plexus and put a pinch on him, right at the bottom of his neck.
Aye-az, he howls, but quietly like because even to make a noise hurts too. That’s why the crab is so effective.
You were there though, I spit. You touched the door handle of me flat. You touched me carpet. You were in my room. You breathed my air without my permission. Didn’t you?
His eyes widen. They’re blood shot. He reeks of spliff so I reckon he’s probably getting proper para now.
Divvent lie because I saw you, I say. I saw you.
I’m lying of course, but he’s as good as admitted it already.
He forced us, he says, the little grass.
Who?
Eh? Nee-one, man.
He’s squirming but not very well. I tighten the crab claw and his red eyes start watering. I’ve got him with two fingers. Two fingers and a forearm are all it takes.
I’m going to have to do what ye did to that little puppy.
Nor. Aw, howay man. Howay, he gurgles.
I’m afraid I have to, I say all friendly. I’d feel bad if I didn’t yer nar?
Nor man. Howay man.
Tell us who did it then, I say. Tell us, I gan, even though I know exactly who did it. I just want to hear his name. Tell us and I’ll not spill your guts on this pavement.
He says nowt.
I tighten the neck claw and go, You’ve got three seconds before I gouge your eyeball out with me house keys, you cunt.
Banny done it, he says straight away.
I feel like laughing it’s so easy. But I don’t laugh. I keep a straight face and I keep it close up to his. All me body weight is pushed up against his as I lean in.
Was it long?
Eh?
Did it take a long time?
How do you mean?
Killing our Coughdrop. The dog. Was it quick?
Oh aye. He was out of it.
What do you mean?
He says nowt to this so I bite his cheek hard. He cries out from the pain and the shock.
Nor man. Nor. It was dead quick like.
He’s lying. I know he his. Turning a dog inside out cannot be done quickly.
How did you find us?
What?
How did you find where I live?
I dinnar man. Honest. Looker, I’ve got nee problem with you. You know what he’s like, man. He’s a fucking headcase.
And you’re one of them Nazis an all aren’t you, I go. Want to see me and my lot dead and that do you?
Eh? he goes, and the way he says it I reckon he genuinely doesn’t know what I’m gannin on about now.
You know, I say. The swastika bollocks and that. Fucking loser.
He just blinks his red eyes.
How did you find us, I say again.
I dinnar.
Was it the lass?
What lass?
You know which lass.
I divvent.
Yeah you do. Maria.
He hesitates and shrinks in his clothes, but I tighten the pinch and he straightens up in pain again.
Aye, mebbes. I dinnar. Banny’s shagging her so I reckon it was her. Aye. Aye mebbes.
Why’s he after us?
I dinnar, he says in a voice that sounds like he’s trying to get pally with us or summat. Like he thinks the worst is over.
You know what he’s like, he says.
No, I say. No, I don’t.
His face is pissing us off now so as I say this I let go of this fool, pull back and lamp him in the mouth. It’s a quick fast jab that splits his bottom lip right down the middle. There’s blood. He looks shocked. Then I put another pinch on him. Tighter.
Aw – fucking hell, man.
Reet. One more time, why’s he after us?
Cos he doesn’t like you, does he.
Why?
Just cos, man.
Why?
Cos you’re a –
A what?
Howay man, he pleads.
Say it.
You’re a pikey.
So?
He hates pikeys.
Why?
Just cos.
Why? Cos you’re all a bunch of Nazis.
I dinnar. You know what him and his brothers and his fatha and that are like. Cos.
Cos what.
Cos he reckons you’re a bunch of thieves that live like animals. Reckons you’re not properly English and that.
What else?
Eh?
Why else is he after us.
I dinnar man. You’d have to ask him. Summat about dealing gear and that. I dinnar, man.
I get in this lad’s face and it feels weird because though my eyes are only up to his chin and there’s blood on it from his bottom lip which is torn in two parts, and I say if he knew owt about us he’d know why I spent years inside. He’d know about the Wisdoms. He’d know about me Dad. He’d know about everything I done and he’d think his upbringing was like a Butlins bloody holiday compared to mine. He’d know I had me cock in his lass yesterday. And he’d know that he’s not going to get away with this.
How man, he says. She’s up the duff yer nar.
What?
Maria.
This gives us a jolt like when you jump in an ice cold stream or summat. A proper shudder.
What about her?
She’s carrying his bairn.
How do you know?
Everyone knows man, he says.
I release the pressure point and put together a quick combination. One, two, three punches. I belt him round the bonce down here in this dark alley. This pissdribbling dog killer. He doesn’t even fight back, the soft get. He just sort of stands there all floppy, taking it like a punchbag and looking like he’s going to blub or summat. The povvy bloody brimson. I kick his legs away and he’s down on the floor, a stoned sack of shite that helped kill my little Coughdrop. I give him a final boot and go, Here, this is for what ye done to me dog.
As he lies there stunned and groaning I take my cock out and piss all ower him. I’ve been needing to gan for ages so there’s loads of it. He starts thrashing about and shouting – Ah, howay man – and he tries to get up but I boot him in the ribs as the piss keeps coming. Hods of hot stinking salty piss. There’s so much of it I surprise mesel and I should be laughing but I’m not, because pissing on someone’s just never been an ambition of mine. What I mean is I don’t feel particularly good about it, but like the gadgie says, I’ve started so I’ll finish.
I make sure he’s properly doused then I shake off and zip up.
And this is for what ye done to me cat.
What fucking cat? he says, genuinely surprised.
I gob on him and boot him again.
Tell him I’m coming, I say and then I’m gone.
Down the alley, round the back, off into the darkness of the Scrubs.
*
Jimmy Buckle picked your Dad up and drove him back to his land up past Luton, while me and the bairns stopped on a site near the hospital. Buckle’s eighteen year old nephew Little Tater stayed there to watch over us. According to Jim, Barker Lovell emerged unscathed from the woods. Not even the scratch of a pine needle. Now how do you fathom that?
Big Slice also said the word on the vine was that Barker had bet against Mac that night. He’d arranged the fight and set the odds then he had dropped a bundle on Pike, who he already knew to have killed men in death fights.
And if he believed that he would lose to Cliff Pike, then there were things he knew that Barker had not told him about. Like how Pike and his lot hated travellers and hated the English and especially hated English travellers, and how in setting things up his old friend and trainer had handed him a death sentence and it was only by sheer luck or the grace of God that your Dad did emerge from that quarry alive.
That was all Mac needed to know: Barker had bet against him. He knew that if he ever saw Lovell again he’d have to kill him. But he also knew that he didn’t have that in him any more. That thing – that burning violence – was gone. The flames had been put out and his blood had cooled. Mac had been tamed.
*
Obviously they’ll all be after us. There’s nee doubt about that.
Because I know how this works. They’ll come after us like pack animals. Half the bloody Nook lot. They’ll come after us and they’ll keep coming until they’ve done what they need to do to prove whatever it is they need to prove. It’s the same bloody thing that sent me Dad to madness: senseless bloody violence. I’ve seen it a hundred times ower. And it leads neewhere.
At least I know some people who’ll help us out of this spot. People who understand; who never gan on the back foot neither. People who’ll put us up for the night, nee questions. Those showfolk. Barker and Ned. Me new marrers.
So let them come.
It’s only a mile or so round the back way, across the scrublands, through the trees and over the hill where Nook lads ride their nicked motorbikes down to the river. It’s not long before I’m crossing the water by the bridge down near the old swimming baths and heading straight along the path, past the kiddies play area and the bogs where the willy watchers used to hang out, and up to the race course. I walk the tow-path quickly, smoking a tab and feeling a bit jittery.
They’ll know by now. He’ll have gone back to the party – Shotter – and he’ll have telt them what just happened, only he’ll edit out some of it out. Of course he will. He’ll not mention he took a beating, he’ll just say summat about getting attacked from behind and how he got in some good punches before I took off crying and screaming like a jessie. They’ll be wondering why he stinks of piss of course, but he’ll have some story. He’ll say I hoyed a can of it over him as I ran off or summat; owt to make it a little less humiliating for him. And he’ll be saying things I never said an all. Things about them, and their mother’s too. Dirty things. Nasty, vile things.
It was that gyppo cunt, he’ll say.
And if he’s not thinking straight or if he reckons he’s not getting enough sympathy or the party is too swinging for anyone to get their charver arses in gear, mebbes he’ll blurt out summat like: here, he reckons he shagged Maria an all.
And they’ll all be getting radged now. Proper radged. They’ll turn the shitty music off and they’ll all be stood up and getting vexed, puffing their chests out and draining their cans, trying to out-man each other with their threats, making out like I’m summat I’m not, summat that needs to be crushed. And there’ll be that young lass upstairs sore and sobbing, and gods knows what else going on.
And they’ll get Maria. They’ll grab her and mebbes she’ll say nowt or mebbes she will, but then they’ll get her phone. Aye, they’ll get her phone and they’ll go through the photos and they’ll see me with a sloppy grin on me face, all blissed out in the green cathedral.
So now they’ll all be getting tooled up. Knives and coshes and that, even though there’s only me. And even though they started this.
They started this.
So let them come.
The party’ll be turning into something else now. The mood will have turned. Banny will go and get his brothers, the mini-Hitlers. Mebbes he’ll tell them that the stinking little gyppo get that works for Arty Vicari, the one that won’t knock out gear on the Nook for them and doesn’t send any tax their way, the one that’s been shagging his Maria, his pregnant Maria, that gimp with the git big ears that dresses like a bloody soldier, the one that’s done time, the lad that thinks he can come up on the estate and do what he bloody well wants, is proper asking for it now and is definitely in need of a lesson or two from the lads.
Mebbes the older Bannons, the ones that burnt that Indian lad, the ones with swords and flags on their wall, mebbes they’ll be going, aye, that sounds like a laugh, lets go and batter the little scrote.
Aye. It’ll be snowballing. They’ll all be united in this shared goal. They’ll feel good. They’ll bond over this.
Let them come. Let them all come.
The field is empty.
There’s the odd bit of litter and there are patches where the grass is lighter and more bleached-out looking, but other than that you’d not even know the funfair had been there.
You’d not know that it was only the night before last that the field had been full of screams and noise and laughter.
The rides have been broken down and packed up and carted off to the next site. There’s nee-one about now, not a soul; especially not that Barker Lovell gadgie and his son Ned. Them that know about pride, and what it means to be born into a situation that’s bigger than you and your life, summat deep-rooted and far-reaching.
Growing up all that gypsy pride shite seemed like a load of nonsense that me Dad spouted when he was pissed. It’s only now that I’m beginning to see why this stuff might matter; why travellers feel the need to stand up tall.
Because a world without travellers is a world without freedom.
They were a bit of good luck just when I needed it, them two. Allies. But now it’s like they never even existed. Like they were ghosts from another time or summat.
And right now I’m back to looking out for mesel.
I’m not sure what to do so I turn back and head into town. It must be late because the only people about are the odd student and swaying pisshead, and all the clubs are up the other end anyway.
There’s a mini-cab circling. I wave it down and when he pulls ower I lean into his passenger side window.
Can you drop us off at The Kingdom Hall please marrer?
The Jehovah place?
Aye.
Hop in.
It only takes us five minutes to get up there – a three quid fare – but I give the gadge a fiver and say can you had on for a minute?
He looks at us funny.
I hope you’re not up to owt dodgy, he says. I’ll not be an accessory to owt, me. Just so you know.
Nor, it’s nowt like that. But me Mam’ll kill us if she knows I’ve been out drinking. I’ve just got to pick me stuff up from here. I’m meant to be stopping at me mates’. Had on a minute.
He just shakes his head and raises an eyebrow as if to say, aye right, hadaway and shite you lying little get you’re probably out on the rob or summat, but he takes the money from us anyway and offers nee change.
I gan round the back of the hall and hop over the fence and into the darkness where I’ve stashed me gear, then am back to the car within a minute. Then I ask the taxi fella to take us up to the industrial estate.
He raises another eyebrow as if to ask why I’m wanting to gan up there at this time of night and what surprise is going to be waiting for him when we get there, but he has the se
nse to say nowt. Cabbies are good like that. They just want to make a bit of money and keep out of whatever is happening.
I can understand that.
After he’s dropped us on the corner under a street light that‘s silently flickering on and off in a way that makes us feel totally empty and lonely inside for a few intense seconds, I wait until he’s pulled away before I turn off into the industrial estate and walk down through the future world of steel and tarmac and silence until I come to Arty’s lock-up.
If it were quiet in town it’s graveyard dead here. Proper silent. Proper eerie. I’m not scared mind, because there’s nowt to fear but your own company down here. It’s when there’s people about that you should be worried.
Aye. But I stick to the shadows anyway, just in case there happens to be any prying eyes about like, and then when I get to Arty’s lock-up I crouch down and quietly open the shutters with the key he gave us. They rattle a bit, but not much, then I go straight to the van which is just where I left it. I start it up, let the engine tick over for a moment then reverse it out. As I do I hear a crunching sound. It sounds like when you stand on a snail. I put the handbrake on and get out.
There’s a red Christmas bauble under me tyre, shattered and glinting. There’s tiny shards of silver and red scattered about and it looks stunning in the moonlight, like a stash of uncut diamonds and rubies. It’s funny how if you’ve got the right head on you it can be the cheapest things that look the most beautiful.
A girl’s hair clip. A coke can. Broken glass.
The bauble must have rolled off one of the delivery trucks that drives the decorations out from the estate all year round. Standing there I’m a bit whatsit. Transfixed.
I close the lock-up and climb back into the van.
I’m knackered so I crack open a can of coke and scarf down half a Mars bar in a couple of bites then light up a tab and pull out into the darkest part of the night, that bit when everything goes into slow motion and sounds are amplified and all the little creatures come out from their hiding places.
Pig Iron Page 23