Ironopolis

by Glen James Brown

  ‘I voted yes,’ Frank says.

  ‘For regeneration?’

  ‘For regeneration.’

  ‘Regeneration,’ Vincent says. ‘They mean knock it down.’

  ‘We get one of the new houses when they’re done,’ Frank says. ‘You can too, with the money they’ll give you.’

  ‘And where’ll I go while they’re regenerating?’

  ‘They help you find somewhere. We’re moving next month.’

  ‘Where to?’

  ‘Over the river, to Billingham.’

  ‘That’s fair distance.’ Vincent looks at Scott. ‘I’ll bet you’re over the moon about that, aren’t you, sunshine?’

  ‘No,’ Scott says.

  ‘I’ll bet you’re proper fucking made up with your dad here, for uprooting you?’

  Scott says nothing.

  ‘So you’ll have to change schools?’

  Scott nods.

  ‘Will your mates be going?’

  Scott shakes his head.

  ‘You got a lass?’

  Scott nods.

  ‘And is she going with you?’

  Scott says nothing.

  Vincent whistles. ‘Fuck me. Sorry, son.’

  ‘Anyway,’ Frank says, ‘this side of the estate’s the last phase, so you’ve got a while yet.’

  Vincent’s eyes narrow. ‘And then what? You think I’ll be selling up and moving out? These slick cunts with their clipboards reckon they can swoop in and take what’s mine? I bought this place off the council, fair and fucking square…’ He stares at his boots. When he speaks again his voice is softer. ‘It’s all going away, isn’t it?’

  Frank answers as blandly as possible. ‘I don’t know.’

  A switch flicks and suddenly Vincent’s animation and brightness once more. ‘Well, enough morbid shite! Where were we?’

  There are two possible exits from the room. The back door and the door they came through. That one at least, Frank knows, isn’t locked.

  Vincent says, ‘We’ll get to your boy in a second, but first I need one final favour.’

  ‘It’s getting late,’ Frank says.

  ‘It’s not that late, Frank. Look, we do this, Scott says his piece, then we shake hands and off we all fuck. Deal?’

  ‘We really need to be off.’

  ‘Ah, Frank. Five minutes.’

  ‘What is it?’

  Vincent smiles. ‘Good man. This is a quickie, no heavy lifting, scouts honour. It’s to do with the coming of Amadeus, Ludwig’s replacement. I like giving them names like that. It lends an air of sophistication.’

  Frank thinks of Ludwig chewing on a human testicle, and nods.

  ‘I can’t be without a dog,’ Vincent says. ‘Never have, never will. It’d be like being without my cock. I mean, what would I play with?’ He laughs at the joke. ‘My mate Beech is sorting me out with an Irish wolfhound, a big bastard.’

  Something is coming, Frank thinks. Something is coming, but what?

  Vincent says, ‘I’ve always kept dogs outdoors. That’s where beasts belong, but as I was just saying, I’m going a bit soft. I’m finding myself craving company at nights, so I’ve decided Amadeus is going to be able to come and go as he pleases.’ Vincent produces a stub of pencil from his waistcoat. ‘Which is why I’m putting in a dog door.’

  Frank scrambles to find Vincent’s angle.

  ‘Thing is, though,’ Vincent says, ‘I can’t get hold of Beech to ask him exactly how big Amadeus is. Sackless of me, really. I don’t want to put all the graft in then realise the hole’s too small, or worse, that I’ve sawed a massive fucking hole in my door.’

  ‘So what do you need?’ Frank asks.

  Vincent licks the tip of the pencil. ‘So what I need you to do, Frank, is be a dog.’

  Frank is back at the bottom of the well, in a universe of mildewed darkness, watching himself move in slow motion.

  ‘I reckon a grown man on all fours is about the same size as a wolfhound. Get down on your hands and knees and I’ll mark you off.’ He nods at Scott. ‘Your lad here can be the judge.’

  Frank’s mouth is dry. He knew this was coming, knew as soon as Vincent rang this afternoon, yet he still came. Through all the fights and stress these past few months, his argument for moving had been that he was doing it for the good of the family, that he was doing what any decent, responsible father would do. But dragging his son here, into this kitchen…that wasn’t responsibility. That was something else entirely.

  ‘Maybe I’ll take you on a quick lap of the kitchen too,’ Vincent says.

  ‘Vincent, this isn’t happening.’

  Vincent stands straight. His head almost touches the ceiling. He picks up Ludwig’s collar and leash.

  ‘But Frank,’ he says, ‘I’m not asking.’

  —

  Rob cracked first. Frank’s mam was friends with his mam, and he’d only been in the house half an hour before the phone rang and, a few minutes later, his name was being shouted up the stairs. Bernie, his dad, was at the kitchen table, his hands spread wide either side of the empty fruit bowl, and his mam – who had supposedly packed them in for New Year – was stubbing a cigarette out in the sink.

  He was in for it.

  As he spilled his guts, his parents’ eyes formed a protective glaze against the calamity their only son had brought to bear. When Frank started in with the excuses – I had nowt to do with it, I’m just a hanger on, I don’t even like Tommy Greener – his dad put his hands over his face. His mam reached for her cigarettes.

  ‘Why him?’ Bernie groaned. ‘Why his boy?’

  A decent question, asked at the wrong time.

  Frank shrugged.

  The next day, his father rang Vincent. Vincent didn’t want to talk over the phone, so Bernie said he and Frank would go over. When Frank refused, Bernie literally dragged him there. It was the first and only time his dad had ever laid hands on him, a fact which exponentially deepened Frank’s trepidation as he was marched across the estate.

  ‘Don’t bullshit him,’ Bernie said. ‘He’ll know if you bullshit him. Just put your side across – things got out of hand, you were the one what saved him, right?’

  In the Barr front yard, cement mixers showed the knock-through was underway, but no renovation was being done that day. The house was shut up, dead.

  His dad banged on Vincent’s red door and while they waited, Frank recalled some of the juicier Vincent rumours he’d heard down the years: that the man slept with a machete under his pillow, that he’d broken a card cheat’s spine in a poker game. That he had two hearts. Insane stories, but at that moment Frank believed them all.

  They heard footsteps and locks turn and then Vincent was standing before them.

  His dad started talking – Hello, I’m Bernie Hulme and this is my son Frank. We spoke on the phone earlier and… – but Vincent kept schtum. Despite himself, Frank felt a frisson of excitement. He’d never been this close to Vincent before; his long black hair was etched here and there with comet-tails of white, and his teeth, flashing occasionally from within the thicket of his bushy black beard, were those of a conger eel. But more than anything, it was the eyes. Twin blue Calor-gas flames flickering all over him.

  Vincent retreated into the house and left his dad hanging mid-sentence, so they followed. Inside was gutted: bare boards, stripped plaster, loose wiring snarling from the walls. The dividing wall had been brutally sledgehammered and the ceiling propped up on telescopic jacks. The place reminded Frank of the waterworks the rare times he and his friends had dared creep inside. Vincent’s footsteps receded towards the back of the house, and every few seconds his dad glanced over his shoulder to ensure Frank was still behind him.

  The back room, like the rest of the house, was a husk. Lengths of timber stacked alongside tubs of plaster and pri
mer and white spirit. A power drill cord snaked between a few scattered Guinness crates being used as furniture. Godbeams of sunlight flooded through bare windows and engulfed the room, engulfed Vincent, who was waiting for them along with a woman. Vincent’s wife, Alan’s mother. So small was she next to Vincent that she appeared almost as an optical illusion, a trick of perspective. She was rolling her shoulders as if about to step into the ring.

  ‘This him?’ she said.

  ‘Jean,’ said Vincent. ‘Calm.’

  She stalked right up to Frank and locked her furious eyes on his. ‘What kind of human being does what you did?’ she hissed. Frank had never had so much rage directed towards him, and he was suddenly acutely aware of his own heartbeat, his breathing, all his internal rhythms clattering against each other.

  ‘Hey,’ she said. ‘I asked you a question.’

  His dad put a hand on his shoulder. ‘Jean, I–’

  ‘Don’t Jean me, Bernie,’ she said. Fat tears trembled on her eyelashes. ‘He crawled home. Literally crawled. They say he might not walk right ever again.’

  ‘He’s alright?’ Frank said. Only then did it dawn on him he had been entertaining ideas otherwise.

  ‘ALRIGHT?’ Jean screamed, ‘Oh you rotten shite! You awful, cowardly rotten shite!’ Her spit landed on his cheek. Vincent guided her out of the room. Frank heard them talking quietly in the hallway.

  ‘Five minutes, son,’ his dad said as Frank wiped his cheek.

  Vincent came back alone, pointed at Frank. ‘Right, talk. Now.’

  So he talked, just as his dad had told him to: about Tommy’s game and the football, and how he didn’t know what they were planning. How he – Frank – had been the one who’d pulled Alan – saved Alan – from the well. He explained that all the other boys had ran and then how he, too, had finally ran, abandoning Alan to darkness and fate, bleeding and alone. Frank knew he had to meet Vincent’s gelid eye while he said these things, but it was orders of magnitude harder that it had been with Jean.

  Vincent listened pensively. When Frank finished, he sighed. ‘I know what you see when you see Alan,’ he said. ‘You see weakness. Softness. You laugh, don’t you, when he minces by?’

  ‘No, sir,’ Frank said.

  ‘You think he’s ripe for humiliating. Don’t think I don’t fucking know.’

  Out of the corner of his eye, Frank saw his father. He looked nervous.

  ‘And you know what?’ Vincent went on. ‘You’re right. Sometimes I look at him and I’m like, who the fuck are you?’ He loomed over Frank. ‘But the thing is, he’s got my name and that means something. That means when you humiliate him, you humiliate me.’ He bent down, those magnetic eyes of his filling the world, and Frank began to shake. ‘So remember this – when you see my boy, you see me. You. See. Me. And next time you think about pushing him, know it’ll be me pushing back, and I’ll fucking murder you.’

  ‘You can’t say that,’ his dad said.

  The black beam of Vincent’s rage swung onto Bernie. ‘You’re telling me what I can and can’t say in my own house?’

  His dad held his hands up. ‘All I meant was, that was a little strong. He’s just a boy.’

  ‘So he’s not accountable for what he’s done?’ Vincent took a long step towards him.

  ‘No, yes, of course he should be…It’s just, like I said he–’

  ‘You’re a bit on the small side, aren’t you Bern?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Small. You. See, them trousers Alan had on were brand new. Jean just got them last week, and C&As aren’t cheap. They were ripped all up the leg and the blood, well, I know from experience that doesn’t come out in the wash.’

  Vincent’s boots on the floorboards sounded like boots in old Westerns: the haunted outlander from the Wastes who pushed through the batwings and hushed the saloon. His father backed away.

  ‘Now,’ Vincent said, ‘I don’t see why I should have to fork out for another pair just because your spotty, cunt kid reckons he’s going to humiliate me, do you?’

  His dad pressed up against the wall. ‘I’d be happy to pay for some new trousers.’

  Vincent shook his head. ‘I’ve got money, Bern. It’s your trousers I want.’

  In a watery voice, his father said, ‘I’m not doing that, Vincent.’

  Vincent nodded like this was all part of a reasonable interaction, as if the world wasn’t capsizing. ‘Well, someone’s getting their kit off…’ He looked over his shoulder and winked at Frank.

  ‘You don’t,’ – his father swallowed – ‘you don’t touch him.’

  Vincent picked up the power drill and revved it. There was a plank between two beer crates which formed a makeshift bench. Frank thought about using it, but what if it wasn’t like in the films? What if instead of knocking Vincent out cold, the board broke harmlessly across the compact muscle of the man’s back? What then?

  Bernie fumbled at his belt buckle, kicked off his shoes. ‘Fine,’ he said, ‘you want them? Have them, you sick bastard.’ He was wearing saggy, once-white Y-fronts with loose elastic dangling from the waistband. His fine blonde leg hairs were filaments in the bright sun. His foot caught in his trouser cuff and when he tore it free, the change fell from his pockets. Frank watched a 10p coin vanish between the floorboards.

  His dad threw his trousers at Vincent.

  ‘His shirt was fucked, too,’ Vincent said.

  Bernie, stricken, looked at Frank. ‘Get out of here.’

  ‘Don’t you fucking move,’ Vincent said. With his non-drill hand, he grabbed a fist of Bernie’s shirt and literally ripped it from him.

  ‘Stop it!’ Frank screamed.

  Vincent laughed and pulled down Bernie’s Y-fronts, grabbing him by his testicles. ‘I don’t reckon you should be having no more bairns, Bern.’ He revved the drill as Frank’s father beat wildly against Vincent’s head. Frank ran to the plank, but when he tried to pick it up its unexpected weight sent him tumbling.

  ‘Bernie!’ Vincent roared. ‘You dirty fucker!’

  The urine splattering on the floorboards sounded like staccato bursts of distant gunfire. Bernie crumpled slowly, eyes open but abandoned. Vincent stepped back to shake off his hand – topaz droplets in shafts of dust-dense light.

  ‘I wasn’t going to fucking do it,’ Vincent said. ‘Who’d you think I am?’

  His father cupped himself and turned to the wall. Frank, too, made to turn away.

  ‘No, lad,’ Vincent said. ‘See this well. From now on, when you think of your dad, think of this.’

  Frank had splinters in his hands. He picked up his dad’s trousers.

  ‘Leave them,’ Vincent said. ‘Leave it all.’

  His dad stood up. Frank did and did not want to look at his father’s nakedness. Nothing felt real as he led the way through the house. Outside, they scuttled along the back of the shops, through the late-summer stench of the bins. When they reached the alley unseen, Frank took his T-shirt off so that his dad could attempt to fashion some kind of garment. Bernie gave up after several tries.

  At the far end of the alley, on the Green, came light and voices: laughter, footballs, radios. People settling in for the day.

  ‘Stay here,’ Frank said, ‘I’ll find a washing line.’

  His father muttered something.

  ‘I said stay and–’

  Bernie Hulme walked into the light. The first jeers rang out seconds later.

  Frank stayed in the alley for a very long time.

  —

  Ludwig’s leash and collar hang from Vincent’s tattooed fist.

  Scott is frantic. ‘Mr Barr, I’m sorry I was on your allotment and trampled your roses. I’m sorry for drinking. I didn’t know it was yours and I shouldn’t have been up there and I’ll work for free or do anything you want. I’m really, really sorry, please.’
/>   ‘Shut your kid up Frank, before I do it for you.’

  ‘Scott, go. I’ll catch up.’

  ‘Stay where you are Scott,’ Vincent says. ‘You’ll want to see this.’

  Frank and Scott circle Vincent around the table. Despite everything, Frank feels vaguely ridiculous.

  ‘You remember how this works, don’t you?’ Vincent says.

  ‘You sad, sick old fuck. This whole estate can’t wait ’til you’re dead.’

  ‘What estate?’ Vincent says. ‘Didn’t you vote to flatten it?’

  Frank rotates past the kitchen counter and snatches Vincent’s empty bottle.

  Vincent chuckles. ‘What you going to do with that?’

  ‘Don’t tempt me.’

  ‘You’re a fanny, Frank. Your da was a fanny.’

  Beside his father, Scott looks as if he’s about to puke.

  ‘Go,’ Frank whispers.

  ‘Don’t, son,’ Vincent says and, with a strength Frank cannot even begin to comprehend, he heaves the heavy oak table into the wall. Nothing now separates the three of them. Frank brandishes the bottle and steps in front of his son.

  A man enters the kitchen.

  He looks older than Frank. Jowls and chins and grey-speckled stubble, a belly peeking from beneath a stained T-shirt. Frank is momentarily confused, but then he sees the man’s leg. He’s wearing cut-off sweat pants and there, above his right knee, disappearing up towards his groin: smooth, thick welds of scar tissue.

  Alan is wearing headphones and hasn’t heard a thing.

  His surprise, when he becomes aware of the melodrama unfolding in his kitchen, reminds Frank of the TV soaps he pretends to his wife he doesn’t also enjoy. Behind his thick glasses, Alan’s eyes dart between the three of them. When he grins that bloodless grin of his, all the years between then and now concertina into dust. The cassette Walkman he is listening to is a museum piece snapped to the elasticated waist of his cut-offs; bright orange foam headphones attached to a thin metal headband. Frank catches a snippet of Kate Bush’s ‘Running up that Hill’ when Alan tugs them off.

  Alan holds up an empty glass. ‘I…wanted milk.’