Salt of Their Blood

by Gerald Wixey

  ***

  Sunday lunchtime, Fred and Tommy huddled together at the bar, neither of them looking my way.

  You two talking about me?

  I pulled a stool alongside Fred, sat and waited. My old man shouted over from the dartboard, ‘About time – serve for an hour or so, I’m busy.’

  I stood behind the bar and Fred, after a lengthy, heavily pregnant silence, interspersed with heaving sighs, said, ‘What happened?’

  I glanced across to Tommy. ‘Word soon gets around.’

  Fred’s gormless grin had gone home for the day. Deadly serious he asked, ‘Someone told us what he had in his hand, why didn’t you report it? It’s still not too late.’ We stared at each other; finally he shrugged and glanced towards my old man.

  I nodded towards dad and whispered, ‘He’ll kill him. Please don’t tell me you’ve told him?’

  ‘Do I look that stupid? Tell me what happened?’

  I took my eyes back across to Fred, a small shake of my head and I avoided Fred’s question. ‘I had no choice – he won’t do it again.’

  He mirrored me, shaking his head, a despairing, slow shake. ‘I’m surprised Kathy didn’t make you report it.’ Tommy leaned across the bar and whispered, ‘Remember what I fucken said, one hair on her head harmed and you’re in big trouble. Why didn’t you report it?’

  ‘What, just like you would have done?’ Tommy blinked, stared at me for a few seconds and then looked away. I said, ‘I didn’t want to worry her, she doesn’t know. She never saw what he had in his hand and I don’t want her to find out either.’ I stared his way before saying, ‘Kenny’s like a lot of people around here; he’s only dangerous in a pack.’ Tommy stood and leant against the counter, his back to me, Fred shook his head again and said, ‘Be careful.’

  ***

  My old man huffed and sighed his way through tea; all of his socialising took place when beer was being sold. Get togethers occurred around a table in the public bar. Mum was the opposite; comfortable and relaxed, made all the easier by her obvious empathy and liking for Kathy which went way back, and her dislike of Kenny which went even further back. Mum wanted us to move in with them, and was disappointed after she made that offer and Kathy’s quietly assertive ‘no thanks Peggy’ came back across the table. Mum didn’t even see Shirley’s absence as permanent; they talked most days now over a pot of coffee. Like my old man, I found afternoon tea a little awkward, until a late afternoon thunderstorm curtailed our little soiree and brought some mutual relief. Mum went to her customary sanctuary in the cupboard under the stairs. The lightening she saw as a malevolent spirit following her throughout the house, turning corners, up the stairs and along the landing – it always found her. Even sat in her cupboard, eyes shut, hands over ears, she’d convinced herself that the forks could undo cupboard doors and strike her down.

  We sat in gloomy silence, my old man intimidated by no-one apart from mum. He never understood her phobia, ‘I don’t believe it,’ dad shook his head, ‘Herman Goring’s fucking Luftwaffe didn’t scare her…’

  He glanced sheepishly across to Kathy, not apologizing exactly for his profanity, but at least recognizing a woman was in the same room. I smiled at his awkwardness.

  Kathy said ‘It’s no wonder she’s frightened of lightening.’ My old man stared at her like she was a biblical prophet about to deliver something profound, which as it happened, she did. ‘Working in amongst all those anti-aircraft batteries, all those searchlights and all that Flak – it’s no wonder Peggy hates lightening. I’m going to sit with her.’

  Kathy stood and walked away, I watched her and my old man stared at me – she was a biblical prophet – why didn’t we think of that.

  More silence; he felt uneasy being alone with me. I always asked awkward questions, or he’d imagine I was going to ask an awkward question. I didn’t like to disappoint him. ‘Why did Ron blackmail Jack?’

  A neat sidestep; I’d thrown him completely. My old man frowned and looked away and talked to the floor. ‘Why do you think?’

  ‘He was a deserter.’

  Dad laughed, a raucous, smoker’s cough-induced rattling guffaw. He pointed to his back and I stood, went around behind him and gave him a couple of sharp ones between the shoulder blades.

  ‘All right, steady on… not so hard.’ His breathing slowed and the coughing stopped enough to allow him the luxury of a deep lungful of air. ‘He was in military intelligence. Deserter, don’t be stupid. Anyway, you should ask Jack.’ I said nothing, just stared at him. Eventually he said, ‘Don’t tell anyone this.’ Dad’s eyes went around the room, ‘Ron called Jack a nancy boy, threatened to tell the world and his wife.’

  ‘But if he wasn’t then what’s the problem?’

  ‘He is – that is the problem.’ My old man lit a cigarette, snorted the smoke out through his nose. ‘Ron spotted some little poof leaving Jack’s house. Don’t forget it was illegal then.’

  ‘Why did it stop then?’

  My denseness masking the obvious, dad sighed, as if I’d turned back into a six year old. ‘When Ron came out of prison, the good old Labour government had made it legal for some reason. Oh, and I punched Ron a couple of times as well.’

  ***

  I would have preferred to stay in, or at least go into Oxford for the night. Kathy’s scowl was eloquently reinforced by her assertive words, ‘I’m not giving in to anyone.’ Followed by the look, we live here and we go out as normal.

  We strolled around the market place on a Saturday night, arm in arm, reassured by the feeling of normality that went with that special act. Not a backward step from Kathy and we went down the Lamb. I understood Kathy’s attitude, but felt uneasy about the whole thing, expecting another confrontation in every shadow. For the last few weeks, it felt as though I’d lived my whole life on a cliff edge. It left me constantly alert to a punch between the shoulder blades, or worse.

  As we strolled home, it rained softly, not a cold endless autumn drizzle, but nonetheless, it felt like the last act of an endless summer. The rain whispered down, car headlights glistened off the slate grey-coloured road. We strolled into a stubborn miserable little wind. My heart dipped along with the sun, an end of summer, a beginning of… What?

  We hustled through the mill coatless, the dim streetlight catching raindrops glistening from Kathy’s cheekbones, a sound – just our footsteps?

  We walked on and into the darkness; a heavy silence as we stopped and kissed in the rain. I jumped at an imagined sound; a familiar wheezing noise, something in the corner of my eye. A movement towards me, my reflex away from danger. I had a bottomless instinct for survival as something heavy glanced across my head, just above my right ear. My world spun off its axis; explosions went off in my head. I had the strength of the insane and I grabbed hold of a distinct-smelling, dirty old donkey jacket. Another blow, then I slid down, spinning, and then the smell of wet earth. Down and down, not so much in slow motion, more freeze frame; a steel band tightening around my throat and chest and a thought, whatever else did you think was going to happen?

  A small voice inside my head saying this over and over again.

  Whatever else did you expect?

  Bizarrely, in amongst the carnage, there was still time to speculate about a familiar sickly sweet smell, wholly incongruous, an unnatural, indoor smell. Still more time to imagine a woman’s scream and Kathy’s head falling like a broken doll, attacked by some genus of lunatic, then a silent entombment.

  Nothing.

  Chapter 13

  1960

  ‘I’m following them. Coming?’

  I shook my head. ‘They’ll see you coming a mile off.’

  ‘Why?’

  I stared at the bandages, ‘You might as well have a belisha beacon sat on the top of your head. It’s a bit of a giveaway.’

  ‘They won’t see me. Ron’s got a crow bar under his arm.’

  I shook my head. ‘I’ve got to help my old man
.’

  The trouble was, I couldn’t see his face. Usually Declan was so easy to read; his expressions often resembling an old silent screen actor. Now I got nothing. Anyway, I didn’t want to see his disappointment. He was my friend and he always did what I wanted.

  ‘See you later.’

  I nodded and turned back indoors. The nagging doubt that he was myopic in the one eye he had left. The other needed strong glasses, which he didn’t have. How on earth could he track anyone? I glanced back and watched his twisted, scampering trot through the allotments. He disappeared behind the willow trees, out of sight and out of my head.

  ***

  I crept through into the bar a lot later than usual. Stopcock, Jack and Fred did their best, talking about Dudley as if he was sat behind the bar alongside me right now.

  ‘What a fucker – I never trusted him, he’d have the arse out of your trousers as soon as look at you.’ Arthur’s smile exposed his vast teeth, then a glance my way – I’m only teasing master. He drew a smile out of me, slowly, like ink going up blotting paper.

  Fred said, ‘He used to attack my bike every time I went past. It’s a wonder he never shredded the tyres.’

  My old man acted like he’d had a few already; he kept smiling and winking at me. ‘That’s my boy – what do you think, Stopcock. Middleweight or centre forward for the Arsenal?’

  Stopcock Arthur looked down at me, ‘It’ll have to be football. He’s too pretty to fight.’

  My old man shook his head, ‘Fight – you’re joking! He’s got a punch like an angry mule.’ He smiled at me; this grinning version of my old man unsettled me. Every time he came up my end of the bar he’d either stick me with a jab, or massage my shoulders, high as the highest kite.

  He even bought a round; I’d never seen him do that. ‘I’ll get these, c’mon, drink up.’ Stopcock Fred and Tommy emptied their glasses in seconds; even Mr. Goldstone tried, taking small sip after small sip to catch the back end of this invitation.

  Dad rambled on, ‘Small shandy for the boy and a pint of mild for Harry.’

  He looked around the room, checked to see mum’s whereabouts, probably, then rang no sale on the till and proceeded to drink half of his third pint in one go.

  ‘Christ, landlord!’ Stopcock’s mouth opened and he stared for a few seconds. ‘Steady on, what’s up with you?’

  Jack the Scribe look intently at my old man and frowned before saying, ‘The landlord’s got enough adrenalin pumping around him to kick start half a dozen steak pies.’

  Dad kept staring at me, finally he came close, ‘It’ll be all right.’

  Then he broke off as Bernice stuck her head around the door. Her face was glowing red, a woodbine stuck on her bottom lip. ‘He’s not come home – are you going to look for him?’

  Tommy shook his head, ‘He’s always wandering off.’

  ‘You shouldn’t have said he could go out,’ Bernice snapped, ‘His dinner’s on the table, yours is drying up nicely in the oven.’

  She slammed the door. Tommy smiled and the door opened again. Ron, unusually late on parade came up to the bar.

  Dad dug me in the ribs, ‘How’s Kenny these days?’

  I jumped, until I realised he hadn’t addressed the question to me. Ron’s eyebrows arched, I presumed in surprise at my old man’s sudden interest – eventually he nodded and said, ‘He’s all right. Last time I saw him he was, anyway.’

  Ron went back to his beer, distracted in his own unique and glum manner. Often quiet, tonight he appeared different somehow. He stared desolately into his glass, drank slower than usual and a muscle ticked away in his vacant cheek – pendulum-regular. The dog’s teeth marks were still visible, like small lunar craters pushing up through the heavy stubble on his cheek. Ron’s face was tram-lined with fatigue; he looked far away and yet at the same time watchful, as his small angry eyes darted everywhere.

  Ron had taken many knocks; my old man thought that by the way he behaved sometimes, all of them had been around the head. Buffeted by fate, he had missed many meals; six years in a Polish camp meant life held no terrors for him. To survive, Ron had to fight all of this and battle with his own melancholy.

  Beyond bravery, Jack always said – no one agreed with him.

  Ron suddenly said, ‘Right.’ Out of the blue and loud enough to make himself jump. No-one took any notice only Jack glanced across and I must have stared at Ron, because he gaped back; eventually he looked back to his pint. He twitched on, not just his cheek now, but his whole head jerked occasionally. He remained steadfastly quiet, drinking at a steady twenty minutes a pint instead of the usual fifteen. At six o’clock, he ordered another and carefully placed the correct money on the bar.

  This got the attention of the others. Ron had missed his round. An event that always produced abuse and empty glasses directed at the culprit. But, to my surprise, no-one drank up and no-one said anything. Perhaps they were more sensitive than I imagined possible? Jack glanced Ron’s way again, surely Jack would say something? The brightest amongst us – surely he could see that Ron had gone mad. Jack – my last hope, please say something.

  You feeling all right, Ron?

  But nobody said a word, despite the fact that, Ron had usually left by now and taken the short walk onto his allotment to do some weeding for half an hour and then get off home. I panicked, looking at the clock – why was Ron still here? I’d convinced myself that he had planned something awful and whatever that elusive event may turn out to be, it was going to happen soon.

  Somebody talk to him – please.

  Jack started to say something. I never knew if Ron might have been Jack’s intended target, because at that moment Wyn came through the door.

  ‘Good evening, one and all.’ He came up to my end of the bar, ‘Hello young man, how are you? Feeling a bit better, I hope?’

  He smelt of Shirley, as he did most afternoons now.

  Wyn looked at Ron, ‘Evening, Ronny.’

  An innocent enough greeting, but to me it sounded like a direct challenge, an underpinning of the pecking order – I’m top man and don’t you forget it.

  Ron ignored Wyn, who turned back to the bar, while I watched Ron drink half of his fourth pint in one go and then utter his first words for a while, ‘Right then.’

  No-one said anything, I glanced along the early evening line of drinkers, their faces closed, either staring at the clock, the bar or out of the window. Anywhere it seemed, but at Ron, as if his harassed features had become too painful to look at.

  The silence agonised inside me, until Ron made things worse when he said it again. ‘Right then.’

  Once again he addressed this to his glass, which he then drained in a couple of seconds.

  I knew – this is it – it was now.

  Although, I couldn’t see a knife or any other weapon come to that. Ron brought his head up and looked around the bar. His eyes settled on the only one prepared to look his way, a wolf’s grin on his face, lips pulled back, exposing his ugly, nicotineed teeth. No humour in this fixed smile, just a feeding time look about him. He could have been a rat stumbling upon a day-old duckling.

  He drained his glass, which I found strange because he’d emptied it seconds before. Ron looked at me again and brought his fingers up to his lips. ‘Shhh!’

  He stood up and tapped Wyn on the shoulder. Wyn turned, his usual confidant expression in place, despite someone attracting his attention in such a boorish manner.

  Ron said, ‘You flash bastard.’

  There was just enough time for Wyn to register surprise, his eyebrows and top lip both arching as Ron pushed his empty glass into Wyn’s face – hard! The glass shattered and Wyn’s cheek sliced open so that it flapped like an unfastened school satchel. Wider than that, probably; Ron carved it so wide that it fluttered and resembled a pillow case blowing on a washing line. Blood went everywhere, some even went into my shandy, a slender vertical column of crimson in my glass.

>   It came from Ron’s wrist, spurting across the bar and onto my lap. As Ron turned, it gushed over the calendar on the wall. Wyn tried to hold his face together as the blood oozed between his fingers and he slipped down onto hand and knees. His screaming would stay with me forever, high-pitched screams over and over and over – ‘like a stuck pig’, my old man said later.

  Ron pointed and the blood pumped over Wyn, an exultant – fuck you chiselled across Ron’s haunted features. But it was a short-lived triumph; my old man launched a right hook straight onto Ron’s unprotected face. I heard the crunch; a snapping, broken cheekbone sort of crunch. I saw Ron’s eyes roll back and he fell, out before he hit the ground. Euphoria replaced by coma in the space of five seconds.

  The noise brought mum through. She saw blood all over the place, her eyes everywhere, found me – thank god not yours, looked at Wyn holding his face and screaming, then across to Ron, unconscious and pumping blood on the floor.

  She shouted at my old man, ‘Ring for an ambulance.’

  Mum picked up the bar towels and threw one at Arthur, ‘Push this onto his wrist and hold it – tight.’

  She knelt alongside Wyn, prised his hands away from the wound and held the towel against the gaping cheek. Her eyes found me again, she raised her eyebrows and nodded – are you OK?

  Then she said, ‘God, what a bloody mess.’

  A bloody mess? A dream, a nightmare; I saw things that were unbelievable, Jack staring down at two bodies, one pumping blood and the other screaming. He just got his notebook out and started to scribble away in a business-like manner, a hopeful expression that screamed, a scoop at last. Mr Goldstone walked over to the empty grate and threw up; well, I suppose he had, by his standards, rushed his last pint. Fred came back through from the gents, eyebrows arched and alarm spreading across his face quicker than cholera in a sauna. Wyn appeared to be dying and I thought dad had killed Ron. Fred thought the same.

  ‘What the fuck happened?’ His mouth sagged open. ‘What the fuck!’ His worst fears stamped across his face – I’m drinking on duty and two people die – shit creek.