Mind Games and Ministers

by Chris Longden

  Chapter 4

  POOR OLD PEGASUS

  The entry doors of Lancaster House had been designed with the most violent people in mind. They could withstand the onslaught of this pillock, Vinnie. And then the penny dropped. Dawn had mentioned his surname, too. Murray. Vinnie was certainly acting like every member of the Murray family that I had ever had the pleasure to know.

  Bloody typical of my luck, I thought. Turning up at the hostel at exactly the same time as a trailer for a Murray Almost-Massacre. I hoped that Dawn would call the police, now that she was safely inside. I doubted whether Neal would have either the wherewithal or the inclination to think of it.

  But now – finally – Vinnie seemed to be slowing down on the physical side of things.

  “Fuckin’ bitch!” He kicked the door, hard. And then, yelped, “Shit!” as he grabbed at his toes. His footwear consisted of some kind of gangsta slipper-trainer type thing. Clearly not as hard-wearing as he had hoped it would be. I tried not to smirk. Hoping that the bastard had broken several toes.

  He half-hopped away from the hostel door. From a few houses away someone’s pet pooch was going crazy. A booming bark. Doberman, probably. And then a metal clang, the sound of a shutter being pulled down. The launderette next to the 24/7 reacting to the sounds of a one-man battle outside. But Vinnie was taking a break from the action now. He was standing on one leg and nursing his toes, as he squinted into the sun and peered up at Lancaster House. Scanning the front of the building for faces at windows and muttering to himself, he decided that he had could cope with the self-inflicted pain and placed his foot back onto the ground, taking a battered packet of cigarettes from his tracksuit pocket and lighting one.

  Michael arrived back on the scene. Crossing the road and juggling his purchases. He called out to me, acting remarkably casually for someone who must have heard the commotion.

  “They’ve run out of plastic bags, I’m afraid.” He nodded down at his rather eclectic shopping combo.

  I stalked past Vinnie and met Michael on the path, attempting to stop him from proceeding any further towards Lancashire House, by speaking in a low voice.

  “Michael, this guy is a fruit cake. The sort who would headbutt you even for smiling at him in the wrong way. You already saw the state of that woman – Dawn. What he did to her. And now he’s just gone and damaged his precious motorbike,” I gestured to where it lay abandoned on the verge, “so he’s not in the best of moods. And here comes you. Some bloke carrying nappies for his baby and Tampax for his girlfriend. It won’t look good to him.”

  “Gosh, no. I suppose it won’t.”

  “So just give me two minutes to figure out how I can get Miss Simpson past him and into the hostel. And then we’ll be in the taxi and heading home. OK?”

  But Michael just shoved his purchases into my hands and then whispered back.

  “Don’t worry, Blackadder. I have a cunning plan!”

  I sighed. The man was so unbelievably out of his depth here.

  Vinnie had ceased the aggro-action now. Rooted to the spot and inhaling deeply from his cigarette, like a starving infant sucking milk from the teat of a bottle. I felt a sudden craving for a ciggie myself, now. Ridiculous. After all these years.

  The change in his behaviour was a little bit disconcerting. Only twenty seconds earlier he had been trying to kick the door down. Threatening to kill Dawn. And here he was now. Almost motionless. The only movements were from his hand and his eyes as he continued to glare at the windows of Lancaster House and then flick his gaze back to us. Cigarette to mouth, and back again. Mr Bad was doing his best to stare us out as we approached him. A challenge. Arms folded.

  He wasn’t a big bloke in terms of height, but he was stocky. The obligatory male Manchester summer wear – the bare chest as soon as the calendar reaches April, the baggy bottoms – pointed to the fact that he liked to work out. He had the abs. And he was good-looking in your hard-man sort of way. A number-one haircut and a flattened nose indicated that he might have some experience of the boxing ring. Perhaps Vinnie wasn’t solely content with smacking the female of the species around for sport. He was mixed-race – Afro-Caribbean, by the looks of it – and had a three-inch-long scar running from one corner of his eye to the edge of his lip. Plus the gang tattoo on the other cheek, of course. And now with fresh scratch marks down one side of his face. Dawn must have fought back.

  Quite the gent, indeed.

  I ignored the attempts at non-combative intimidation and strode towards where he now stood, blocking the door. He chose to develop a hacking cough, snorting hard and then grebbing upon the ground. A globule of phlegm landed just centimetres from my right sandal. Yes, he was a charmer, this one. Well and truly.

  Finally, he deigned to speak to me.

  “So who the fuck are you, then? Some other nosey mate of hers, what she’s not told me about?”

  His eyes were glazed over now, as he gave me the once-over. Giving me the ‘I’m so cool ‘n’ scary that I don’t even register hostility’ performance. And it was the eyes that drew my interest. The pupils were dilated. He was sweating heavily, too. It was a hot day, for sure, but Vinnie’s entire torso was dripping wet. Such perspiration-affliction meant one of two things to me. Either he was going through an early menopause or the bloke was ‘on’ something. I reckoned the latter.

  I caught the sound of a baby’s wail inside Lancaster House. Poor mite needed her dinner. Cue Vinnie noticing what I was carrying. He jerked his head towards the baby food, nappies, Tampax and cigarettes.

  “You helpin’ her out? You’re best keep your friggin’ nose out of it all. You’ve no idea what that bitch is fuckin’ like.”

  I kept my voice cool and steady. Sidestep the accusations. Avoid any arguments.

  “This is the first time I’ve ever met Dawn. I’m actually here because I’m looking after this elderly lady. And your behaviour is frightening her.”

  I gestured to Miss Simpson, still perched on the wall. She was staring directly at Vinnie and looking (rather unhelpfully) not at all scared.

  “So please, can you try to calm it all down a bit? Because, as you can see, she’s very frail. And she desperately needs to get into this place.”

  He took a step closer to me now. Jaw clenched. Trying to be as menacing as possible.

  “I said – you’re best not helpin’ that fuckin’ slag!” He jabbed the lit cigarette perilously close to my face. But I stood my ground.

  Until this point, Michael had been standing next to Miss Simpson. But as Vinnie’s actions became more testy, he stepped forward. I felt a twinge of panic. Michael would be the sort to try to do the gallant thing. And someone like Vinnie would be looking for an excuse to kick off again. Interfering posh bloke asking to have his face smashed in. Michael moved next to me. Placing a protective hand on my shoulder (which I didn’t particularly feel the need for, thank you very much), he spoke in low tones.

  “Really. We're just here to help Miss Simpson. She’s just had to leave her home. We need her to get access to this place. Get her dried out.”

  Vinnie looked over at Miss Simpson again. Plastic bags huddled to her bony chest. In response to his gaze, she took the opportunity to dislodge her false teeth with her jaw, protruding them from her mouth at him in a gesture of defiance. It looked rather freakish. Vinnie glanced back at us, frowning. But the aggression seemed to have melted away now.

  “She a drinker, then?”

  It took me a second to follow his logic. Michael's reference to ‘dried out’ possessed different connotations for Vinnie.

  I ignored him and moved over to Miss Simpson, taking her by the arm and musing that if Vinnie had more sympathy and interest in alcoholics than in his own young family, then maybe that was the best approach to getting the old lady safely inside.

  Michael seemed to be having the same thoughts. He put his arm around Miss Simpson too, guiding her towards the front door. Vinnie seemed torn. Should he swing back into action, view this as a d
irect challenge? Or just let the do-gooders get on with their pitiful acts of benevolence? He spent a couple of seconds more, looking at Michael. Sizing him up. Michael had about five inches on Vinnie. For the first time it occurred to me how solidly Michael was built. “Like a tank!” my dad would have said. “And with real army posture!” my mother would have added. Funny how the politician tag had stopped me from noticing it before.

  Vinnie’s delayed mental processes seemed to be veering on the side of caution. Perhaps getting arsey with this particular fella wouldn’t be such a good idea. Still, backing down wouldn’t come easily to a man of Vinnie’s character. So he decided to engage in a smattering of verbal provocation, instead.

  “Right. So. What are you supposed to be, then? Some gay social worker or summat?”

  But before Michael could respond, Miss Simpson sprang into action. Shaking her arms away from us and turning to face Vinnie, she held her plastic carrier bags aloft, like some geriatric Scales of Justice. Producing an eerie growl from the back of her throat. And then she dropped one of her bags to the floor.

  Pointing her finger at her new opponent, she screeched, “You! You thunderous thug – you ought to be ashamed of yourself! You yellow-livered yobbo! You misogynistic miscreant! The wages of sin are death, remember? And now … now you’re insulting a man of true saintliness! How dare you talk to the minister like that? He is a leader of our flock! He is a man of the News! He is the Minister of the Good News!”

  Vinnie looked genuinely shocked at the outburst. Perhaps he hadn’t come into contact with many demented pensioners. Especially ones who still had some fire in their belly, as Miss Simpson clearly did. I was also more than a little taken aback. Impressed, too.

  Must remember that one. Misogynistic miscreant.

  Vinnie began to sift words in his drug-addled brain for the correct reply, but she cut him off with, “Don't you deign to speak! You should be quaking in your boots before him! He has friends in high places and he would think nothing of smiting you – hip and thigh bones!”

  Michael and I exchanged looks. Vinnie gawped at Miss Simpson. She stooped to pick up the plastic bag that she had dropped and moved towards Michael, nodding at him.

  “Thank you, good minister.” Taking Dawn’s shopping from me and squirreling the goods into her plastic bags, she squared up to Vinnie and announced, in a frighteningly authoritarian voice. “Begone from the narrow gate!”

  Vinnie did as he was instructed, stepping to one side. She pressed the buzzer on the intercom and as the teenage voice answered again, she commanded, “Young Neal – it’s Mary Simpson here. Lady absconding from watery near-death. Discharging myself from duty. Bearing nappies for bairns. Kindly open sesame please.”

  I stalked past Vinnie and caught up with her. Over the intercom I could make out Dawn saying to Neal, “It's all right. It’s only that old lady. You can let her in. Just hope the other two stop him from gettin’ in.” The door opened, Miss Simpson shuffled in and it quickly slammed shut behind her. Vinnie had made no attempt to barge past me, or to try and access the building. In fact, he seemed a little deflated; somewhat disorientated. The feeling was mutual. That little outburst had been the most lucid communication that we had experienced from her during the entire afternoon.

  A few seconds of quiet, and then Vinnie turned to Michael, with a gruff mutter.

  “Look, mate – sorry about … I didn’t realise you were … you know. A minister. And that. Shit. I really need another cig …” He rummaged in his pocket and drew out his pack. Offered one to Michael. “Do yer want one? Shit – sorry for swearin’. I bet you’re not a smoker, neither.”

  But Michael smiled at him. Then nodded.

  “Well, I did kick it for a few years, actually. But I got back into it after service in Afghan. Stupid of me, really.” This revelation startled Vinnie. He raised his eyebrows.

  “Yer what?”

  I grinned inwardly. Michael was a clever sod. Vinnie was intrigued.

  “What do yer mean? Servin’ … the Forces?”

  Michael nodded. Not elaborating.

  Vinnie continued: “Like ... What? Were yer some army chaplain or whatever?”

  Michael pursed his lips, trying to give his best, his most honest, answer. (Unusual for a politician, that.) I was doing my best not to smirk. But Vinnie wasn’t pausing to let Michael answer. Instead, he was rambling on, reflecting to himself.

  “Best chaplain we ever had was in Northern Ireland. You’d have never known he were a God-botherer till you saw ’im in is collar an’ shit. He was sound. But yeah … Shit! Can you believe this? I did Afghan too … Where else have you done?”

  Vinnie offered the cigarette and proffered his lighter. Michael managed to avoid the direct question again. Instead, he flicked his head towards Vinnie’s right arm, “Queen’s Lancs tattoo, isn’t it? You don’t see many of those around.”

  The corners of Vinnie’s mouth twitched. Chuffed to bits. Someone had recognised his badge of honour. And now his smile split into an enormous grin, parading a set of gold-flecked teeth. I wondered when his role-modelling of American gangstas had begun. But, hell. Whatever. Wonders never ceased. Michael had won the bugger over.

  “Hey, my man! Not many brothers recognise that one!” Vinnie tipped his chin upwards. Proud. “Goddit done in 2006 after they disbanded the Queens. Used to get the piss taken out of me after I moved over to Sheffield an’ transferred to the Rifles. Lanky-hating bastard Tykes, that lot were over there. Ha!”

  A booming laugh. Funny man. Michael grinned along with him, and then stopped. Ceased the mirth.

  “So. The Rifles. You must have seen quite a bit of action in Afghan?”

  Vinnie nodded, a cloud passing over his face. He took a long drag of his cigarette and then flicked the ash away. Staring up at the brickwork of Lancaster House. “Yeah, man. Lost a lot, we did. A lot of the lads. Good soldiers.”

  I wasn’t sure whether he was being overly dramatic or if the mention of fallen comrades really had affected his mood so quickly. Either way, the entire discussion was proving to have a very adverse effect on me, causing me to want to rush home and immediately renew my CND membership.

  Time for my own exit, then. I decided to opt for the kind of distraction technique that I would normally employ with Matthew. Although this was less about a three year old sticking Jelly Tots up his nose and more about moving the attention of wife-beater away from wanting to intimidate his family.

  “Here’s an idea!” I interrupted. The conversation had now moved on to ‘Operation Johnny Bastard Towel Head’. Or something along those lines. The two men looked over towards me.

  I pointed towards Vinnie’s fallen motorbike and widened my eyes at Michael. (Take the hint. Get him away from the door, please.) Vinnie glanced over to his machine – to his first love, lying on the faded grass.

  “See! Not only do you two have the army in common, but Michael loves bikes nearly as much as he loves God. Go on, Michael – see if you can help him get it all fixed up nicely.”

  Michael was on board now, telling Vinnie, “Well, I'm not exactly a mechanic, but I have been doing them up for years. Come on. I'll take a look.”

  Vinnie was pathetically grateful. He now had a fellow bike-convert to tell his woes to. As they walked onto the grass, doing the dog-shit dance in order to reach the machine, Michael nodded sympathetically as Vinnie pointed out the damage. Even when Vinnie tried to bring the conversation back to “that stupid bitch’s fault”, Michael expertly deflected the discussion to all things bike. Free to try to get into the building myself now, I pressed the buzzer and waited for an answer. Futile, probably. Neal wouldn’t be able to juggle the hasty arrival of Dawn and family and then a Miss Simpson sort. Multitasking wouldn’t be his strong point.

  So, as I waited I continued to watch Michael. Surprising myself as I realised that I was – quite unconsciously – smiling. These days, overhearing conversations about the merits of road bikes versus sports bikes always made my bloo
d run cold. Yet here I was, watching Mr Politician dealing with someone like Vinnie. Both of them gushing over something that looked like an oil-smeared dead metal beetle lying on the faded grass. Smoking cigarettes and talking the kind militaristic gung-ho crap that I hated. Yes, here I was. Grinning at the Right Honourable Michael Chiswick. Admiring all this. People skills at their finest.

  And then a voice called out.

  “Rachael Russell! Long time no see, so it is!”

  A scruffy old red Vauxhall Astra had pulled up not far from the spot where the men were poking about with the bike. Brenda Kray emerged. A well-rounded woman of fifty-five, with ruddy cheeks and mop of frizzy hair – Brenda looked every inch the stereotypical farmer’s wife. But she was a Dubliner by birth and now a long-term Brindleford resident. With a murderous East End surname. Not really related to those Krays, of course, but she was happy to perpetuate the rumour. Every bit helps if you live on Brindleford.

  I trotted over to her and helped to hoist overflowing shopping bags from the boot of her car, outlining the fact that in the space of the last half hour she had acquired five new residents. She wasn’t too surprised, however, having immediately noticed Vinnie’s presence. She pulled a face, “Jaysus. She never learns … that Dawn. Always ends up back with him. And he’s a total scrote. He is, so he is.”

  I explained how I had happened to get entangled with the Miss Simpson scenario. And that I had enlisted the help of Jake Bamber, bringing the old lady to Lancaster House so as to avoid the Great Medlock B & B Ring Around. She nodded ferociously.

  “Good. You know that I couldn’t give a feck about their budgets. Whether it’s New Banks’ dosh or the council’s. No worries, my love.”