Angel

by Jon Grahame

  ‘Where’ve you come from?’ said the teenager.

  ‘All over,’ said Kev. ‘Last place was Lincoln. That’s where I heard about you lot. What’s this bloke Steel like? Is he okay?’

  ‘You’ll find out.’

  Road signs warned of the town centre and the youth negotiated a roundabout and took a right. At the next roundabout he went straight ahead. Kev saw that a left turn would have taken them down towards the beach, a pier and a promenade that was lined with what had been described as the circus that followed Steel. He was shocked at the number of people. Cars, camper vans, caravans, trucks, were lined up, with awnings raised, plastic tables and chairs set out. Tents were pitched on the gardens that were between the sea-level promenade and the main coastal road above, along which the youth was driving. Steel’s soldiers and camp followers sat in or wandered though the encampment.

  Some played football on the beach, others a game of boules; men, and some very shapely women, sunbathed on loungers; others drank, played cards, laughed, argued. Two or three groups were on a crazy golf course. It was as if the plague had never happened and it was a holiday weekend.

  The youth turned off and stopped in a side street that was a lot different from the bars, shops and restaurants of the main road. Here were the rear aspects of private hotels, businesses and boardinghouses, backyards that had been converted into car parks, boarded up premises waiting for redevelopment that would never happen. The motorbike stopped behind.

  ‘Out!’ said the teenager.

  Kev got out. The man on the Suzuki had his hand on the butt of his gun but Kev was not going to argue. The youth led the way across a yard at the back of a green painted building. He opened a door in the side of a garage and motioned that Kev should go inside. He did as instructed and the door closed behind him. The garage was filled with clutter. Rolls of wallpaper, old tins of paint, stiff brushes. Pieces of wood stacked against a wall, shelves that held jars of screws and nails and innocuous tools; a couple of handsaws and a fret saw hung from hooks, a lightweight decorating table was open and filled one side, and a portable workbench was in the middle of the clear space. A deck chair was alongside it. Light came in from a high narrow window.

  Kev had a good look around but saw that all screwdrivers, chisels and hammers had been removed. A few power tools littered the shelves but, of course, they needed power. A sander was hardly a weapon unless he threw it. Still it was worth looking.

  Eventually, he sat in the deckchair and waited.

  A middle-aged man came for him two hours later, about six o’clock in the afternoon. The man had steel grey hair and wore glasses, but was well built. He wore jeans and a polo shirt. Below the sleeve of the polo shirt on his right arm, part of a tattoo was visible. Around his right wrist was strapped a cosh and he looked as if he knew how to use it.

  ‘Hey-ho, me hearty!’ Kev said. ‘Any chance of a drink?’

  ‘Maybe later.’

  The man pointed and Kev followed his directions through a side door into the main house. Before entering, he noticed his motorbike was parked in the yard at the back. He went up half a dozen stairs, along a carpeted corridor and into a room that had at one time been the bar and lounge of a private hotel. The décor was mainly puce which made him wonder if any of its former clientèle had visited more than once.

  It was a long room with a bay window at one end looking out onto a street that was more prepossessing than the view out back. The room was empty and seemed spacious until Steel entered through another door beyond the bar. Suddenly, it felt crowded. The man had a presence about him. His wild red hair and beard made him larger than life and he was big to start with. Behind him came a man with a face as sharp as an axe, black hair combed straight back and eyes that were dead. He wore a full-length black leather coat. Kev’s apprehension began to grow.

  Steel nodded and the man behind him kicked the backs of his legs and he fell to his knees. As he tried to regain his balance, Steel took one step forward and kicked him between the legs. The pain was immense and he rolled forward clutching his groin and gasping for breath.

  ‘Do not be sick,’ said Steel. ‘If you’re sick on this carpet, I’ll keep kicking your bollocks until they drop off. Then I’ll kill you.’

  At that precise moment, death didn’t seem a bad alternative.

  ‘Now. Who are you?’ Kev rolled and gasped and tried to find his voice. ‘Don’t piss me about or I’ll kick you again. Who are you?’

  ‘Kevin Andrews.’

  ‘Where are you from?’

  ‘Leeds, originally.’

  ‘Where’ve you been since then?’

  ‘I lay low for a while. Then I went to York but I didn’t like it. It’s run by a religious nutter. So I left and I heard about you. I’ve come from Lincoln. I heard you were recruiting.’ He groaned and tried to sit up on his haunches. ‘If I’d known you wanted eunuchs, I wouldn’t have bothered.’

  The man with the dead eyes said to Steel, ‘It’s too convenient. What would you do? You’d send somebody.’

  Kev concentrated on trying to breath normally and not be sick. He stared at the man’s boots. They were black cowboy boots with heels and pointed toes.

  ‘Do you know the place called Haven?’ said Steel.

  ‘Of course. They’re next door to York. Run by another nutter called the Reaper.’

  ‘When you left York, why didn’t you go there?’

  ‘Well, I’d had a bit of trouble in York. Over a girl. And I’d heard the Reaper was a bit of a stickler so I thought best take my chances somewhere else.’

  ‘I don’t like rapists,’ said Steel.

  ‘Neither do I. I’m no rapist. It was more like an assault with a friendly weapon.’ He winced. ‘She didn’t object, but her bloke did.’

  ‘Kill him and be done with it,’ said Dead Eyes.

  ‘Chef, you have no patience.’

  Chef?

  ‘I thought you were recruiting. Look, if you’re not, I can just bugger off. If I can find both my balls.’

  Steel smiled. It didn’t reach his eyes.

  ‘I like a sense of humour. Tell me about Haven.’

  Kev shrugged.

  ‘It’s a small place. A farm, a few houses. But it’s part of a federation that’s bigger. Lots of villages, seaside towns.’

  ‘How many people?’

  ‘God knows.’ He tensed as Steel seemed to be preparing for another kick. ‘Two, three thousand maybe. I honestly don’t know. We weren’t allowed to fraternise. York was a closed shop. Once you were in, you were in. Went to church and worked. It was no bloody life at all.’

  ‘So why did you stay?’

  ‘It was winter. Harry icers.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Freezing cold. I stayed for winter. I turned up in November and they took me in. I didn’t mind the prayers but they had me humping coal. It was hard work. And they’re bloody nutters. All of them. Live in the past. No guns, no petrol, no cars, no generators. Just me humping coal. When the weather changed, I left.’

  ‘After your assault with a friendly weapon.’

  ‘Well, yes. After that.’

  ‘Tell me about the Reaper and his Angel.’

  ‘You mean his daughter?’

  ‘Father and daughter?’

  ‘That’s what they say. It’s not a sex thing.’

  ‘Tell me about them.’

  ‘I don’t know them. Never met them. Only heard about them.’

  ‘What did you hear?’

  ‘That they’re good at killing people.’

  ‘Does Haven or the Federation have guns?’

  ‘I suppose so. I never went there. I know we didn’t in York. In York they have bows and arrows.’

  ‘Bows and arrows?’

  ‘Crossbows,
longbows. Robin Hood. Mind you, you can do some damage with a crossbow.’

  ‘I’m sure.’

  Steel stared down at him for a moment and Kev said, ‘Can I stay?’

  ‘It’s a mistake,’ said Chef.

  ‘Or shall I go?’ He shook his head. ‘I sound like a fucking song.’

  ‘I think you should stay, Kevin. At least for the time being. Take him away.’

  The man behind him prodded him with his toe and Kev got to his feet, still bent over with nausea and pain, and shuffled back the way he had come. When they were back in the garage, he said, ‘Look, me hearty, I’m gasping for a drink and I haven’t eaten in hours. Any chance of some grub?’

  ‘You were in the navy?’

  ‘Boy and man. Twenty-two years.’

  ‘Where did you serve?’

  ‘Ark Royal, Achilles, Deeks, among others.’ Deeks meant the Royal Naval Detention Centre. Kev sank back into the deckchair, still nursing the pain in his groin.

  ‘You were banged up?’

  ‘Nothing much. I just got caught.’

  ‘Were you in the Falklands?’

  ‘I missed the Falklands.’

  ‘You didn’t miss much.’

  ‘Were you there?’

  ‘I was on the Ardent.’

  ‘Bloody hell! You had it rough.’

  ‘Rough doesn’t describe it.’

  HMS Ardent had been sunk in the Falklands War after being attacked by Argentine aircraft.

  ‘Not a lot I can say,’ said Kev. ‘You lose oppos?’

  ‘I lost two. The best. You never forget.’

  ‘I’m sorry, mate. And then the bloody plague comes along.’

  The man hesitated at the door of the garage, as if making up his mind.

  ‘I’m Alec,’ he said. ‘I’ll sort you some scran.’

  He locked him in but came back ten minutes later with a flask of coffee, a bottle of water and a cheese sandwich.

  ‘You’re a star,’ said Kev, but Alec didn’t linger.

  Kev sat in the deckchair and ate. Thank God for small mercies and a fellow matelot. No ex-sailor could resist acknowledging a fellow member of the service. In other circumstances, they would be swapping stories over several drinks. Maybe they would still be able to swap stories. Alec was his best bet for information.

  Dusk was settling when Alec returned. The cosh still dangled from his wrist on its strap and he leaned with his back against the door. When Kev began to get out of the deckchair, he said, ‘I’d prefer it if you stayed put.’

  Kev raised his hands to show acquiescence and slumped back.

  ‘Where do I pee?’ he said.

  ‘There’s a bucket in the corner.’

  ‘Thanks for the food.’

  The man shrugged. ‘What did you do in the navy?’ he said.

  ‘Electrician. You?’

  ‘Chippy.’

  ‘Plenty of work for you now, then,’ said Kev. ‘I’m bleeding redundant.’ Alec shrugged again. ‘What’s the gen about Steel, then? Is it worth joining?’

  ‘Depends what you want. I don’t get to do much joinery.’

  ‘The tour’s got to stop sometime. There’s the population of a town out there. I saw them when I arrived. Sooner or later, they’re going to have to settle down. Then you’ll be back in demand as a chippy.’

  ‘I’m not sure I want to be.’

  ‘You prefer life on the move?’

  ‘I’m still making up my mind whether I like life at all.’

  Kev nodded. ‘You lose family?’

  ‘My wife, three kids. The eldest had just started university. The first in both our families to go to university.’ He shook his head imperceptibly. ‘We were proud.’

  Kev remained silent. This was a loss that deserved respect.

  ‘How about you?’

  ‘Wife and daughter,’ Kev said. He started to smile as the memories returned, then dipped his head when tears threatened. Dampness in his eyes. He’d controlled it for so long that it was a shock that this casual reminder of his personal devastation could have such a powerful effect. The question had been unexpected and all his carefully constructed emotional defences were down. He sniffed and pinched the top of his nose between finger and thumb so he could also brush away any tear surreptitiously. ‘Sorry,’ he said. ‘I’m fucked if I know where that came from.’

  They allowed the silence to stretch. Neither was in a hurry. Kev took deep breaths and put his memories away for a later date. He looked up and grinned at his captor.

  ‘Sorry,’ he said again. ‘I don’t usually cry.’

  ‘Have you never cried? Over them?’

  ‘No.’ The grin went. ‘I always felt that if I started, I’d never stop.’

  ‘You can’t bottle it up forever. It’ll have to come out eventually.’

  Another silence. Eventually, Alec started to speak in a low even voice without inflection.

  ‘It was the same with the Ardent. Guilt, anger, loss. Why them, not me? I bottled it up after the Falklands for years. Then one night, we were down in Plymouth, the wife and me, getting ready for the annual reunion. It was a black tie job and I always wore a proper dickie. Halfway through the night I liked to loosen it, so it hung there like James Bond. You know?’

  Kev nodded.

  ‘I’m in front of the mirror, tying the bloody thing when I started crying. Couldn’t stop. I sort of crumpled onto the floor. The wife sat on the floor with me. She just held me. It all came back. The noise, the fire. I’d been aft and was ordered for’ard. A minute after I left, we were hit exactly where I’d been. Mates gone. We lost twenty-two men. I didn’t have a scratch. We didn’t go to the dinner that night. I never went to another reunion. You’d think that would have prepared me for what happened when the plague came but it didn’t. I still haven’t cried for Rose and the kids. Still haven’t made my mind up whether to join them or not. And that’s another guilt trip. Why am I still here making my mind up? Why not just do it?’

  ‘So in the meantime, you joined Steel’s army.’

  He shrugged. ‘If you can call it an army. Maybe one day I’ll cry and make a proper decision.’

  Kev sniffed again and blinked his eyes. ‘I hadn’t thought about them for a while,’ he said, meaning his own family. ‘I conditioned myself not to.’

  ‘What were they called?’

  ‘Our lass was Alison. Our girl was Bethany. Bloody silly name, but Ali chose it.’ The dampness returned. ‘Bethany was sixteen. I didn’t get married until after I left the navy. She was a corker. A heartbreaker. Used to send me mad. The number of lads I gave warnings to. They called me Mad Jack. They all knew I’d been in the navy, see?’ He took a deep breath and was in control again. ‘All I want now is a peaceful life. And I end up here, getting my bollocks kicked and threatened by a bloke who looks like a serial killer who is called Chef.’

  Alec laughed.

  ‘He’s called Chef because he likes to carve. People. His weapon of choice is a cutthroat razor. He has a lot of razors. He carries them in a canvas bag, all neat and tidy. They’re sharp enough to cut the nose right off your face. That’s what he does.’

  ‘Shit. And he doesn’t like me.’

  ‘As long as Steel says you live, you’ll be okay.’

  ‘I didn’t think Steel went in for torture?’

  ‘He doesn’t. But Chef believes in making an example. He likes cutting off noses and ears.’

  ‘Are there many like him in Steel’s army?’

  ‘It’s not really an army. Just a big gathering. Lost people who got together. Steel happens to be leading it. Those at the top give orders and the rest of us have got into the habit of obeying.’

  ‘And if you don’t, you lose your nose.’
<
br />   ‘That’s always a possibility.’

  ‘I think I’ve changed my mind. Maybe I should have taken my chances at Haven. At least they believe in peace and quiet and minding their own business. After meeting the Chef, village life suddenly appeals.’

  ‘It wouldn’t have made any difference if you’d gone to Haven. We’re going there next.’

  They exchanged a long look.

  ‘And you’re not going as farmers?’ said Kev.

  ‘Steel takes. He has a lot of people to feed.’

  ‘As I said, sooner or later, his army or gathering or whatever you call it, is going to have to settle down.’

  Alec shrugged to indicate it didn’t matter to him one way or the other.

  ‘Are there many like the Chef?’ Kev asked. ‘Blokes who enjoy the violence, I mean?’

  ‘Steel used to own nightclubs. He used to hand pick his bouncers. Always had a good eye for thuggery. He has a hard core of thugs, his storm troopers. Chef is his number two. The rest of us just follow along. Once you’re in, you’re in. Or you can walk away without some of your body parts.’

  ‘Then it looks like I’m fucked.’

  Alec came back when it was fully dark outside. He brought the thermos flask back with more coffee and a bowl of lukewarm stew. He lit a candle stub and remained by the door as before. They swapped stories about their time in the service. About old comrades and outrageous shore leave.

  ‘Why does everybody have to get a tattoo?’ Alec said.

  ‘You’ve got one,’ Kev pointed out.

  ‘An anchor on my arm like fucking Popeye and the tail of a fox disappearing down my back passage.’

  ‘Tasteful.’

  ‘How about you?’ Alec said.

  Kev pulled up the sleeve of his shirt to display a faded banner on which were written two words.

  ‘What’s it say?’

  ‘Mum and Dad,’ said Kev with a shrug. ‘I was seventeen and all these other daft bastards were getting daggers and mottoes like Death Before Dishonour. Death Before Dishonour? I had Mum and Dad.’ He laughed. ‘You’re right though. Everybody had one. I had a cousin who came down to Plymouth for a weekend on the lash and decided he wanted one and he wasn’t even in the Navy. He wanted an eagle. You know, a big rampant bird of prey. We got him pissed on scrumps and took him to Doc Price. He hadn’t a clue. When he woke up he went mental when he saw the tattoo – a budgie on a perch.’