by Mick Scully
‘To register,’ Kieran said across the roof of the car. And he was talking in his Irish accent now. Cool and smiling. ‘To register at his new school. Private. Going to get him educated if it’s the last thing I do. Get in Ash, or we’ll be late for Mr O’Connor.’ And ignoring Geezbo’s attempt at further questions the two got into the Megane and were away. Geezbo stood watching the car disappear into Hobson Road.
Ashley could feel Kieran’s tension. He was trying to control himself. Ashley knew. Not let his anger show. It wasn’t the time. Ashley thought it best to remain silent. Eventually Kieran could speak. ‘So. Who’s that monkey?’
‘Just a mate.’
‘Looks like he should be in a cage. What you knock around with kids like him for? Total trouble.’ He pressed the CD player. Rock music filled the car. Loud. When he had calmed down, he lowered the sound so he could talk over it. His eyes on the road ahead. ‘Ash, I thought I told you no one was to come to the house. Just you.’
‘You can’t stop your mates coming round.’
‘No one is supposed to know you’re there. I told the school you was in Ireland.’
‘He’s not from school.’
‘I could tell that. Looks like he came in from the fucking ark. Crawled off it.’ He turned the music up again. It filled the car, completely filled it. Like water. Ashley could hardly breathe. And Kieran was driving too fast. Overtaking. He shouldn’t be, Ashley knew this, not when you’re on your way to an important job. Then as they approached the city centre, Kieran pulled into Speedwell Road opposite the synagogue and killed the music.
Here Kieran went through everything with Ashley. And again. And as he answered Kieran’s questions Ashley realised that despite what had happened with Geezbo, he still wasn’t nervous, was still excited, wanted to do a good job, do it properly. And he knew that Kieran recognised this. It was a good feeling. He was part of this. He tried to see himself in the wing mirror, but could only catch a bit of his hair. ‘What we going to do about Geezbo?’ he asked.
‘Is that his name? Sounds like somebody bringing up phlegm. Suits him.’ Then Kieran looked hard at the boy beside him, took in the question that had been asked, the way it had been asked, without fear, recognising the problem, no longer the whining, defensive little kid he so often was.
‘Dunno yet. See how things go. Might have to sort him out if he plays up.’
Ashley nodded. ‘Yeah.’
It was cold, but the sun was shining. But not here in this quiet, shadowy place filled with shrubs and ivy. This is it, Ashley told himself, I am here. And he wondered if fear would come, but it didn’t. He felt fine. Calm. He looked around. It was about the size of a cell. He thought about his dad and wondered if he would be proud of him. A couple of clumps of snowdrops were out. It reminded him of the cemetery; there were tons of them up there. There were buds on some of the twigs that overhung the broken fence. Brown ones. Green ones. Some small, black, pointed and tiny. Little black spears. He remembered the story of Gulliver’s Travels. Tons of tiny arrows being fired into Gulliver’s huge body. And no effect. He used to love that film.
He looked above the fence to the back of the old buildings that enclosed this space. Derelict by the look of them. The sun shone on milky brown bricks and black ironwork fire escapes; he counted four of them, just on that side. All with boarded-up doors and windows. Some shuttered with metal, others with pieces of wood. It was like looking out into a ruined world.
He crouched down carefully. He didn’t want to get his trousers dirty but he wanted to follow Kieran’s instructions exactly. To the letter. All he had to do now was wait. He smoked a cigarette. His thighs started to ache, so he stood up, in close to the fence.
One of his fingers had gone septic and that was aching too; the one with the Buddhist word. The I was just a bulge of pus. He sucked at it. Spat.
Waiting. Like in a secret garden. Like in – He heard a noise, just a small sound, from above. A boarded door had opened. A fat man came to the edge of the fire escape. Vest and trackies. He scratched his belly and looked out at the world below him. Ashley pushed into the fence. Became one with the shrubbery. He was still calm. Still very calm. This was the job. You deal with events. You cope. He loved the way he was feeling. It was him and it wasn’t him – quietly watching the man on the fire escape smoking a cigarette. Like a spy. Calmly watching the man on the balcony smoking his cigarette. Waiting. Part of the job. Doing the job. He loved the way he was feeling.
The man threw his nub over the metal balustrade. Scratched his arse. Looked around again. But Ashley was invisible. He knew he was. Just part of the stuff in this place. The man’s gaze never faltered, just moved on. He turned and went back. Ashley looked at the empty space where he had been.
Then the waiting again. Listening to the small sounds of the city that surrounded him. Until – a closer sound – in the passageway. The shrubbery moved. Ashley thought of jungle films, wildlife, a tiger tracked in the jungle, the creature breaks cover. The word was in his mouth. Pricey? But it stayed there. He wasn’t stupid. The tiger emerged and it wasn’t Pricey. A Chinese bloke. Not Feiyang. But Ashley recognised him. One of the men from the Bamboo Garden. Picking winners. Smashed-in nose and roses on his arm.
Ashley was wary. Had something gone wrong? ‘Where’s Pricey?’
‘Give me the bag.’ His Chinese accent was strong. Ashley handed the schoolbag over. The man removed his jacket. Beneath it a shoulder holster with three pouches that he slipped off and held in his mouth as he pulled his jacket back on. He took a mobile phone from the bottom of the three pouches and put it in the inside pocket of his jacket. Then crouched to the schoolbag. He scooped books, football boots, shorts, to one side and laid the holster at the bottom of the bag. Pulled off the leather gloves he was wearing and dropped them in. A balaclava from his pocket. Pushed the books back. And he was on his feet again.
‘Twenty minutes. Don’t move for twenty minutes.’
It was hardly English, just a jumble of sounds, but Ashley understood, nodded. ‘I know.’
Then he was gone. Seconds. It could only have been seconds. Ashley was sweating, a trickle down his back. But he loved how he was feeling. It had been so quick. So good. He looked at his watch. Now all he had – the man was on the fire escape again. Another followed. Younger. Leather jacket and jeans. They were talking, the younger man smoking. Ashley concentrated. Studied them. If they had seen anything he should be able to tell. If they were looking out for anything he should be able to tell. No. If they had seen something they would keep looking back towards him. He’d seen stuff like this in films. They were just talking. When the cigarette was finished they turned and went back to the building. Banged on a door that looked as if it was boarded up. It opened. They went through. No backward glance. They couldn’t have seen anything.
Ashley realised he had been holding his breath. He exhaled. Crouching down again as he did. Like gym exercises. He checked the watch. Start the twenty minutes from now.
The bag was there before him. He touched it. There is a gun in this bag – the words in his mouth, not out loud. And now his hand was moving across the bag. His legs were aching again. He stood up and rubbed his hamstrings. Checked all the fire escapes. Nudged the bag closer to the hedgerow with his foot. Stooped and opened it. Pushed the books aside. Lifted the holster. Looked at it. Looked. Undid the stud on the middle pouch. A box. He lifted it a little. Ammo. Pushed it back. Closed the stud. Then the gun. He rose quickly, looked around, checked again, slowly, carefully. Down quickly and then the pouch was open. He looked. He felt in the bag for the gloves. Put them on. He had never felt like this in his life. Never. He had a gun in his hand. A real gun. Beautiful. He weighed it; light, really light. Looked at it. So small in his hand. So small, but beautiful. Stainless steel barrel, stainless steel sights. Matt, not shiny. He looked at the letters embedded in the steel. MK9 KAHR. He sounded them. Put the sounds together. Made a word. A language. Said it again. Said it again. He would have like
d to remove the gloves and let his skin feel the metal, the polymer grip in the palm of his hand. He lifted the barrel to his nose, and sniffed. Deep. Yes. Sniffed again. His chest lurched. Like a ride at Alton Towers. He had never smelt this before, this faint acrid odour, but he knew what it meant. It had been used. By the Chinese bloke. He put it back in the holster. But then took it out again. He wanted to hold it, properly, like a gun. He remembered Feiyang’s gun hard against Benjy Graham’s lips – very similar to this one, but Ashley knew it wasn’t the same.
He wanted to hold this gun like a proper assassin. He stood, held it two-handed. He pointed. Imagined squeezing his finger against the trigger. He made an arc. Went down on one knee. He wanted to squeeze the trigger, but didn’t. He pointed it at the balcony where the two men had so recently stood. He waited. He had never felt like this in his life. Like sugar in his mouth. If they came out again. Now. And looked down at him – what would he do? He thought about people he would like to be on that balcony. Benjy Graham. Maddocks. He recovered. He had a job to do. And this reaction pleased him. Professional. He repacked the holster in his bag. Checked the back of the buildings. Nothing. Lit a cigarette. Checked his watch. Waited. He recalled a documentary he had seen on television, last year probably, about Africa. Boy soldiers. In this one country they had kids his age as soldiers, mercenaries really, and they were really feared. More dangerous than the men. Ruthless.
Essex Terrace. Empty.
Kent Street. Empty.
Gooch Street. Big open car park. Cars parked in bays along the road. No people.
The long way. As he has been told. Up Wrentham Street. Past blocks of maisonettes. The blue gates of the breaker’s yard. No people. Then, a man in white overalls with a ladder. He props it against a wall. Disappears up an entry. Past the White Lion and the Fountain. Both closed.
Bristol Street. He hears it before he reaches it. Traffic. Tons of it. Buses. Lorries. Cars. Motorbikes. You name it. No pedestrians. He passes St Catherine’s dome. Still no people on the street. Until Thorpe Street. Then people. Not many at first. Smokers outside offices. Window cleaner at the kebab shop. Groups of kids. School’s finished. A group of Asian lads in hoods and trackie bottoms look at him, smirk. And all the time, the thought in his head – There is a gun in this bag. I have a gun. I am walking through the streets of Birmingham with a gun.
Ashley headed for the underpass into Queensway. Dark and dingy and smelling of sicked-up cider, of piss. Up into the Pagoda Gardens. And down into St Jude’s Underpass. Just as dark and dingy and stinking as they all are. The Asian kids were coming through the other end. The way they were walking. Filling the underpass, blocking him off. The penny dropped. If he turned and ran they would get him. He’d have to blag his way through. Then the penny dropped. School uniform. Clean face. Floppy hair. A schoolbag. They think this is me. And then they were upon him. Quick as a stabbing. Shoulders banged against the wall. A clout across the gob. The bag gone. Pockets frisked, emptied, the watch pulled from his wrist. And with a whack to the belly that floored him they were away.
SHUKO
23
Winter is the season of the Water element, but fortunately all that remained of the heavy rains of just an hour before was a dampness that hung so thickly in the air one could taste it. Not that it affected numbers. Fights taking place on the dark nights of winter were often better attended than those of the lighter nights of spring and summer: the cold dark perhaps creating an atmosphere preferred by the punters.
I vary the locations of fights over three or four venues throughout the course of the year. This evening we were using a redundant factory that stood within an entire complex of abandoned warehouses, workshops, small factories. The lights of the tower blocks of the Kingshurst estate, a couple of miles away, were blurred and smudged in the wet air; the roar of traffic on the M6 equally subdued.
Irregular black lakes stretched across the cratered ground designated as tonight’s car park. The beam of Diesel’s spotlight torch briskly swept through each vehicle as she checked with the driver their entry password before her girlfriend, Pauline, guided them with a smaller torch to one of the drier places to park.
I made my way through lines of cars to join her. I like to have a few words with everyone working during an evening. ‘You are doing a good job, Pauline.’ I looked towards the line of lights awaiting entry. ‘About another thirty to get in. We should be ready to start in half an hour.’
‘Before that probably,’ Pauline mumbled. Drops of water fell from her plastic rainhat to slide down her glasses.
When Diesel had seen in the last of the cars she pulled her wagon across to close the entrance. Pauline joined us as we manoeuvred our way through puddles and rows of cars to the derelict factory. Remnants of its working past were still evident: several metal hoist-rests high up on each wall; ceiling girders; some chain-holds still in place. Concrete platforms that had once been ramp stands offered the early arrivals prime positions from which to watch the evening’s proceedings, like those who held boxes in the old Chinese theatres. But mostly the space was empty brick walls and blackened windows.
Knighton had rigged up a circle of light in the centre of the room, throwing the rest of the space into shadow, a very dramatic effect. At the back, smaller lights illuminated trestle tables holding bottles of beer for sale. There were bottles of spirits too, all served in plastic cups. To the left of these were the betting stands.
This was the second evening that I had put Knighton in charge of fights and there was no reason to regret my decision. He managed to find good dogs and had something of the showman about him, conducting each fight with a running commentary. He was very professional in consulting with his judges about when to finish a fight and declare a winner; there were never any complaints about this.
Betting is always highest on Staffs and tosas, both very determined and fearless fighters. The Chinese in particular, who usually make up three quarters of the house, are excited by these breeds.
I spotted Knighton getting a beer and talking to my relation Feiyang and his brother-in-law. ‘Uncle,’ Feiyang bowed his head. ‘You have a busy night again.’ He did not acknowledge Diesel or Pauline.
‘We have, I am pleased to say. Despite the poor weather.’
Knighton lit a cigarette and downed a third of his bottle of Tiger. He looked around. ‘You’ve certainly pulled ’em in tonight, all right. Reckon we’re ready to go?’ he asked me.
‘I think so.’
‘Right, I’ll get things started. Give ’em five minutes then, Dies, will you?’
Cupping her hands to the side of her mouth and moving off into the spectators, Diesel bellowed, ‘First fight. Five minutes.’ Pauline setting off in the opposite direction repeated the call, breathless and reedy.
‘First fight. Five minutes. Place all bets immediately. Last bets now.’
‘Last bets,’ Pauline called. ‘Last bets now.’
‘Confucius fights Red Emperor. Last bets. Confucius versus the Red Emperor.’
In the circle of light the first dogs were being paraded. Each dog was walked through the circle alone, then they were introduced to each other, instantly rearing and snarling; a moment much enjoyed by the punters. ‘The dogs tonight are better than last time, I think, Uncle,’ Feiyang told me. ‘I have been having a look at them. As good as you would find anywhere in the country. The Staffs in particular.’
I knew that Feiyang had attended recent fights in Newcastle and used to go to the big ones in Bermondsey that have stopped now. Many of the London Chinese who used to attend those now come here to Birmingham.
It is less the fights themselves that hold my interest than the reactions of the punters. Some follow the progress of the fight breathlessly. Their faces register each bite a dog sustains, they groan or cheer depending on where their money lies. When an animal locks its jaws on the neck of its opponent they raise their fists and shout for a win. And if a dog is then able to lift and shake its opponent there is a ro
ar from those who feel sure their money has been doubled. There are a few I see who squint, or look away at the bloodier moments, but there are also those who will stare unblinking at the whole spectacle. They may as well be watching the oranges and lemons of a fruit machine passing before their eyes. Feiyang is a squinter, a looker-away; his brother-in-law, Chun, on the other hand, the man in the arcade, unmoved, except for a smile of satisfaction when his dog was declared.
It was in the time between the second and third fight that Diesel came to me. ‘I don’t want to speak out of turn, Shuke, particularly about your relatives, but I’d have a word with Knighton if I was you about your nephew. I know you like to keep up with what’s happening round town, and you might already know. But it was just something he said about Feiyang. About a connection with Crawford’s people. Like I said you might know—’
‘No, that’s not something I knew about. Thank you, Diesel.’
I slipped her a twenty-pound note.
With the agreement of the owners the last fight of the evening now went to the death. Knighton made it an exciting spectacle, exhorting the injured dogs to fight on, pushing and prodding with his gauge stick at any sign of retreat. Usually such fights end with both dogs dead, and tonight was no exception; the last dog to expire is the payout. A few regulars voice objections about matches to the death, but Knighton’s reply is very simple. ‘It’s just like bullfighting, mate, in Spain. ’Cept you don’t end up with no steaks when it’s all over.’
It had been a lucrative night. The punters were all gone and the money had been counted and sent back to the casino. Dead dogs are usually removed by their owners, but tonight one had been left for Knighton to dispose of. He hauled it into a sack and lifted it on to a pallet that Diesel helped him carry to his van. Pauline was moving through the circle of light that had been our arena with a watering can.