We have loads of time. So we’re not in any rush as we slouch down the street with our hands in our pockets.
‘Did you hear what happened to Roddy Thompson?’
I look at Andy and I shrug.
‘Sure I heard. It was even on the news earlier.’
‘Who do you think did it?’
I shrug again.
‘Dunno. Could have been anyone over there.’
I’m thinking of the gang of hoodies in that dark stairwell who robbed me and kicked my head in.
‘Yeah. It’s pretty grim over there.’
I turn to look at Andy when he says this. After all, here where we live it’s hardly Mayfair.
Andy realises what he’s said and smiles sheepishly.
‘Well, compared to here it’s grim. You have to admit that.’
And he’s right; I do have to admit that.
We continue our slouching walk for a while, crossing the intersections of streets that lead off our road. The street signs are unreadable, covered with multi-coloured graffiti. We see the same indecipherable tags everywhere; on walls, on garage doors, on the post box that we pass. It’s like the way that dogs piss to mark out their territory. I hate it, but what can I do?
The gutters at the edge of the road are filled with fast food cartons, wrappers and plastic bottles and cans. Every now and then there is broken glass. And you have to watch where you’re treading because there’s dog shit on the pavement too.
Even some of the rubbish has a tired look to it. Plastic and polystyrene ripped and torn and grey with dust and dirt, and flattened where it’s been trodden and trampled and run over. It makes the place feel even seedier and more run-down. It just shows how infrequently the council sends road cleaners around here. Wonder if they appear more often where the councillors actually live? Dad says that there’s never any money for anything any more, except there always seems to be plenty for councillors’ pay and expenses and index-linked pensions. And jobs that nobody really understands like ‘Diversity Co-ordinators’ and ‘Five-a-day Co-ordinators’. This last bunch apparently has to make sure that everyone has five portions of fruit and veg a day. Some days I definitely don’t have five portions of fruit and veg, but no one has ever cautioned me about it. Except maybe Mum. And she definitely doesn’t work for the council. Dad gets really angry about stuff like this, he’s always going on about the way things were, but I can just accept that it’s the way that things are. I’ve never known it to be any different.
We pass a wide street as we head towards The Gardens. On the corner of this street, on the opposite side of the road to us, is a piece of flat gravel-covered ground with a couple of old concrete garages. The doors of one of the garages have been kicked in and burned. The other one has peeling paint and a broken grimy window. In front of this garage is a car. It’s a clean and tidy car, even if it is ten years old. A Nissan Micra. It belongs to the couple who live in the house on the corner next to this piece of ground, Mr and Mrs Allen. I know this, because to me and my brother and sister, they aren’t Mr and Mrs Allen – they’re Uncle Jack and Aunty Margaret. Not that they are really relatives, just that we’ve always called them that. Aunty Margaret has looked after all three of us during school holidays while Mum was at work. Before that, she even looked after our mum, while her mum went to work. They’ve looked after quite a few kids round here. They are in their seventies now, but they still look after their house and garden, and I know that the little car is their pride and joy. They bought it brand new the day after Uncle Jack retired. I’ve been out in it with them many times as a little kid, squeezed into the back seat and listening to kid-crap songs on the cassette that Aunty Margaret used to keep in the glove compartment. Happy times, I guess.
A thump, the sound of rock on metal, makes Andy and me turn our heads. There are two kids using the little Nissan as cover, and from behind the burned out garage three other kids are gathering rocks to throw at them. I recognise all these kids. They are about ten and eleven years old. The two hiding behind the car are laughing as the rocks come flying at them. All I can think is that the poor little car is going to be scratched and dented. Maybe worse.
A rock goes way beyond the car and smashes against the red brick wall of the house. I feel that I should do something, put a stop to this before there is serious damage, but the fact is I do nothing. I just watch it all going on as I walk on by. You just can’t afford to get involved in anything like this; everyone knows that. And one of the three bastards behind the garage I recognise. It’s Derek Rogers, and the Rogers family are trouble. There seem to be loads of them living in a house that they’ve made squalid even by the unkempt standards of a lot of the houses on this estate. And they are criminals. Every foul-mouthed stinking one of them. They are noisy, drunken, and clannish to a degree you can barely imagine. To even look askance at one of them is to challenge the whole rotten pack. The mother alone has been inside a few times in the past for theft and the fat ugly sow of a woman sports more tattoos than a San Quentin lifer. The kids all look the same, and they have these slitty eyes so that you can’t help feeling that there’s some inbreeding going on. Doesn’t bear thinking about. It’s just like that film, Deliverance. Needless to say, disorderly conduct is not a criminal charge to this lot; it’s a lifestyle choice. Do I even have to mention that they are brutal and violent? So, however much it’s breaking my heart to see these little scumbags hurting Uncle Jack and Aunty Margaret’s car like that, my cowardly instinct for self-preservation has won over. I feel sick and I want to cry. I’m not kidding.
What makes it all worse somehow is the knowledge that it’s not personal. Not yet. These kids have nothing against Uncle Jack and Aunty Margaret. It’s just unfortunate that this is where their selfish thoughtless anti-social stupid game has brought them. So you really ought to be able to just tell them to clear off, right? What should it matter where they go to make their mischief? But what is really terrible is that it will get personal if Uncle Jack and Aunty Margaret step outside to remonstrate with them. I’m praying that they don’t. I’m really praying hard. For their sake.
I notice the curtains twitch. Please don’t come out, please don’t come out. Uncle Jack and Aunty Margaret don’t realise that it’s a jungle out there. Another clang of rock against metal. I look to where the rock has come from and Derek Rogers is looking right at me.
‘What the fuck are you looking at?’
I’m not going to answer that whatever you might think of me, and neither is Andy. Next thing you know, Rogers and the kids with him are hurling rocks over at us. And we’re putting our arms up as shields and we’re running as the foul language and bricks follow us down the road, unmindful of the couple of cars that pass in both directions. These drivers must be local; they know better than to stop. Then soon enough we’ve left the foul kids and the rocks behind and we’re turning into The Gardens. Rogers and the goblins that trail around with him haven’t bothered to follow us. I’m in two minds about this. On the one hand, I’m glad that we no longer have to consider them; but on the other hand, I’m wondering if they are still hanging around Uncle Jack and Aunty Magaret’s place.
I feel guilty and angry and ashamed all at the same time. I mean, these kids were about ten or eleven years old. Andy and me shouldn’t be running from the likes of them. In the natural order of things, they really ought to be wary of us. But the rules on estates like ours don’t follow any natural scheme. Remonstrate with kids like that, chase them off the way we ought to be able to and we’d have to watch our backs forever. You think I’m exaggerating? I told you about the Rogers family. Any perceived affront to one of them and you find you’re dealing with the whole pack of jackals. If one of the bigger ones were to see you on the street, you’d be praying for the speed of an Olympic champion. But that’s not the half of it. There’s a better than even chance that the criminally violent father of that festering brood, along with one or two of the older yobs in the family, would be at your house battering on your
door before you knew it. And suddenly your whole family is at risk.
But what I think is probably the worst of it is that every aspect of your life would be ruined from that moment on. Like I say, I’m not exaggerating. What would happen is that the whelps from this pack of scum and their hangers-on would more than likely decide to hang out on the streets near to your house. Their foul language, yelling, and generally loutish behaviour would be stressful enough. But there would be the vandalism; the broken windows in the middle of the night; the damage to your car parked in the driveway. They’d be spilling into your garden, ripping out any plants and shrubs. You’d hear them in the middle of the night in your yard and you’d look out of your windows and they’d just look right back up at you and jeer their foul-mouthed, mocking invective. It would be loads of tiny little things. But it would be relentless. And they can keep this behaviour going, fuelled by alcohol and drugs, until you eventually break. Trust me, they will never tire of it. They’re too stupid to tire of it. And they’ll be enjoying it. Don’t ever forget that.
So why not just call the police? Ha ha ha. Let’s not even go there. Life’s too short.
Still, Andy and me, we’ve got a movie to see so we just keep walking, along the path and through The Gardens. Like I’ve said, it’s getting dark now, but we’re not worried about walking through here. And besides, we’d have to walk about half a mile more if we didn’t.
‘Be good if somebody would just take the Rogers family out, wouldn’t it?’
I think about this before I answer. I’m still unhappy with myself, to tell you the truth.
‘You’d think they’d have enough enemies, wouldn’t you?’
Andy doesn’t comment and we continue our unhurried trudge through The Gardens. We’re way out of sight of the roads now, and it’s getting even darker. As we round a corner, we can see the playground area off to our left. The slides and the swings and the climbing frames are brooding in the shadows like the skeleton frames of dinosaurs in the Natural History Museum. It’s way too late for mums and toddlers to be here, so there’s no laughing and crying and squealing kids; no dreary single mums with their baby buggies, smoking on the benches. But there are a few older boys there, standing on the dark shale. There are about half a dozen of them, slouching around in that slovenly fashion that they must think is cool, and I can see wisps of grey smoke from the cigarettes or spliffs they’re smoking, and the red burning tips. We’re too far away for me to recognise who they are, but some are wearing the peaked Burberry cap that’s like a uniform to them, and the others are wearing dark sweatshirts. The hoods are pulled up so that they don’t have faces from where I’m looking. I shiver, because these hooded kids remind me of that time when I was beaten and robbed, not far from where Roddy Thompson bled to death earlier today. Those kids were dressed just like that, although I doubt that this is the same crew.
I can just about hear the murmuring of their voices. Not the drunken loutish bellowing and fooling around you might expect, so I’m sure that they’re transacting business. That can only mean drugs or weapons. Skunk, E, speed, heroin, crack, meth and God knows what else. Or it could be a gun that’s being traded. You can imagine why I’d think that, right? And yes, my mind slips back home to my room and the plastic bag under my bed, and the cold black Ruger that lies there.
Actually, it’s more likely to be drugs than guns. Despite what the newspapers shriek and what the television gets all weepy over, it’s not true to say that there’s an epidemic of guns out on the streets. You read the papers and you’d think that every kid either has a gun or could get one cheaply in minutes if needed, but the truth is that guns are still hard to come by for most people. If you’re a member of a crew and your crew is part of the drug distribution chain, it’s possible that one can be borrowed if a little frightening or enforcing is necessary. Anyone who wants to be tooled up will carry a blade though. Knives are immediate. It was a knife that did for Roddy Thompson. Maybe it wouldn’t have happened if he’d been carrying the Ruger he’d given me to hide.
Suddenly, I realise that the murmuring from the group in the playground has stopped. It’s as quiet as the grave. And I realise that I’m looking at them and that all of them are looking at me. Jeez, that was stupid, letting my mind wander like that so that I didn’t realise that I was looking over at them. I’m scared now, and feeling prickly as the adrenaline courses through me in preparation.
‘What the fuck you lookin’ at?’
Fight or flight. I remember it from a science lesson in school. That’s what adrenaline prepares you for. That’s its job, to give you extra speed and strength and sharpen your reflexes for fight or flight. Well, I don’t even have to think. It’s flight for me.
I kick off and start to run and Andy is only half a stride behind me. Adrenaline’s cool like that; it can pulse into your system in half a heartbeat. Neither me nor Andy say anything. Can’t talk, all energy needed for flight. I can see through the gloom like it’s daylight and all I can hear is the pounding of our feet on the path, and the pounding of the feet of the boys following us in the distance. No shouting, no foul insults from the gang behind us – they’re as intent on catching us as we are on getting away. Christ, this is serious. This is scary. We’re running parallel with the trees that line the inside of the railings, the boundary of The Gardens. This is thick privet so that we can only see flickering lights from the cars on the main road beyond. The gate is about three hundred metres away and I’m wondering if we can get out before they catch us.
One thing I do know is that we just have to get out onto the streets, where it’s lighter, where there is traffic, where there might be people. Not that I think that any of that would bother this lot if they caught us out there. But they might be inclined to be more restrained and to back off earlier in front of witnesses. In the safe anonymity of the darkness here in The Gardens, who knows what they might be capable of. Roddy Thompson bled to death earlier today. Roddy Thompson. Big Roddy. And this is just me and Andy.
I glance behind, just to see if they’re gaining on us, but all I see is Andy still that half a stride behind.
‘Just run!’
Andy is right. If you’re being pursued, you should never look back. Never. Just keep looking forward, concentrate on escape. Even so, I glance to my left and through the trees and beyond the railings, I can just about see that there is a bus coming up. Suddenly I veer to the left and Andy doesn’t question, he just turns to follow me. I throw my hands out in front of me and I’m ripping at thick prickly branches that scratch across my face as I burst through a slight gap in the privet trees uncaring. I grab the railings and haul myself up, and all the while the branches contrive to hold me back. I’m too strong for them though. I can hear them crackle and break and splinter as I swing a foot up to gain purchase on the horizontal wrought-iron top beam, while I grab the spikes to pull myself up. I’m over and dropping to the pavement on the other side in one fluid movement, hearing a tear as a jacket pocket snags on one of those spikes and rips. I hear a heavy thump as Andy lands beside me, rolling involuntarily like a paratrooper.
Fifty metres down the road, the bus is at a stop. One elderly woman is stepping onto it and I’m flying down the pavement, waving my hands in the hope that the driver will see me in his mirrors and wait, even as I hear a thump at the railings behind me, and foul threatening curses burning my ears. I don’t turn to look for Andy; I don’t turn to see if any of that crew is climbing over after me. I have just one focus. Get to the bus.
My lungs are burning and I can see that the old woman has just waved a bus pass at the driver. Why the bloody hell can’t she have paid with a note and needed change? Anything to hold the bus up for a second. I could just about cry, expecting to see the bus doors close with that hydraulic hissing sound. But I’m halfway along the side of the bus now, waving like crazy.
‘Wait, wait!’
The scream is mine, and this must be a kind driver because the doors stay open. I almost tumble on
to the step and reach into my pocket to fish out my travel card. I flash it at the driver and pile on up to the back of the bus, with Andy panting fit to spew right behind me.
Even before we reach the back seat, we hear the hydraulic hiss as the doors slide shut, and the jerk as the bus pulls into the traffic nearly spills us onto the deck. But we catch the backs of some seats and steady ourselves. We throw ourselves down on the back seat of the bus, panting and unable to speak. But we look at each other and just grin. It’s not a grin of happiness though; more of relief.
I’m sweating as I turn to look out of the rear window. I don’t know what I’m expecting to see, or even what I want to see. I’m relieved to see nothing. They haven’t followed us over the railings. One thing’s for sure. I won’t be taking any short cuts through The Gardens again.
CHAPTER 6
Someone to watch over me
Jason Bourne does not carry a Ruger. As a matter of fact, he doesn’t have a particular gun at all. He uses whatever happens to come to hand. I realise that it’s ridiculous that I should feel somehow disappointed. But the fact is that I do. It’s like a little bit of my identity has been sucked into that Ruger and now lies wrapped in a plastic bag shoved far under my bed.
The movie is over and we’ve spilled out of the multiplex with a load of other people and we’re standing just outside, beneath the bright lights. There’s a lot of noise – people talking to each other, people jabbering loudly into their mobile phones, the sounds of the adjacent video arcades and cars. Always, there is the sound of cars on the retail park. This is where the dreamers congregate – the lads who spend every penny and every minute on their pitiful little hatchbacks with loud after-market exhausts and under-sill LED lights that glow green and purple and orange and red and blue on the asphalt. Then they come here and park next to each other, to show off in-car entertainment systems that are worth more than the vehicles themselves. Slide-out televisions and boom-boxes and amplifiers and sat-nav and DVD players and speakers that would grace any home entertainment system. These are the sort of kids who watch movies like Tokyo Drift and imagine that there is a link between themselves and the movie guys with their tricked-out Skylines and Scooby-Doos and Evos. Delusional. And they know it. They’ll never have a Skyline with a fifty-grand engine job and nitrous oxide injectors and stuff. Not coming from around here they won’t. But they can spend less money and have exactly the same tricked-out entertainment systems, so that’s what they do. And that’s their link.
Gun Dog Page 3