Crusaders (28 page)

Gore watched a familiar vulpine cast form on Barlow’s features. ‘“Belief systems”. What’s that about? See, in my day RE was about
introducing the kids to a certain guy called Jesus Christ. Wasn’t it the same for you? I mean, I’m sure you’re only doing what the
powers that be
say is adequate. But come on, a church school should have a clear Christian ethos? Shouldn’t it? I know it’s hard to get the staff now, but
hey
.’

Gore leaned forward. ‘Simon, please, what’s this – what’s your point?’

‘A dozen kids? Sorry, is that not pitiful? Monica, you can’t sit there and tell me you couldn’t have given John a better start?’

Gore was sure Mrs Bruce would retort in a manner fit to blister the paint from the walls. And yet she looked to have sustained a blow to the heart. Barlow nodded, apparently content he had hit his target. ‘These kids, see … I’m all for them getting their A-B-C and their one-two-three. Just let’s not pretend that’s the end of it, yeah? Making them into clever little devils.
Church
education means fostering the head and the heart and the
soul
of the child.’ And he clasped his big paws before him, a plangent gesture reminding Gore of Gordon Lockhart. ‘Anyhow. Another day maybe. Yeah, so what about that ruddy Sunday School then, John?’

‘Much done, much still to do.’ Gore rocked backward in his chair, very sure he had lost sufficient hours of his life already
bearing
witness to Barlow’s grandstanding. ‘I’ve been pursuing this idea of a crèche with one of the mothers who came to my first meeting.’

Spikings gestured to his diligently annotating wife. ‘Good, good. And that’s who, sorry?’

‘Her name is Lindy Clark.’

A mordant exclamation fell from Monica’s lips. Gore rolled his tanks over the objection, thinking it wholly predictable. ‘Ms Clark has a child of her own, and several jobs she has to do just to keep the boy, but she’s very kindly been putting some thought into this matter for me.’

‘Ms Clark,’ said Susan Carrow, fresh stocks of contempt in her voice, ‘is a little tattooed lah-di-da with no thought in her head but for herself.’

‘Susan, please.’ Spikings, and indeed his wife, seemed
genuinely
pained by the outburst. Gore made a point of chuckling under his breath, looking disbelievingly to the window, then the door. ‘No, John, that all sounds well and good, well and good. The thing I’ve always said, the really
good
thing about this job, is that you
meet
people.’

‘Oh, all
sorts
of people, Bob.’ Simon Barlow made plain his own amusement. Gore made out just a little malice in the tone. In the silence he threw open his hardbacked notebook and scribbled a few short notes. He trusted his council understood that it was nothing to do with anything they had uttered – other than that Barlow, in the midst of his prior fit of quasi-scriptural raving, had reminded Gore of an excellent notion for a sermon.

He spun the wheel of the borrowed transit van, fiddling the dial of the dodgy radio, questing for some good and proper driving tunes though wary of the player’s limited capacity, for its housing had been sorely misused as an ashtray on some previous loan. For the moment he could get nothing but angry swarming fuzz. Beyond the windshield rainclouds were massing, but the
promised
deluge was staying its hand. Traffic at least was kindly as he turned off the Scotswood Bridge and onto the Derwenthaugh Road that would wend him down through Blaydon and Rowland’s Gill. In short, not the absolute worst of days, though the day’s labour wore an onerous cast. Giving up on the music, he whistled and sang a few bars of ‘The Blaydon Races’, a regular salve to his spirits.

‘We flew across the Chain Bridge, reet into Blaydon Toon …’

My God,
he thought,
if the fella wrote that could see old Blaydon now.

The suspension groaned, and a hell of a clatter broke from the back of the van as Stevie pulled up to stop-lights on the A694. He cursed himself for not having made a better fist of securing the cargo. No point in stopping, though, for he had neither chain nor twine to hand. He kept his thoughts nailed to the promise of three o’clock, this outing but a chore en route. In and out like shite off a stick, that was the target – and if the traffic and the skies behaved themselves he would be installed in the Strawberry for at least a pair of pints before kick-off.
Whey aye.
He took the next right turn and was soon motoring through Highfield and Hooker Gate, Derwent Valley territory, the familiar depths of Chopwell Wood to his left.

It was the sticks, Chopwell, no question, and Karen never let him forget. But the development into which he had placed them, brand spanking new-built at the time, was a perfectly sound one, had kept so over the years, and remained perfectly handy for the Metro Centre, where Karen was presently engaged on the
perfume
floor of Debenhams. True, she faffed on about moving, but such ambitions were not Stevie’s business. For – what was it? – all of five or six years, they had had no real grounds for dispute. Five it must be, Stevie reckoned, for tomorrow Donna turned six.

His card, he knew, was a poor choice, and he ought to have found one with the number on it. But he believed that the gift, in its size and splendour, would more than compensate. The darker suspicion behind his hope was that Donna wouldn’t care less,
preferring
to join her mother in some witchy chorus of daddy-
disparagement
, some more sticking of the Stevie voodoo doll. This Donna just bore no relation to the gurgling moppet he used to paddle about between his big hands – some double it was, who shrank from him now. He bore the slight, didn’t brood on it, as was his discipline. For he had every intention of proving to his daughter that some things in life were steadfast and
unconditional
– even if, at times, they racked up a man’s temper.

He swung the van through wrought-iron gates, past the
floral-fringed
sign that proclaimed HALCYON HEIGHTS, and pulled into a spot beside Karen’s silver Saab, outside the narrow
two-storey
mews house. It too languished under its own idiot name, HEATHERDOWN. Stevie had never seen fit to scribble such nonsense onto an envelope.

Karen opened the door onto her porch, clad in ski pants and old sweatshirt, streaky hair in a scrunchy. Almost all he could see of her now was her bold chin, her sharp nose, in or out of his
business
. She had yet to apply her face this morning, but the one she turned upon Stevie was not entirely bilious. She had wheeled away again toward the small kitchen at the rear of the house before she noticed Stevie was not at her heel.

‘Are you coming in or what?’

But Stevie had repaired to the back of the van, and only now did
he cross the threshold – edging his way, grunting a little, one arm over and one arm under his cumbersome prize, five feet long and four feet high including the stand. He lowered it down next to Karen’s coffee table.

‘Right, there you gan, girl.’

She was hewn from rock-maple, with enamel ears and a
white-blonde
mane, a saddle cloth of red suede and a bridle of soft tan leather. Such connoisseur touches had gone some way in
persuading
Stevie to part with six hundred notes.

‘She’s a palomino, they say. Donna can give her a name, like.’

But Karen’s shoulders were slumping. ‘Aw, for crying out loud, man. Where’s that gunna go? She’s not into horses anyhow, man, never has been, I told you just to get her that outfit for her
dancing
.’

Stevie took a breath. Donna was taking some pricey classes, one such this very morning, though he saw no obvious talent.

‘Divvint be awkward, Karen. It’ll gan up in your little room.’

‘Which one’s that, then?’

‘Get away, you’re canny for space.’

‘
You
get away, man. We’re on top of each other, me and her.’

‘Well then, you’re lucky it’s just you and her. I mean to say, Kazza – two netties, the garage, you’ve more than you know what to do with.’

‘Aw aye. And what if I had another bairn?’

‘Then you’d be off my bliddy hands, wouldn’t you?’

She beheld him scathingly. ‘Aw whatever, stick it up there then. Just mind the walls on the stairs, will you?’

He rubbed his chin slowly, stared at her askance.

‘What?’ she said coolly, wheeling away into her kitchen, to Stevie’s satisfaction, for he knew she knew she could not
withstand
a contest.

Once he had lugged the hardwood horse into the cramped
utility
room, he rejoined Karen in the kitchen, accepting a rattled mug of instant coffee while she smoked her Consulate. The kitchen was tired, units out of style, paintwork grubby and defaced by felt-tip scribbles. No handyman had stayed very long in the years since
he had deposited the girls here – that much was signposted. He rifled his coat pocket and set down a plump stuffed Conqueror envelope on the worktop.

‘That’s you, then.’

‘Cheers,’ she said, cheerlessly.

‘Y’knaa you want a bulb in that light? In the spare room?’

‘It’s not the bulb, it’s the dimmer switch is knacked.’

‘Well, then you want to get it fixed.’

‘You said you would, Steve.’

‘I never did. I’m not a sparks, Karen, I canna go messing with wires. I’ll have a word with Dougie.’

‘Dougie, yeah, aw aye …’ Her voice trailed off.

‘What?’

‘You know what. He’ll come round, he’ll want the kettle on. He’ll be sat there on the sofa, farting and scratching hi’self for half an hour, then he’ll tell us it’s a bit trickier than he thought so he’ll be round again in the week.’

‘What do you
want
then? I’m busy, Karen.’

‘Oh, I know you’re busy, Steve. I’ve seen your name over the door at that Teflon.’

‘Aw right, you’ve been, have you? Bit lively for you these days, I’d have thought Kazza? Surprised my lads let you past.’

‘How do
you
manage still? All the years on you, they must have to wheel you into there some nights.’ She had fixed him over the trail of her cigarette, was chewing her nail as if she found
something
tasty there. ‘Oh, I know you’re busy. Saw your picture in the paper and all. Done your good deed for the year, have you?
What
a laff.’

‘Just givin’ a hand to a bloke.’

‘Aye, he’s on the radio and all. The vicar? Bullshitter he
sounded
. Mind, what did he ever do to deserve you? Does he
know
about you?’

‘Does he know what?’

‘What do you think? That you hurt people. For a living, like.’

‘He knows I’ve a
business
, Karen, that’s what –’

‘
Howay
, Steve, who do you think you’re
talkin
’ to, man?’

‘It’s not his business. I tell you this, but, Karen, he’s glad of the hand, that bloke. He’s not on his high horse about people. Not like you. Not biting the hand what’s putting food on your table.’

‘Bollocks, Steve, we get by, we do, so never you worry. Not
my
problem what
you
do for your conscience, you can do what you like.’

‘Ah, can I now? Can I really, Karen?’

‘Aye, you can. That’s all what this is, man, all it’s
ever
been. “Aw,
my
bairn’ll always be alreet.” Aw
bollocks
…’

He wanted badly now to hoist up the kitchen table and hoy it out the window. He had many exes, few to whom he believed he had been so honourable, none who hated him more. Sometimes – even this time – he could look at her and still see the girl who clutched at him, so fearful, throughout her contractions. That was life, the worm, working its way through your innards. When he thought on it for much more than a moment, the gall made him sick – made him want to retch out everything he’d ever eaten.

Bollocks to this, move yourself. Eyes on the prize, three o’clock, Strawberry by two.

He set down his unfinished coffee.

‘I tell you what else I read. All that about Mickey.’

He scowled, rubbed his neck. ‘Did you now? I was at the funeral. Where were you?’

‘Bet they were made up to see you.’

‘We’re all grown-ups.’

‘That poor little bastard.’

He could see them anew, the six of them on that impulse jaunt to Gran Canaria. Was it 1989? He and Karen, Mickey and Ally, Dougie on his tod. And Donna just a baby – docile, and she needed to be, with beery sunburned faces peering down into her travelling cot. Perhaps the last time he and Karen had sex, or spoke to one another with care. He shook his head. ‘There’s some proper ratbags come into town.’

‘You think you’re any better?’

‘I fucking do. I fucking
know
.’

A current of metal-edged pain coursed through the meat of his
right calf, and he shuddered, cursed himself for having stood there slouching, continuing these worthless exchanges.

‘Is that a
flinch
you’ve got, Stevie?’

‘Not a fucking flinch, man. Sciatica.’

‘Poor you. Told you, see? It’s you what’s getting on. An old man with a bad back. Ready for the knackers soon, just watch.’

He revolved his head about his neck, tilted his brow at her and growled. She was doing a good job of seeming blithe. ‘And you needn’t give us that look neither, I’m past frightened of you.’

It was impressive, after a fashion, for she knew what he could do, she had seen it. She should have seen him only the week gone by, when he did it again, squiring her old friend Ally to a nice bar, she in a backless dress, until some mindless clart had offered her a load of old chat. She seemed so sure he would never lift a hand to her. And no, he wouldn’t, he wouldn’t. Sometimes, though, he was standing on the precipice, and the long way down, the
vertigo
, the crushing impact – they almost seemed worth it.

‘You wanna get on without us, Karen? Gan on then. Doing so fuckin’ well, are you? Does Donna think you’re brilliant? You sure? How brilliant would you be if she had to give up all her classes? Is some other daddy-man gunna come along –’

‘Fuck off out of it, Steve man.’

‘I don’t see him, Kazza. Nah, you’re maybe not the lass you were.’

‘Fuck
off
, you.’ She swiped the dregs of her coffee mug at him.

Stevie grinned, having bit and bit deep. ‘That’s right, flower, let it out.’

Now she darted at him like knives, poked at his chest. ‘
Bastard
.’

‘Aw, don’t hurt us, Kazza, please, don’t hurt us …’

Now she was hammering with both of her fists, panting, and Stevie was content but no longer tickled, and he seized both of her wrists with no small force and held them hard, until she was
pacified
, incapable, and she broke under his stony gaze.

‘Steve man,
don’t. Stop
it.
Stop
it, you rotten
bastard
…’

Oh right – now the tears. What the fuck? Didn’t she know, by now, how it all ended, once she chose to get started? So why start?
And now he was supposed to apologise? Poor Kazza. He released his grip and her knees seemed to buckle.

‘I’ll be back the day after the morra to see her, so have her ready.’

‘She’s
sick
of you, you fucker.’

He heard the last only as he closed the front door behind him. Out in the air he took a couple of breaths and screwed his
equilibrium
back into the sticking place. HALCYON HEIGHTS.
Aye, right
. This experience was hateful, and hated, and its true value really needed to be reassessed. But some other day than today. St James’s for three, the Strawberry for two.

Much to his consternation he saw that he had left the van doors yawning open.
You
are
going soft, son
. Slamming them shut, he observed a motorcycle, bearing rider and pillion passenger,
puttering
through the gates of the close and up the driveway. A
dirt-bike
, really – Yamaha? Bloody rowdy old exhaust. Boy racers, haring about where there could be small bairns playing. Who did they reckon they were trying to impress? Stevie was half-inclined to go over and knock them off their perch with one push.
At ease, big man,
he soothed himself, digging for the van keys in his tight denim pocket.

The bike made a showy swerve to a running stop five yards in front of him, and two inscrutable black visors turned to face his way. Messengers? The passenger was clutching something close to his leather chest.

And then Stevie heard a clinking, snagging sound. The
passenger
shook his hand as if stung, threw out his arm, at the end of which, clear as day, was the tube of a barrel. Ice-coldness flushed from the crown of Stevie’s head, straight through his bowels to his feet. He flinched, threw his hands in the air, then wildly over his face.
No, never, couldn’t be
. Again that mad snagging clink, and between his fingers he saw the passenger shaking the gun
furiously
like a spent bottle, muffled curses coming from behind the black visor. Then a thump on the driver’s back, the engine revved, the exhaust snorted, and the bike tore off back from whence it had come.