The White Room (8 page)

He hated his mother because she was a slag with no love in her body. She would never give them anything of herself, never even tell them anything. Brian didn't even know whether he and Noel shared the same father. He could never remember his mother looking happy. Always shouting and hitting him. It didn't matter what he did, whether he was good or bad, the result was the same. He tried to be good, tried to make her love him by doing things to make her smile, make her happy. He would tidy up the house, wash the dishes. But it didn't work. She would still shout at him, still hit him. After a while he stopped trying.

Sometimes she would get upset and give him a hug, cry and say she was sorry. That she was going to be good to him and Noel, look after them properly from now on. Brian used to smile and hug her back. Tell her he loved her. Wait for the next day to come, hoping everything would change, life would get better. But it didn't. Next day would be the same. And the day after that. He cried at first, but after a while even that ceased.

She had a powerful arm on her. He would carry with him a ringing memory of that for his whole life. She had once smacked him with her open palm on the side of his face for some imagined upset. The blow left a livid, red handprint on his skin that took nearly a week to disappear. It also caught his ear full on, bursting not only his eardrum but causing so much internal damage that his loss of hearing in that one ear became permanent.

She never apologized: something else to add to the hate list.

And gradually he became the person she turned him into.

Then there was his brother. He hated Noel for many reasons. His two working ears, his constant attempts to get his mother's attention. The fact that he might have had a different, better father. The fact that he knew Brian better than anyone else, knew his secrets, had seen him cry.

His mother had brought Brian and Noel up alone. Brian knew where the money had come from, what his mother had to do to earn it. And he hated that. His mother never discussed, never explained. Sometimes she would go out smelling of cheap perfume and come back reeking of cheap booze, fag smoke and other people's bodies. Brian didn't like that, but disliked it even more when she brought the men back with her. Brian and Noel hated them. All of them. They would stand and stare at them, eyes angry the first few times, but over the years that passion dulling. Eventually they just stared blankly at the men or just ignored them. But they never stopped hating: deep inside the fires kindled, the embers smouldered. At first his mother would send the boys outside, but after a time she stopped worrying about their presence in the house, although she never fucked in front of the boys, not even if a punter wanted to. And she never let the boys join in, even if the punter was offering very favourable terms.

She always took them through to the back room and closed the door. The boys could still hear through the walls. They would turn the radio up –
Educating Archie,
Arthur Askey – but the jokes weren't funny and the laughter made him sick. It was the sound of a world without worries enjoying itself. Brian knew that world existed; he just didn't have a clue how to get into it.

The men were all different: tall, short, fat, skinny, hairy, bald, smelly, clean, and everything in between. But they all made the same noises. Grunting, sweating, shouting, begging. Sometimes they sounded funny – funnier than that stuff on the radio. His mother's sounds were always the same too: quick and sharp, gasping and sighing. Like the men were punishing her and she was taking it.

The years passed. Brian tried not to be in when the men came calling. He hated them and all that they represented. His mother didn't notice the absence of her sons, and Brian and Noel began to see how the world really was, how things worked. The necessity of making a living. How important money was, and it didn't matter what you had to do to get it. Brian began to understand what his mother was doing and why she was doing it. And he still hated her for it. He hated the world for it. But he wasn't going to let the world do that to him.

Then there was Monica. He had thought she was different at first. But she wasn't. Just another slag, another whore. Another woman.

Just like his mother.

They crossed Walker Road towards Glasshouse Street.

The snake pit squirmed: different sizes, weights and aspects, all writhing, biting, fighting for prominence.

Mental confrontation had helped. He hadn't solved his problems, but the memories had stoked him up. Given him anger and ire. A focus for the fight.

‘Nearly there, lads,' he said.

The Ropemakers Arms. Out of the city centre towards Byker, down Glasshouse Street in among old factories and wasteland. A person had to have a reason to visit, or no reason to leave. Grim enough in the daytime, but the night gave it a layer of almost impenetrable blackness, the large buildings creating deep, dark shadows. The Tyne curved away from the city towards the North Sea, giving oily slaps at the banks, chugging away its accumulated debris. The Ropemakers sat squat and ugly on the last corner before the river. The windows were dark, a faint light barely discernible from within. The walls once whitewashed, now sooted and dusted down to a dull grey, the wooden door closed, rotting from the base up. No attempt made at enticement or invitation. A casual drinker would have had to be very, very thirsty to enter.

Brian, Eddie and Brimson were not casual drinkers. They were purposeful. They stopped outside, slid brass knucks into place, practised easy blade access. They pushed open the door, entered.

The air was thick with smoke, stale beer and grime. The few drinkers in the place were old and tired-looking. There because they had nowhere else to go. Dotted about were small, shifty individuals, human rats scurrying about in the skirting boards of society. They all looked up. Hands quickly replaced objects in pockets. They recognized Brian and his two lieutenants. Guessed what was about to happen. Froze.

Brian looked around, scoping for the Bells. He heard laughter from the back of the pub, looked at the other two. They nodded. As one, they made their way through the pub.

‘Aw, now, lads …' said the barman. ‘Not here, not again, lads, leave them be …'

They ignored him, kept on walking.

A ratty old curtain partitioned the back room from the main bar. Brian pulled it back. Dust rose from it along with the smell of decay. Revealed were Kenny and Johnny Bell plus two of their cronies. Kenny hard-faced, lip curled in a perpetual snarl, Johnny the softer, more thoughtful, sneakier of the two. All dressed in teddy boy thug chic, DAs shining and perfectly crafted, winkle-pickers and brothel-creepers shined, cigarettes perched on ashtrays. Kenny Bell was at the snooker table, lining up a shot. Blond and mousy, small and smug. He looked up in surprise.

‘What the fuck—'

He stopped, saw who it was, straightened up. Saw the light glinting off the brass knucks. Didn't smile. Behind him the others stiffened, ready.

‘Hello, Kenny,' said Brian. ‘You're trespassing.'

Kenny looked at him.

‘Fuck off, Mooney. This isn't your patch an' you know it.'

No messing. Straight down to business.

‘That's where you're wrong, Kenny. This
is
my patch. An' I'm ask in' you all to be gents an' leave.'

The barman put his head around the doorframe.

‘Listen, lads, not in here. Take it outside, will youse? I mean it. I'll call the police.'

Everyone in the room ignored him. They knew he wouldn't call the police. They would ask him too many uncomfortable questions.

Kenny held the snooker cue across his body, grasped it in both hands.

‘No deaf little cunt tells me where to go.'

Brian balled his fist, felt the metal around it, his body charge, swung.

Kenny Bell ducked to his left, the swing went right, catching him on the shoulder. Ignoring the pain, he turned, arcing the air with his cue. Brian stepped back out of range.

‘Right, lads, that's it. I'm callin' the police.'

With that, the barman made his exit.

‘Howay!' said Brian.

Eddie and Brimson waded in. Kenny's brother Johnny picked up his cue and swung. It connected with the side of Brimson's head. Brimson hit the filthy floorboards with a crash and a moan, hair exploded, a DA atom bomb.

Johnny allowed himself a small snigger that annoyed Brian all the more.

Kenny Bell was coming at him again, swinging the snooker cue at his face. To his left, one of Kenny's gang was making his way quickly towards him. Brian darted around the side of the snooker table, laid a quick punch to the advancing gang member, catching him in the throat. His hands went towards the injury, Brian was in again, another punch. Same place. The man went down.

Brian's head was yanked swiftly back. He couldn't breathe. He put his hands to his throat, found Kenny's cue constricting air, Kenny pulling hard, pushing his knee into Brian's back. Air and spit gurgled in Brian's throat.

‘Cunt …'

Brian heard Kenny Bell's voice in his ear, smelled his beery, tabby breath. Black spots danced before his eyes. He was choking; air cut off from his lungs, blood from his brain. He had to do something.

He felt up his sleeve for his blade. Sweeney, hidden in his sleeve. He worked the blade out, let the handle fall into his palm. Turning it backwards, he thrust it with as much strength as he had left. It connected with Kenny's thigh, sunk in. Nothing for a few seconds, then, as the pain hit, Kenny screamed and let loose his grip. The cue fell to the floor. Brian pulled the knife free, turned. Kenny was standing, both hands on his leg trying to stem the blood with his fingers.

‘Fuckin' 'ell, man. Look what you've done …'

Brian heard movement behind him: breaking glass, feet. Johnny Bell was charging at him, the jagged neck of a brown ale bottle stretched outright in his hand, anger twisting his face. He lunged.

Brian sliced the knife at the air in front of him, missing the bottle's arc. It caught Johnny on the arm. He dropped the broken bottle. It hit the faded baize of the snooker table and rolled away, clanking lightly against the white.

Johnny grasped his arm where the cut had been made. Brian swung again. Johnny put his hand out to ward off the blow. The knife caught the palm of his hand. Blood spurted. Brian, seeing that, seeing the expression on Johnny's face, laughed.

‘Ha! Like that, eh? Want some more, do you?'

He sliced again. Johnny stumbled back, dodging the impact. Hit a stool, fell.

‘Not so fuckin' big now, are you, cunt?'

Brian aimed a kick at Johnny's balls. He tried to move away but was too slow. The kick connected. Fear etched itself on Johnny's face, fear and pain. Brian kicked again. And again. Not caring where he hit, only that he connected. Again. And again.

And then a searing pain lanced across the small of his back. He fell to his knees, dropping the knife on the floor as he went. He turned his head. Kenny Bell, blood soaking through his suit trousers, running up his arms, stood there, cue in hand.

‘Leave him alone, you bastard.'

He swung the cue again. Brian dodged out of the way. The cue landed painfully on his leg. He pulled his leg away, rolled under the table. He saw two pairs of legs at the other side, saw Brimson's prone body on the floor, saw the unconscious body of the Bell gang member he had felled. He made out one of the pairs of legs as Eddie's. He couldn't make out who was winning. He reached into his sock, expecting to find his back-up blade.

But it wasn't there.

It must have fallen out when the pool cue hit his leg. Breathing hard, swallowing down panic, he surveyed his options. With nothing to lose, he rolled out from underneath the table and attempted to get as quickly to his feet as his injured leg would allow.

Kenny was kneeling by his brother. Brian saw the broken brown ale bottle lying on the table, picked it up.

‘Oi!'

Kenny turned. Brian swung the bottle, felt it connect with skin. With Kenny's face. Kenny's hands went up. Brian swung again. And again.

Kenny curled into a foetal ball. Brian, seeing no retaliation coming, dropped the bottle.

He was aware of movement behind. He turned. The Bell gang member had seen what had happened to Kenny and made his way out of the door, quickly. Eddie, out of breath again, bruised and dishevelled, came over to join Brian. Johnny looked at Kenny's face, looked up.

‘Get an ambulance!' he said.

‘Fuck off.'

‘Look what you've done to 'im, man! Look at his eyes! Call for a fuckin' ambulance, man!'

Brian and Eddie looked at the mess left of Kenny Bell's face. At his leg, the blood pumping out.

‘Hell's teeth,' said Eddie. ‘You've done it now, Brian.'

Stars of hate were still dancing in Brian's eyes.

‘He asked for it, he wanted it …'

‘I think you'd best make yourself scarce.' Eddie looked at Brimson. He was lying on the floor, twitching. ‘I think we all should.'

The barman appeared in the doorway.

‘I've called the police an' I want youse all out. Youse bastards, you've done it again …'

He stopped, saw Kenny. Kenny had stopped moving, his breathing shallow.

‘Oh, my God …'

‘Call an ambulance,' said Johnny. ‘Please.'

The barman turned away.

‘Please!' shouted Johnny to his retreating back.

‘You'd better go,' said Eddie to Brian. ‘I'll get Brimson.'

Brian looked around.

‘No, I should …'

‘Just fuckin' go, man. The coppers'll be all over this place soon. They'll have you. Doesn't matter what me an' Brimson say. They'll have you.'

Brian nodded, seeing sense in what Eddie said.

‘See you, then. I'll lie low for a bit. An' I'll see you soon.'

He turned and walked out of the pub. The drinkers watched him go.

Jack Smeaton looked in the mirror, straightened the knot of his wool tie. He fastened the top button of his shirt, fitted the tie snugly up to the collar. Checked the symmetry, smoothed the tie down. Picked up his comb, ran it through his hair. The dye was working well. Holding the colour, almost back to the brown it used to be. He shrugged on a zip-fronted, woollen, collared cardigan, pulled the zipper halfway up, adjusted it. He stepped back, looked again. The evening was to be casual, not formal. Jack reckoned he had pitched it just right.