Behind Bars:
Part One
by Kevin Crowe
Genre: Drama
Swearwords: Lots of strong ones.
Description: It’s a night to remember for Brendan, Kathleen and Catriona – the worst of all nights. And the terror is not going to end there…
Swearwords: Lots of strong ones.
Description: It’s a night to remember for Brendan, Kathleen and Catriona – the worst of all nights. And the terror is not going to end there…
Chapter Thirteen: Brendan
1
I thought about ringing in sick. I hated the pub, the job and above all the customers, and I would have much preferred to have joined Kathleen and Catriona. I didn't. For once in my life I behaved as a grown up. I knew if I didn't go in that night, I never would again, and without the money we were both earning not only wouldn't we be able to afford the running costs of the cheap second hand car we had bought, we would probably have to eat into our savings for the rent and utilities. But it was a close thing. With hindsight I made the wrong decision.
Waiting for Catriona to arrive, Kathleen was unable to settle, nerves making her restless. She was chain smoking, one moment sat in her favourite chair drumming her fingers, the next jumping up and striding around the room.
“For God's sake,” I said, “you're making me nervous now.”
“Fuck off,” she said, between drags.
I said nothing as I sipped my tea and looked at her. She stared back, making a face at me. Eventually I couldn't help myself and began giggling. Despite her attempts she was unable to maintain her façade of seriousness and burst out giggling herself.
“That's better,” I said.
She gave me the two fingered salute, followed by: “For fuck's sake stop being so patronising.” The effect of her words was spoiled by being forced out between giggles.
Once our laughter had subsided, I asked her: “I've not seen you this nervous since that first gig at the Wild Rover. What's up?”
“For fuck's sake, where have you been recently?”
“Here and the George & Dragon most of the time.”
“Sarcy cunt. You know what I mean. Me and Catriona will be performing together without anyone else for the first time. It could be a fucking disaster, particularly as I'm singing one song in a language I don't even speak, and our voices are so different. I'm thinking of pulling out, telling her when she comes I've got a sore throat and can't sing.”
“You'll do no such fucking thing,” I yelled at her.
With both hands on her hips, she said: “Oh yeah? And who the fuck's going to make me? You? I don't think so.”
At that moment the doorbell rang. I opened the door and let Catriona in, telling her that Kathleen was talking about crying off. She laughed, and said: “Oh don't worry about that. You know what she's like.”
“You can fuck off too,” Kathleen said. “You're as bad as that fucking queer cunt.” She sat down quickly and heavily, pouting at us.
Catriona raised an eyebrow, and with a wicked grin on her face said to Kathleen: “If we're being strictly anatomically accurate, I think it's me and you who are the ‘queer cunts’.” She pulled the chortling Kathleen to her feet, kissed her and then said: “Right, get your stuff together, girl, we've got to go.”
As meek as a lamb she picked up her coat and guitar case and made her way to the front door. I turned to Catriona and said: “If I'd spoken to her like that, I'd have thought myself lucky to have got away with a slap.”
She winked at me and in her musical Highland drawl said: “Have a sex change and learn to sing and you never know...”
I was still laughing as they drove away.
2
The boss told me I was doing the bar in the upstairs function room. “There’s a special event on tonight, so I expect you to keep everyone happy, and you're to work until everyone's gone, no matter how late. It's a ticket-only affair, but I doubt there'll be any gatecrashers, particularly as there'll be a couple of heavies on the door.”
“What's the occasion,” I asked.
“The National Front are celebrating how well they did in the local elections.”
“But they didn't win any seats.”
“They didn't expect to: but they got more votes than expected. The party's way of saying thank you to all their members and supporters. Should be a good night.”
The walls of the function room were covered in St George's Flags, the Union Jack and even a few swastikas, as well as posters declaring: “Keep Britain White”, “British Jobs for British Workers”, “Deport All Aliens”, “Bring Back Hanging”, “Castrate Queers” and the like. There were Union Jack and St George's bunting spread across the ceiling. Every table was decorated with St George's cloths, floral displays of red and white roses and miniature Union Jacks. A man I recognised, though this was the first time I'd seen him in a suit, was checking the sound system was working.
I knew better than to say anything or to indicate disapproval in any way. I just did my job: changed optics that needed new bottles, ensured the shelves were full, made sure the glasses were clean, checked the beer taps were working properly, counted the float and put it in the till – all the usual jobs.
All the time I was telling myself I must get another job, and this time I was serious. It was one thing serving in the bar, knowing most of the customers were thugs and fascists; it was another thing entirely running the bar at a National Front event.
I opened the bar, and the two gorillas at the door began to let people in. The room soon began to fill, and I was so busy I had no time to think of anything other than serving drinks and taking money. The bastard skinflint of a landlord had no-one other than me working the bar, and some people were beginning to get impatient. I had become a dab hand at serving more than one person at a time, letting beer flow into a glass while getting spirits from the optics and opening mixers, rarely spilling a drop and managing to calculate the cost of two or three orders simultaneously. I'd been crap at maths at school, but when it came to work my mental arithmetic was right up there with the best. I may have been serving a bunch of fascist wankers, but I still took pride in my work. Anyway, the best way to keep these fuckers happy was to serve them as quickly as possible.
Eventually the rush was over, with just a few stragglers who had waited for the bar to quiet down before ordering drinks. Someone called for silence and the speeches began. I blocked them out, concentrating on washing glasses, cleaning the counter and restocking the shelves.
When I looked up I thought my heart was going to stop beating. Norman was leaning on the counter, a grotesque grin on his face. “Well, well, what a fucking pleasant surprise.” He winked at me.
“What are you doing here?” I asked him. “This is supposed to be a private party.” I looked across at the gorillas working the door and noticed they too were grinning.
“Oh, I've got an invite. I'm a member of the party now, you know.” Before turning away from the bar he said: “You're fucked, mate.”
My hands were shaking and my palms sweating as I attempted to serve a drink, ending up spilling most of it over the counter, beer dripping onto the floor. The gorillas were still grinning as they approached me. I backed away, but the only way out was past them. I looked around the room and saw Norman in conversation with the landlord, who then pushed past the gorillas, told me to follow him and dragged me out of the room, down the stairs and into his office.
“You're sacked,” he told me. I just nodded, and went to get my coat. He grabbed my arm and said: “Look, you're a good barman, one of the best I've had. But you've upset those fuckers upstairs, and once word gets round you won't be safe here. I don't give a fuck if you take it up the arse, I don't give a fuck who you've upset, but I've got a business to run.” He dug some notes out of his pocket, and handed them to me. “In lieu of notice,” he said. I didn't trust myself to speak, so I just nodded and went to leave. “Wait,” he said, “best to leave through the yard, otherwise some fucker might take a pop at you.”
I ran most of the way home, regularly checking no-one was following me. Safely behind a locked door, but still shaking so much I couldn't even pour myself a drink, I collapsed on the sofa.
3
My mind was going round in circles, just like it does sometimes when I can't get to sleep. I was replaying what happened, wondering if I could have done anything different, realising I couldn't, then replaying the scene again. What if they knew where I lived? What if they had followed me home? No, of course they hadn't followed me: I would have noticed. But what if, what if, what if? I felt wired, like I'd taken too much speed, my body twitching uncontrollably, my heart beating so fast I was scared it might stop. Then, suddenly, I was drained of all energy, felt unable to move and stared unseeing, brain empty of anything other than fear and apathy.
Sometime later, I have no idea how much later, there was a banging on the door. I ignored it, but it continued and a voice I recognised as Norman's began shouting: “Open the fucking door before we break it down!”
I retreated in fear, hoping they would think I wasn't in, a futile hope. The banging merely intensified, and again Norman shouted: “We're coming in. Either you let us in or we break the fucking door down. Your choice.”
I looked around me, panicking. Fuck knows where my brain was hiding, because it was only then I remembered the back door. I ran, hoping to escape down the back alley. No such luck. I unlocked it, stepped out and was faced with a grinning gorilla either side of me. They dragged me back inside and while one of them held me, the other opened the front door. Norman strode in accompanied by someone I recognised from the George & Dragon: Tony, a National Front organiser and an illegal money lender.
“Well, well, what are we going to do with the nigger loving Irish queer?” He looked round at the others. “What do you think, lads?”
One of the gorillas said: “Anything. As long as it's slow and painful.” Norman grinned, saying: “And humiliating. Yes, humiliating.”
I attempted to squirm out of their grip, and got a kick in the balls for my trouble. They ripped off my clothes, forced me to sit on a hard wooden chair, tied me to the chair so tightly I had little movement and put a thick hood over my head, leaving me in complete darkness. I began to whimper. I've always been scared of the dark, and I normally sleep with a low light on. In the dark my mind creates horrific images that seem real, and behind the hood I saw shapes that morphed into slithering snakes, tarantulas and scorpions that kept disappearing and reappearing, coiling around me. I saw flashes of light like silent fireworks, that grew brighter before exploding and leaving only darkness. I saw grotesque, toothless faces laughing silently, getting ever closer to me, changing shape, morphing into ravens whose beaks were aimed at my eyes. I felt dizzy, nauseous and panicking so much I could hardly breath. I began to scream.
I heard Norman's voice: “For fuck's sake, shut the fucking pansy up.” I heard some shuffling and felt a hand on my head, a hand that removed the hood. The hand put some tape across my mouth, then replaced the hood, leaving me to breathe through my nose as best I could. I attempted to control the hallucinations by visualising rolling green hills in spring, golden beaches in summer, burbling brooks and the like. But the snakes and scorpions, the silent fireworks, the toothless faces and ravens kept finding ways through.
The thickness of the hood also dampened sounds so noises and voices reached me as if through a filter or as if they came from some distance away. I heard shuffling probably of feet, clanging of what may have been glasses, some coughing probably from the lungs of the smoker whose cigarette I could smell. I heard objects falling and smashing on the floor. There was belching, laughter and snippets of conversation.
I heard Norman say: “I've got just the fucking thing for nancy boy. And it's so fucking appropriate for a queer terrorist's groupie.” His voice seemed to come out of the mouth of the hallucination of the toothless, sneering face.
“What, knee capping the fucker?” one of them asked, the anticipated pleasure apparent in his voice.
“No. I reckon we should let that black pimp Winston do the real damage, once we've let him know where the queer and the tart live. No, just a little warning, I think.”
“Oh,” the thug said, sounding disappointed. “So you're going to let the wog have some fun? Why? I thought you hated the cunts.”
Norman laughed. “Oh, I do. Wouldn't normally give the black bastard, any black bastard, the time of day. But at least you know where you stand with niggers and Pakis: you can tell them from a distance because of their colour and their smell. Queer cunts are more devious, and I hate queers even more than wogs. Anyway, don't worry, he won't like what we've got planned. How about we tar and feather him?”
Whoops of anticipation came from the mouths of the thugs. I wanted to scream, but was unable to do so; I tried to move my body but only succeeded in making myself even more uncomfortable.
I heard a voice I recognised as that of Tony. “Not sure we should do anything like tarring and feathering. Not sure at all.”
“Why not?” Norman asked, “I bet there's some tar somewhere near here and we can use feathers from pillows. So what's the problem?”
Tony was a nasty bastard, one of the nastiest of those who used the George & Dragon, though he wasn't really a regular: he appeared three or four times a month, normally for meetings and discussions. Not only was he nasty, he was also cunning and clever, not the sort of person to ever underestimate. Whatever he had planned was unlikely to be any more pleasant than tarring and feathering; if anything it would probably be worse, as indeed it proved to be.
Tony said: “I have no objections to tarring and feathering Irish queers, no objections at all, but it could be a bit messy and if the queer cunt had to go to hospital to get it all removed, I think it likely the police would be involved, and I'm sure none of us want to end up before the courts. Let the nigger do real damage and get the blame for it.”
“So, what do you suggest?” Norman couldn't keep the disappointment out of his voice.
“Oh just something I learned from my days in the army, a sort of initiation ceremony until it was stopped by our commanding officer. If one of you can get the rope from the boot of my car, I'll show you.” I heard someone leaving and then a short time later returning. “Thank you,” Tony said. “Now, first of all let's move him and the chair next to the stairs.”
I felt myself being untied and forced upright, and I heard the scraping as the chair was dragged a few feet. I was then forced again to sit in the chair and tied to it. I struggled, God did I struggle, but they laughed at me. Someone spat in my face: I felt the saliva hit my cheek. Someone else, or perhaps the same person, kicked me in the balls again. All my struggling achieved was more pain.
Once I was again tied to the chair, Tony said: “Good. Good. Now, we make a noose at one end of the rope, and the other end we tie to the stair bannister. The aim is to make the noose quite tight, but not tight enough to kill him or even cause permanent physical damage.” He paused for a moment, then continued: “It might cause him some psychological damage, might even send him mad with a bit of luck, but it won't harm in physically.”
The rest began cackling and shouting things like: “Yeah! Let's do it. Let's do it.”
The last things I remember were the noose being put over my neck, losing control of my bladder and bowels and Norman telling me how fucking disgusting I was.
Chapter Fourteen: Kathleen
1
What a great gig. What a fucking great gig! It couldn't have gone any better. Afterwards, we were on a high, a natural high. Our voices worked together so well, neither of us were aware of the passing of time as we put everything we had into the performance and the audience appreciated every song, every note. My only regret was that we hadn't taped the show, but next time...
We had a drink afterwards then went for a late meal at a nearby Indian restaurant. We talked about the concert, we never stopped smiling, we would have made love in the middle of the restaurant if we could have got away with it, so we made do with playing footsie under the table and grinning at each other.
After leaving the restaurant we strolled, hand in hand, through the late evening early summer rain, oblivious to the water soaking through our clothes to our bodies. On the long drive back to Balsall Heath the smiles remained on our faces, except when one of us burst out giggling, inevitably infecting the other. The journey home took us longer than that to the concert: it was late, dark and wet, and Catriona took it steady because she'd had her share of the drink with the meal: the last thing we wanted was to be stopped and for her to be breathalysed, particularly as we had shared a joint and the car still stunk of grass.
When we first met I was concerned in case this beautiful, personable and talented but naïve looking middle class young woman would be shocked by me smoking cannabis. If she had disapproved, I doubt our relationship would have lasted more than a night or two. I needn't have worried: looks can be deceptive. She had discovered it at university, though had rarely smoked since because she didn't move in the circles where it was easily available, and even now I think she only smoked when with me.
We talked, making plans for the future, for gigs with just the two of us. We even discussed leaving the collective, but I don't think either of us was ready for that: David may have been a pain in the fucking arse sometimes, but he got us bookings.
“Have you ever thought of writing songs?” I asked her.
She shook her head. “I had to do a bit of composing for the music degree, and that was difficult enough. I don't think I could write songs like you: the ideas just aren't there.”
“Stop putting yourself down, woman!” I told her. “Of course you can write songs.” I lit a cigarette. The nicotine hit my lungs and I exhaled loudly, belched, then put my hand over my mouth. “Oops,” I said, “sorry about that.”
She giggled. “I'll forgive you, but thousands wouldn't.”
I put my serious voice back on. “Look, I know you can write songs, but I also know it's daunting. Why don't we try writing together? If it doesn't work out, that's okay, but we won't know until we try.”
Leaving her right hand on the steering wheel, she caressed my thigh. “Okay, let's give it a go.”
“And whether it works out or not, you can transcribe my – or our – songs onto paper, with all the dots.”
She burst out laughing, and laughed for so long she gave herself the hiccups. When she'd calmed down she just repeated my last words “...with all the dots” before beginning to laugh again. Every time she calmed down she repeated “with all the dots” and began laughing again.
“What the fuck was wrong with what I said?” I asked, trying to be annoyed, but failing. No-one else could have taken the piss out of me like she was doing. No matter how hard I tried, I just couldn't get angry and soon I too was giggling again. We both ended up laughing so much it was no longer safe for Catriona to continue to drive, so she pulled into the side of the road and cut the engine. Slowly we began to calm down and looked at each other. She gave me such a fucking filthy grin I blushed: me, a tart who'd had men in every possible position, blushing. She noticed, grabbed my arms and pulled me towards her, before giving me one of her sloppy kisses.
I was the first to break the embrace. “We'd better get going before we do something we could fucking get arrested for.”
We turned into the road where I lived, both of us looking forward to spending the night and the next day together without having to worry about what anyone thought. As Catriona slowed down and pulled up outside the front door, I sensed something was wrong. Catriona picked up on it and asked me what was up.
“I don't know,” I said, “but something doesn't feel right.” I peered out of the car window. “For one thing there's no lights on.”
Catriona's brow furrowed, as if puzzled. “But it's so late now, surely Brendan'll be in bed, either that or he's still working, so there wouldn't be any lights on, would there?”
“We always leave a light on when we go out. And, well please don't ever let him know I told you this, but he's scared of the dark. He always sleeps with a light on low, and his bedroom is at the front.” I pointed to the first floor window. “That's his bedroom, so if he was in, there would be a light on there, or on downstairs in the front room. And if he's not back, then there would still be a light on. And I've got this fucking feeling in my bones, I can't explain it, I just have.”
She opened her door. “Right, let's get out, and see if we can put your mind at rest.”
What was waiting for us was worse than I could ever have imagined.
2
I was worried when the key wouldn't turn, until I realised the front door wasn't even locked. When we pushed the door open and entered, my senses were assaulted by sights and smells my brain initially refused to accept. I stared, open mouthed, for once unable to find any words. Catriona, clearly shocked, whispered: “Oh my God, oh my God.” before covering her mouth with her hand.
The room was a mess, with broken glass, torn papers and the smashed remains of our record player on the floor. Brendan, tied to a chair and sitting in his own shit and piss, was naked apart from a hood covering his head and a noose round his neck. The only movement his restraints allowed was a little twitching in his feet, but at least it indicated he was alive. “Brendan,” I yelled, “Brendan, what the fuck has happened.” There was no reply, just the twitching in his feet. I ran up to him, pulled the hood off his face and saw the panic and hysteria in his eyes. As soon as I removed the tape from his mouth, he began screaming uncontrollably. Catriona, who was still mumbling “Oh my God, oh my God”, helped me remove the noose and untie him.
Slowly he calmed down, his screaming replaced by an eerie keening. I tried asking him who had done this and why, but it was as if he couldn't hear me: he just continued keening while rocking back and forth. No matter how fucking often I tried to get some sense out of him, he didn't respond.
After what seemed hours but was probably only seconds I felt Catriona take my hand and pull me away. “He must be in shock, poor thing,” she said. She knelt down before him, looked into his eyes and, speaking slowly and quietly, said: “Brendan, I want you to look at me and I want you to slowly take a deep breath and then exhale, just like this.” She breathed in deeply then let her breath out. “Can you do that for me? Breath in, hold it for a second, then breath out.” She kept repeating this mantra slowly, gently and patiently, and taking hold of his hand said: “No-one's going to harm you now we're here. Just breath in deeply, hold for a second then breath out.” She continued to show him what she wanted him to do. Gradually his keening subsided and he did as he was asked. But when he exhaled he also vomited, rancid waste gushing from his mouth and over him and Catriona.
I was in bits, in fucking bits, no fucking use to anyone. It was all I could do to stop myself from screaming. Instead, I just let the tears and snot flow. Catriona turned to me and said: “Can you put the kettle on, make us all a cup of tea? Make sure Brendan's is sweet, and put in some cold water so it doesn't burn his mouth.” I did as she asked, also taking the time to clean my face and make myself look presentable.
When I returned, Catriona was in the same position, still talking quietly and gently to Brendan, who was responding to her voice. When he tried to speak, she said: “Shush, no need to say anything at the moment. You're doing really well, really well. Kathleen's made us some tea. Would you like a sip?” He nodded. I passed the cup to Catriona who held it to Brendan's mouth. “Just a sip,” she said, “just a sip for the time being.” Gradually, she let him take a few more small sips. Then she said to him: “I think we should try to clean you up and get some clothes on you. Can you stand? Don't worry about falling, we'll be either side of you helping you. Is that okay?”
He nodded. Catriona, still covered in his vomit, slowly rose to her feet and asked me to get the other side of him. “Now, try standing if you can. Not too quickly. Just slowly see if you can do it. You won't fall because we're here to stop that happening.” He did as she asked, but was clearly unsteady on his feet. Together we managed to get him up the stairs and to the bathroom, though it seemed to take forever. As he began to calm down and became more aware of his surroundings, he realised he was naked and filthy. In a quiet and almost unrecognisable voice, he whispered: “I'm sorry, so sorry, you're seeing me like this. So sorry.”
I still couldn't speak. But Catriona said: “Don't worry about that. Let's get you cleaned up a bit, shall we?”
“Thank you, but I think I can manage myself now.” He attempted to cover his genitals with his hands, and would have fallen over if we hadn't been holding him up.
Catriona smiled gently. “How about if I stay here in case you need any help?”
“But I'm naked and I must stink. I must look disgusting.”
She took his hand. “Really, don't worry about any of that. I've seen worse. Let's just get you cleaned up, shall we?” She made him sit on the toilet seat while she ran the bath. She could tell I wasn't going to be much help, but instead of getting angry with me (which is what I would have done in her place) she just asked me to clean up the mess downstairs. “And then once he's cleaned up, can you help me get him to bed?”
I nodded.
Later, after we'd got Brendan to bed, we sat together on the sofa, hugging each other. “I'm so fucking sorry,” I said, “so fucking sorry I wasn't more help. I'm useless, fucking useless.” The tears began again, and she held me to her breast. Once I found my voice, I asked: “Who the fuck would do that to him? What sadistic cunt would do that?”
“I don't know,” Catriona said. “He wasn't making much sense, not surprising really. He said something about someone called Norman, but I didn't press him. Hopefully he'll be able to tell us in the morning.”
I yelled: “Norman! The only fucking Norman we know is the bastard who used to be a barman at that pub in Winson Green. Oh shit, if he's found out where we live now...” I looked at her and asked: “Where did you learn all that?”
“All what?”
“You know, how to treat people in shock like that, how to talk to them and help them.”
“Oh that. At school. I'm one of the first aiders there. It's nothing really, just pleased I was able to help.”
“Fuck knows what we would have done if you hadn't been here.”
She kissed me. “You'd have coped. Come on, let's get some sleep and sort things out in the morning.”
3
We were woken by screaming. Still dopey from sleep it took me a few seconds to realise what was happening, where the noise was coming from. We both jumped out of bed and ran to Brendan's room, without thinking what we'd do if we were faced by an intruder.
He was sat bolt upright in bed, his eyes glazed over with terror, drool hanging from his mouth as ear piercing screams escaped from his throat. When he saw us, his screams were replaced by sobbing. I was rooted to the spot, unable to move, my mouth open in horror as I saw my friend descend into what looked a personal Hell inhabited by demons. Thank fuck Catriona was there.
She knelt by his bed and put her arms around him, making soothing noises and eventually he returned to us, found coherent words.
“We've got to leave,” he yelled, “we've got to leave now, before it's too late. Before he tells Winston where we live. Before Winston comes round. He'll kill us.” He tried to get out of bed, but Catriona held him too firmly to allow that. He began to struggle, but Catriona continued to hold him tight. “Come and help me,” she demanded. “Don't just stand there, come and help me.”
Her words got through to me. Together we were able to calm him down enough so he was able to speak with a degree of lucidity, but he was still insistent we all leave immediately.
“Winston's after us, and he knows where we live,” he said. “He knows where we live. He'll kill us this time. I know he will.”
“Can't we talk about it in the morning?” I suggested.
Brendan shook his head so vigorously I thought he'd do himself harm. “No, it can't wait. Norman's told him, he told me he was going to tell him. We're not safe here.” I could see the panic begin to rise again in his eyes.
Catriona whispered to me she was going to make some tea. I nodded and returned my attention to Brendan. “Look, both doors are locked, the windows are shut and we have a phone. We'll be okay until the morning.”
He continued to shake his head. “No, we won't. No we fucking won't. Norman will have told him. Told him. Told him...” His voice tailed off and was replaced by the desperate fucking awful keening of earlier. I didn't know what to do, so I just held him as he rocked backwards and forwards, continually keening.
Catriona returned with the tea. We knew there would be no more sleep that night, so after dressing we attempted to get Brendan to tell us exactly what had taken place that night. I couldn't believe Brendan had let Norman in of his own accord, but there had been no sign of forced entry. He still wasn't making much sense, at least to me, and I was despairing of ever understanding what had happened. I really had no fucking idea what to do or what to say or how to behave. I was afraid of descending into the same hell as Brendan.
Once again, thank God for Catriona. I don't know whether it was just her natural patience and goodness or whether it was her teacher training, but I do know I've come across some nasty, impatient, uncaring and supercilious teachers, so I assumed it was just her natural goodness. She not only calmed him down and managed to keep him that way, she was also able to extract a full account of what had happened. Fuck knows how she did this, as Brendan's words were all over the place, his story jumping from one thing to another, but she did it. She also managed to keep me from getting hysterical.
If I believed in God, I'd think she was an angel. I'd already known I loved her; now I looked at her with awe.
I took her angelic hand and massaged it. She turned to me and smiled. “That's nice,” she said. By this time Brendan had fallen into an uneasy sleep. And we had decisions to make.
Catriona asked me: “How seriously do we take this threat?”
“Very seriously. Very fucking seriously indeed.”
“Okay, what do we do about it? Do we call the police?”
I laughed. “No fucking way. As far as they're concerned I'm just a tart who deserves every fucking bit of hassle she gets. And Brendan's experience of them is as least as bad. You know they arrested him thinking he had something to do with the IRA bombings.”
She nodded. “Yes, you told me. But I'm sure they're not all like that.” She could see she hadn't convinced me, and said: “Okay, no police. So what do we do?”
“Brendan's right. We can't stay here. I have no fucking doubt that the cunt Norman will tell Winston. And I have no doubt Winston will come round here with some heavies and smash the place up as well as smashing up me and Brendan – and you if you're here when he turns up.”
She stood up. “Right. Decision time. You're both coming to my place, at least for a couple of nights, until we can sort something out.”
“But what if they found out where you live?”
She shrugged. “Birmingham's a big city.”
“Not as big as you think, love. Not as fucking big as you think.”
“Be that as it may, the two of you are coming home with me. I'll help the two of you with packing. We'll take as much as we can now and come back for the rest later. Better wake Brendan up.”
When we told him we were going to leave as soon as we had packed, he perked up. Catriona asked him if he was fit to drive. “Of course I am,” he said.
I disagreed. “In the fucking state you are, you're not fucking driving anywhere. I'll drive.”
He attempted to demur. “But you haven't passed your test.”
“Fuck that,” I said. “You have, so I can say you're supervising me. We've still got L plates somewhere.”
Catriona said there was room for both of us and our bags in her car. But I told her there was no way we were leaving our car outside the house for Winston or Norman or some other scum to vandalise. “No fucking way,” I said.
As we were packing the cars, I couldn't resist saying to Catriona: “What about your neighbours?”
She winked at me, smiled and, imitating my Brummie contralto, growled: “Fuck the fucking neighbours.” We both burst out laughing. When Brendan asked what was so funny, we started laughing again.
1
I thought about ringing in sick. I hated the pub, the job and above all the customers, and I would have much preferred to have joined Kathleen and Catriona. I didn't. For once in my life I behaved as a grown up. I knew if I didn't go in that night, I never would again, and without the money we were both earning not only wouldn't we be able to afford the running costs of the cheap second hand car we had bought, we would probably have to eat into our savings for the rent and utilities. But it was a close thing. With hindsight I made the wrong decision.
Waiting for Catriona to arrive, Kathleen was unable to settle, nerves making her restless. She was chain smoking, one moment sat in her favourite chair drumming her fingers, the next jumping up and striding around the room.
“For God's sake,” I said, “you're making me nervous now.”
“Fuck off,” she said, between drags.
I said nothing as I sipped my tea and looked at her. She stared back, making a face at me. Eventually I couldn't help myself and began giggling. Despite her attempts she was unable to maintain her façade of seriousness and burst out giggling herself.
“That's better,” I said.
She gave me the two fingered salute, followed by: “For fuck's sake stop being so patronising.” The effect of her words was spoiled by being forced out between giggles.
Once our laughter had subsided, I asked her: “I've not seen you this nervous since that first gig at the Wild Rover. What's up?”
“For fuck's sake, where have you been recently?”
“Here and the George & Dragon most of the time.”
“Sarcy cunt. You know what I mean. Me and Catriona will be performing together without anyone else for the first time. It could be a fucking disaster, particularly as I'm singing one song in a language I don't even speak, and our voices are so different. I'm thinking of pulling out, telling her when she comes I've got a sore throat and can't sing.”
“You'll do no such fucking thing,” I yelled at her.
With both hands on her hips, she said: “Oh yeah? And who the fuck's going to make me? You? I don't think so.”
At that moment the doorbell rang. I opened the door and let Catriona in, telling her that Kathleen was talking about crying off. She laughed, and said: “Oh don't worry about that. You know what she's like.”
“You can fuck off too,” Kathleen said. “You're as bad as that fucking queer cunt.” She sat down quickly and heavily, pouting at us.
Catriona raised an eyebrow, and with a wicked grin on her face said to Kathleen: “If we're being strictly anatomically accurate, I think it's me and you who are the ‘queer cunts’.” She pulled the chortling Kathleen to her feet, kissed her and then said: “Right, get your stuff together, girl, we've got to go.”
As meek as a lamb she picked up her coat and guitar case and made her way to the front door. I turned to Catriona and said: “If I'd spoken to her like that, I'd have thought myself lucky to have got away with a slap.”
She winked at me and in her musical Highland drawl said: “Have a sex change and learn to sing and you never know...”
I was still laughing as they drove away.
2
The boss told me I was doing the bar in the upstairs function room. “There’s a special event on tonight, so I expect you to keep everyone happy, and you're to work until everyone's gone, no matter how late. It's a ticket-only affair, but I doubt there'll be any gatecrashers, particularly as there'll be a couple of heavies on the door.”
“What's the occasion,” I asked.
“The National Front are celebrating how well they did in the local elections.”
“But they didn't win any seats.”
“They didn't expect to: but they got more votes than expected. The party's way of saying thank you to all their members and supporters. Should be a good night.”
The walls of the function room were covered in St George's Flags, the Union Jack and even a few swastikas, as well as posters declaring: “Keep Britain White”, “British Jobs for British Workers”, “Deport All Aliens”, “Bring Back Hanging”, “Castrate Queers” and the like. There were Union Jack and St George's bunting spread across the ceiling. Every table was decorated with St George's cloths, floral displays of red and white roses and miniature Union Jacks. A man I recognised, though this was the first time I'd seen him in a suit, was checking the sound system was working.
I knew better than to say anything or to indicate disapproval in any way. I just did my job: changed optics that needed new bottles, ensured the shelves were full, made sure the glasses were clean, checked the beer taps were working properly, counted the float and put it in the till – all the usual jobs.
All the time I was telling myself I must get another job, and this time I was serious. It was one thing serving in the bar, knowing most of the customers were thugs and fascists; it was another thing entirely running the bar at a National Front event.
I opened the bar, and the two gorillas at the door began to let people in. The room soon began to fill, and I was so busy I had no time to think of anything other than serving drinks and taking money. The bastard skinflint of a landlord had no-one other than me working the bar, and some people were beginning to get impatient. I had become a dab hand at serving more than one person at a time, letting beer flow into a glass while getting spirits from the optics and opening mixers, rarely spilling a drop and managing to calculate the cost of two or three orders simultaneously. I'd been crap at maths at school, but when it came to work my mental arithmetic was right up there with the best. I may have been serving a bunch of fascist wankers, but I still took pride in my work. Anyway, the best way to keep these fuckers happy was to serve them as quickly as possible.
Eventually the rush was over, with just a few stragglers who had waited for the bar to quiet down before ordering drinks. Someone called for silence and the speeches began. I blocked them out, concentrating on washing glasses, cleaning the counter and restocking the shelves.
When I looked up I thought my heart was going to stop beating. Norman was leaning on the counter, a grotesque grin on his face. “Well, well, what a fucking pleasant surprise.” He winked at me.
“What are you doing here?” I asked him. “This is supposed to be a private party.” I looked across at the gorillas working the door and noticed they too were grinning.
“Oh, I've got an invite. I'm a member of the party now, you know.” Before turning away from the bar he said: “You're fucked, mate.”
My hands were shaking and my palms sweating as I attempted to serve a drink, ending up spilling most of it over the counter, beer dripping onto the floor. The gorillas were still grinning as they approached me. I backed away, but the only way out was past them. I looked around the room and saw Norman in conversation with the landlord, who then pushed past the gorillas, told me to follow him and dragged me out of the room, down the stairs and into his office.
“You're sacked,” he told me. I just nodded, and went to get my coat. He grabbed my arm and said: “Look, you're a good barman, one of the best I've had. But you've upset those fuckers upstairs, and once word gets round you won't be safe here. I don't give a fuck if you take it up the arse, I don't give a fuck who you've upset, but I've got a business to run.” He dug some notes out of his pocket, and handed them to me. “In lieu of notice,” he said. I didn't trust myself to speak, so I just nodded and went to leave. “Wait,” he said, “best to leave through the yard, otherwise some fucker might take a pop at you.”
I ran most of the way home, regularly checking no-one was following me. Safely behind a locked door, but still shaking so much I couldn't even pour myself a drink, I collapsed on the sofa.
3
My mind was going round in circles, just like it does sometimes when I can't get to sleep. I was replaying what happened, wondering if I could have done anything different, realising I couldn't, then replaying the scene again. What if they knew where I lived? What if they had followed me home? No, of course they hadn't followed me: I would have noticed. But what if, what if, what if? I felt wired, like I'd taken too much speed, my body twitching uncontrollably, my heart beating so fast I was scared it might stop. Then, suddenly, I was drained of all energy, felt unable to move and stared unseeing, brain empty of anything other than fear and apathy.
Sometime later, I have no idea how much later, there was a banging on the door. I ignored it, but it continued and a voice I recognised as Norman's began shouting: “Open the fucking door before we break it down!”
I retreated in fear, hoping they would think I wasn't in, a futile hope. The banging merely intensified, and again Norman shouted: “We're coming in. Either you let us in or we break the fucking door down. Your choice.”
I looked around me, panicking. Fuck knows where my brain was hiding, because it was only then I remembered the back door. I ran, hoping to escape down the back alley. No such luck. I unlocked it, stepped out and was faced with a grinning gorilla either side of me. They dragged me back inside and while one of them held me, the other opened the front door. Norman strode in accompanied by someone I recognised from the George & Dragon: Tony, a National Front organiser and an illegal money lender.
“Well, well, what are we going to do with the nigger loving Irish queer?” He looked round at the others. “What do you think, lads?”
One of the gorillas said: “Anything. As long as it's slow and painful.” Norman grinned, saying: “And humiliating. Yes, humiliating.”
I attempted to squirm out of their grip, and got a kick in the balls for my trouble. They ripped off my clothes, forced me to sit on a hard wooden chair, tied me to the chair so tightly I had little movement and put a thick hood over my head, leaving me in complete darkness. I began to whimper. I've always been scared of the dark, and I normally sleep with a low light on. In the dark my mind creates horrific images that seem real, and behind the hood I saw shapes that morphed into slithering snakes, tarantulas and scorpions that kept disappearing and reappearing, coiling around me. I saw flashes of light like silent fireworks, that grew brighter before exploding and leaving only darkness. I saw grotesque, toothless faces laughing silently, getting ever closer to me, changing shape, morphing into ravens whose beaks were aimed at my eyes. I felt dizzy, nauseous and panicking so much I could hardly breath. I began to scream.
I heard Norman's voice: “For fuck's sake, shut the fucking pansy up.” I heard some shuffling and felt a hand on my head, a hand that removed the hood. The hand put some tape across my mouth, then replaced the hood, leaving me to breathe through my nose as best I could. I attempted to control the hallucinations by visualising rolling green hills in spring, golden beaches in summer, burbling brooks and the like. But the snakes and scorpions, the silent fireworks, the toothless faces and ravens kept finding ways through.
The thickness of the hood also dampened sounds so noises and voices reached me as if through a filter or as if they came from some distance away. I heard shuffling probably of feet, clanging of what may have been glasses, some coughing probably from the lungs of the smoker whose cigarette I could smell. I heard objects falling and smashing on the floor. There was belching, laughter and snippets of conversation.
I heard Norman say: “I've got just the fucking thing for nancy boy. And it's so fucking appropriate for a queer terrorist's groupie.” His voice seemed to come out of the mouth of the hallucination of the toothless, sneering face.
“What, knee capping the fucker?” one of them asked, the anticipated pleasure apparent in his voice.
“No. I reckon we should let that black pimp Winston do the real damage, once we've let him know where the queer and the tart live. No, just a little warning, I think.”
“Oh,” the thug said, sounding disappointed. “So you're going to let the wog have some fun? Why? I thought you hated the cunts.”
Norman laughed. “Oh, I do. Wouldn't normally give the black bastard, any black bastard, the time of day. But at least you know where you stand with niggers and Pakis: you can tell them from a distance because of their colour and their smell. Queer cunts are more devious, and I hate queers even more than wogs. Anyway, don't worry, he won't like what we've got planned. How about we tar and feather him?”
Whoops of anticipation came from the mouths of the thugs. I wanted to scream, but was unable to do so; I tried to move my body but only succeeded in making myself even more uncomfortable.
I heard a voice I recognised as that of Tony. “Not sure we should do anything like tarring and feathering. Not sure at all.”
“Why not?” Norman asked, “I bet there's some tar somewhere near here and we can use feathers from pillows. So what's the problem?”
Tony was a nasty bastard, one of the nastiest of those who used the George & Dragon, though he wasn't really a regular: he appeared three or four times a month, normally for meetings and discussions. Not only was he nasty, he was also cunning and clever, not the sort of person to ever underestimate. Whatever he had planned was unlikely to be any more pleasant than tarring and feathering; if anything it would probably be worse, as indeed it proved to be.
Tony said: “I have no objections to tarring and feathering Irish queers, no objections at all, but it could be a bit messy and if the queer cunt had to go to hospital to get it all removed, I think it likely the police would be involved, and I'm sure none of us want to end up before the courts. Let the nigger do real damage and get the blame for it.”
“So, what do you suggest?” Norman couldn't keep the disappointment out of his voice.
“Oh just something I learned from my days in the army, a sort of initiation ceremony until it was stopped by our commanding officer. If one of you can get the rope from the boot of my car, I'll show you.” I heard someone leaving and then a short time later returning. “Thank you,” Tony said. “Now, first of all let's move him and the chair next to the stairs.”
I felt myself being untied and forced upright, and I heard the scraping as the chair was dragged a few feet. I was then forced again to sit in the chair and tied to it. I struggled, God did I struggle, but they laughed at me. Someone spat in my face: I felt the saliva hit my cheek. Someone else, or perhaps the same person, kicked me in the balls again. All my struggling achieved was more pain.
Once I was again tied to the chair, Tony said: “Good. Good. Now, we make a noose at one end of the rope, and the other end we tie to the stair bannister. The aim is to make the noose quite tight, but not tight enough to kill him or even cause permanent physical damage.” He paused for a moment, then continued: “It might cause him some psychological damage, might even send him mad with a bit of luck, but it won't harm in physically.”
The rest began cackling and shouting things like: “Yeah! Let's do it. Let's do it.”
The last things I remember were the noose being put over my neck, losing control of my bladder and bowels and Norman telling me how fucking disgusting I was.
Chapter Fourteen: Kathleen
1
What a great gig. What a fucking great gig! It couldn't have gone any better. Afterwards, we were on a high, a natural high. Our voices worked together so well, neither of us were aware of the passing of time as we put everything we had into the performance and the audience appreciated every song, every note. My only regret was that we hadn't taped the show, but next time...
We had a drink afterwards then went for a late meal at a nearby Indian restaurant. We talked about the concert, we never stopped smiling, we would have made love in the middle of the restaurant if we could have got away with it, so we made do with playing footsie under the table and grinning at each other.
After leaving the restaurant we strolled, hand in hand, through the late evening early summer rain, oblivious to the water soaking through our clothes to our bodies. On the long drive back to Balsall Heath the smiles remained on our faces, except when one of us burst out giggling, inevitably infecting the other. The journey home took us longer than that to the concert: it was late, dark and wet, and Catriona took it steady because she'd had her share of the drink with the meal: the last thing we wanted was to be stopped and for her to be breathalysed, particularly as we had shared a joint and the car still stunk of grass.
When we first met I was concerned in case this beautiful, personable and talented but naïve looking middle class young woman would be shocked by me smoking cannabis. If she had disapproved, I doubt our relationship would have lasted more than a night or two. I needn't have worried: looks can be deceptive. She had discovered it at university, though had rarely smoked since because she didn't move in the circles where it was easily available, and even now I think she only smoked when with me.
We talked, making plans for the future, for gigs with just the two of us. We even discussed leaving the collective, but I don't think either of us was ready for that: David may have been a pain in the fucking arse sometimes, but he got us bookings.
“Have you ever thought of writing songs?” I asked her.
She shook her head. “I had to do a bit of composing for the music degree, and that was difficult enough. I don't think I could write songs like you: the ideas just aren't there.”
“Stop putting yourself down, woman!” I told her. “Of course you can write songs.” I lit a cigarette. The nicotine hit my lungs and I exhaled loudly, belched, then put my hand over my mouth. “Oops,” I said, “sorry about that.”
She giggled. “I'll forgive you, but thousands wouldn't.”
I put my serious voice back on. “Look, I know you can write songs, but I also know it's daunting. Why don't we try writing together? If it doesn't work out, that's okay, but we won't know until we try.”
Leaving her right hand on the steering wheel, she caressed my thigh. “Okay, let's give it a go.”
“And whether it works out or not, you can transcribe my – or our – songs onto paper, with all the dots.”
She burst out laughing, and laughed for so long she gave herself the hiccups. When she'd calmed down she just repeated my last words “...with all the dots” before beginning to laugh again. Every time she calmed down she repeated “with all the dots” and began laughing again.
“What the fuck was wrong with what I said?” I asked, trying to be annoyed, but failing. No-one else could have taken the piss out of me like she was doing. No matter how hard I tried, I just couldn't get angry and soon I too was giggling again. We both ended up laughing so much it was no longer safe for Catriona to continue to drive, so she pulled into the side of the road and cut the engine. Slowly we began to calm down and looked at each other. She gave me such a fucking filthy grin I blushed: me, a tart who'd had men in every possible position, blushing. She noticed, grabbed my arms and pulled me towards her, before giving me one of her sloppy kisses.
I was the first to break the embrace. “We'd better get going before we do something we could fucking get arrested for.”
We turned into the road where I lived, both of us looking forward to spending the night and the next day together without having to worry about what anyone thought. As Catriona slowed down and pulled up outside the front door, I sensed something was wrong. Catriona picked up on it and asked me what was up.
“I don't know,” I said, “but something doesn't feel right.” I peered out of the car window. “For one thing there's no lights on.”
Catriona's brow furrowed, as if puzzled. “But it's so late now, surely Brendan'll be in bed, either that or he's still working, so there wouldn't be any lights on, would there?”
“We always leave a light on when we go out. And, well please don't ever let him know I told you this, but he's scared of the dark. He always sleeps with a light on low, and his bedroom is at the front.” I pointed to the first floor window. “That's his bedroom, so if he was in, there would be a light on there, or on downstairs in the front room. And if he's not back, then there would still be a light on. And I've got this fucking feeling in my bones, I can't explain it, I just have.”
She opened her door. “Right, let's get out, and see if we can put your mind at rest.”
What was waiting for us was worse than I could ever have imagined.
2
I was worried when the key wouldn't turn, until I realised the front door wasn't even locked. When we pushed the door open and entered, my senses were assaulted by sights and smells my brain initially refused to accept. I stared, open mouthed, for once unable to find any words. Catriona, clearly shocked, whispered: “Oh my God, oh my God.” before covering her mouth with her hand.
The room was a mess, with broken glass, torn papers and the smashed remains of our record player on the floor. Brendan, tied to a chair and sitting in his own shit and piss, was naked apart from a hood covering his head and a noose round his neck. The only movement his restraints allowed was a little twitching in his feet, but at least it indicated he was alive. “Brendan,” I yelled, “Brendan, what the fuck has happened.” There was no reply, just the twitching in his feet. I ran up to him, pulled the hood off his face and saw the panic and hysteria in his eyes. As soon as I removed the tape from his mouth, he began screaming uncontrollably. Catriona, who was still mumbling “Oh my God, oh my God”, helped me remove the noose and untie him.
Slowly he calmed down, his screaming replaced by an eerie keening. I tried asking him who had done this and why, but it was as if he couldn't hear me: he just continued keening while rocking back and forth. No matter how fucking often I tried to get some sense out of him, he didn't respond.
After what seemed hours but was probably only seconds I felt Catriona take my hand and pull me away. “He must be in shock, poor thing,” she said. She knelt down before him, looked into his eyes and, speaking slowly and quietly, said: “Brendan, I want you to look at me and I want you to slowly take a deep breath and then exhale, just like this.” She breathed in deeply then let her breath out. “Can you do that for me? Breath in, hold it for a second, then breath out.” She kept repeating this mantra slowly, gently and patiently, and taking hold of his hand said: “No-one's going to harm you now we're here. Just breath in deeply, hold for a second then breath out.” She continued to show him what she wanted him to do. Gradually his keening subsided and he did as he was asked. But when he exhaled he also vomited, rancid waste gushing from his mouth and over him and Catriona.
I was in bits, in fucking bits, no fucking use to anyone. It was all I could do to stop myself from screaming. Instead, I just let the tears and snot flow. Catriona turned to me and said: “Can you put the kettle on, make us all a cup of tea? Make sure Brendan's is sweet, and put in some cold water so it doesn't burn his mouth.” I did as she asked, also taking the time to clean my face and make myself look presentable.
When I returned, Catriona was in the same position, still talking quietly and gently to Brendan, who was responding to her voice. When he tried to speak, she said: “Shush, no need to say anything at the moment. You're doing really well, really well. Kathleen's made us some tea. Would you like a sip?” He nodded. I passed the cup to Catriona who held it to Brendan's mouth. “Just a sip,” she said, “just a sip for the time being.” Gradually, she let him take a few more small sips. Then she said to him: “I think we should try to clean you up and get some clothes on you. Can you stand? Don't worry about falling, we'll be either side of you helping you. Is that okay?”
He nodded. Catriona, still covered in his vomit, slowly rose to her feet and asked me to get the other side of him. “Now, try standing if you can. Not too quickly. Just slowly see if you can do it. You won't fall because we're here to stop that happening.” He did as she asked, but was clearly unsteady on his feet. Together we managed to get him up the stairs and to the bathroom, though it seemed to take forever. As he began to calm down and became more aware of his surroundings, he realised he was naked and filthy. In a quiet and almost unrecognisable voice, he whispered: “I'm sorry, so sorry, you're seeing me like this. So sorry.”
I still couldn't speak. But Catriona said: “Don't worry about that. Let's get you cleaned up a bit, shall we?”
“Thank you, but I think I can manage myself now.” He attempted to cover his genitals with his hands, and would have fallen over if we hadn't been holding him up.
Catriona smiled gently. “How about if I stay here in case you need any help?”
“But I'm naked and I must stink. I must look disgusting.”
She took his hand. “Really, don't worry about any of that. I've seen worse. Let's just get you cleaned up, shall we?” She made him sit on the toilet seat while she ran the bath. She could tell I wasn't going to be much help, but instead of getting angry with me (which is what I would have done in her place) she just asked me to clean up the mess downstairs. “And then once he's cleaned up, can you help me get him to bed?”
I nodded.
Later, after we'd got Brendan to bed, we sat together on the sofa, hugging each other. “I'm so fucking sorry,” I said, “so fucking sorry I wasn't more help. I'm useless, fucking useless.” The tears began again, and she held me to her breast. Once I found my voice, I asked: “Who the fuck would do that to him? What sadistic cunt would do that?”
“I don't know,” Catriona said. “He wasn't making much sense, not surprising really. He said something about someone called Norman, but I didn't press him. Hopefully he'll be able to tell us in the morning.”
I yelled: “Norman! The only fucking Norman we know is the bastard who used to be a barman at that pub in Winson Green. Oh shit, if he's found out where we live now...” I looked at her and asked: “Where did you learn all that?”
“All what?”
“You know, how to treat people in shock like that, how to talk to them and help them.”
“Oh that. At school. I'm one of the first aiders there. It's nothing really, just pleased I was able to help.”
“Fuck knows what we would have done if you hadn't been here.”
She kissed me. “You'd have coped. Come on, let's get some sleep and sort things out in the morning.”
3
We were woken by screaming. Still dopey from sleep it took me a few seconds to realise what was happening, where the noise was coming from. We both jumped out of bed and ran to Brendan's room, without thinking what we'd do if we were faced by an intruder.
He was sat bolt upright in bed, his eyes glazed over with terror, drool hanging from his mouth as ear piercing screams escaped from his throat. When he saw us, his screams were replaced by sobbing. I was rooted to the spot, unable to move, my mouth open in horror as I saw my friend descend into what looked a personal Hell inhabited by demons. Thank fuck Catriona was there.
She knelt by his bed and put her arms around him, making soothing noises and eventually he returned to us, found coherent words.
“We've got to leave,” he yelled, “we've got to leave now, before it's too late. Before he tells Winston where we live. Before Winston comes round. He'll kill us.” He tried to get out of bed, but Catriona held him too firmly to allow that. He began to struggle, but Catriona continued to hold him tight. “Come and help me,” she demanded. “Don't just stand there, come and help me.”
Her words got through to me. Together we were able to calm him down enough so he was able to speak with a degree of lucidity, but he was still insistent we all leave immediately.
“Winston's after us, and he knows where we live,” he said. “He knows where we live. He'll kill us this time. I know he will.”
“Can't we talk about it in the morning?” I suggested.
Brendan shook his head so vigorously I thought he'd do himself harm. “No, it can't wait. Norman's told him, he told me he was going to tell him. We're not safe here.” I could see the panic begin to rise again in his eyes.
Catriona whispered to me she was going to make some tea. I nodded and returned my attention to Brendan. “Look, both doors are locked, the windows are shut and we have a phone. We'll be okay until the morning.”
He continued to shake his head. “No, we won't. No we fucking won't. Norman will have told him. Told him. Told him...” His voice tailed off and was replaced by the desperate fucking awful keening of earlier. I didn't know what to do, so I just held him as he rocked backwards and forwards, continually keening.
Catriona returned with the tea. We knew there would be no more sleep that night, so after dressing we attempted to get Brendan to tell us exactly what had taken place that night. I couldn't believe Brendan had let Norman in of his own accord, but there had been no sign of forced entry. He still wasn't making much sense, at least to me, and I was despairing of ever understanding what had happened. I really had no fucking idea what to do or what to say or how to behave. I was afraid of descending into the same hell as Brendan.
Once again, thank God for Catriona. I don't know whether it was just her natural patience and goodness or whether it was her teacher training, but I do know I've come across some nasty, impatient, uncaring and supercilious teachers, so I assumed it was just her natural goodness. She not only calmed him down and managed to keep him that way, she was also able to extract a full account of what had happened. Fuck knows how she did this, as Brendan's words were all over the place, his story jumping from one thing to another, but she did it. She also managed to keep me from getting hysterical.
If I believed in God, I'd think she was an angel. I'd already known I loved her; now I looked at her with awe.
I took her angelic hand and massaged it. She turned to me and smiled. “That's nice,” she said. By this time Brendan had fallen into an uneasy sleep. And we had decisions to make.
Catriona asked me: “How seriously do we take this threat?”
“Very seriously. Very fucking seriously indeed.”
“Okay, what do we do about it? Do we call the police?”
I laughed. “No fucking way. As far as they're concerned I'm just a tart who deserves every fucking bit of hassle she gets. And Brendan's experience of them is as least as bad. You know they arrested him thinking he had something to do with the IRA bombings.”
She nodded. “Yes, you told me. But I'm sure they're not all like that.” She could see she hadn't convinced me, and said: “Okay, no police. So what do we do?”
“Brendan's right. We can't stay here. I have no fucking doubt that the cunt Norman will tell Winston. And I have no doubt Winston will come round here with some heavies and smash the place up as well as smashing up me and Brendan – and you if you're here when he turns up.”
She stood up. “Right. Decision time. You're both coming to my place, at least for a couple of nights, until we can sort something out.”
“But what if they found out where you live?”
She shrugged. “Birmingham's a big city.”
“Not as big as you think, love. Not as fucking big as you think.”
“Be that as it may, the two of you are coming home with me. I'll help the two of you with packing. We'll take as much as we can now and come back for the rest later. Better wake Brendan up.”
When we told him we were going to leave as soon as we had packed, he perked up. Catriona asked him if he was fit to drive. “Of course I am,” he said.
I disagreed. “In the fucking state you are, you're not fucking driving anywhere. I'll drive.”
He attempted to demur. “But you haven't passed your test.”
“Fuck that,” I said. “You have, so I can say you're supervising me. We've still got L plates somewhere.”
Catriona said there was room for both of us and our bags in her car. But I told her there was no way we were leaving our car outside the house for Winston or Norman or some other scum to vandalise. “No fucking way,” I said.
As we were packing the cars, I couldn't resist saying to Catriona: “What about your neighbours?”
She winked at me, smiled and, imitating my Brummie contralto, growled: “Fuck the fucking neighbours.” We both burst out laughing. When Brendan asked what was so funny, we started laughing again.
About the Author
Born in Manchester in 1951, Kevin Crowe has lived in the Highlands since 1999. A writer of fiction, poetry and non-fiction, he has had his work published in various magazines, journals and websites. He also writes regularly for the Highland monthly community magazine Am Bratach and for the Highland LGBT magazine UnDividing Lines.