She headed over to them, or at least to Mickle. Conversation fumbled out and they looked at her blatantly, in a childlike way she barely noticed. Her hair was a shiny dark, and at a length they all thought suited her really well, it had to be said. Her skin was pale, hadn’t taken a tan, which gave rise to speculation that she was a secret ginger, but the lack of freckles, and much else besides, saw that shouted down by Mickle. He liked to think she had some Spanish or Italian blood in her and that the reluctant north-east sun, even at its closest noon point to the city, wasn’t enough to trigger a change. She was slim, but not painfully so. She had dark eyes, which never seemed to be thinking exactly warm thoughts when they looked at the boys, but there was nothing wrong with that.
Mickle was the only one of them she entertained, that night or any other night, and he had been trying his best with her on Fridays for a few months now; this pub was on a separate estate, totally out of their way, and while it was decent enough, the boys wouldn’t put up with it for much longer. In the last fortnight, though, Katrina had split up with her boyfriend. Mickle had immediately stepped back from the more strenuous of his efforts. He thought that still coming to the pub but leaving her alone once he was there would look respectful, make him come across as a sensitive soul. Now it looked like that had worked. True, it couldn’t be denied that she was also drunk when she came over, even managing to stumble elegantly before bumping Mickle along and sitting next to him, but these things were hard for girls as well sometimes.
They didn’t need to talk into each other’s necks for long before they were heading outside, cigarettes shining in their hands. The boys left behind had that few seconds of contemplative silence, given over to imaginings, till someone thought of something to say. There wasn’t much dirty talk, but efforts to find different subject just flapped awkwardly above the table. Prowsey got a round in, including one for Mickle, which was only mildly begrudged.
It was fifteen minutes or so before Katrina came back in, bouncing a little on her feet, and rejoined her group. The boys didn’t see her face, but they saw the greedy, scandalised looks on her friends’ and the conclusion had to be that she was pleased.
Mickle came in a careful couple of minutes later. His face was long and reddened, though not just with exertion and there wasn’t any chance of a smile. He waited to be asked what was wrong. George stepped up.
Mickle shook his head. ‘Fuckin – massive, massive problem. I think.’
It was hard not to laugh at the tragic way he put that across, and Lloyd wondered if she’d popped one of his balls.
He got it across that they’d had a shag standing up in an alley, which even he hadn’t dared hope for. His tone wasn’t luxuriating in it, however, ‘I’m thinkin I shouldn’t’ve done that, now, mebbes,’ he ended.
‘What’s up?’ Prowsey asked.
‘She’s fuckin scratched all me back,’ Mickle said.
‘Let’s see,’ Prowsey said, smiling broadly.
‘I can feel it,’ Mickle said. He inched forward, hunched over, his face suddenly elderly.
Prowsey lifted the t-shirt, taking it slow. They craned to see it, some of them wholesale moving seat.
‘Is it bad?’ Mickle asked. ‘It must be fuckin bad. I said not to, and she stopped but then she like started again. Fuck’s sake man.’
His shirt was dropped, and he sat back, though not all the way back. He didn’t know which of them to look to for the reassurance he wanted.
‘Mate – she’s drawn a nob on ya back,’ Lloyd said, shaking his head, lips pursed.
‘Fuck off has she,’ Mickle said.
‘It doesn’t look good, mind,’ Prowsey said, ‘it’s not good, that.’
‘Fuckin hell man.’
‘They’ll gan away if y’ say a prayer,’ mentioned Lloyd.
‘Who thinks they’re helpin?’ Mickle wanted to know
‘It was worth it though, wasn’t it?’ Prowsey asked.
‘Dunno,’ Mickle said, after a few seconds, ‘do not fuckin know.’
Katrina’s group left for a club a little while later, throwing smiley looks over at their table (though she didn’t bother, herself) and Mickle did what he could to respond wolfishly. He didn’t think she’d marked him up on purpose, but he didn’t know for sure either. Supposedly it’d been a turbulent break-up with the boyfriend, he remembered now. And she hadn’t really said much, or cracked a smile during the whole encounter.
He got his mind off that for now, and knew, after a few quiet moments of looking into himself, what had to be done. The others naturally agreed, had probably been close to suggesting it themselves.
‘You’re only fuckin doin it,’ he said, looking round at them, ‘if y’ve got a lass. I’m not havin neeone else joinin in.’
They supposed that was fair enough.
* * *
Mickle stood at the bar and pounded down some whiskies. He considered asking the others to chip in for them, since they were the ones who were going to benefit from this in enjoyment, but decided he’d had enough bittersweet experiences already this evening. He had three drinks in two minutes, the last of them causing a trauma he had to hide. By then it was almost closing time.
At first, Mickle didn’t want those without girlfriends to even be there, but that was never going to be agreed to, or enforceable. They all thought a back alley was the best place for it, but he had a thing now about back alleys, so he took them to a field. It could just about be called a field. It was a strip of grass by a main road, overlooked on the other side by three-storey blocks of flats. He didn’t know why he pictured it happening there, but it didn’t seem to be something he was going to argue with.
Breathing shallowly, Mickle took it for granted that he was in charge of this. He saw no need for it to be anything but swift and controlled; it was impossible to avoid pain, but it could be minimised, localised. What this whole thing needed was structure. He started to explain these things to them, and Prowsey tripped him up. He fell on his side, and writhed as if he was trying to get back up before realising there was no point. Ricey laughed so hard at that he had to stop walking and bend his knees; that was when they first started referring to themselves as The Wrecking Company, on Lloyd’s recommendation. The streets were fairly empty – they still had a few minutes before the pubs let out – but that made sounds like laughter and jeers (and, soon, cries) all the louder, banging off windows and straight up into the cloud-free sky. In his head, Mickle had been debating whether it should start with punches or kicks, trying to work out which would numb the body efficiently early on, but once he was down everyone thought it easiest just to start kicking him in the back.
One fond dream, which hadn’t seen him in a curled position unable to speak, was that it would be a careful punch or kick at a time, with a choice over where they landed and maybe even how hard. In fairness, Prowsey did allow for that after a few minutes of gleeful free-for-all, and the kicking became more judicious, with blessed gaps between each one. Mickle was more irritable and breathless than he’d wanted to be, especially when his instructions were ignored. Ricey and Prowsey had trainers on, but Lloyd – for God alone knew what reason – had taken to wearing (‘vintage American’) cowboy boots, and the points on them stayed long in his memory.
Prowsey soon called a halt to the back-kicking. Mickle was turned over and, while he opened his mouth to say something, punched in the gut. His knees came up and the whisky in him objected, strongly. Mickle had his eyes closed now, so Prowsey signalled to George and the other three that it was all right for them to keep joining in if they wanted. They did.
It fell to Lloyd to lift Mickle’s t-shirt and scratch the front of him as well, with what scant nails he had. It was a quick job, and that was the only time they were pretty quiet. Then they went back to the free-for-all style.
One of the windows in the flats lit up and then opened. A woman too old to be bothered about Friday nights out, shouted down that she’d be calling the ‘poliss’ in a minute. Prowsey made them all step back and let Mickle handle that. He couldn’t speak at first, and the arm he raised himself up on trembled, but he managed to crack out, ‘It’s aal reet … it’s for a bet.’ She thought about that for a few seconds, then shut the window without further complaint. Some of the fire had gone out of their efforts now though.
Mickle thought that served as a natural end to it, but Prowsey held him down, crouching over him. ‘Hang on a minute,’ he said.
‘Nah, what?’ Mickle asked, already shaking his head in anticipation.
‘We haven’t even touched ya face yet,’ Prowsey said, ‘doesn’t look very realistic, that, to me.’
Some of the others agreed, murmuringly.
‘Gan on then,’ Mickle said.
Prowsey nodded. He pulled back a fist that was sore, but had some fight in it yet.
* * *
They got the sorry mess on his feet after a few minutes of standing over him watching him twist. He seemed to be calling for unknowable things in a jangled voice. He might not have been in the mood for a club now, but they still were, so Prowsey said he and Lloyd would take care of him. The others were allowed to make their way to the taxi rank.
Mickle’s legs had escaped the worst of the pummelling, but they still weren’t able to support him for long. It was a struggle for him to lift his arms, but he lodged them around Prowsey and Lloyd’s shoulders, and the shuffle was on. It wasn’t far to his flat, but it was far enough. Luckily, he lived on the ground floor, so they could dump him on the back door step.
The back door opened into the kitchen. It was hard for him to get his bearings, but he eventually found the front room and the couch in it. He wasn’t sure what to do for the best then. A shower occurred to him, something to do with warm water making the blood flow better, which would bring up the bruises – but he couldn’t be harassed with it. He didn’t even wash his face; he went to bed in his clothes, but not before he sorted out some more drink for himself. He lay on his front most of the time, head arched back to sip from the cans.
Some obvious thoughts should’ve done a thorough clean-up job on the stray ones, but that wasn’t the case. He thought about the boys more than anything and the nature of those thoughts kept altering. At first he was certain they’d enjoyed it too much, had been much too jubilant – but then he had to accept that if Lloyd had been in that predicament, then he, Mickle, would’ve had to be stopped from taking a run-up at the kicks. Soon, though, he was almost weeping with gratitude for the boys, Lloyd included. This could become a bright anecdote in all their lives. They would remember this when they were old men, the things they had gotten up to on Friday nights, if they still had them nights in those days.
When he wasn’t thinking these thoughts, which kept circling back round without advancing, he was waiting and his mind more or less stayed blank.
Hayley didn’t miss many Friday nights clubbing and was rarely in before three bells. He kept meaning to get up, check the progress of his back in the mirror, but he was fearful. The time passed in lurches, in a way he’d never noticed before. It was like something was biting a chunk out of it, taking a while to chew, and then suddenly another massive chunk disappeared. He didn’t think he was blacking out – he wasn’t spilling any drink – but he supposed anything was possible.
He heard her steps up the path before he heard the door go. He’d thought about how to pose himself on the bed, but had come to no conclusions, and all possibilities went out of his head anyway. Depending on her drunken incapacity, Hayley would likely want a shag, or at least some activity up towards one.
‘I’m in here,’ he heard himself calling.
She came through, leant against the doorway, smiled. She wanted a shag, no question of that; she was practically hoofing her knickers across the room already. Then she took a few steps forward, and her mouth dropped. ‘Christ’s sake,’ she said.
‘Aye,’ he said. ‘Sorry, like.’
He was taken through to the bathroom, where he sat unsteadily on the edge of the tub, feet planted as firmly as they could be. The second lot of drink was catching up with him, and his mood was turning shadowy. Hayley filled the sink, wet a facecloth. It wasn’t the first time he’d come back in this condition, but he couldn’t quite remember how he’d behaved all those other times.
‘I was havin a tab outside the pub. Couldn’t even tell y’ who it was,’ he said, when she asked. ‘Never seen them before. There’s some shite movin onto this estate, I’ll tell y’ that for nowt.’
‘Where were the others?’ she asked, dabbing at the blood around his mouth. She wasn’t asking pointedly, but she wasn’t asking idly either.
‘It was over just like that,’ Mickle said, clicking his fingers. Already he wished he’d prepared parts of this more thoroughly, and other parts less.
‘Could do with just gettin back to bed, meself,’ he said, ‘leave that now, if y’ want.’ He went to take the cloth.
‘S’all right, s’all right,’ she said, lifting it out of his reach.
He sighed. ‘They’ve smashed fuck out of iz,’ he said, as if observing from a distance. That felt like an authentic way to be.
‘I know,’ Hayley said, ‘better take ya top off a minute.’
He shook his head, after the appearance of some thought. ‘Can’t be arsed with all that, like. I’ll just have a bath when I get up.’
‘Shut up and take ya top off man.’
He nodded. She had to help him, as it was even harder now to lift his arms. He had his eyes closed as the t-shirt went over his head. The light in there took no pity. His slight gut and slight breasts looked unhappy with him sitting there slumped, but at least the discolouration was eye-catching.
‘Look at the scratches,’ she said.
‘Call themselves men?’ he said, nodding. ‘Fuck them.’
Hayley rubbed his front down, dampening the waistband of his jeans in a way that might’ve struck him as erotic if he’d thought he would ever get another hard-on in his life. Then she said, ‘Better stand up a minute. Turn round. I’ll do ya back.’
Protesting would be too suspicious, he was able to think. He stood, one arm stretched out against the wall to keep him steady. His legs weren’t exactly having the time of their lives again, and he couldn’t believe it, but he was helplessly holding his breath – surely she’d be able to tell that by the movement of his back? Something was going on, anyway: the feel of the cloth didn’t come.
He was about to say something, mention there’d been a girl’s voice in the group that had attacked him when Hayley sneezed. She apologised; he blessed her. Then she started pressing the cloth into his back. Neither of them said anything, but he had no way of telling if the atmosphere was peaceable. To him it seemed like hell was bubbling up. He had the absolutely nutty idea of asking her to kiss it better, but stopped himself before the words were even near his lips.
* * *
They went to bed and Mickle had one of those nights where he either hadn’t slept, or he’d dreamt he hadn’t. It hardly mattered – he was awake for nine o’ clock on a Saturday morning and that struck him as a major symptom in a nervous breakdown, especially as it was obvious it was more than the titanic soreness alone that had opened his eyes. He lay still until mid-day, when Hayley blinked awake. There was a lot of thinking and a lot of feeling in that time.
All day, he did things for her, or those things – cups of tea, running a bath, switching the computer on – that he could manage without too many gasps. She wouldn’t let him do everything, and even tried to do things for him, though he wouldn’t have that. They didn’t talk much, but the mood was fine, and there was a clumsy attempt at sex at tea-time that ended in laughter rather than frustration or humiliation. They had a night in, and it was her choice of DVD, which he made sure he stayed awake through.
This was the new ways of things. He’d heard from other, more regularly adventurous types, that these concessions barely lasted a week before they went back to the old routines, but Mickle made sure it wasn’t like that. He didn’t know about those others (they wouldn’t admit to this), but there was some enjoyment in it, for him. The closest he could express it, when he thought about it to himself, was that it was a way of life you could sink your teeth into. So why let it go?
Hayley was happy, though she did look at him sometimes. He was happy, in a way. Prowsey and the boys had harsher things to say, of course, when they saw him, but he could put up with that.
(c) Barrie Darke