You Looking at Me?

Thoughts from 3.00 am. Disjointed, rambling, random – they all get scribbled down. Some are worth keeping; most get rejected. Here’s what came into my head this morning. There’s elements of reality here, but also a fair dose of the subconscious mind working away on the project that’s been occupying me for a while. Whether this will be part of the next novel isn’t clear, yet, but it’s worth keeping until the final decision – what to do next – is made.

From Café Rouge, on the top-tier of Liverpool 1, the lights of the Albert Dock sparkled against the night sky.  I left the remains of my coffee, my second cup, on the table and walked past Debenhams towards Church Street. At ground level the shops were closed and shuttered, the milling crowds gone for the day. I cut through the alley towards Flanagan’s Apple and saw half a dozen youths strung across the narrow passage, laughing raucously as they blocked the way. Part of the way human beings are structured: this desire to bond together, the ingrained herd instinct, perhaps. Safety in numbers allied to kinship, the urge to belong to a group. I’d seen it many times in the gang culture that was prevalent in the city.

I wasn’t concerned. Not at first. Youths are predictable. In a group, they posture. Showing off in front of their peer group. All talk, basically.

A lone male is far more dangerous.

Mano a mano.

This group wouldn’t normally have bothered me. Five males, aged about twenty or so. It was the other group member who was causing me concern. A girl. Women are unpredictable. There’s far less of an actual physical threat, but a concealed knife evens up many a contest. There’s also the manner in which the presence of the girl will affect the dynamic of the group. Showing off in front of your mates is one thing; being egged on by a female is quite another.

‘You looking at me?’

I ignored the lad who’d spoken, moved to one side. He followed me, elbows out, pushing me towards the wall. His mates were cracking up, nudging each other.

He pushed himself towards me, invading my space. ‘You looking at me?’

‘Not exactly De Niro, are you?’ I said, coming to a halt, staring him out, deciding the group were having too much fun to step aside.

‘Are you talkin’ to me?’ I said. ‘Are you talkin’ to me? You must be talkin’ to me. I’m the only one here. Who do you think you’re talkin’ to?’ Blank faces looked back at me. I smiled. ‘That’s the full Taxi Driver quote. Feel free to use it. Now fuck off out of my way.’

‘Hey, big man.’ The girl pushed herself forward. I didn’t want that. If it became necessary I’d give these lads a spanking, but the girl complicated things. ‘If you’re not looking at them, why not look at me?’

I did as she asked, then turned away.

‘Nothing to see.’

She growled, deep in her throat, pushed her breasts out.

‘You don’t know what you’re missing.’

‘That’s a comforting thought.’

Her expression darkened and the group pressed closer, pushing the girl aside. I moved right up to the biggest of the group, shaven-headed with bad skin, gleaming white trainers on his feet. Not a serious threat. Trainers are better suited to running away than standing and fighting. Nobody ever won a street fight wearing trainers. I spoke directly to him, ignoring the others.

‘Move, or I’ll make you move and you won’t like that. Won’t like it at all.’

His eyes narrowed, but he took half a step backwards.

I swept my glance over the group. ‘Who wants to start? You? You?’ I looked directly at each in turn. The only one who met my eye was the girl. She still wanted to fight. Wanted her mates to spill some blood. That was part of the ritual. I knew she’d be disappointed. Six of them, but there was no fight in the five lads and even the girl wouldn’t be able to make it kick off.

I pushed my way through, walked away. I was ready for the sound of footsteps behind me, but nobody moved. A few catcalls, but nothing more. They’d get the fight they were looking for before the night was out. Some skinny kid would rub them up the wrong way; get a kicking for his pains. Not much of a threat for anyone prepared to face them out, but they’d find easier pickings.

Five minutes later I was outside the house. A single light gleamed through thick curtains on the ground floor, otherwise everything was dark and forbidding. The man I’d come to see didn’t welcome callers. He’d been a minor player in the gang culture, years ago, when I’d first met him. I’d helped him out, kept him safe, while he waited for a case to come to court. This man had been a small cog in a high-level prosecution. He’d given his evidence, such as it was, in return for the abandonment of a possession charge. No big deal, but he’d reckoned another stay in Walton was even more daunting than the consequences of grassing one of his bosses.

A bad decision, I’d thought at the time, but I hadn’t said that to him. It turned out I’d been right.

As far as the Police and the Crown Prosecution Service are concerned, witnesses are disposable, a means to an end and then that’s it. No reason to care about them when their usefulness is over. When the witness is a super-grass, multiply their disposability by ten. At least. But this man hadn’t been a super-grass. Not even worth the bother, in my view. His evidence had been useless. The case had collapsed when other witnesses failed to show. The drug dealers walked away.

The man I’d come to see was on benefit. Long term sick. Unable to work. Lacking the fingers of both hands, most jobs were beyond his capabilities. He’d not informed on the men who’d butchered him. Finally learnt his lesson, the hard way.

I’d seen the equipment they’d used on him. Left in his top pocket, along with the stubs of bloody flesh. Part of the evidence trophy cabinet.

The secateurs were top of the range. Easily up to the task of snipping through the sturdiest offshoot of a rose-bush. A human finger was even less challenge. Prolonging the punishment by making three separate cuts per finger, each joint and finally at the base, was overkill, but surprisingly effective.

Watching a strong man remove one of your fingers is bad enough. Watching him do it in instalments, and knowing there’s another nine available – now that’s guaranteed to concentrate the mind on what’s taking place.

I didn’t know whether the broken man who lived here would talk to me. I hoped so. He was a link to the past and, so far, the past was the only lead I had.