and slid down over her eyes. She didn’t bother moving it out of the way, just peered through the dangling fringe.
“Yes,” said Simon. “It’s about unfinished business. I just wondered if he’d ever spoken to you about any of it, that’s all.”
She shook her head. “’fraid not. Like I said, Marty’s an insular bastard. He doesn’t give much away.”
“Thanks again, then. I’ll let you get back to work.”
When she did not respond, Simon took it as his cue to leave. He walked back through the flat and opened the door, then stepped out onto the shabby little landing. Once he was outside, in the open air, he felt like he’d been released from confinement. But he looked around, and realised that all he’d done was pass from one cell into another.
He moved along the alleyway between the shops and turned right, walking once again past the betting shop. He did not look in the window. If Melanie had gone back inside through some other door, maybe one that linked the upstairs flat with the rear of the shop, he didn’t want to be seen checking her out. She was an attractive woman, but she had an aura of melancholy that he had found difficult to bear. He couldn’t imagine staying with such a woman, where every movement, each tiny gesture, seemed like it was hiding another meaning.
He walked along the Arcade, lost in his own thoughts, and only when he was level with the butchers at the end of the row did he see the boy. It was Scooby, from earlier that day — the cocky ringleader of the group who’d taken Simon’s wallet. This time the kid was on his own, walking up ahead with oversized earphones clamped to his head.
A surge of rage travelled the length of Simon’s body, originating in his chest and moving through his torso, to end up in his fists. Here, he felt, was a chance for redemption, an opportunity to bolster his self-image and dispel the cowardice he’d experienced before. If he could get back his phone or his wallet, or at least scare the kid, then he could once again feel like a man. He realised how shallow the thought was, and how it diminished him in some way, yet the part of him that was always pushing overcame his doubts.
The boy turned right, into Grove Street West. Simon followed, keeping his distance but increasing his pace so he could see if the boy ducked into a ginnel or an alleyway. The boy continued along the street. On either side of them, many of the properties were boarded up. The burnt-out shell of an old gymnasium — Simon remembered the newspaper report he’d been sent — cast a dark stain on the footpath.
Scooby stopped outside the burnt building, stuck his hand into the pocket of his tracksuit top and produced a key. Moving quickly, he unlocked the heavy-duty security door and began to enter the building.
Simon moved fast, without really giving much thought to what he was doing. He had no plan; he just sprinted across the road, knowing that the boy couldn’t hear him through his headphones, and barrelled straight into Scooby’s back, sending him sprawling inside. He slammed the door without looking back and went for the kid, kicking him in the side.
“Fuck!” Scooby’s cries were too loud; he was compensating for still wearing the headphones.
Simon knelt down and grabbed the headphones, wrenching them off the kid’s ears. The walls around him were scorched and blackened. To his left, half a staircase hung suspended in mid-air, the ends of the treads seared away. The place smelled of old flames.
“What the fuck?”
“You don’t recognise me, do you?” Simon grabbed the kid’s face with both hands, letting his fingers sink into his stubbly cheeks. “Where’s my fucking wallet, you chav vermin?”
Realisation dawned; the kid’s eyes took on a panicked look. His mouth started to work but he said nothing.
“My wallet. Now!”
Scooby shook his head. “That’s gone, mate. We cleaned it out and stuck it in the post box in Near Grove, by the community centre. You should get it back in a few weeks.” There was a cocky little half-smile on his face.
Despite the situation, Simon did not feel as if the boy was afraid enough of him. Still, he wasn’t threatening, the people he met did not respect his aggression.
“You little bastard.” He pulled back his right fist and punched the kid in the face, just below his right eye.
Scooby cried out. He tried to fight back, but Simon held him down, shifting his body weight so that he was kneeling on Scooby’s shoulders, pinning him down.
“Fear me,” he said. “Be fucking afraid of me.” He started punching again, and he did not stop until Scooby lay still, his eyelids flickering and his lips slack and bloodied.
Simon stood up and backed away, pressing his back against the wall. What the hell was he doing, beating the kid senseless? What had come over him to make him act this way? He rubbed his face with his hands, and then wiped them on his trousers. He glanced over at Scooby, sprawled on the dirty floor, his face damp with blood.
He looked at the palms of his hands, and then at his fists. His knuckles were red and angry. He rubbed them on his trousers.
Simon went to the door, opened it, and peeked outside. The street was empty. Nobody came along here unless they were up to no good — he suspected that Scooby had come inside the burnt-out gym to smoke some weed or perhaps even to make a drugs drop.
He returned to Scooby’s body. The kid was stirring. He made moaning sounds as his legs twitched. Simon hadn’t killed him; that was good news, at least.
He checked Scooby’s pockets and found a large plastic baggy filled with white powder in the left hand pocket of his tracksuit bottoms. A drugs drop, then. He put the bag back in Scooby’s pocket and returned to the door. He slipped outside, closing the door behind him, and then jogged to the end of the street, where he turned back towards the Arcade. Nobody paid any attention to him, despite the fact that his jacket was dusty from where he’d leaned against the wall. He hoped that there was no blood on his face, from when he’d touched it with his hands.
As he walked, heading towards the relative safety and security of the Grove Court flats, Simon felt better about himself than he had in quite some time. That exultant moment of opportunist violence, the way he’d handled the scruffy little upstart back at the ruined and abandoned gym, had served its purpose: right now, at least until the shame and the guilt kicked in, he felt like a man again.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
IT WAS ALREADY growing dark when Marty arrived at Doc’s house. He couldn’t believe it was summer; it was only seven o’clock. The darkness was creeping in early, as if trying to get a head start on the season and usher in the short days of autumn.
He looked up, at the churning sky, and realised that the light was being blocked by a dense layer of dark clouds. The day was still there; he just couldn’t see it.
Marty had a few enemies in this part of Jesmond, mostly from the days when he’d worked regularly as a pub doorman, so he didn’t come around here often. He’d learned long ago to walk away from possible friction; life was too short to risk making it shorter in a kerbside brawl. A younger Marty — maybe even the Marty from five or six years ago — would have laughed at that and called his older self a coward. But these days, he knew the score. He realised that his life had been lived far too long in the line of fire and sometimes it’s better to dodge a bullet than to try and catch it in your teeth.
Doc’s place was a three-storey Victorian terrace with a large garden and an outbuilding. There was a greenhouse tucked along by the fence. This had surprised Marty in the past; he hadn’t figured Doc for a gardener. He’d been to the house on a couple of previous occasions, having various knocks and bumps treated, but had never before turned up on such short notice.
Nobody knew the old medic’s real name. Or if they did, they hadn’t bothered to remember it. He was simply Doc, and the old man never complained about it. According to local legend, he’d been a popular ringside doctor at pro bouts back in the day, but the drink and an ex-wife with expensive tastes had wrecked him, leaving him to
