Dark Blood

‘Wonder if she was a moaner, a screamer? Or did she just lie there like a sack of tatties?’

‘Road’s packed. Maybe we can get him out over the back wall?’

‘Looking at her photo, I bet she was a screamer. “Oh, Grandad Joe, you’re so big!”’ Steel lowered her voice for: ‘“Who’s the grandaddy?” “Oh, you are! Yes! Yes! Yes-”’

‘Do you have to do that?’

Shrug. ‘Got to take pleasure in the simple things, Laz. Otherwise, what have you got?’ She stuck the cigarette between her teeth and had a scratch at her crotch.

‘Better go see if they’ve got him packed up yet.’

Knox was curled up on his granny’s tatty quilt in the master bedroom, the handles of his plastic bag sticking out like rabbit ears.

‘Come on, Richard, you’re going to have to help.’ Mandy from Sacro stuck her hands on her hips, a white T- shirt clasped in one hand. A battered leather suitcase sat open on the foot of the bed, with a little pile of clothes in it.

‘I’m not going.’

Logan knocked on the door frame. ‘How we doing?’

Mandy glowered at him. ‘How do you think?’

‘I’m not going. This is me house. You can’t make us leave.’

She gritted her teeth, stared at the ceiling for a moment, then marched out, thrusting the T-shirt into Logan’s hands. ‘You deal with him.’

‘I’m not leaving.’

Logan rolled the T-shirt into a ball and lobbed it into the open suitcase. Five points. ‘Not open for debate.’

Knox wouldn’t look at him. ‘You can’t make us.’

‘Want to bet?’ The curtains were closed in the bedroom. Logan opened them. So much for trying to smuggle Knox out over the back wall and through the neighbour’s garden. There were photographers up stepladders on all three sides, zoom lenses trained on the house. Silly sods. It had to be minus-four out there.

It looked as if the paparazzi in the garden opposite had broken their vigil at one point to build a small, vaguely obscene snowman.

It didn’t take long before someone spotted Logan at the window, and flashes started flickering. He closed the curtains again.

‘On your feet, we’re leaving.’

‘Told you, I’m not going anywhere.’ Knox stuck his forehead on his knees. ‘Why does no one listen to us?’

‘Right, Richard Knox, I’m arresting you for-’

‘You can’t do that!’

‘There’s a mob out there, and they’ve already attacked the house once. By staying here you’re inflaming the situation — that means I can do you for causing a breach of the peace.’

‘But-’

Logan took out his handcuffs. ‘Look on it as a test from God.’

Silence. Then Knox rolled off the bed and yanked open a drawer in an ancient dresser. Various old clothes went into the suitcase: shirts, socks, Y-fronts.

Logan watched him pack. ‘So, you’re on the run from the mob then?’

The little man stopped in the middle of packing a string vest. ‘Who told you that?’

‘All those years Mental Mikey took care of you, and now he’s dead. Every crook in Tyneside must be after a slice of his nest egg.’

Knox shrugged, then fetched an antique grey suit from the wardrobe, laying it carefully into the suitcase. ‘God takes us all in the end, like.’

‘You know, if I was sitting on some gangster’s millions-’

‘That’s what they’re saying about us, is it? I’ve got Michael Maitland’s cash?’ Half a dozen sombre ties followed the suit into the case.

‘Don’t you?’

‘Nearly forgot…’ He disappeared through the bedroom door. There was the sound of someone rifling through a medicine cabinet, then Knox was back with a dusty bottle of Old Spice. He wrapped it in a pair of Y-fronts and placed it carefully next to the suit. Then shut the lid.

Steel popped her head around the door, mobile clamped to her ear. She stuck it against her chest. ‘Ricky the Rapist ready to go?’

Logan nodded and she raised the phone to her ear again.

‘Yeah…Yeah, he’s ready.’ Then she was gone, clumping down the stairs.

Knox looked around the shabby room. Sighed. ‘I was happy here, long time ago.’

‘You want a blanket?’

‘What?’

‘Over your head when we take you out the front. Do you want a blanket?’

‘Oh…’ He ran a hand across the faded, cat-scratched bedspread, the one his grandparents used to hump under every Friday night. Knox pulled it off the bed and draped it around his shoulders, then collected his bible in its tatty plastic bag. ‘Ready.’

29

Dear God, there’s hundreds of them. A wall of angry jock bastards, all waving placards and chanting: ‘Knox, Knox, Knox: Out! Out! Out!’ Like he’s some sort of animal, like…

Richard ducks back behind a policeman. Takes a deep breath. Pulls the bedspread over his head. Now everything smells of dust and mildew, with the faintest memory of Granny Murray’s night cream.

Someone says, ‘You ready?’

‘Knox, Knox, Knox: Out! Out! Out!’

Richard nods. Clutches the carrier bag tighter to his chest.

‘There’s more officers just outside the door, OK? We’re going to be all around you.’

‘I’m ready…’ His voice sounds high and scared, even to him.

Never been hated by this many people all in one place. Yeah, there was a crowd outside the court when he got sent down, like, but they was all outside. He was in a police van. Tinted windows. Safe. Not like now…

‘Knox, Knox, Knox: Out! Out! Out!’

‘OK, let’s get going.’ That sounds like the bloke, Sergeant McThingy, the one who wants to know about Michael Maitland’s rainy-day money. Probably wants a cut — typical bloody copper.

A hand in the small of Richard’s back pushes him forward.

‘Don’t touch us!’

He stumbles out the door, bedspread over his head, watching the world change beneath his feet. Top step. Garden path, the snow trampled to grey mush.

‘Knox, Knox, Knox: Out! Out! Out!’

And then they see him. They have to, because the chanting becomes screaming. Insults, threats. The police hurry him forward, closing in on all sides. Touching him.

Don’t freak out. Please don’t freak out. Stay calm.

‘FUCKING WANKER!’

‘YOU SHOULD HANG!’

‘PERVERT BASTARD!’

The police get closer as the garden path comes to an end beneath Richard’s feet. Squeezing through the gate.

The jostling gets worse, shouts louder.