Manchester
During his final years in prison, several new arrivals had told Jordan Hughes how much Manchester was changing. He’d batted the comments aside, not bothered about what the city looked like. He’d wanted to know how it ran. Who controlled what.
During the slow drag of his sentence, one name had kept cropping up: Anthony Brown. The man he was going to kill. There were other little fucks like Carl and Lee he was going to do, but Anthony Brown …
As the train had burrowed its way along the narrow Peak District valley, not much beyond the carriage windows seemed different. Same quiet stations. Same little villages. Same craggy slopes rising behind them. He’d found the lack of change reassuring after so much time spent away. But then they’d emerged from the hills on to the Cheshire Plain and he’d got his first glimpse of the city he’d moved to during his teens.
This wasn’t change. This was like something entirely new had been laid over the old one. All these tall thin buildings competing for the light. Some with coloured cladding. Some with sail-like embellishments on the roofs. Others just acres of sheet glass. He looked right and saw the sweeping curves of Manchester City’s stadium. That had been a building site when he was sent down.
What had been there before all this stuff was built? He had no idea. Surely something.
In the middle of the city, the Hilton Hotel stood higher than all else. Sauron’s Tower from that Tolkien book. Lord of the Rings. He’d never read much before prison. Now he’d read a library’s worth. He wondered if whoever lived at the very top had a telescope. A big eye to spy on the toiling masses below.
As the tracks straightened for the approach into Piccadilly, the station seemed similar. It still had the curved roof supported by a network of criss-crossing struts. But as soon as he was through the ticket barriers – another unfamiliar feature – he found himself in a different world. One that was airy, smooth, clean. Gone was the dingy little station pub in the top corner. Now there were shops all over the place. He stepped out the front of the station and shook his head. The miserable area of grass and bushes and the white-painted curry house had been obliterated. Massive office blocks now stood in their place. He could see people sitting at their desks. On the higher floors, he could see what socks they were wearing. He could see the crap they’d placed on the floor beside their chairs. Trainers, shopping bags, umbrellas. Boxes of stuff leaning against the glass.
He could remember puking up a bellyful of beer and biryani outside that curry house. If he did that on the same spot now, it would be all over some wage-slave’s keyboard.
He’d looked along the main road and saw trees. Proper trees. A whole avenue of fucking trees stretching away. Traffic moving down it. It was a total mind fuck. He wanted to sit down, have a brew, get his bearings. But the greasy spoon at the top of the approach road was gone. What had replaced it had a foreign name. He couldn’t see it knocking out mugs of tea and bacon barms.
That first night back in the city, he’d ended up sleeping rough. Next day, he’d learned there were still bedsits that took cash and no questions in Gorton. The little park area near the train station was littered with rubbish. Swings tied in knots. Graffiti on the kiddies’ Wendy house. At least some things hadn’t changed.
The paving slabs outside the row of shops weren’t flat. Like there’d been a minor earthquake and the council couldn’t be arsed with straightening things out. Dog crap and crumpled cans. Two lads, lurking on a bench, eyed his approach. He could tell they were assessing him. Weighing him up.
What did they see?
A thirtyish bloke who needed to shave the stubble on his head. Faded tattoos on his fingers. A dun-green military jacket and charity shop trackie bottoms. Trainers that weren’t new and didn’t have some label that merited respect.
Could they tell that, beneath the bulky coat, there wasn’t an ounce of fat on him? That he could do dozens of pull-ups using only two fingers? That he could tense his stomach and take a full kick without flinching? That his inner arms were a raft of scars from where he liked to slice himself?
‘Oi, mate,’ the slightly taller one said. Fifteen, at most. ‘You going in?’
‘Say again?’
He nodded at the convenience store with wire-mesh windows. ‘You going in?’
Jordan gave a knowing shrug. ‘What are you after?’
They turned to each other and shared a triumphant smile. He could see a school tie rolled up in the coat pocket of the smaller one. Both wore dark grey trousers and white shirts.
‘Twelve cans of Dark Fruits cider. He’s doing them at four cans for five quid.’ Two notes were held out. A tenner and a fiver. A sign on the door said to take off crash helmets before coming in. Another said it was an offence to buy alcohol for minors. Yeah, he thought. It’s also an offence to ignore your probation appointments, to leave the address you’d been registered at and to piss off to another city to kill some cunts from way back when.
The shelves were laden with drink offers. He scooted straight past the cans and made his way to the counter to study the bottles of spirits behind it. The shopkeeper watched in silence. Cossack vodka came in at fourteen ninety-nine for a full one litre bottle. Job done.
The two lads sprang to their feet as he came out the shop. Their eyes were on the carrier bag in his hand. No way there were twelve cans in that. As he walked past them, he flicked the penny in their direction. It landed on a paving slab and rolled down the gap.
‘Where’s the …?’
He slowed his step when he heard the scrape of shoes behind him. Probably the taller one.
‘No way, man. We gave you fifteen notes. You can’t—’
‘Can’t what?’ He stopped walking, but didn’t look back. ‘Can’t what?’
‘Come on, Matt. Leave it. The guy’s a total loner. Basket case.’
Loner, he thought. Fair point. He waited, still facing away from them. Matt should listen to his friend. Matt should really listen to his friend. Another second passed then he heard a resigned puff of air followed by, ‘Spazzy-eared prick.’
He whirled round. ‘What was that? What did you fucking say about my ears?’
The boys started backing swiftly away.
‘Nothing,’ the taller one said.
He thought of getting hold of the scrawny-necked twat and putting him in hospital. If the police weren’t looking for him, he would have.
In his little room, he twisted the cap off and glugged straight from the neck. The liquid scraped down his throat, hit his gut and, a few heartbeats later, rammed his brain into the top of his skull. He gulped again then sat.
The photo album was the only item on the table. He didn’t own a lot more. The first pages were full of clippings from newspapers almost twenty years old. Yellowed articles about their seven-man crime spree. Smashed phone boxes, ducks kicked to death, stuff robbed from garden sheds. Then the odd house burglary. A paving slab through Mr Cooper’s shop window. Good haul from that.
He turned the pages, stared down at the few photographs he’d managed to keep hold of. They’d stolen the Polaroid camera from some old bloke’s house. They were all there, hanging by their arms from a football goal crossbar. Then three of them straddling it, skinny legs hanging down either side. Another shot: him, Dave, Phil and Kevin. Carl in a shopping trolley, Anthony Brown pushing it. Both their mouths dark caves of laughter. Him, Nick and Anthony, lips bristling with cigarettes they’d shoplifted. Lee tipping the same trolley into the canal near Ancoats. He couldn’t help feeling a twinge of fondness. Good times had.
He turned the page again and looked at more recent newspaper cuttings. An advert for Parker’s Cars: MOTs, tyres and exhausts. A report about Abbey Hey’s under-10s football team, South Manchester champions. A photo of a van: Crazy Diamond Window Cleaning Service, landline and mobile numbers. A flyer for the Outdoor Centre at Debdale Park.
Aside from Anthony Brown, it had been so easy to find them. Work places, home addresses, what they did in their spare time. That first day back, he’d even dropped a little matchstick gallows onto the few coins in Lee Goodwin’s Styrofoam cup. The guy had been utterly wasted, slumped by the cashpoint on Portland Street. Didn’t even notice.
They all thought their lives had moved on. That the past had been put well behind them. He drank from the bottle again. The years had crept by and they’d all forgotten about Jordan, that dumb new kid they’d fitted up for murder.