eleven-plus, which meant he had to go to the grammar school across town. Which meant he had to get a bus. Which meant he had to leave the house by 7.30 and be in school at 8.30, while the others fell out of bed to a warmed-up house at 8.30 to walk the 300 yards to the Comp. And they would be home at four, while Sean had to battle his way back across town to get back by five. His parents might not have named him Sue, but they certainly sent him out with a target on his chest. That badge of St Bede on his blazer pocket.
The childhood memory, like all the others, had started to become bittersweet, taking on the rosy tint of lost innocence. A time before responsibility pressed in and grief started to visit. Like every child who wakes up suddenly an adult, he had come to accept that one day he would lose his mum and dad – but not his sister Janey. Even the cat and dog fights he and Joey had had with her were becoming cherished memories. Which was why he was now spending less and less time fretting over trying to persuade the Chinese to buy an extra sweater rather than build another power station, and more and more poncing about, as his brother Joe put it, with after-dinner speeches on the charity circuit. If they couldn’t stop people like Janey being killed on their own streets, then what was the point of everything else?
‘What was all that about?’ Natasha asked as Joey dropped into the car and leaned over to kiss her. She smelt good. She always did.
‘Mediocre dickhead in a mediocre town. Product of what our Sean calls the cycle of deprivation.’
She knew better than to take the bait, so pointed the car in the direction of home, via the underpass Joey had just run through. He looked at the graffiti and piss stains and smiled as he let his mind go back to the time he kissed Margi Hewland under there when he was fourteen. That’s the thing about kids today, he thought. They never get to learn the shortcuts. No need. No hot pursuit. No door to door. No reading the clues trying to track the gang. Now it was all precision rendezvouses by GPS. Live feeds from their mobiles.
‘You have to break the continuum, don’t you?’ It was Luke’s spotter, Matt O’Connor, lying next to him. And, like him, wearing black Gelert packaway waterproofs over his Helly Hansen jacket and jeans. Equally effective in the dark, cheaper and less conspicuous than cammos. Matt rolled to one side, reached down and massaged the scar on his inner thigh. He’d started to notice that the pressure cramps were coming more frequently, a consequence of age. And weight. Although medium build, he’d always been referred to as stocky in youth, then as a bull of a man, but now he was veering towards rounded. One of life’s natural sociologists, always quick to find the black humour in life, believing it was naïve to be surprised by anything people do. They are, as he often says, only human, but Matt also believed that every day is a crossroads and it is up to everyone to decide which turning to take next. Some choose a selfish route, others tend towards helping others. Each is a choice. Each comes with its own consequences.
‘Take out all the warlords at once,’ he continued as he shifted his weight from the scar. ‘Otherwise, pop one, another steps up. Slot ’em all. Or, give their women the vote. They’d soon be bogged down putting up shelves and decorating instead of blowing up marketplaces. Democracy. They’re going to have it whether they like it or not.’
‘Great idea. And end up like us? Not having a clue who or what we are voting for?’
‘You never voted.’
‘That’s not the point.’ Luke turned, his tall frame extending a foot or so beyond Matt’s boots. He was still trim, almost angelic looking. When he chose to be. More often the angel of death, but the transitions were getting harder as the ageing cracks started to multiply. If Matt was the sociologist, Luke was the philosopher. Which made him one of life’s squad
The childhood memory, like all the others, had started to become bittersweet, taking on the rosy tint of lost innocence. A time before responsibility pressed in and grief started to visit. Like every child who wakes up suddenly an adult, he had come to accept that one day he would lose his mum and dad – but not his sister Janey. Even the cat and dog fights he and Joey had had with her were becoming cherished memories. Which was why he was now spending less and less time fretting over trying to persuade the Chinese to buy an extra sweater rather than build another power station, and more and more poncing about, as his brother Joe put it, with after-dinner speeches on the charity circuit. If they couldn’t stop people like Janey being killed on their own streets, then what was the point of everything else?
‘What was all that about?’ Natasha asked as Joey dropped into the car and leaned over to kiss her. She smelt good. She always did.
‘Mediocre dickhead in a mediocre town. Product of what our Sean calls the cycle of deprivation.’
She knew better than to take the bait, so pointed the car in the direction of home, via the underpass Joey had just run through. He looked at the graffiti and piss stains and smiled as he let his mind go back to the time he kissed Margi Hewland under there when he was fourteen. That’s the thing about kids today, he thought. They never get to learn the shortcuts. No need. No hot pursuit. No door to door. No reading the clues trying to track the gang. Now it was all precision rendezvouses by GPS. Live feeds from their mobiles.
‘You have to break the continuum, don’t you?’ It was Luke’s spotter, Matt O’Connor, lying next to him. And, like him, wearing black Gelert packaway waterproofs over his Helly Hansen jacket and jeans. Equally effective in the dark, cheaper and less conspicuous than cammos. Matt rolled to one side, reached down and massaged the scar on his inner thigh. He’d started to notice that the pressure cramps were coming more frequently, a consequence of age. And weight. Although medium build, he’d always been referred to as stocky in youth, then as a bull of a man, but now he was veering towards rounded. One of life’s natural sociologists, always quick to find the black humour in life, believing it was naïve to be surprised by anything people do. They are, as he often says, only human, but Matt also believed that every day is a crossroads and it is up to everyone to decide which turning to take next. Some choose a selfish route, others tend towards helping others. Each is a choice. Each comes with its own consequences.
‘Take out all the warlords at once,’ he continued as he shifted his weight from the scar. ‘Otherwise, pop one, another steps up. Slot ’em all. Or, give their women the vote. They’d soon be bogged down putting up shelves and decorating instead of blowing up marketplaces. Democracy. They’re going to have it whether they like it or not.’
‘Great idea. And end up like us? Not having a clue who or what we are voting for?’
‘You never voted.’
‘That’s not the point.’ Luke turned, his tall frame extending a foot or so beyond Matt’s boots. He was still trim, almost angelic looking. When he chose to be. More often the angel of death, but the transitions were getting harder as the ageing cracks started to multiply. If Matt was the sociologist, Luke was the philosopher. Which made him one of life’s squad
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