The Folded Man (5 page)

The man pointing a rifle at Brian pauses. Pauses and thinks. Thinks and moves, still pointing. He walks round the back of the car and opens the boot. The third man looks on.

He tuts.

Nowt here, he says to his pals, lying to his pals in balaclavas with their guns. No chair.

He points his gun at Noah. Noah begins to panic. He can think fast, Noah, but not like this.

In the car, Brian pulls the blanket from his lap. Brian opens the passenger door. Brian keeps his hands high. He hears the guns creak, sees the rifle tremble.

Brian puts a hand on the door. Pulls himself round. These aches and pains. The coke.

Brian slips on the door sill, falls to the ground hard, making a scene. Brian sits there, stunned and shaking and waiting for the crack.

The men laugh. The men point. Laughing and pointing as Brian sweats and crawls.

Got a name, has mong? Fuck's he doing?

Noah tries to stand. Wants to help Brian. His old buddy, his old pal. Brian crawling round the car, dragging his smart clothes and sorry bones across the tarmac.

Leave him be, says Noah. He's a soldier. A vet.

Soldier?
says the man nearest Brian. This shite on floor?

The man rolls Brian on his back with his boot. The man notices Brian's body, the special shape in the special trousers – the ones Brian has for smart occasions. The ones now covered in grit and muck.

Brian, he's silent, still gasping –

Lads, says the man in the balaclava. Cunt's only got one leg!

The men start to laugh again.

Landmines were it? Landmines? Get lad up.

The man grabs Brian under his armpits. Tries. Tries harder. Up, fatty, he says.

Brian puts weight on his feet. Onto his fused, flattened feet. Feels himself pulled up; feels his armpits burning.

Brian leans heavy against the car door.

Noah's kneeling up now, angry and helpless. Hopeless. The man nearest asks what for. He says, Why you kneeling, cocker?

Noah says, Just look in the bloody glovebox. Medals are there. Falklands and the rest.

The three men in balaclavas look at each other, all eyes and mouths.

Brian slumps, sliding down, the man having to push him back up every few seconds.

The glovebox, Noah says again. We have somewhere to be. Better plans than this. There's cash in my pocket if you're after cash. I'm not a man to tell lies. Let him go – bloke deserves better than this. Let him go and see us on our way.

To go where?

To our meeting –

A meeting you've driven from Manchester for.

If you're security, you'll be off work tomorrow, says Noah. I can make sure. You know what I'm on about.

Now watch them lips and don't tell fibs, lad. Told you once. Idle threats aren't for keeping.

No fibs, Noah says. He's important, this bloke. Stocks and shares. Knew what's good for you, you'd do something else with your afternoon. Mither some other poor bastards.

Brian slides to his backside, too heavy now.

Red or blue? the man by Noah says.

What?

Red, or blue? Simple enough.

Quiet. The longest quiet.

Red.

Or.

Blue.

Blue, Noah says. True blue.

True blue – knowing all colours out this way are better than red.

Without a dream in my heart, he says.

The man in the balaclava shows his teeth. Greatest loss were national game, he says. Donny Rovers myself. What were last match you went?

City Blackburn, Noah says, snatching at names. March . . . 2011.

The man sniffs. Looks at Noah a while longer. The man nods. He points at the car. Check glovebox, one of you.

One of the men leans inside. Across blankets and spilled powder. Opens the glovebox. Pulls out tobacco tins and papers. Pulls out a medal – a medal with the Queen's profile, the blue and yellow ribbon. He picks out another medal – a yellow, blue and red ribbon.

Good fakes, Noah's thinking. The right kind of fakes.

A pause. Wide eyes bright in those holes to see.

Give over, the man in the car says. Not lying, were you?

So help him into the car, Noah says, pointing at Brian. Scared the bugger silly haven't you.

The man nearest Noah nods again.

Noah stands up and brushes himself down. Looks at the man straight. The man all eyes and mouth. A flinch now and the game's up. Flinch now and you're swallowing teeth.

The man in the balaclava sniggers. Looks away –

Were only joshing, you know, he says. Got to look out for these pakis an't we?

Noah smiles his thinnest smile.

Now skedaddle. ‘Fore I change mind.

 

No, Brian's not all right. Brian's learning how fast you can sober. Gets to thinking about this mud on his trousers, these scuffs on his shirt. Grateful this once for a blanket round his legs – the warmth and the smell of damp wool.

They've moved a hundred metres. Noah's out the front, kicking seven bells out of the bumper. Muttering and running up, trying to get the rest of it off.

Noah pulls the whole thing off. Throws it over a wall.

Headlight's bust and all, Noah says, getting back in his seat. And what's that look for? Going on bloody expenses isn't it. Garland doesn't want to lend us a tank, Garland gets bills to settle.

Brian snorts.

Any road. Never met a good Yorkshireman, Noah says. Isn't anything good comes out of that bloody county. But we're right, son. We're okay.

Well if that was the welcome, Brian says to Noah, eyes still sore, what's the front door going to be like?

Wangle something, won't we, Noah says. Would've been different if we had a swish motor I reckon. Just bad luck. Bad luck and bad men.

Noah stops the car there. The engine ticks, clicks, choking oil.

Noah takes off his seatbelt and pushes the chair back. He says to Brian, Let's have a look at you then.

A look at what?

Noah does the once-over, poking and prodding. Noah frowns. Noah pulls a tissue from his shirt pocket and spits on it. Leans over and wipes muck off Brian's face – wipes away the dust.

Brian winces and pushes his hand. He says, Hell you doing? Get us halfway to killed, halfway up these moors, and now you're spitting on my face?

Noah laughs.

Tough at the top, kid, he says. You're a good man you are. A right bloody 'nana most of the time, but a good man. But I have to look after you don't I? So we'll do what we came to do, and we'll go home richer. For better or for worse.

Brian looks ahead. Gazing to hazy lights not far off.

Just have to trust me, won't you.

Brian still has snot down his chin. A polo of coke left on his left nostril.

So come on. Let's not be a fanny, says Noah. You're a soldier out this way, remember.

Brian goes to say something. Brian stops.

Brian's seen Noah reaching into the door pocket.

He watches Noah turn back with a can of something –

Does nothing, says nothing, feels nothing.

While Noah sprays him with air freshener.

Smells good that, Noah says, laughing a bit. Smells ­better.

And Brian looks back, at his eyes and at his mouth, tasting the air while smelling it – a bad crack at vanilla.

At Noah's face and hands.

Brian narrows his eyes. He calls Noah the worst word he can.

5.

 

Noah and Brian pile through a rotting fence on to a dead field. Into grass two feet deep – the old car up to its A-pillars in brown straw.

Noah's laughing at Brian's face. Tells him the reason's three-fold, and not to fret. Says, Son, here's why we're on this field.

They drive straight, wobbling, cutting new ditches through mud. Ploughing the field. Tilling the land.

What a man sows –

For one, Noah says, we're going round another way. Coming in from a direction we didn't really.

What's the bloody point? says Brian. He smells like bad soap. What's the point when them bastards back there already clocked us?

Nowt saying they're in radio contact, Noah says. Nowt saying they've not called ahead. He smiles then.

Second reason is I've rigged a mic to your chair and need to tell you about it –

 Brian sniffs hard. Feels it in his throat. The drip. The sour taste.

Rigged my chair? When?

Doesn't matter when, he says. Ninja aren't I. But the signal's connected to your tape bank at home, plus a box in our boot. Failsafe's in your tie – they'll be running jammers if they're touchy – and the rest. So: you're running a closed circuit too. Local receiver's taped under your seat. A smart way to take notes if nothing else.

Brian shakes his head. Brian in his chair on the moors at the deepest end.

Third reason? says Brian.

Noah slams on the anchors. Noah spins them a hundred degrees. The car digs in, rumbling. Noah near as stalls it. Noah laughs, drums the steering wheel. Undoes his seat belt and lights up a fag. Noah pulls out his tie. Noah points at Brian's jacket, still swinging on a hanger from the back window.

Time to be a real Flash-Harry, he says. See how our ­little mermaid scrubs up.

 

From here it's another kind of fortress. The farm, that is. A stone cottage and a barn on a big plot with watchtowers for corners and grubby weather for cover. They pass it from the right, on the field still, seeing the compound over the privets. On all sides there are trees and high ground. Another place for men to run from something, to hide from the world.

Closer, they're back on the road now, coming from the other direction with bits of fence in the radiator probably. There's an extra building to goggle and gawp at. A low building, modern and brightly lit. Some daft assault course poking over the fence that runs round the whole compound – zip lines and poles, monkey bars and more.

By night, without these spotlights, you probably couldn't tell the place apart from others this way. From the other abandoned buildings. The dead squats at every turn. But now, here, in the deep end and pulling near, it's clockwork. Alive on all fronts. And humming.

Gates wide open; saw them coming.

Camera lenses smiling, hello to you.

Inner gates open, welcome to all.

Across the gravel and dry mud. Over grass and down a path. Over a cattle grid and round the back. A man in hi-vis waving them to where they should park.

The car park, it's a field and a fleet. Loaded with a fleet of better cars on hard-standing, most black and blacker still with tinted windows. Executive and then some. Lexus. Mercedes. BMW. The cars you knew those years before; cars that spoke or even sang of money. The clichés all the same, but forever the cars that say plenty about the men who drive them.

Between the cars, there are vans. Small business vans that carry tools for small projects. Vans with family names up their sides. For carrying people up on these moors –

And it's hard to miss the purple Transit.

Makes our Sunny look a right shit-tip, Noah goes, pulling the old motor round the stacked out rows, all stretching longways down the yard. The engine really clatters in second gear.

They find a spot between an Audi and a Beamer; swing too fast into the gap.

Brian is burning up, starting to sweat –

Noah forgets about second gear. Stalls it for certain this time. He grins and racks the handbrake, stretches and sits back. He slaps his cheeks and checks his teeth. Flattens his hair; fixes his jaw.

There's a purple Transit down the row
.

Hold up while I get your chair, he says to Brian. You all right? Want a quick fag?

But Brian's pale, drowning, wanting to be elsewhere.

Noah gets out. Noah walks round the back. Noah comes round, leaning into the car. Passes Brian a hip-flask.

Have a toot of this. And get that polo off your conk. No more bloody sniff tonight, right? Not having you forgetting your lines on my watch.

 

They're bastards, these doormen. Even from fifty yards you can tell. Twenty-something kids in too-big suits. But like all the lads on the doors here and back in town, back in the basin below these hills, they get these jobs by default now, don't need trusting even. Not with shoulders wider than crash barriers.

Their shirt collars are tight, rolling their necks into their faces. They spit a lot.

Noah wheels Brian to the steps before them, tyres spitting gravel themselves. Here, at the entrance of the new building, they stop.

Brian's in his new jacket and war badges, the blanket tight round his legs. Brian with his bald head, sweating and forgetting his lines. Shaking. Waiting. His chest still crushed by the jacket.

Evening, says the doorman on the left. Polite but dripping with that accent. Your Christian names please, gentlemen.

I'm Kevin, says Noah. Just like that. Just like planned.

Noah puts a hand on Brian's shoulder.

This is Michael.

The doormen look at each other, down at their tablets. They tap screens and look at photos. They murmur under their breath. They umm and ahh.

Brian doesn't stir, doesn't look up once.

'Fraid we don't have you down mate, the doorman on the right says. He has a finger to his nostril, his eyes on Brian's war medals.

Noah opens his jacket to the doormen. Noah winks and chuckles.

Noah says, I know. Noah, his jacket wide open –

But God has laid us upon your hearts.

 

They enter the new development between double-doors – doors like church doors. They're taken aback. The new development, it's bubbling over. A space ahead, a lobby in the centre, an atrium where men in suits stand in tight circles, toasting whatever, chiming glasses and laughing their heads off at crap jokes. From the atrium, the building opens outwards and upwards – to stairways on the left and right leading to mezzanine gangways above. There are rooms and hidey-holes, thick oak doors running either side of long corridors. Every floor is glazed with glassy marble.

It's a maze, strip-lit and deceiving. A house of wrong turns. A labyrinth.

Brian takes it in. Brian, lost with the minotaur.

Thinking about the driver of that damn purple Transit.

Brian's wheelchair squeaks on the floor since the rubber won't stick. Noah pushes him gently, purposefully; keeps him near while they're met with champagne and stares. As they're met with people chatting on, people choking on their drinks. Fabulous, fabulous, they hear on all sides. Superb and tremendous. Men proud of their proverbs.

Noah leans in close, whispers: It's a bloody sausage-fest.

The wheels lose traction. The wheels gain traction.

Somebody clocks the medals. The chair skating along. Somebody wants to play philanthropist. A veteran! Brian hears.

Somebody comes over. He's round and roly-poly, big red cheeks on him. An honour sir, he says to Brian. An honour.

Brian's stomach churns. Brian nods.

Here privately or for pressing business? the man asks. His eyes are set close, only just far enough apart.

Bit of both, says Noah, taking point.

Brian nods again.

The man shakes Brian's clammy hand. Tells Brian his name.

Brian doesn't listen.

The man tries with more small-talk. Brian doesn't speak back – doesn't speak at all.

Secrets best kept, Brian reckons.

Well, keep up the good fight, son, the man eventually says. Very much hope you enjoy this evening.

The man gives up with a wink and leaves them be.

Noah pushes Brian ahead and into the crowd. They keep having to stop and start and smile their thanks.

Excuse me, please, Noah says. Excuse us, cheers.

And from all corners the eyes of others are on their own – eyes poking out from the conversations and the executive patter; the deal closers and thoughts on the war. Conversations that change to cruel whispers of a spazz and his minder; the wounded soldier by there – over there, yes him, that's the one – him and his keeper.

The lion and the lamb.

Beyond the staring crowd, between the legs, beyond the backs, Brian can see another pair of church doors now. The auditorium, or so at least the signs say. They move forward. Slowly. Inching between the gaps. The backs always in his face. Thin-stemmed glasses swinging around at eyeball height.

And through the gaps, Brian sees him.

Sees the man in the corner.

The man staring back.

Another man from the margins. A man with a beard, a beard and a slim suit, staring. A man staring and following their passage through suits, dodging wine glasses and elbows. A man watching and waiting for something.

Brian feels studied. Brian feels hot.

The man in the gaps doesn't blink. His face flickers as Noah weaves Brian through this forest of men. Gone and there. Vanished and waiting as Brian's view cuts fast ­between arms, over sleeves, the Vs cut by legs.

Brian looks away. Brian pretends he hasn't noticed. Looks sidelong. Looks back.

The gaze doesn't falter.

Ten metres now. Less.

Sweating. Blinking. Adrenaline. Something wrong. Noah isn't noticing and Brian can't make a scene.

Outside, the night tips fully into black.

 

Into the auditorium. It's a narrow room but tremendously long. Bigger here than it looks outside and no mistake – all Victorian details and garish curtains. A kind of theatreland. A theatreland beyond the noise and the lights.

Hidden back here with the red-backed chairs and the sticky floors, it's quieter. The odd bod sitting in a chair here and there.

It's not completely quiet though. There's some god-awful music on the PA. Big jugs of water down the front. The stage is small – barely a few metres wide – and the lectern is stained wood, handsome.

An usher sees Brian and Noah. He's dressed up like a twat. He jogs along the aisle and tells them to head down the central ramp. He makes some uncomfortable joke about disabled parking at the front. He laughs and skips away. Noah chuckles. Noah points two fingers at the usher. Cocks with his thumb.

Come the revolution, brother, he says to Brian, and wheels Brian down the incline, between the rows.

Brian tips his head back, looking up at the smooth, smooth ceiling. His heart's going like the clappers. He says, Something's wrong, Noah. Everything's wrong.

Eh? Give over, goes Noah. What's this now?

I saw something. Somebody. I don't know; I feel –

Like you've had a G of dust's how you feel, Noah says. Talk a long talk, don't you our kid. Just sit still and wait this out. Tape'll be running now – can't be filling it up with this clap-trap.

Noah parks Brian just three feet from the stage edge.

There, he goes. These are the perks. Knew this'd be a good idea.

But Brian's thinking too hard to enjoy perks; thinking too fast and too loose. Who was he, why is he here what does he want with me –

Noah comes round his front and straightens the badges at Brian's breast. Asks if they're right yet, him and him. If they're ready to kiss and make up.

Brian doesn't nod. Brian doesn't shake his head. Noah takes it as encouragement.

The pair of them sit at the foot of the stage. Brian imagines so many eyes upon his back. Eyes that drill and mine and bore above the whispers, under the hot stage lights.

Sitting under the foot of a new world taking aim.

Brian, a thorn among nails.