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Authors: Richard T. Kelly
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at?’
He had no clue how he would enforce the warning, which seemed only to further amuse the tough now squaring up to him. Worse, he sensed that he was being encircled.
‘What do yee want? Yee want some? Uh? ’
Then Gore felt a hard shove into his back, and a near- simultaneous blow to the side of his head, sharp and dazzling. He staggered and pitched down onto the concrete. Shouts and sounds of rubber-soled motion flew all about him as his vision scrambled. For the duration of several heartbeats he was certain that unless he got to his feet swiftly then he would receive a boot to the belly, or skull.
The blow did not fall. He rose, unsteadily. The group had scattered , cleared off. The tough, though, was holding his ground, glaring, his girl cowed and wet-eyed at ten feet’s remove from him. Then he issued the bold middle-finger affront, turned and stomped off in the direction of his mates, arms aloft like a prizefighter .
Ridley was coming forward now. Gore stared at the girl, her face so pale, mouth fraught, the band in her hair so tight. ‘We’ll see you back home,’ he said, rubbing at the sore side of his head.
‘I only live up there , man.’ She flapped vague fingers.
‘Well then, we’ll take you. Come on, you’ve had a nasty turn.’
She shrank from Gore’s open-handed gesture, but tottered along half a step behind the two men.
‘What’s your name, pet?’
‘Cheryl. I’m not yer pet.’
‘Okay, Cheryl. I’m sorry. Now do you want that fellow reported for what he did?’
‘For what , man? Nowt to dee wi’ me.’
They walked on, Gore weighing various remarks, thinking better of each. She led them through a barren yard, down a weed-strewn path, and let herself into a front door. Within, through a dim kitchen, down a hallway, Gore could see someone buried in the grasp of a sofa before a television.
‘Good night, Cheryl,’ he murmured at the girl’s negligent back.
He and Ridley walked on without speaking until they were free of the estate, Gore still massaging the top of his head, prodding its tenderness to gauge whether a keener pain was on its way.
‘Been in the wars, the day, you,’ Ridley grunted. ‘Are y’alright?’
‘Oh yeah, sure.’
‘Bloody little squirts. You still want that pint or would you rather home?’
‘No, a pint would be good now, thanks.’
‘Aye well, that’s it owa there.’
The Lord Nelson was indeed before them, floodlights and flower-baskets above its awning.
‘You sure you’re alright?’
‘No, I’m fine, honest.’
‘Well then, give over rubbing your bloody head, will you?’ And with that Ridley pushed on in through the double doors.
It was a cosy hostelry, strewn with older-looking drinkers; as they stood at the bar Ridley was greeted by a few of same. Gore excused himself and went directly to the toilet, where under abare bulb he inspected his right cheek. He had expected a livid stamp there, but saw only a pale pink imprint of the blow. He felt relief, but a late stirring of anger too. Should he have swung for that twerp, having found his feet? Or would he have been set upon much the worse? For sure he had received no help from the boy Mackers – one small gesture of goodwill gone to waste, then.
Upon re-emerging Gore was introduced to several of Ridley’s acquaintances, all of whom appeared keen to meet the Vicar. An old dear with thick glasses and frizzy hair was sing-song insistent that they join her company. ‘Sit down, you, and tell us a story.’ Ridley waved her away amiably and set down two pints of bitter at a distant table.
‘Friendly place,’ said Gore.
‘Not bad,’ Ridley replied, tipping dominoes from a wooden box onto the tabletop between them. ‘Used to be a lot of canny pubs round here. The Smithy. The Block and Tackle. All for the shift workers, y’knaa, from the owld works.’
‘They must have been tough old places. Tough crowds?’
‘Rough and ready.’ Ridley shrugged. ‘Good people,
He had no clue how he would enforce the warning, which seemed only to further amuse the tough now squaring up to him. Worse, he sensed that he was being encircled.
‘What do yee want? Yee want some? Uh? ’
Then Gore felt a hard shove into his back, and a near- simultaneous blow to the side of his head, sharp and dazzling. He staggered and pitched down onto the concrete. Shouts and sounds of rubber-soled motion flew all about him as his vision scrambled. For the duration of several heartbeats he was certain that unless he got to his feet swiftly then he would receive a boot to the belly, or skull.
The blow did not fall. He rose, unsteadily. The group had scattered , cleared off. The tough, though, was holding his ground, glaring, his girl cowed and wet-eyed at ten feet’s remove from him. Then he issued the bold middle-finger affront, turned and stomped off in the direction of his mates, arms aloft like a prizefighter .
Ridley was coming forward now. Gore stared at the girl, her face so pale, mouth fraught, the band in her hair so tight. ‘We’ll see you back home,’ he said, rubbing at the sore side of his head.
‘I only live up there , man.’ She flapped vague fingers.
‘Well then, we’ll take you. Come on, you’ve had a nasty turn.’
She shrank from Gore’s open-handed gesture, but tottered along half a step behind the two men.
‘What’s your name, pet?’
‘Cheryl. I’m not yer pet.’
‘Okay, Cheryl. I’m sorry. Now do you want that fellow reported for what he did?’
‘For what , man? Nowt to dee wi’ me.’
They walked on, Gore weighing various remarks, thinking better of each. She led them through a barren yard, down a weed-strewn path, and let herself into a front door. Within, through a dim kitchen, down a hallway, Gore could see someone buried in the grasp of a sofa before a television.
‘Good night, Cheryl,’ he murmured at the girl’s negligent back.
He and Ridley walked on without speaking until they were free of the estate, Gore still massaging the top of his head, prodding its tenderness to gauge whether a keener pain was on its way.
‘Been in the wars, the day, you,’ Ridley grunted. ‘Are y’alright?’
‘Oh yeah, sure.’
‘Bloody little squirts. You still want that pint or would you rather home?’
‘No, a pint would be good now, thanks.’
‘Aye well, that’s it owa there.’
The Lord Nelson was indeed before them, floodlights and flower-baskets above its awning.
‘You sure you’re alright?’
‘No, I’m fine, honest.’
‘Well then, give over rubbing your bloody head, will you?’ And with that Ridley pushed on in through the double doors.
It was a cosy hostelry, strewn with older-looking drinkers; as they stood at the bar Ridley was greeted by a few of same. Gore excused himself and went directly to the toilet, where under abare bulb he inspected his right cheek. He had expected a livid stamp there, but saw only a pale pink imprint of the blow. He felt relief, but a late stirring of anger too. Should he have swung for that twerp, having found his feet? Or would he have been set upon much the worse? For sure he had received no help from the boy Mackers – one small gesture of goodwill gone to waste, then.
Upon re-emerging Gore was introduced to several of Ridley’s acquaintances, all of whom appeared keen to meet the Vicar. An old dear with thick glasses and frizzy hair was sing-song insistent that they join her company. ‘Sit down, you, and tell us a story.’ Ridley waved her away amiably and set down two pints of bitter at a distant table.
‘Friendly place,’ said Gore.
‘Not bad,’ Ridley replied, tipping dominoes from a wooden box onto the tabletop between them. ‘Used to be a lot of canny pubs round here. The Smithy. The Block and Tackle. All for the shift workers, y’knaa, from the owld works.’
‘They must have been tough old places. Tough crowds?’
‘Rough and ready.’ Ridley shrugged. ‘Good people,
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