Graeme Taylor stood on the banks of Gateshead. He leaned on the railing and looked across the River Tyne, to Newcastle. He was between the bridges. On his right was the blinking half-eye of the Millennium Bridge. He could see people walking upon it, could see the flash of tourist cameras. To his left was the Tyne Bridge, the headlights of cars and buses blurring as they sped over it. Behind him was Tracksuit Tony, leaning against his car. He smoked, the cigarette hardly leaving his lips between exhalations. He was nervous, but he was trying not to let it show.
+++++“Graeme, mate,” said Tony. “Howay.”
+++++Graeme checked the time. “There’s no rush.”
+++++“I just wanna get there.”
+++++“Relax. A dead man can’t be late to his own funeral.”
+++++Tony didn’t like that. “Cheers mate – really, thanks a lot.” He flicked what was left of the cigarette, folded his arms. “You really know how to inspire a fella.”
+++++“It’s not my job to inspire you, Tony. I’ve just gotta get you there.”
+++++“Well right now you’re doing a pretty shitty job, I’d say.”
+++++Graeme smiled. Above them, like a pulsing, mirrored slug cut in half, was the Sage. Streetlights reflected off its carapace. Graeme pointed at it. “You ever been in there?”
+++++Tony looked. “Nah, I don’t think it’s for me. They divvint play my kind of music. They got something on you fancy, like?” Though he tried to look and sound casual, there was a tremor in Tony’s voice, and his hands shook when they weren’t tucked into his armpits.
+++++“Nah.” Graeme turned away. “I don’t reckon they do. Come on down here a second. Look at this.”
+++++“Graeme, howay!”
+++++“Come on now, get yourself down here.”
+++++Tony pushed himself off the car, made his way to the railing. Everyone called him Tracksuit Tony because of the tracksuits he always wore, usually navy blue in colour and with two white stripes down each arm and leg. Tony worked out a lot. The outline of the muscles in his chest and shoulders were visible through the jacket.
+++++Graeme had had muscles like that, but a very long time ago. He was older now, and softer, and when he’d studied his reflection earlier that day and thought about having a shave he’d been alarmed at how many of his beard hairs seemed to have suddenly turned white.
+++++Tony looked at Newcastle. “What?”
+++++“Not there, man. Look down, at the water.”
+++++Tony looked down, at the very still surface of the black water. “What, man?”
+++++“There – y’see all the streetlights reflected in it? The way they look kind of blurry? Doesn’t it look just like that painting?”
+++++“What painting?”
+++++“That really famous one – Van Gogh did it.”
+++++“The sunflowers?”
+++++Graeme shot him an incredulous look, one eyebrow raised. “Nah, man, not the fucking sunflowers. The lights above the town.”
+++++Tony’s face was blank.
+++++“Lookit, it doesn’t matter. How do you feel?”
+++++“I’m fine.”
+++++“No, you’re not. You’re bricking it.”
+++++“He’s gonna kick me fucking head in.”
+++++Graeme squeezed his shoulder. “Just take it like a man. They’ll respect you more for it.”
+++++“Fantastic.” Tony spat into the water. “And I suppose that respect is gonna make me heal quicker, eh?”
+++++“Never know. And if it’s not too difficult, you might as well try and smack him a couple of times an’all.”
+++++“I’ve seen bigger blokes than me have a go. They couldn’t knock him down.”
+++++“Don’t try to knock him down. Just try and hit him.”
+++++Tony sighed through his nose. “This is bullshit, man. I was just doing me job.”
+++++“Well, you made a mistake son, whether you knew it or not. It’s better you just get this over with. It’s not worth the hassle if you don’t.”
+++++Tony sighed again, harder this time. He shook his head and ran his hands back through his hair.
+++++“Right, that’s enough dawdling,” Graeme said. “Let’s get a move on, eh? Get this over with for ya.”
+++++They went to Tony’s car. Graeme got in the passenger seat. The car stunk of cigarette smoke and the ashtray was overflowing with stubbed butts. They made their way to the Tyne Bridge and crossed over into Newcastle. Tony drove one-handed, chewed the thumbnail on the other. He didn’t put the radio on. They sat in silence.
+++++Graeme looked down as they reached the other side of the bridge, to the shapes of people below, young couples strolling hand-in-hand to the next bar or club, and tourists angling their cameras for the best shots of the iconic bridges. He saw a lot of cameras flash. He cleared his throat. “I remember what the Quayside used to be like, before they did it all up.”
+++++Tony grunted.
+++++“Before it was all fancy hotels and expensive cocktail bars. Do you remember?”
+++++“No. I don’t know. I don’t think about it.”
+++++“You know what it makes me think of now? It’s like when you put a plaster on a cut. It might cover up what’s wrong, but if you peel it back you can still see all the rot underneath. Some cuts just run too deep.”
+++++Tony pulled down a back alley, drove slowly down the cobbled street. He stopped outside the gym. The neon sign above the door was off. He killed the engine but didn’t move. Graeme let him take his time. He looked at the door of the gym. It looked closed, but he knew they’d already be inside.
+++++“How bad’s it gonna be?” Tony said.
+++++“It’s gonna be bad,” Graeme said. “I’m not gonna lie to you, son.”
+++++Tony took a deep breath, held it in. “You ever had one of these?”
+++++“A straightener? Why aye. Had a few in my time, lad.”
+++++Tony looked at Graeme. He looked at him for a long time, then nodded once and got out the car.
+++++Graeme followed. They went to the door. Graeme knocked. It opened promptly. A shaved head poked out, looked them over. It settled on Graeme. “All right, mate?”
+++++Graeme recognised the face, but he didn’t know the name. Most of the younger lads all looked alike to him. “All right. We’re here.”
+++++The shaved head retreated, opened the door wider to admit them. Graeme led the way. Tony followed close behind.
+++++The gym was uncharacteristically quiet. There was no music playing, no scrape of machines, no meatheads grunting.
+++++Neil Doyle leaned against a mirrored wall, hands in his pockets. He took them out as they entered and pushed himself from the wall, crossed the room and shook Graeme’s hand. “How are you?”
+++++Neil’s grip was crushing, but Graeme squeezed back and didn’t let the pinch show. “Not bad, mate. How are you?”
+++++Neil smiled. His teeth were chipped. His knuckles were like almonds. His bald head was criss-crossed with scars. He let go of Graeme’s hand and looked at Tony and his smile faded. “How you doin, son?”
+++++Tony nodded but he didn’t say anything. Scared his voice would break, more than likely.
+++++Neil’s daughter sat on a rack of dumbbells. Her name was Jasmine. She was young, maybe eighteen, wearing black jeans and a black vest and round her neck hung an assortment of necklaces of different sizes and decoration. She gave Tony the stink-eye. She was the source of the trouble. Tony was a bouncer. She’d gotten rowdy in his club and he’d kicked her out. Tony didn’t know who she was. He only vaguely knew who Neil Doyle was.
+++++Neil Doyle owned the gym they were in. He also owned a couple of nightclubs, none of which Tony covered the doors for. Before he’d moved into legitimate business, Neil had been a renowned hard man. He still was, but these days when someone needed sorted he left it to his son.
+++++Michael Doyle stood to one side. He popped his knuckles and he waited. He was tall, over six foot, and broad like the back-end of a bus. It was clear that he spent most of his time in the gym. His biceps bulged against his t-shirt sleeves like they were ready to rip the fabric. His neck was wider than his head. He looked Tony up and down, his face blank. Tony looked back. He tried to keep his face blank, too. He failed.
+++++Jasmine sneered. She chewed on her tongue like she was chewing on gum. “Fuckin told ya, didn’t I? Fuckin told ya you needed to watch yerself. You kna who I am now, divvint ya?”
+++++Neil shot her a glance and she fell silent, then he popped his knuckles like he was about to fight. “Should we get on with it, then?”
+++++Tony cleared his throat. He took off his tracksuit jacket and gave it to Graeme. He wore a white vest underneath. Michael took off his t-shirt. His torso was a writhing mass of thickly knotted muscle. He looked like something from a comic book. Graeme slapped Tony on the back. “Go for it, son.”
+++++Neil clapped his hands. “Howay.”
+++++They stood on mats. The fight started slow. They circled each other. Michael’s face never changed. He waited patiently for Tony to come forward. Tony wasn’t in any rush. Graeme tried to catch his eye, to encourage him to make a move. Tony wouldn’t look. They circled.
+++++“Howay, son,” Graeme said. “Get it over with.”
+++++Tony looked like he’d been slapped. Michael’s face finally broke. He grinned. He stepped forward and swung a heavy arm. Tony ducked it, lunged forward, peppered Michael’s rock-hard mid-section with ineffectual jabs. He jumped free of Michael’s reaching arms and swung hard at his face, caught him on the jaw. Michael reeled, stepped back. He spat blood. A thin red line trickled down from the corner of his mouth. Tony stayed on him, struck him in the face and head.
+++++Michael pushed him off. Tony lost his footing, went down, scrambled back up in time to catch Michael’s fist square in his face. Tony crumpled. Blood spilled from his nose and his mouth. He forced himself onto his stomach, tried to push himself back up. His blood splashed to the mat. His arms gave way. Graeme looked at Jasmine. She was leaning forward, she was smiling. She bit excitedly into her bottom lip.
+++++Michael circled Tony, took his time. He waited until Tony was up on his hands and his knees and then kicked him in the ribs. Tony flipped onto his back. Michael reached down and grabbed him by the front of his vest, hauled him up to his feet and hurled him onto another rack of weights, where his sister was not sitting. He kept hold of him with one hand and punched him repeatedly in the face with the other. Tony’s cheeks split, his lips split, his eyebrows split. His face was red. His vest was red. He’d gone limp. Michael moved his fist down. He worked the body. Tony vomited over his shoulder. Some of it ran down Michael’s back. It didn’t stop him.
+++++Graeme looked at Neil, caught his eye. He raised an eyebrow. Neil nodded. “That’ll do, Micky.”
+++++Michael stopped punching. He let go of Tony. Tony hit the floor. He lay very still.
+++++Neil looked at Jasmine. “Happy?”
+++++She smiled.
+++++“So,” Graeme said. “That sorted then?”
+++++“Aye,” Neil said. “Sorted.” He went to Tony and crouched next to him on the ground. He slapped him on the back. “Nice effort, son.” He rubbed Tony between the shoulders then stood up. He turned to Graeme. “You manage?”
+++++“Aye, I’ll manage.”
+++++Michael wiped the vomit from his shoulder and the blood from his knuckles with a towel. He pulled his t-shirt back on. The Doyle’s stood to one side while Graeme scooped Tony from the floor, slung an arm over his shoulder and dragged him to the door. The skinhead that had let them in held it open for them to leave. Neil and Michael applauded briefly. Graeme gave them a thumbs-up without turning. “I’ll see yous later, lads.”
+++++He got Tony outside, put him in the passenger seat of his car then got behind the wheel. He didn’t start the engine, not right away. “How do you feel?”
+++++Tony’s nose was twisted and flattened. It made a whistling sound when he breathed. “Fantastic,” he said. When he opened his mouth Graeme saw his chipped teeth coated red. The front of his vest was soaked through.
+++++“Well, you got your licks in, that’s the important thing.”
+++++“Aye.” He coughed. “I feel like the real winner.”
+++++“You’re a champ.”
+++++“Fuck off, man.”
+++++Graeme laughed. “It’s over now, mate. You just close your eyes. I’ll get you home.”

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Paul Heatley

Paul Heatley is the author of twelve books, including the Eye For An Eye series, Cutthroat, Guillotine, Bad Bastards, and more, as well as more than fifty short stories published online and in print. He lives in the north east of England.

Latest posts by Paul Heatley (see all)

• Split Lip - July 17, 2020
• Poolside - August 24, 2016
• The Straightener - November 4, 2015