Marching to Another Tune

By Neville Krasner

The story is set in Wavertree, a relatively poor area in Liverpool. Steve Chalmers, the Scottish hero, is a broken man. Injured in Iraq, he is invalided out of the Marines and thinks life holds no further prospects for him. His elderly mother with whom he lives finds it difficult to cope. A chance confrontation with gang leader Tommy results in the establishment of an unlikely friendship which will change both their lives.

In spite of a serious leg injury, Steve retains his self defense skills. As he teaches Tommy the main elements of self defense, his own confidence begins to return. He insists that the training must run in tandem with some input into the community. When the other gang members are brought into the scheme, the Squaddies are formed with the aim of converting delinquent and problem youngsters into useful citizens. A charity is formed with help from sponsors and the City Council and Steve interacts with various members of the trustees. Recruitment to the club has its ups and downs, but Steve insists in disciplined behavior. A clash with a local gang lets some members of the Squaddies to put their training to good use. The marine's confidence is boosted when he is fitted with special shoes and trainers to compensate for the shortening of his injured leg. He is then able to expand the activities of the club members.

Two romances evolve. A fairly hectic friendship between Tommy and Francis leaves the girl pregnant, although she doesn't tell him. There is a more gentle and protracted relationship between the hero and Jamaican Rosy O'Brien, mother of mixed race twin girls and their older brother Jaz, Tommy's best friend. Steve had proved to be a role model and the two boys enlisted in the Rifles Regiment based in Edinburgh. This strains the relationship between Frances and Tommy which is finally resolved when the girl goes to see her lover in hospital. Tommy had been deployed in Afghanistan and had been seriously injured in a suicide bomb attack which killed Jaz. Tommy is flown back to the UK for treatment and his leg is amputated. The boy, like Steve initially, feels that his life has collapsed. This is only resolved by the visit from Frances and Steve.

The marine was first introduced to Rosy by Jaz and the woman helped to decorate the club premises, the Squad Pod. The slow progress of the romance culminates when Rosy is confronted at knifepoint by her husband who had deserted her ten years previously. Steve
intervenes using his self defence skills. Divorce proceedings are instigated. When Jaz is killed Steve is Rosy's main support and becomes her lover. His mother, initially disturbed that Rosy is black, is won over and becomes a surrogate auntie to the twins. The divorce comes through and Rosy finally has her freedom to marry Steve. The story blends the problems faced by injured and ex-soldiers and out-of-work or dysfunctional youngsters. It shows how it is possible for them to develop a sense of purpose and regain their place in the community.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris UK
• Release date: Dec 14, 2010
• ISBN: 9781456812782

Neville Krasner

The author is a retired Physician and Gastrenterologist born and bred in Glasgow but now living with his wife in Liverpool. An interest in the medical application of lasers led him to the Department of Engineering at the University of Liverpool where he became a Visiting Professor.

Book preview

Copyright © 2010 by Neville Krasner.

Library of Congress Control Number:   2010916724

ISBN: Hardcover     978-1-4568-1277-5

ISBN: Softcover       978-1-4568-1276-8

ISBN: Ebook             978-1-4568-1278-2

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the copyright owner.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

This book was printed in the United States of America.

To order additional copies of this book, contact:

Xlibris Corporation

0-800-644-6988

www.xlibrispublishing.co.uk

[e-mail]

301222

"To the Service men and women who fight

to keep us safe and sometimes pay a dreadful price."

CONTENTS

Acknowledgements

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Chapter 38

Chapter 39

Chapter 40

Chapter 41

Chapter 42

Chapter 43

Chapter 44

Chapter 45

Chapter 46

Chapter 47

Chapter 48

Chapter 49

Chapter 50

Chapter 51

Chapter 52

Chapter 53

Chapter 54

Chapter 55

Chapter 56

Chapter 57

Chapter 58

Chapter 59

Chapter 60

Chapter 61

Chapter 62

Chapter 63

Chapter 64

Chapter 65

Chapter 66

Chapter 67

Chapter 68

Chapter 69

Chapter 70

Chapter 71

Chapter 72

Acknowledgements

Without the support and advice of my freinds in Wordsmiths, this book would never have been completed.

Thanks go to Sergeant Paul Richmond for his help with the scenes in Afghanistan. He knew it first hand.

I am grateful to Roy Andrews of Xlibris who kept me on track.

Finally, without the forbearance of and encouragement from my family, Marion, Yvonne and Philip, it is doubtful

whether I would have stayed the course.

Chapter 1

Steve, you can’t go on like this. You’ve got to get out and start mixing with people.

Can’t you let go, Ma. I’m fed up with it. There’s no point. There’s nothing out there for me.

Steve closed his eyes, and there was the bright soundless flash of an explosion. Recently, this seemed to happen every time he had an argument with his mother. He was lost in thought. One minute you led an orderly life then, in one fell swoop, everything was turned upside down and there was nothing left but frustration and loss of hope. When he thought about it he realised he should at least have considered the possibility of something going wrong. After all, it was an occupational hazard. Later, he would reflect that, when you had almost given up, something happened out of the blue. You were on your feet again and your whole outlook changed.

Steve Chalmers was thirty-five years old and lived with his elderly mother in a small terrace house in Wavertree. He had been born in Glasgow where his father worked in the Fairfield shipyard in Govan. His dad had been killed in a works accident and his mother had never remarried. Since her family came from Liverpool, when Steve was about eleven, they moved there permanently. He quickly developed a Scouse accent, but when he went back to Glasgow for his summer holidays to stay with his aunt and cousin, the Scots accent reasserted itself as it did whenever he was nervous or angry. The brogue was reinforced when he was later based in Arbroath with the Royal Marines in 3 Commando Brigade. Where he lived was not the most up-market area in Liverpool, but it was where he had spent his formative years, and by and large he felt comfortable there. It was a bit like Coronation Street, with everyone knowing everyone else’s business. You could hear the arguments as you walked by.

Where were you last night? screamed Mrs Newton at her son.

Let me be. What’s it to you anyway? It was a regular shouting match. The walls seemed paper thin, and any arguments or raised voices could easily be heard. It was like a soap opera.

The neighbours were aware of Steve’s problems and he supposed that his mother had told them. He kept himself to himself. Although he had had a few girlfriends, Service life is hard on a family, and he had never married. He certainly didn’t feel ready to take on a permanent relationship and he didn’t know if anyone would be interested in him now, albeit he felt more confident than he did at first when he was injured. He walked with a limp because his left leg was two inches shorter than his right, but more of that anon. Until four years ago he had been a sergeant in the Royal Marines, which is part of the UK’s Joint Rapid Reaction Force. He had a good service record and had shown a bent towards leadership. Steve was part of an elite group that had been intensively trained in unarmed combat and survival techniques. After three separate tours of duty in Iraq, and in spite of the dangers, he still loved the job. He remembered the flies, dust everywhere and the searing heat, as well as the surprising drop in temperature when night fell. In the summer, he and his mates had to take salt tablets all the time. He remembered the kickabouts with the lads and the friendly rivalries between the scratch teams, but most of all, he remembered the camaraderie. They all relied on each other to come through another day unscathed. These were good times for him.

Also, he felt that they were doing something worthwhile, getting through to the man in the street and making at least some progress in providing calm and security in a very troubled area. The political situation since the overthrow of Saddam Hussein had been very confused with the various factions creating mayhem on their own doorstep. The kids, initially very wary, almost queued up for sweets or chocolate that the Marines threw them as they drove through their neighbourhood in their snatch Land Rovers.

Then, disaster.

Steve was leading his usual patrol through the streets of Basra. There was a driver, himself in the front alongside, a machine gunner and another three in the back keeping an eye out with him for insurgents. With no warning, there was a thunderous bang under the vehicle and the last thing he remembered was being thrown violently against the door. As the Land Rover turned over, he blacked out. He slowly surfaced two days later through the haze of pain and sedation to find his head swathed in bandages, his left arm in plaster and there was an assortment of pins inserted through a heavy cast up to his mid thigh, immobilising his left leg. He was reckoned to be the lucky one. His driver and his other mates had been killed instantly. He was devastated. They were like younger brothers to him. At the nearest field hospital where he had been taken it was touch and go as to whether he would make it. His leg was so badly damaged, the surgeons didn’t know whether to amputate it, but they decided to have a go at patching him up.

Wouldn’t I be better off without it? he would often say during rehab, but the leg stayed on. He wasn’t sure if they had made the right decision because he still didn’t walk very well. The injured leg was shorter because of the injuries and it was a mess. However, he consoled himself with the thought that it was his, and not a bit of lookalike plastic. He had stopped using a walking stick because he tended to stumble and trip over it.

The doctors and nurses were a great bunch but as soon as he was felt well enough to travel, he was flown back to the Royal Haslar Hospital in Hampshire for further treatment and rehab. All his ironmongery and casts were still in place. The bandages were off his head by then and when he looked in the mirror his face was not a pretty sight. Shrapnel had torn a chunk out of his left cheek and over the next few months the plastic surgeons worked hard to make him look a little less like a monster. If you looked at him from the right, there was nothing unusual but people often did a double take when they saw the left side of his face. It was ruggedly scarred in a way that no amount of skilful surgery could disguise. At the checkout in the supermarket, the cashier couldn’t look him straight in the face, and children would shy away from him as if he were some kind of freak. He was used to that now.

In time the plaster casts and pins were removed from his arm and leg, and then came the agony and frustration of learning to walk again. The physical wounds made reasonable progress, but the mental scars took much longer to heal. Steve went through the entire rehab programme with every kind of therapist. There was hydrotherapy, physiotherapy and occupational therapy. He was having flashbacks remembering the tremendous explosion and nightmares about the thought of his mates being blown to bits, so they sent him to the shrinks and gave him counselling. They called it post traumatic stress and it took him a long time to come to terms with the episode. It finally got through to him that his Commando days were over.

There’s no way you’re going to get me behind a desk, he said, when he was fit enough. The only option then was to take medical discharge. The small compensation package and the smaller pension offered to him provided little more than subsistence living. He learned later that the snatch Land Rovers were considered death traps because they just did not provide sufficient protection against bombs, and the better armoured Land Rovers had not been forthcoming.

Questions had been directed at the Ministry of Defence and raised in Parliament, but that couldn’t help Steve, or bring back his dead mates. The only hope was that something would come out of it to save soldiers’ lives in the future.

His mates kept in touch for a time, but inevitably, out of sight out of mind, and he lost contact with them. After fifteen years in the only job he knew, he felt totally adrift and worthless. His temper was fiery and he was moody. A long-suffering mother felt the sharp edge of his tongue, and he knew she didn’t deserve it for all she had tried to do to help him sort himself out. He moped around and couldn’t apply himself to anything serious.

You need to work out, they told him at the hospital. Get fit, build up the muscles. You’ll make quicker progress."

His only worthwhile activity was to go to the local Smithdown Gym three or four times a week, and at least the upper half of his body was very strong. He was awkward on the treadmill and embarrassed about the appearance of his leg. Because that, he always wore tracksuit bottoms and tried to make sure that no-one else was about when he had a shower after his workout. Apart from that, he felt no use to man or beast and was very sorry for himself. Then one day he literally bumped into Tommy Jackson and his life changed dramatically.

Chapter 2

Tommy and his mates were just a bunch of hooligans. Steve gradually found out all about them when he got to know Tommy himself. They were all about the same age and had left school within the past twelve months. None of them was the least bit interested in any further education.

Ma, I’m going out. Where’s my jacket? I can’t find it anywhere.

You can’t go out wearing that. It’s so dirty, I put it in the wash.

Lay off. I’ll do what I want with my own things. He rummaged in the laundry basket, and hauled out the filthy garment. The door slammed and his mother sighed wearily.

Thomas Alan Jackson was the undisputed leader of his small gang. A hoodie who swaggered down the street with his mates in tow, three boys and two girls, challenging anyone in the vicinity to dispute his right of way. He was tall at over six feet, well built, and if he did not have a perpetual scowl, he might have been considered handsome. His adoring girlfriend Frances, part of his group, certainly thought so, and he took every opportunity to try to impress her. Tommy was seventeen years old. He had left school, which he didn’t attend very well anyway, on his sixteenth birthday, and had done nothing constructive since. His father was certainly not much of a role model having given up work ten years before as a storeman on the pretext of having a sore back. He made such a song and a dance at each medical assessment by the DSS that he continued to receive his regular Incapacity Benefit and Disablement Living Allowance.

Joe, take out the bin, will you, said Mrs Jackson.

My back’s hurting. I can’t do it. I’m off to the ‘Welly’. The door slammed. Joe kept most of the benefits to himself. His day would be passed either in the pub at the top of Wellington Road or across at ‘Bet Fred’, the bookies opposite. His careworn wife worked full time in a small supermarket, trying to make ends meet. Tommy saw very little of his younger brother who was football mad and spent all of his spare time playing with his friends at the nearby recreation ground. Unlike his brother, he liked school and did quite well there. His mother had high hopes for him but his father couldn’t care less.

Jaz was Tommy’s closest mate. He was the product of a racially mixed marriage. His mother came originally from Jamaica in her late teens, looking for better prospects than she thought she would find in her home island. His father was a dyed-in-the-wool Scouser who in his younger days had been a good-looking charmer, and he had swept her off her feet. These were the good days. Now, it was a broken home. His father, a wife beater had walked out some years before, leaving the woman to bring up the boy and his little twin sisters, and find the wherewithal to feed and clothe them.

Jaz, You smell of alcohol and smoking again. Where do you get the money?

I’ve done a couple of odd jobs. If she only knew, thought Jaz. Her children were everything to her, though she had given up trying to find a way to control Jaz and his wayward behaviour. She took part time jobs where she could, but on a minimum wage, she was sorely pressed to cope, even with benefits support. Tommy and Jaz were inseparable, and while one was physically strong and not afraid to use this attribute, the other was wily and something of a negotiator. Unfortunately, his contacts were pretty unsavoury characters and dealings with them was sooner or later going to get the boys and fellow gang members into trouble. The pair made a formidable pair, and always seemed to be one step ahead of other local rival gangs who were always on the lookout for some way of challenging them.

Chapter 3

Hey, you bastard. Look what you’ve done.

Chris had deliberately bumped into a small man carrying out two fish suppers from Anna Jung’s. One had fallen to the ground and the contents spilled over the pavement. Chris kicked the spoiled meal, and the air was redolent of vinegar and the fish and chips. He moved threateningly over to the angry little man and looked down at him.

What’s your problem, mate? He bunched his fists. Are you blind or something. You walked straight into me.

Yeah, mate, piped up Frank. You want to watch it.

The unfortunate man backed off and walked away cursing, followed by the laughter of the two boys. None of the other customers dared to intervene. They just turned their backs knowing to keep well away from the troublemakers when they went out.

Chris and Frank were the other two male members of the group. Chris was the bigger of the two, but with their skinhead haircuts and matching jeans and hoodie tops, they could have been brothers. They were also alike in that they were followers, and initiative was not their strong suit. They had little personal motivation, and were happy to let Tommy, and to a lesser extent Jaz, do their thinking for them. Chris’ father was a dustman, honest and hard-working, but he didn’t think much of his dad’s job.

You’re not going to get me cleaning up other people’s shit.

He wasn’t prepared to turn his hand to anything else. His father tried in vain to convince him that, for his own self respect, you had to have some kind of job. To Chris that was old-fashioned thinking, a load of crap, and was just another example of the generation gap. He was an only child, and took his parents’ indulgence for granted. Everything was provided for him, so why should he bother.

One day you’ll be on your own, and we’ll not be here to provide for you, said his mother. But Chris wasn’t expecting that to be any day soon, and in the meantime, he was happy to carry on the way he was. He had the key to the front door and would come and go as he pleased.

Frank was a quiet, slightly withdrawn lad. He had little conversation and tended, with the gang at least, to do what he was told. A human worker bee. His father was a merchant seaman and was away from home for long periods at a time. His only real contact with his father was by way of postcards from his various ports of call and occasionally on the phone.

Frank, your father’s on the line, his mother shouted, and he would come somewhat reluctantly to the phone.

Hi, son. I’m in Rio de Janeiro. It’s an amazing place. You ought to see the girls in their bikinis. It’d knock your eyes out. Everything OK with you? Frank would give a mumbled yes and say his mother wanted to get on the phone again. There was so little time to speak that he could never think of anything useful to say. He hadn’t a clue where Rio de Janeiro was. Stories of his father’s travels had no real meaning for Frank, because he had no interest in geography and he showed no inclination to learn. His mother spent several nights a week at bingo, leaving Frank to fend for himself.

There’s a pie in the fridge, Frank. Heat it up in the microwave for your supper. That was a common message left for him. As often as not he didn’t bother, but would get a take-away at the chippie with the gang. When his mother won at bingo, Frank could expect a new pair of trainers, which he liked, or some item of clothing which might stay in the cupboard unused. After all, he was happiest in his gang outfit. He had an older sister, but she had gone to live with her boyfriend and rarely came home. She didn’t really seem like part of the family. The gang was his family.

Chapter 4

These days, gangs were unisex and this group followed the fashion. Hoodies all, but in addition,the girls skewered various parts of their faces with metalwork. Frances conformed.

Frances, must you put all that muck on your face? For goodness sake, why can’t you look decent? her mother asked plaintively.

I like the way I am, she retorted. Mind your own business.

Her father looked ready to burst a fuse, but her mother put out a restraining arm and he sat back in his armchair looking daggers at his daughter. Frances was a rebellious girl, and her parents were lost for a way to make her behave reasonably and in a responsible manner. It had all started when she had discovered boys. Tommy was in her class at school and her idol. She didn’t accept any authority there either, and one or other parent had been called to see her head teacher on a number of occasions.

I’m not sure that we can keep her at this school much longer, said the Head in exasperation. She’s cheeky to the teachers, distracts the other pupils, and is very lazy with her homework. Please tell her my patience is running out.

The parent would nod resignedly, and promise to try to get Frances to mend her ways. Fortunately, at seventeen, she left school before she was expelled. She was a well-developed young woman and made sure that her clothes drew attention to her obvious assets. A tight-fitting black blouse or jumper was complemented by the shortest of black skirts and she had a stud in her left eyebrow. The muck about which her mother complained was heavy make-up, in the Goth style. She was basically quite pretty, but the way she dressed and her face painting did her no favours. Any attempt to bring up the subject of her choice of friends resulted in a yet another slanging match.

The final girl, Kelly, had a drunken father. The only useful thing he did was to stagger out to fill the recycle bin with empty beer cans. When he went out, he invariably knocked something over.

Christ, can’t you be careful? her mother would yell.

Aw, piss off woman, he would slur back.

Kelly tried to stay out of his way as much as possible, although he was never violent. In his own strange way he was very fond of her, which was more than could be said of his relationship with his wife. One of Kelly’s daily chores was to go to the offy, the local off-licence, to buy her father’s supply of beer. It kept him quiet, and he was always happy and manageable as long as he had his daily bevvy. She dressed fairly plainly and could have made more of herself with a little make-up. Kelly lived next door to Frances and was happy to tag along with her. She wasn’t sure if she should remain a member of the gang, but they were really the only friends she had, so she stayed with them.

Having no set aim in life, any form of vandalism was the gang’s main occupation. Overturning wheelie bins, spraying graffiti on any available site and setting fire to derelict buildings passed the time. Of course, it caused maximum inconvenience to neighbours and the Fire Service. Somehow they had avoided Asbos. Jaz had found a cheap supplier of cannabis, and petty pilfering, and the sale of goods to the supplier provided the money for the drug, and the alcohol they drank out of sight in back alleys. They took it in turn to steal to order. But their habits were catching up with them. Frances and Chris had both been collared once, and formally cautioned. They had been warned that the next time they strayed they would be sent to a young offenders institution. Whatever else they did during the day, they met at Anna Jung’s Chinese chippie at the top of the road to plan the next day’s activities.

Their parents had long ago ceased to ask them what they were doing or where they were going because their mutual pact was to give as little information as they could about what they did and where they did it. In the dark, their hoods would have made them difficult to recognise, if by chance one of their parents had passed near by them. They did buy fish and chips or a Chinese meal, but were a nuisance to other customers who tended to keep out of their way because it was clear that the gang would look for any excuse to make trouble. Food cartons and chip papers were carelessly thrown on the ground, intentionally ignoring rubbish bins strategically placed to try to keep the area tidy.

An old man had said to Tommy one night, why don’t you throw away your stuff properly in the bins?

Tommy growled back. Do you want to make something of it? Do it yourself, The old fellow backed off quickly. Anna Jung would gladly have barred all the members of the group from her shop, but was afraid of the consequences. Tommy and his mates blatantly looked for confrontation, and were eager to show off to the girls who were happy to egg them on. The boys, to appear more macho, had taken to carrying knives. As yet there hadn’t been an occasion to display or use them. They had mixed feelings about this anyway, since they were not particularly anxious to meet like groups who were prepared to offer a challenge. One of them might get hurt. It was on one such evening that Steve had his first encounter with the gang.

Chapter 5

It was late Spring, about ten o’clock on a cloudy and cold evening. Steve was walking back from ASDA, bringing groceries for his mother and himself, and the pavement was more or less blocked by a rowdy group of youths. They were standing just outside Anna Jung’s. One rough-looking boy was leaning against a lamppost, with his feet stretched out and the others were spread out across from the entrance to the chippie. The marine tried to negotiate between them, but the flagstones were a bit uneven and he stumbled into the lad.

Watch where you’re going, you stupid git, snarled the boy. The gang started to close in.

If you had left room to let me get by, it would never have happened, Steve said. Now get out of my way.

He saw the youngster bunch his fists as he started to move towards him. When he stood straight, the lad looked tall and well-built, and he was clearly spoiling for a fight.

Och, away you go and let me get home. The Glasgow accent came out with his anger. What’s up wi’ you?

Tommy’s hand went into the inside of his jacket. There was the snick of a switch knife, then the street light reflected the glint of the blade.

Oh, leave him alone, cried one of the girls in the group, but on he came.

He needs a lesson, and I’m just the one to give it to him, came the cocky reply.

Steve put down his shopping, and as the the knife arced towards him, he grabbed the boy’s wrist, twisted his arm and with using his oncoming momentum, flipped him over his hip and brought him crashing to the ground. Standing on his assailant’s hand, he quickly disarmed him. He picked up the knife, jammed the blade in a crevice in the wall and, with a quick jerk, snapped it off. He held out the useless handle in front of him.

Piss off! he growled, and the next time, show some manners. Did you think that because I limp, that makes me easy pickings?

Steve moved towards him. The boy jumped up, and with the rest of his group made a speedy retreat. The shopping bags were retrieved, and as Steve was about to move off, the sound of clapping came from the chippie. The whole episode had been seen by the customers who were greatly amused and pleased that the hooligans had for once had their come-uppance. He shrugged his shoulders, and without turning round walked on home.

The marine would have thought no more about the confrontation, but the next morning, on the way back from his workout at the gym, who should walk across the road towards him but the belligerent young man from the night before. Steve tensed. Not him again. Back for another try, he wondered. The hood was down this time exposing the boy’s face. Steve expected aggression, but was surprised instead to see him looking rather sheepish. As Steve was again about to give him a piece of his mind, he was beaten to it.

Look, mister, I’m sorry about last night, he said. You sorted me out good and proper. I’m an idiot, and I just act stupid these days. But hey, he continued, were you in the SAS? I’ve never seen anyone move so fast. He looked down uncertainly. Anyway, my name’s Tommy Jackson. You’ve probably had enough of me, but I just want to say I’m sorry.

This was certainly not what Steve expected, and the openness took him by surprise. He wasn’t usually in the habit of encouraging strangers in conversation, but he found there was something vaguely appealing about the lad.

Well, at least you had the guts to say sorry, so we’ll start again. Come on round the corner to the café for a cup of tea, and I’ll hear what else you have to say.

Tommy seemed to relax then, and the pair walked in silence to the Nation Café in Lawrence Road. The Nation was a local institution. No modern trimmings there. It was dingy. The cutlery and crockery were usually greasy, and neither the waitress nor the woman who owned the place and did the cooking wore aprons that had seen a laundry recently. But it was where the locals gathered for a natter. They sat at a table near the window and Steve paid for two mugs of tea. For a minute or two, neither of them said anything. Tommy shifted uneasily, but his eyes kept flicking back to the older man’s scarred cheek. It was ugly.

Now, bully boy, Steve said, do you only pick on people you don’t think can fight back?

Tommy leaned forward aggressively, then subsided, slouching back in the chair back.

I was trying to act the big man for my girl. I wouldn’t have hurt you anyway, he replied.

You couldn’t, even if you had tried. You’re not the first on to pull a knife on me. And to answer your question, no, I wasn’t in the SAS.

But you were in the Army? It was a question rather than a statement.

Something like that. Steve wasn’t about to tell him anything else. Tommy, what are you and your mates doing hanging around annoying people? Is that the best you can do?

"Last night you made me look like a right piss artist. Trouble is, what can you do round here? There’s a new sports centre and swimming baths in Wavertree Park but we’ve no cash to join. Anyway it’s really only for sporty types. None of us are into that kind of thing. Me and my mates were at the same school and hung out together.

We sort of look out for each other. There’s nothing going for us at home, but I suppose there’s faults on both sides there. He seemed to be thinking what to say next. The gang’s my family and that’s how we work. Tommy looked down. If I’m honest, most of them are a waste of time. There’s no work, so what do you expect us to do? We’re not the only ones like this. He sat forward again. "There’s others, and when we see them, there’s usually a face