The Charlie Baxter Chronicles

By Paul Traynor

Charlie Baxter wasn’t a superhero. He wasn’t all that cool or good-looking or picked first for any team.
Charlie Baxter was just one of the gang. But when trouble was brewing, Charlie was always in the middle of it.
Rubbish tip tobogganing, haunted houses, bush-bashing, or brilliant money-making schemes – adventures were all in a day’s fun
for Charlie and his mates. Some long, some scary, some funny – and some just downright
dangerous!

• Language: English
• Publisher: Inspiring Publishers / ASPG
• Release date: Apr 10, 2023
• ISBN: 9781922920331

Book preview

Prologue:

Fred’s Dead

Oi – watch this.

By the time I turned and realised what Fred was up to, we were as good as dead. He’d raised the knocker high in a sweaty fist and was ready to strike. A voice, one of ours, screamed out. But Fred didn’t hear or Fred didn’t care. He sniggered and slammed the heavy steel. He sealed our fate.

WHANG! WHANG! WHANG!

The metal rang out across the Barkly Street flats, jarring in our ears. It was the 1970s and most of the flats had removed their door knockers long ago, with good reason – they were ugly, loud and attracted knick-knocking gangs of kids like flies to a fresh turd.

You know the knick-knock game. It’s been around for as long as there have been doors and if you ask me it’s better than PlayStation, Nintendo and TikTok put together. You bang on someone’s front door, dive into a bush and laugh yourself silly when that someone answers to a ghost. If you’re feeling brave and your victim is a sucker, you might even nail them twice. A twofer is hilarious, screaming and cursing is better and death threats are bonus points. Most residents at the flats smartened up and ripped the steel knockers right off.

But not flat number one. Old Berat never changed nothin’ on account of nobody. As well as still having his knocker, he was on the ground floor. It was easy access out of the passageway, which was open at both ends.

He looked 60, but moved more like he was 100. He came from Turkey and I reckon he was probably born with a stinky cigarette clutched in his right hand. He threw the best temper tantrums in the flats, which was saying something. Berat was the ultimate knick-knock stooge and the local kids had got him so many times over the years that it didn’t matter who you were. Landlord, police officer, the local priest – if you used the knocker, you’d cop an earful from Berat. But he never hurled curses from further than the doorway, so we were safe. Most of the time.

FRED! Peter cried, jabbing a finger towards a rusty little Ford that we all knew and feared. You moron! They’re home!

Fred’s beady eyes followed the finger as throaty shouts started up from inside the flat. Then the penny dropped and all the smug and all the colour suddenly drained from his fleshy face. I’m almost certain he ruined his undies. Somewhere inside, heavy footsteps pounded down a hall.

Berat’s fury was fun and games but his adult sons, Mustafa and Aramid, were terrifying. They were big men with meaty right hands and were happy to use them, even on the neighbourhood kids. Murffs’ face once wore a huge palm-shaped bruise for a whole week to prove it (their argument was over a swing). The cursing grew louder and closer and the big steel door kicked open. Mustafa was the biggest, baddest and baldest of the sons and burst out first. He screamed something in Turkish to his brother close behind. There were families from all corners of the globe living at the flats, so we knew how to swear in just about every language. And thanks to knick-knock we understood death threats in every language, too. Mustafa’s cursing had plenty of both.

Long story short, we bolted.

There were two time-tested strategies for fleeing trouble in the flats. The first was to split up (duh). The second widely-accepted tactic was to stick in Fred’s direction – this little pearl of wisdom had come straight from an Elvis safari movie we once saw.

How can you hope to outrun a lion? someone asked Elvis.

I don’t have to outrun the lion, The King replied, smooth as a milkshake. I only have to outrun you.

Fred’s legs were easily the most sluggish in the group, but not that day. He shot off with Peter, Bibor and half the gang while I found myself tearing down the hall in the opposite direction with Ian and Paula close behind. Murffs was quick on his feet but I could hear him hemmed in behind us, with Charlie Baxter bringing up the rear like a wounded gazelle – a result of one of Fred’s famous knee-to-the-thigh corkies, which no-one found funny except Fred.

Mustafa’s head swivelled up and down the hall, a jungle cat deciding which prey to run down. He turned and lunged towards us, legs pumping, fist shaking. Dammit. Of course Charlie would be tonight’s lion bait.

We streamed out the front exits and took off up Barkly Street towards the park, hoping to lose the brothers among the trees and the hedges and the dark.

Normally we’d stay well away from the park – at this hour it belonged to the Grantham Street Boys. The park was always dark at night – not because the city couldn’t afford to light it up, but because the Grantham Street Boys would go through and smash every single bulb as soon as they did. It was their territory and they were nocturnal animals. Luckily, it was a Friday night and they would still all be at the Don Bosco Boys’ Club. They were in Year 10 at least and had real muscle, hairy chins and monobrows – things our gang could only dream about. They would also happily beat the bejeezus out of you if they discovered you on their turf after the sun went down. Even adults didn’t dare walk the park after twilight.

Charlie was puffing hard and really starting to lag, almost two basketball courts’ length behind the rest of us. Splitting up hadn’t worked – at least not for us. The brothers were still hot on Charlie’s tail. A third man had also joined the chase, similar to the brothers but with skinny arms and a big gut.

Get to the park! Murffs called out as he took the lead. Desperate times called for desperate measures. Paula and I slowed our pace, hoping Charlie might dig deep and produce a last burst of speed to catch us. We rounded the corner and sprinted through the park’s entrance, almost safe.

But something was wrong.

Murffs and Ian were standing near the swings, frozen. I paused as Paula and Charlie raced past. I was lion toast and could hear the brothers bearing down behind me. I slowed and caught the gang, who were silent. In fact, everything was eerily quiet. The brothers had stopped just inside the park’s entrance, panting but keeping their distance. What the hell. The gang was seriously spooked and now the brothers had gone from hungry hunters to hyenas on the edge of a kill. The hairs on the back of my neck stood up and my butt suddenly felt very sweaty.

Then I saw the real lions. Four of them, perched up on the half dome of pipes. Grantham Street Boys.

One was grinning ear to ear and another held a cricket bat with freaking nails driven through the end of it. Something told me it wasn’t for hitting sixes. We huddled close and turned back to face the men. Paula, the bravest of all of us, had goosebumps. This was bad.

The tubby brother was still working for his breath, taking air in large gulps. His English wasn’t great but his confusion was clear. He obviously wasn’t from around here.

You would take us? Three men? he wheezed.

But Mustafa frowned. He was beginning to get the picture.

Something must have happened at the Don Bosco because suddenly twenty more Grantham Street Boys drifted out from the shadows and into the moonlight. It was like a scene straight from a horror movie. The brothers’ faces dropped. Mustafa scowled and puffed out his chest.

We just want the kids. No trouble, he said, and I thought I detected a slight quiver. The Grantham Street boys fanned out, completely encircling our little group and the brothers. We were truly in the lion’s den now.

I’m afraid it don’t work like that, said a boy from atop the pipes. He had an Irish accent and roguish good looks despite a long, jagged scar running down his cheek. He climbed down from the throne.

You see, you’ve stepped on sacred ground here, mate, Slash said. Slash was actually a pretty decent