Philip Nutman - Cities of Night

A light went on inside the house.

“Come on.”

Staff was on The Bitch before the words were out of his mouth, his foot kicking the start in one strong downward motion. The bike roared into life. He took off before Alex was securely in place, his friend nearly back flipping with the rapid acceleration.

He didn’t stop at the top of the road, and Alex nearly lost it again, only managing to stay on by grabbing Staff’s shoulders as they turned sharp right. Staff hit fourth as Cavendish Road dropped steeply beside the golf course, Alex holding on tight as The Bitch descended.

They drove to The Hat and Feather down on Walcott Street, Alex guessing where they were heading once they crossed Landsdown Road, nearly hitting a pedestrian as they rumbled down the incline to the end of the Paragon, its row of black monoxide-coated Georgian terrace exuding all the charm of fire-bombed Dresden.

Staff remained silent as he parked The Bitch outside the Hong Kong Garden restaurant, his blue eyes twinkling with barely contained anger as he removed his helmet. Alex tried to grin but Staff turned away, striding toward the battered double doors of the pub.

The Hat was a rundown spit and sawdust bar in an area the city fathers seemed to have forgotten. Only a minute’s walk from the stylish shop-fronts of Broad Street, Walcott was a dark corner of poverty, drugs, and the occasional prostitute. The Hat was a shit hole, a meeting place for the lost, the outcast, the forgotten, those who didn’t fit into Bath’s orderly image of civil servants, secretaries, shop assistants, and the wealthy. On any given night, you’d find a couple of dealers, a rumble of bikers, groups of hippie throwbacks downing pints, wheeling and dealing, and talking dreams as worn as the bar stools cracking under the weight of professional boozers.

Staff pushed open the doors and disappeared. The Hat was their home away from home. Here they were accepted along with the other disenchanted youth sipping beer and listening to the jukebox. The Stranglers, the Pistols, Iggy, the Slits — this jukebox had ’em all. The pub wasn’t a nihilistic haven, though; it served the nexus between generations, home to the last hippie tumbleweeds blown by the winds of ’67, those who professed to have the answers, and the blank generation whose credo was We don’t care. Alex liked it here and felt some of his frustrations ease as he entered to the dirty noise of the Stooges’ “1969.”

Staff weaved through the landmass of punters, making for the bar. The odour of Flower’s Best Bitter, cheap lager, and spirits hung above the regulars like a cloud of halitosis. Staff ordered a pint of Skol and a Guinness while Alex manoeuvred into the far corner next to Smokin’ Joe, an emaciated Hat regular, mindful not to bump against the group of skinheads next to the window. This bar was also the kind of place where the wrong move could earn you a smack in the mouth.

Staff joined him. Seeing his eyes still glowing with rage, Alex concentrated on the Guinness. Best not to speak until Staff was cool.

Rivers sighed after downing half his pint. “What now?”

Alex lit a cigarette. “See the late show.”

“Come on! Piss on watching a bloody movie. There’s other things.”

“Don’t know.” It was true. He had no ideas at all other than getting stoned while watching slow-motion violence.

Staff grunted. “We got The Bitch. Think of somewhere to go.”

“Bristol?”

“Nah.”

“The Motorway?”

“No,” Staff said again. “Cunt!”

“Come off it,” Alex said, annoyed. “Give it a rest.”

“Fuck you, she ain’t your girlfriend.”

“All right, just—”

“Look, I’m pissed off, right?”

“I know,” Alex said after awhile, slapping him on the shoulder. “Forget Tully. He’s down the Nick trying to convince the pigs he knew nothing about Birch’s drugs, I bet.”

Staff nodded, looking at the skinheads.

Alex put his drink down. “I gotta take a leak.”

The Gents was at the rear on the opposite side. He started weaving through the crowd, navigating the bodies as deftly as he could, particularly past a cluster of mohawked punks drinking with a couple of members of the Bristol Angels. He stopped suddenly a few yards from the Gents’ door. Standing right in front of him was a figure he recognized immediately, although he could only see the guy’s back. That figure had haunted his dreams for too many years.

Hougan.

All six-feet-two of the hardcase was blocking him from the Gents, the black-haired troublemaker talking to a pair of underage girls.

Shit!

Alex froze. There was no way to get to the Gents without touching him, as the punters were packed tightly in this corner. Although he’d not had a run-in with his nemesis for nearly two years, more than a decade of trouble had instilled in him a Pavlovian response: Hougan meant trouble, Hougan meant pain. He unconsciously fingered his jawline, touching the two-inch scar under his chin, a present from Hougan on the Ralph Taylor rugby field. Apprehension grabbed his legs, and he lost the desire to piss.

“That was quick,” Staff said as he returned. Alex shrugged. “Got an idea,” Staff smiled meanly. “Let’s drop by The Circle, see what’s cooking. Maybe Alison’ll be there.” Alex shrugged again, picked up his pint. The idea didn’t appeal to him, and as for Alison…

For two years they’d spent most Friday nights at The Circle, the St. Stephen’s Christian Youth Club housed at the church hall, a Victorian nightmare of a building in the no-man’s land of Walcot. They’d gone at the invitation of Adam Gibson, the reverend’s son, and after a week or so, it became a fixture in their lives. When you were underage and had problems getting served in pubs, what could you do but make your own entertainment? The Circle had become that entertainment.

Once they’d exhausted the main skateboarding, football, swinging off hall’s possibilities — the balcony — they’d discovered the dark corners of the building, places other games could be played. Like smoking weed in the empty caretaker’s flat, throwing water balloons off the roof at people down below, and slipping fingers into the moist, hungry twats of choir girls under the cover of darkness in the cellar. For those with mischievous minds, The Circle was a jamboree of teenage temptations.

It was fun then, but now Alex felt he’d grown beyond The Circle’s confines, had graduated to the real world of sex, drugs, and rock “n’ roll. Dropping by The Circle would be like digging up an old friend to sift through his bones in search of new ideas. But Staff put down his empty glass and made for the door before Alex could object.

He was a couple of hundred yards down Walcot Street by the time Alex finished his drink and fought his way through the punters, happy to put some space between himself and the spectre of Hougan. Since The Circle wasn’t far away from the pub, Staff obviously wasn’t going to bother with the bike. Alex ran after him.

The cup of tea sat untouched on the table as Jamie sat with his head in his hands.

Unlike the cup, his mind was empty. He had no idea how long he’d sat in the chair holding the phone like a lifeline thrown to a man in troubled waters, but he’d finally found the energy to make it to the kitchen where he’d brewed a pot of tea, thinking a good cuppa would revive him from his stupor. He made it, then lost interest.

Dread lay heavily in his stomach, an undigested sweetmeat. He felt lost.

Alex.

A vague image of his brother, frowning, tense, came to him in the white expanse of nothingness.

Something was wrong.

As he reached out to embrace the vision, to touch it, the image dissipated, danced intangibly into the distance.