Maggie Gee - The White Family

‘Born just round the corner, mate,’ the barman said. ‘Now what’ll you have? I’ve got to get on.’

‘Heineken,’ said Dirk, confused, disgusted. ‘No, I’ll have two bottles of Holsten Pils.’

He drank them on his own, musing, brooding. The pub was getting hotter, wilder, noisier, and everything was slurring, jumping, shifting. Perhaps he didn’t feel quite well. He put his head in his hands for a second, but his elbow wasn’t properly fixed on the table or else some joker had pulled it away because the next thing he knew he was on the floor, he had toppled sideways on to someone’s lap and down to the floor. It felt very greasy. He lay there, among the dog-ends and the crisp packets. He felt very sick. He wanted to die. But he wanted to kill the arsehole who’d done it. His leg felt cold. He looked at it. He had spilled his Holsten Pils on his trousers.

The next moment people were helping him up and he felt very happy, though still rather sick. He felt good, he had friends, he would buy them all drinks. He staggered across to the bar again.

‘ Pow-lo ,’ he called, rather fuzzily, and then tried again, at the top of his voice. ‘ POW-LO! OI !’ This time everyone heard him. In fact, they all seemed to be looking at him. It was a good feeling. He was here among friends, he had all their attention, new friends, good friends. He wished he could think of things to say to them. They were waiting for a speech, but no words came. He reached out his hands towards them all, but in the distance he heard the crash of glass, and someone screamed, a bint was screaming. ‘They shouldn’t let them into pubs,’ he said, smiling, smiling at them all, for they all understood him, he could say whatever he wanted to, he could speak freely, they were on his side. ‘Fuckin’ foreigners. Eh? An’ fuckin’ women.’ He nodded at them; his head felt heavy.

‘Two pints of Holshdepizh — thass for me,’ he told Paolo, pointing at his chest, and it seemed very funny, this pointing at his chest, his hand got away, he was crossing himself, he’d be a fucking Christian, next, at this rate, which made him burst out laughing again, ‘an —’ Then he was stuck. His brain stalled, grinding. He knew he was buying for someone else, or everyone else, but what were they having?

‘No more for you, mate. Sorry,’ said Paolo.

From then on, his memory of things was uncertain. Someone was pushing him. He pushed them back. He didn’t know why, but everything had changed, they were against him now, they had turned against him, and before he knew it he was out on the pavement, crouched on the pavement, throwing up.

He sat there a long time, his head spinning, telling himself to get a grip.

It got colder. Perhaps he slept …

Then he saw them coming. (When? He didn’t know. He would never be able to answer that question. Someone had bitten great holes in his memory. But he saw them coming, like a happy ending.)

He saw them coming towards him at the double, running, shouting, his own true mates, Ozzie, Belter, Moke and Westy and all the lads, running like an army, hard and lean, tall and strong, and his spirits surged, they had come to save him, to back him up, for he’d lost a battle, though he couldn’t remember where or why. But when he waved at them, they didn’t seem to know him, then Ozzie spotted him and skidded to a halt shouting, ‘D’ya see them, Dicky? Where did they go?’

Dirk didn’t know who they were talking about. But then he got it. They were after someone. Chasing the enemy.

The hunt was on.

Dirk would never be able to explain the details.

Wasn’t me that started it, so don’t blame me. I only joined in because they were my mates. Once you have mates, you have to stick by them. Things just happen, then they blame it on you.

Someone yelled from the front, and we were off again. Usually I’m hard, I’m fast and hard, but I couldn’t keep up, I was all over the place, I kept bumping into parked cars and lamp-posts, the lads were way ahead of me, and the animals we were chasing were only in view as they turned the corner, and I caught a glimpse –

They were black as night. Not Pakis, darkies. So black they must have thought they were safe, at night. But they’re not, see. Not round our way they’re not. Not when the lads are out, in force, together.

It didn’t seem to hurt, when I bumped into things.

It didn’t stop me. I kept on after them. I thought of my dad; he never gave up. Somehow we chased them down near the Park. They looked a lot bigger, when we got close.

Why did they decide to climb over the wall? That was disgusting. Showed no respect. My father’s the Park Keeper, remember . The man who actually locks up, at nights. It was a personal insult, like, to Dad.

Dad would have killed them. But he couldn’t, could he? He was in hospital, flat on his back. Dad couldn’t stop them. It was down to me.

Who was it decided to go in after them?

Over the wall, all ten of the lads, shinning over, swarming over, Dirk was the last, and he nearly didn’t make it, fool, failure , out of breath, arms aching …

But he thought about what happened at the football match.

No way would he let that happen again. And will-power hauled him up over that wall.

After that there was another gap in his memory.

Fucking weird to be in the Park at night, he had never been in the Park at night. It seemed a whole lot bigger. Wilder. Blacker. He couldn’t see a fucking thing, though the moon was out, and the sky was all silver, like the stupid fucking picture Mum had got in the kitchen, always staring at it instead of drying up … by Atkinson Grimshaw . (That must be made up! Dirk was bad enough, but Atkinson Grimshaw !)

He remembered worrying about Mum and Dad. Once he’d got into the Park, it just didn’t feel right, he wasn’t sure any more it was a good idea, he didn’t feel happy they were all in there, in his father’s place, in the middle of the night, not knowing what would happen, or where it would stop. In the darkness he couldn’t even tell who was who …

They all looked the same, who was us, who was them?

They were quite near the edge, he knew that, at any rate, because you could see the lights of the houses. Then someone — he didn’t even recognize the voice, it could have been Moke, it could have been Belter — started yelling blue murder, so the blacks were attacking him, the lads all charged towards the sound of his voice, but Dirk tripped over a bush, went flat on his face, and by the time he managed to get over there it was like everyone on earth was fighting and yelling.

We were howling for them. Coloureds, darkies. We were up for it. We wanted blood.

The only trouble was, Dirk couldn’t actually see them, but he knew they were there, in the thick of it, so he just piled in, kicking, punching, he didn’t feel fear, he didn’t feel pain, he was like invincible , one of Dad’s words, one of Dad’s words for the British army, and he was a soldier, he was like Dad –

Until some crazy bint started screaming. Some woman started screaming, not very far off, Police and Murder and Help and everything, and then they knew the game was up, she was screaming as if her house was burning down, though they weren’t hurting her , it was nothing to her , they could see this little figure in a lit-up window in one of the houses alongside the Park, screaming, ‘What are you doing? Murder, murder!’ Some crazy woman. Some trouble-maker. Sounded Paki, to Dirk, sort of singsong, foreign, so why was she bothering to stick up for niggers?

The screams were so loud. They like cut into his ears. She’d have everyone opening their windows and gawping. So they more or less stopped. One of his ribs felt broken, or else one of the bastards had winded him. (But at least he felt it. His feeling was back. He had a headache, but he wasn’t so drunk.) Funny thing was, he never saw the buggers plainly, it was like they disappeared in a puff of smoke … It was almost like the lads had been fighting each other.