Chapter Three: A walk

It was morning; he knew it was; there was a clue. The sunlight was streaming through his small bedroom window. He did what he called a systems check. He moved his arms and legs. They still worked. Wiggled his toes, yep, all good. Sat up. Fuck off, back. It ached like he’d slept on a board.

He swung his legs out of bed. Stood—ouch, ya bugger. More aches. Fuck ageing, it sucks. He wandered around trying to make his achy limbs stop moaning and then headed down the stairs. Kettle on, brew prepped, yeah mate, get the day going. He could go to the pub later. But first, he would go for a walk. Stretch the legs. Get out before too many people were out and about. He’d walk down to the Tower. He liked it down there. History an’ all that, before all the tourists turned up to take their photos. He’d loop around St Katherine Docks an’ then head back. Get some chores done and he’d be ready for the pub. Not too many pints, though. School night, work in the morning. Nothing worse than humping furniture about and sweating out beer.

Brew done, shorts on, down the fifteen steps and out onto the street. Another warm one. Fine. He didn’t mind getting a sweat on. It was good for him. Off he went, sixteen minutes per mile. A good pace. He’d head for Aldgate and then down the Minories. Yeah, he liked a good walk. Better than trying to jog. He’d done that for years. But now? His limbs told him to fuck off if he tried it.

His mind went to Ronnie and Jack. Like him in many ways. Two old codgers trying to keep going. It was funny in a way; they were all old and knackered. But still had it in ‘em to keep going. He was on the Minories. It was a long road, so he opened up the pace. Sweat was making its way down his back. He didn’t care. He could shower when he got back. No problem.

Tower Hill, with the sun lighting the place up. Made him feel good. Or better, anyway. He turned to make his way up East Smithfield to pass the docks. He saw almost nobody —the odd jogger and a dog walker. Fine. He set his mind to the mission from Sanjay. Yeah, Mile End fuckers causing Maya trouble. She was a pretty lass and didn’t dress to traditional Indian standards. She wore cropped tops and tight stuff like a lot of girls her age. But that didn’t mean the local shitheads could cause her trouble. Not while he was around.

Three o’clock. Dodgy bastard. Hoodie. One hand in his pocket. Clothes too big. Shambling along. A blade in his pocket? Could have. Watch him, mate. He tensed up, flexing the fingers making a fist with each hand. He was ready. The fella stayed on his side of the road. But he kept glancing around. Baz watched him. He could cross the road. Take him down before anything happened. No, wait for him to make a move. Yeah, wait.

The lad turned off down a side road. —likely to pick up his next fix. Baz relaxed. A bit. Not too much. He was out on the streets, after all. You couldn’t relax—not out there. He couldn’t, anyway. No way. The docks were on his right. His phone pinged.

Morning nobheads, boozer at lunch, yeah? - Ronnie

He waited.

Alright with me - Jack

And me - Baz

He smiled. It was summat to look forward to, that. A good bit of slagging and a pint of Guinness, what was not to like?

He turned onto Dock Street which would lead him to Lehman Street and then home. Fair enough, decent walk. He smiled and opened up his stride.

—He’s here look, he didn’t get lost on the way, said Ronnie.

—Fuck me, Ronnie, you look better mate.

—Eh, how d’yer mean?

—You put yer teeth in today, didn’t yer?

—Haha! Fuck off you! Jack? That Baz is pickin on me.

—You’ve got the face for it.

—Fer fuck’s sake! Not you an’ all.

—Pints? Baz asked.

—Thought you’d never ask. Have yer got the code for yer wallet?

—No, I nicked yours.

—Ouch, shit, he’s a bloody sharp one, Jack.

It was brilliant. He loved it. Banter, piss taking. Havin a laugh, it was what it was all about.

He waited while Maeve pulled three glorious pints of Guinness. Then, he carried them over to their table. The pub was filling up. Damn, the stress was building. All those people. He sat down, quick.

—Alright, Baz?

Jack was looking at him with a fixed stare.

—Yeah, although I think you pair need a wash. There’s a funny smell in here.

—Ah, we didn’t want to say anythin. We think yer might have shit yerself. Ronnie was grinning like a skull.

—Nah, mate, it’s yer breath, I’m sure of it.

—Is it? Fuck, I knew I shouldn’t have had them pickled onion crisps.

Ronnie then leaned over and blew a loud fart and immediately pointed at Jack. To his credit, Jack wafted the air back towards Ronnie. It was brilliant. Boyish humour. But brilliant.

—D’yer do Sunday lunch?

—Fuck no. Ronnie shook his head.

—I’d burn salad, said Jack.

—Round yours for Sunday lunch then, Baz?

—Yer could, but the food is still in the shop.

They all had a laugh.

The door slammed open. A group of young men came crashing in. Yelling and shouting, being abusive.

—Now then, lads. Keep it down or you’ll have to leave—

—Fuck off, bitch!

Ah, no. He wasn’t havin that. Baz was up. He strode across and grabbed the gobby lad by the scruff of the neck. Slammed him backwards, hard. He crashed into his mates, staggered and fell. They rounded on Baz. So, he dropped the nearest one with a heavy roundhouse. A spray of blood shot out.

He waited. Rage coursing through him. He wanted them to come. They stood off.

—C’mon, cunts. Who’s next?

—Fuck off, old man.

Brave talk. But they picked their mates up and dragged them out of the pub. Baz went to follow, Jack pulled him back.

—Leave it, mate. They’ve gone.

—Thank you, Baz, yer a useful man to have around, said Maeve.

Baz unclenched his fists. Went and sat back down. He kept his hands under the table. To hide the shaking.