Free The White Room by Martyn Waites Page A

notice the absence of her sons, and Brian and Noel began to see how the world really was, how things worked. The necessity of making a living. How important money was, and it didn’t matter what you had to do to get it. Brian began to understand what his mother was doing and why she was doing it. And he still hated her for it. He hated the world for it. But he wasn’t going to let the world do that to him.
    Then there was Monica. He had thought she was different at first. But she wasn’t. Just another slag, another whore. Another woman.
    Just like his mother.
    They crossed Walker Road towards Glasshouse Street.
    The snake pit squirmed: different sizes, weights and aspects, all writhing, biting, fighting for prominence.
    Mental confrontation had helped. He hadn’t solved his problems, but the memories had stoked him up. Given him anger and ire. A focus for the fight.
    â€˜Nearly there, lads,’ he said.
    The Ropemakers Arms. Out of the city centre towards Byker, down Glasshouse Street in among old factories and wasteland. A person had to have a reason to visit, or no reason to leave. Grim enough in the daytime, but the night gave it a layer of almost impenetrable blackness, the large buildings creating deep, dark shadows. The Tyne curved away from the city towards the North Sea, giving oily slaps at the banks, chugging away its accumulated debris. The Ropemakers sat squat and ugly on the last corner before the river. The windows were dark, a faint light barely discernible from within. The walls once whitewashed, now sooted and dusted down to a dull grey, the wooden door closed, rotting from the base up. No attempt made at enticement or invitation. A casual drinker would have had to be very, very thirsty to enter.
    Brian, Eddie and Brimson were not casual drinkers. They were purposeful. They stopped outside, slid brass knucks into place, practised easy blade access. They pushed open the door, entered.
    The air was thick with smoke, stale beer and grime. The few drinkers in the place were old and tired-looking. There because they had nowhere else to go. Dotted about were small, shifty individuals, human rats scurrying about in the skirting boards of society. They all looked up. Hands quickly replaced objects in pockets. They recognized Brian and his two lieutenants. Guessed what was about to happen. Froze.
    Brian looked around, scoping for the Bells. He heard laughter from the back of the pub, looked at the other two. They nodded. As one, they made their way through the pub.
    â€˜Aw, now, lads …’ said the barman. ‘Not here, not again, lads, leave them be …’
    They ignored him, kept on walking.
    A ratty old curtain partitioned the back room from the main bar. Brian pulled it back. Dust rose from it along with the smell of decay. Revealed were Kenny and Johnny Bell plus two of their cronies. Kenny hard-faced, lip curled in a perpetual snarl, Johnny the softer, more thoughtful, sneakier of the two. All dressed in teddy boy thug chic, DAs shining and perfectly crafted, winkle-pickers and brothel-creepers shined, cigarettes perched on ashtrays. Kenny Bell was at the snooker table, lining up a shot. Blond and mousy, small and smug. He looked up in surprise.
    â€˜What the fuck—’
    He stopped, saw who it was, straightened up. Saw the light glinting off the brass knucks. Didn’t smile. Behind him the others stiffened, ready.
    â€˜Hello, Kenny,’ said Brian. ‘You’re trespassing.’
    Kenny looked at him.
    â€˜Fuck off, Mooney. This isn’t your patch an’ you know it.’
    No messing. Straight down to business.
    â€˜That’s where you’re wrong, Kenny. This is my patch. An’ I’m ask in’ you all to be gents an’ leave.’
    The barman put his head around the doorframe.
    â€˜Listen, lads, not in here. Take it outside, will youse? I mean it. I’ll call the police.’
    Everyone in the room ignored him. They knew he