Chapter Text
Sometime in the mid-2000s. Northern England. Approximately five miles outside of Manchester.
A van lashed with mud screeched around the corner to the quiet estate and thumped up the kerb. The door to the white Ford Transit flew open, heavy boots slammed onto the pavement.
“Open the gate!” Paint smeared down his jeans, a stinging rash burning under a layer of sawdust as he stormed towards the man guarding the front of the dark, shuttered shop.
“No one gets in.” The shift manager folded his arms and met Aradin’s hard stare. “Zevlor’s orders.”
“Pack in it, mate,” Aradin scowled. “It’ll only take a second.”
The window of the flat above the Green Grover’s corner shop swung out. An alert face, lined with frustration and fatigue, leaned out over the sill. “What’s going on?”
Aradin threw his hands up at the proprietor, waving pathetically up in front of the barricaded shopfront. “Open the bloody gate, Zev.”
Zevlor pinched the bridge of his nose and and his brow drew together, the headache he’d finally shifted suddenly flaring up again. “By the hells…” He gestured out the flat window at the shutters below. “We’ve locked up for the night. And where is your crew?”
Aradin jabbed a furious finger up. “Said you’d wait for me!”
“And you said you were five minutes away. It’s now,” Zevlor glanced down his nose at his wrist. “Almost half past.”
“Was on a big job, supposed to be a big payday for me. Only the wanker who set it up neglected to mention the place was infested. Rats, roaches, you name it. Never mind asbestos from floor to ceiling. Almost got taken out by a flying two-by-four. Place was a bloody write-off. Half my crew’s out of commission. Had to send Liam off to A&E after a run-in with some exposed carpet tacks. Brian pissed off, straight up walked out on me.”
Zevlor’s cheekbone sagged heavily on his knuckles as he assessed the scene down below; Aradin’s gruff plea and the awkward situation he was putting the retired officer in. He turned back into the building and exchanged words with someone inside the flat. Part of it sounded a lot like ‘that damn Beno boy’.
“Please,” Aradin called up. “I made it back in record time.”
The guy who’d been waiting at the door had palmed a set of keys and was gesturing up towards the window with a questioning look, half a step towards the steel lock. Zevlor leaned back out and shook his head, waving the shift manager away. “Kanon, no. Get yourself home or you’ll never get back at this rate. Arka will no doubt be waiting. Tell her it’s my fault.”
The shift lead gave a deferential nod and tucked the keys away. He didn’t mind giving Zevlor a hand, not while he was still getting his new location set up - bespoke tailoring wasn’t easy to make a living off outside Savile Row, and even that was a challenge with the new generation - but staying late on account of this fool was not how he’d envisioned his evening.
Aradin’s eyes narrowed at the guy who had failed to open the gate for him. “Why are you even still here? Thought it was just gonna be me an’ Zev by this point.”
“You and me both,” Kanon replied. “Felt like I was throwing my life away waiting for you.” He disappeared around the corner, then a lone Škoda peeled out of the car park, narrowly missing Aradin’s van as he disappeared into the dusk.
Zevlor’s disdain floated down from the flat as he spied Aradin’s excuse for a parking job. “You’ve even parked on double-yellow…” He quietly seethed. “ Unbelievable….”
Aradin huffed, palms jammed onto his hips. “You gonna help me out, or what?”
Zevlor raised an unamused eyebrow, his unimpressed tone flat. “Hell of a way to ask for a favour.”
“God forbid you risk your precious free time,” the manual labourer grumbled as he kicked at the disintegrating tarmac.
“Aradin,” Zevlor rubbed his eyelids, a lifetime of patience hanging under them. He returned with a measured temper and thumping temples. “We are closed.”
“Come on, Zev.” The tired whine in Aradin’s voice managed to make it sound a little more like a desperate request than a pigheaded demand. “Don’t make me go all the way to Tesco.”
After a brief stalemate of stubbornness, then Zevlor’s weary sigh could be heard floating across the estate. He disappeared from the window and indistinct words were once again passed within the flat. The raised tone that managed to escape through the window had Aradin shifting uncomfortably on his feet and gazing vaguely about, trying to ignore the domestic conflict inside he was undoubtedly the subject of. When he appeared again at the open sill, Zevlor somehow looked even more tired.
“I’m not opening the gate.” Before Aradin could protest, he continued, “give me a moment, I’ll meet you round back.”
“Get in,” Aradin hissed under his breath as the window closed. Leaving his van illegally blocking the pavement he rounded the short row of shops and hopped between the bollards that separated the small car park from the residential access.
Heaving his arse up on the low brick wall, Aradin kept watchful eyes on the shadowed steps that led up to the first floor flats. Stuffing his fist into a pocket, his cruddy nails snatched up its contents and gathered the handful of items into his lap. Still no sign of the old man, so he flipped open his baccy. Aradin wedged the first cigarette between his lips, then he took his final paper and rolled a second, tucking it behind his ear just as his attention was summoned to movement on the second storey.
Zevlor carefully locked the door behind him before making his way down the crumbling steps and across to the off-putting figure that slouched with enough unpleasant energy that anyone wanting to make a short-cut through the back would think twice and take the full route around.
“If I were still on the force I’d be giving you a talking to for being a public disturbance,” Zevlor said.
Aradin lit his cigarette and scratched at his cheek as the man approached. He turned to the side as he exhaled smoke. “Lucky for me you’re enjoying your golden years, then.”
“Was,” Zevlor pointed with a key. “Until you interrupted my teatime.”
“How’s the Mrs.?”
Zevlor crossed his arms and glared down at the young man. “What is it you’re after, Aradin?”
“Fairy liquid. Bucket load of bleach. Scourers, kitchen roll, the works. Brillo pads if you’ve got ‘em. It’s a warzone in there.” He handed over a crumpled note, then frowned. Aradin stored the cigarette in his mouth and dug for his wallet again. Finding a small object, he offered it over with another tenner. “I’ll have ten on the electric too.”
“Will you now?”
After a long drag, Aradin squinted up at the man. “You’re a life-saver, Zev.”
Zevlor sighed as he turned back to the Green Grovers. “The things we do.”
Aradin slunk to his feet and shuffled behind as Zevlor led the way to the back door to the local shop. It opened to the eerie clinical absence of light or people, haunted by the ghosts of shoppers just nipping in for a cheeky Yorkie Bar or a case of Stella.
“You’re not going in with those boots on.” Zevlor cast a disapproving look down at Aradin’s feet. “What the hell have you been up to?”
Aradin attempted to scrape some of the dried mud onto the ground and only succeeded in further scuffing his outer sole. “Jobsite was out in the arse end of bloody nowhere, didn’t even exist on the A-to-Z. Hiked up and got ambushed by the resident wildlife.”
“I imagine they were as thrilled to see you,” Zevlor said as he disappeared into the building.
Aradin slumped his back against the wall, eyes closing briefly, the eye in the storm of his day. Distant traffic and evening breeze, held up by masonry and addiction. Far too quickly he sucked down the nicotine between his fingers. He ground the butt of his cigarette into the wall and retrieved the one from his ear. He lit it then fumbled for his gear again and grunted at the unfortunate sight in his hands. Leaning against the cool doorframe, he peered into the dim hum of refrigerated units.
“Oi, Zev,” Aradin called out into the deserted aisles. “Grab us a pack of Rizlas while you’re at it?”
The tradesman was semi-conscious in a personal smog when Zevlor emerged from the shelves and grimaced as he pushed himself upright. Zevlor handed over a carrier bag, a handful of change, the key for the prepaid electricity meter, and watched with disapproval as Aradin shuffled through the contents of the bag, digging past the cleaning supplies he apparently so desperately needed.
“Uh, didn’t happen to…”
Zevlor exhaled audibly as he handed over the small packet from his jacket.
“Cheers,” Aradin said as he pocketed the rolling papers. "Legend."
“You really ought to think about giving that up,” Zevlor said with a stern judgement. “It’s a terrible habit.”
“Don’t know about that.” Aradin gave a humourless smirk. “Does me alright.”
“Then think of your health. It’s awful for your lungs, you know. You want to take care of them for the years ahead.”
“You saying smokin’s bad for me?” Aradin let the dense haze of tar and carcinogens emerge from between his lips “Had no idea.”
Zevlor turned away, contempt creasing up his nose. “Charming as always, Aradin.” With one hand on the brick ready to ascend, Zevlor paused. The man lingering nearby couldn’t have been many years off the age of his own children, who were hopefully doing anything with their evening other than pestering their older community members whilst smoking like a chimney after a day of hard manual labour. It had taken a lot of hard work to make sure that they weren’t. Zevlor's eyes rested on Aradin as the young man picked at the crud under his ragged nails. He exhaled. “If I were your dad, I’d tell you you’re doing alright. Just keep your head down, get your work done right, quit the cigarettes, and don’t bother the neighbours when everyone’s turning in for the night.”
A small scoff huffed from Aradin’s nose, then he reluctantly met Zevlor’s steady gaze. “If you were my dad I might’ve listened.”
The slight turn to the older man’s head was almost hopeful. “You still might.”
“Bit late for that.” Aradin ground the second butt into the wall, then flicked it into the gravel behind him, prompting a shameful tut from the other man. “Ta, Zev.”
“You owe me, Aradin.” Zevlor’s voice trailed down from the landing.
“Get in the queue, mate,” Aradin muttered as he crossed the deserted car park.
After slinging the carrier bag onto the passenger seat, Aradin slung his arse behind the wheel and didn’t bother with the radio, set to Key 103, or his CD, instead fuming silently every time a turn or hump in the road caused a clattering in the back that irritated him more and more with every corner and speedbump.
He could've driven the few minutes through town blind-folded, and pulled up onto the pavement in front of a row of terraced houses that had just enough room for a five-year-old Ford Transit and killed the engine, his hair pressing back against the headrest, dark eyes hollow. Before the exhaustion had time to set in properly, he snatched up his newly acquired items and slunk out of the van.
When he threw open the doors, first the side, then back, he surveyed the horrendous scene inside. Looked like a bomb went off in a B&Q. The toolbox had cracked apart and the contents distributed haphazardly across the floor. Who could tell which cord went to what, and he could swear something was moving under the mountain of tarpaulin. A can of emulsion had done a spectacular job of redecorating the surfaces and clogging every socket and nozzle. Fantastic.
The plastic of the cleaning supplies ripped open.
Christ, this was a long day, and it wasn’t over yet.
One by one he removed the soiled objects and wiped and scraped and rinsed the soiled interior. Aradin scrubbed until his palms were stinging from steel wool and mild chemical burns, a delightful combination that left him raw and cursing, which wasn’t much different to any other day but he did smell especially ripe by the end of this one.
He replaced his tools on the shelving unit his dad had installed. He’d even helped do it at the time. Well, he’d held a torch and passed the wrong screwdriver when asked, so helped might have been a strong word for his contribution but in his defense he was only knee high to a grasshopper at the time. There weren’t many memories of the two of them that didn’t leave him feeling even smaller still.
As he cleaned, he organized. Then organized again because feck it, he was already in the thick of it, might as well have a bit of a rearrange while he was at it, making sure his brand new lithium batteries were in easy reach. Cost a fortune, they did.
Usually he’d pack them in his toolbox at the end of the night, take a couple of trips to get everything in rather than let it sit out overnight. But today he’d already taken them in and out of the van three times. His biceps ached and his thighs burned, fingertips were blistering and toes were swollen and numb. The few metres to his front door seemed like a few more than he had left in him.
He was bloody knackered.
Tonight he just couldn’t be bothered.
Aradin blew exhausted air from his cheeks as he slammed the doors of the van. Boots off by the door, he forced himself up the stairs of his two-up two-down.
With the choice between a hot dribble or a lukewarm drizzle from the electric shower, he dumped his rancid clothes into a heap and let the water spit over him without turning on the light. When the tepid darkness failed to let him disappear completely, he tried to wash the remains of the shite day down the drain. Grime dripping nasty trails down his skin, the bottle of shower gel made a pathetic raspberry sound when he tried to coax the last bit of lemon scented soap from it.
A threadbare towel with a hole in it rubbed the excess water from the curls of his hair. After pulling on a pair of old trackies, Adidas, he padded down to the kitchen, soles of his throbbing feet tingling on the cold lino, and his nose crinkled up in disappointment at the contents of his fridge. He tried the small freezer box, which didn’t even have a carton of McCain’s Micro Chips, but it did have a thick crust of ice and was in desperate need of a good defrosting so he closed that and put it off for another month or three.
Back in the fridge he pulled himself out a black and white can with a sky-blue flash and the margarine tub. A couple of slices of Warburtons, he scraped the remains of the spread over them then poured a pack of salt and vinegar crisps onto the bread. Aradin assembled his sandwich and pressed a handprint into the top slice, crushing the crisps with a crackle that didn’t give the usual satisfaction.
He turned on the telly and the brand new, shiny black console beneath that reminded him he’d achieved at least one thing in his sorry life. Plopping onto the sofa with his crisp butty and a controller he cracked open the can of Carling.
Sony Computer Entertainment.
EA Sports. It’s in the game.
Official FIFA Licensed Product.
On a residential street in the Greater Manchester area, Aradin was ready for kick-off. He’d polished off his sandwich in record time; it hardly hit the sides as he inhaled it and he just hoped he was passed out before his stomach started to growl at him for more. The beer managed to last him three uninspired matches, during which his lads made a lackluster appearance against Aston Villa. Barton had a decent showing on the pitch but his real life counterpart had just been charged with assault and his future career with City wasn’t looking promising so that hardly counted.
Aradin collapsed into the floral settee, throwing the controller that betrayed him into the worn cushion. Not even his boys in blue could save this day. He crushed the can and tossed it into the sink with the others, leaving the plate of crumbs for his future self to deal with.
He managed to find his bed after navigating the obstacle course of unwashed laundry and crawled under the navy duvet.
If nothing else, at least tomorrow was another day. It had to get better at some point, surely? At least his new toys were shiny and back in tip-top shape. Good thing too, since he was skint again after splashing out on the new batteries, but soon he’d be so loaded he wouldn’t know what to do with it all. Yeah, it would work out. One bad job, that’s all today was. On to the next contract.
The thought had barely formed before he was out. Curled up under the covers, soft snoring and body odor clouding into the room.
Distant sirens wailed and groups of young people were finishing up their pre-drinking, stumbling loudly towards the nearest train station for the next service into the city. Someone was serenading the estate with a hearty rendition of Vindaloo as they made their way back from the pub, street lights plunging the nearby ginnel in shadow, ideal for a piss when you’re out on the lash.
Outside Aradin’s bedroom, the sticker on the back door of a white van proclaimed ‘No tools left in this van overnight’. It fooled absolutely no one.
Especially not career criminals eager to make some easy cash from a quick smash and grab.