‘He’ll come.’
‘Then he’d better ruddy well hurry.’
‘Why, what’s up?’
‘Cramp in my legs.’
‘Quit nagging. You’ll survive.’
I was squatted on my heels beside him, to be out of the way of anyone glancing in from the street. It was Dave’s idea, though I couldn’t imagine who’d want to waste time looking into any of those dead houses. We’d come in here to wait because the place was open, the main door not boarded up or anything, just a huge, gaping hole in the front of the house. Even the woodwork had been ripped off. The floor was thick with dust and garbage.
‘I still don’t get it, how you’re so sure about him.’ I said it, not to start an argument, but just to show him my attitude to the whole thing, this waiting for something that might not happen.
‘Look, Jack.’ There was in his voice that schoolmasterish tone which always got under my skin, that way he had of making the thing seem simple and me as stupid as hell. ‘Look, when we were coming to that pub at the corner, didn’t you see the fellow come out, heading this way? Right. Then someone stuck his head out of the door and called him back, Doc or Jock or something like that? Okay, so it stands to reason that when he’s ready he’ll come out again and head this way.’
I looked up at him while he talked. Never once did he take his eyes off the road outside.
‘It had better be soon.’ I couldn’t give him a broader hint than that.
‘Oh, wrap up.’
‘But how do you know he’s a Spade? I didn’t even get a look at his face.’
‘I know. He’s a Spade all right.’
‘Dave.’
‘What?’
‘I feel funny about this one.’
‘Scared?’
I didn’t answer. The truth is I wasn’t really scared. At least that’s not the word for what I felt. After all, it wasn’t the first time we’d done something like this, but always it had been done on the spur of the moment. No waiting around. We’d go up where we knew some of them lived, Brixton, Goldhawk Road, places like that, and wander around, keeping an eye out till we saw one by himself. Then we’d have a little fun with him if we thought we could risk it. Knock him about a bit, then push off. Always at night, when there wouldn’t be any nosy people trying to interfere. But this was different, hiding here for more than half an hour, the place stinking as if the whole neighbourhood had been relieving themselves in it. Dave nudged me and I stood up alongside him. Over his shoulder the houses opposite were glued together in a faceless dark mass all the way down to the corner.
The door of the pub was open and someone was framed in the broad patch of light, moving, as if talking with another inside. Then the light was cut off.
‘That’s him. He’s heading this way,’ Dave whispered, the excitement tight in his voice. It was too dark to see his face clearly, but I could well imagine the grey-green eyes shining with anticipation, the thin mouth half open for breathing, pulling away from the teeth. I often wondered if, all the time, I looked exactly like him. Often wished there was some way of seeing myself when watching him, to find out if the resemblance between him and me extended to every look, every smile, everything. True, nobody but our Mum could tell us apart, but that was on the outside, and I know I didn’t always feel the same way as he did about things. At least, I didn’t always want to; especially with everybody expecting us to even think alike, just because we were identical twins. Sometimes I only went along with doing something with him just because, well, just because we were always together. Since we were little it was always the Twins or Dave and Jack. Always Dave and Jack, even at school. Never Jack and Dave. Kids would call to us, hey Dave and Jack, never knowing which was which.
The man from the pub came along the far pavement. From where we hid we could hear the tap, tap of his shoes, as if he had metal tips on his heels.
‘We’ll wait till he’s a little ahead, then we’ll cross over and come up behind him,’ Dave whispered, pushing me towards the doorway, where we stood, one on each side. As the man came nearer there was clinking from something he was carrying, loud in the silent night as he came abreast and went past. We left the house and crossed the street, our jeans, black sweaters and suède jackets mixing into the dingy wetness, silent as ghosts in our rubber-soled chukka boots. He was laughing and singing to himself, the words trailing behind him … She’s a whole lot of woman and she sure needs a whole lot of man … fading away into laughter. Probably half stewed. He stopped to shift the parcel and was moving on when we reached him, one on each side.
‘Hey, Spade,’ Dave whispered.
The man stopped and turned.
‘What the …’ The words were cut off as Dave hit him. Dave was right. A bloody Spade. In the gloom all you could see was the dark head shape. I hit at it and heard him grunt, then we were hitting him and suddenly the crash as his parcel fell and broke and the strong smell of rum or whisky or something. I kicked him and he doubled forward, grabbing Dave and falling on top of him. I kicked him, the excitement so strong in me I wanted to shout, this was so different from the other times. The Spade was fighting, silently, like a madman. Suddenly he sprang away from Dave and came at me, hitting me in the stomach. I could hardly breathe, but Dave pulled him and they were on the ground again, the Spade hitting Dave and muttering, ‘I’ll kill you, you lousy fuckers, I’ll kill you.’
Then Dave screamed. ‘Get him off me, Jack. Get him off.’ I grabbed the Spade’s coat, pulling him backwards, but he flung me off and I fell. He was strong as a horse, and I was suddenly frightened. We couldn’t cope with him. I got up, and the Spade was banging Dave’s hand on the ground. I saw the glint of the knife just as Dave let it go, snatched it and stuck it into the Spade’s back. He twisted around and came at me, and I dropped the knife, frightened, turning to run. Then I heard him cry ‘Aaaah,’ and when I looked around there was Dave with the knife in his hand, the Spade bent over, walking out into the middle of the street. Slowly, carefully, he knelt down, his arms folded low in front of him.
‘Come on, let’s get out of here,’ Dave said, pulling my arm. I was watching the Spade. He made an attempt to get up, gave it up, and reached forward, braced on his hands and knees like a sprinter. Then slowly he fell over sideways, coughing.
‘Come on.’ Dave was pulling my arm.
We ran up the street leaving the Spade.
‘Come on,’ Dave urged. We ran headlong away.
Keeping as much as possible to the shadows we cut through Cable Street and a maze of alleyways towards Commercial Road, and beyond it, till we came to a narrow lane behind the big mass that is London Hospital. We took a breather against some iron railings, Dave hanging on and gasping as if he’d run out of his last breath. My face was running with the drizzle and perspiration, and inside my clothes the heat was like a steam bath. Not another soul in sight, and home seemed a thousand miles away. Dave was groaning beside me.
‘Take a look at my back,’ he said. ‘It’s hurting like hell.’
‘Turn around.’ I couldn’t see much, with the poor light from the street lamps across the road, except the shiny wetness on his jacket. I slipped my hand underneath, felt the stickiness on his sweater and withdrew my hand, covered with blood, smelling raw and awful.
‘You’re bleeding, Dave.’
‘Fucker had me down on those ruddy bottles. Is it bad?’
‘Can’t tell, but your sweater’s soaked. Look at my hand.’
‘Suffering Christ.’ We looked at each other, the fear coming over me like a thick black fog. My brother’s face was like a mirror of the things inside me. I felt weak and lost. Dave rallied quickly.
‘Oh, bugger it. Come on, let’s get off home.’
The lane led into Whitechapel Road, diagonally across from the Underground station. We made it through a break in the traffic just as two policemen came out of the Underground, and in our rush we nearly banged into them. We waited in the dark entrance of a tobacconist’s and watched them wait at the zebra crossing while the traffic rushed by. One of them looked back towards us and said something to his mate. My heart nearly stopped beating. But then the traffic halted and they crossed over and went into the hospital gate with the neon sign ‘Ambulance’. Dave was leaning weakly against the shop window. Two women came along, slowed to look in our direction, then walked on.
‘Want a fag?’ I asked him.
