Chapter 2

Welcome to ‘Boro

As with a game of patience your life is predetermined,
The only variable is in how you play the game.
Author

He was woken by a loud banging. At first he didn’t know where he was or where the noise was coming from, then he saw the wallpaper and remembered with a depressed sigh. The banging continued. He staggered up from the chair into the hallway, stumbled down the stairs and opened his front door to the unwelcome sight of an ugly youth in track suit bottom and a sleeveless grey hooded garment.
“What you doin’ in Mike’s ‘ouse?”

Terry frowned, still a bit bleary from his doze, making out the intent if not the meaning of the words.

“I said what the fuck you doin’ in Mike’s ‘ouse!” screamed the angry youth, his face barely 6 inches from Terry’s.

Terry was now very quickly awake; he slipped his right leg back, raised his heel slightly and turned his right shoulder away from the threat, but kept his expression benign, his posture relaxed and his hands low.

“I said! What the fuckin’ ‘ell’re you doin’ in Mike’s ‘ouse?”

Terry didn’t answer; just stared into the angry eyes.

If the lout hadn’t been so angry then Terry’s stance, relaxed and loose limbed, in the face of such aggression might have sent a warning. To be fair he couldn’t be expected to know that the six year old Terry, then slightly built and shy, had been introduced to Tae Kwon Do by his adoptive parents and unexpectedly thrived, gaining a black belt 4 years later. He’d gone further; by age 12 he was a 2nd Dan, at 15 a 3rd and by the time he was 20 he was a 4th Dan.

He’d found his niche, and whilst gaining notoriety in TKD he’d also trained in Shotokan Karate, and mastered the art of Wing Chun, Jujitsu, Judo and Jeet Kune Do. For good measure he was also a fair boxer, an enthusiastic wrestler and an excellent shot but, all things considered, using that skill here could be considered extreme; besides a gun hadn’t been on the list of necessities that had been provided to him.

“Are you fuckin’ deaf?”

“Are you from ‘round here?” asked Terry, politely.

“What?”

“That’s not a Yorkshire accent, is it?” asked Terry.

“Jest shut the fuck up, I’ll do the fuckin’ talkin’,” he added as he jabbed a finger at Terry’s chest.

The thrusting finger never reached its intended target. Terry reached up, grabbed it with his left hand, imprisoning the wrist with his right, and snapped the finger back so that it rested on the top of the captive hand. In one fluid movement he brought his right leg up, knee to chest, then snapped his leg straight out, driving the ball of his foot into the young man’s solar plexus, this thrust sending him flying backwards virtually all the way the end of the garden.

It was only then that Terry became aware of the watching crowd.

“Fuuuuck!” said a voice in the general commotion that followed, “did you see that?”
Terry strolled down the path and grabbed the now squealing youth and threw him backwards into the road.

“You’re gonna get it now Mister,” said one of the kids.

“Really,” answered Terry, “I don’t think he’s in any fit state, do you?”

“Not from him,” said the kid, “from his brothers.”

“Yeah the O’Connells,” said a girl on Terry’s left.
“Fuckin’ hardest bastards you’ll ever meet,” shouted someone.

“Really?” questioned Terry, “and where can I find these hard nuts?”

“They’ll find you” the girl yelled, pointing at a bike squealing up the road in the direction of her pointing finger.

“Thatcher Close!” shouted another girl, excitement in her eyes.

“Follow us,” shouted the kids as they raced off on their BMXs.

Terry strolled after them followed by a small crowd. They hadn’t travelled far when the kids came racing back on their bikes, “They’re comin’!” they shouted more or less in unison, “the O’Connells are comin’.”

They were coming indeed, marching down the centre of the road towards him.

Four in all, five if you counted the one Terry had just seen off, which Terry didn’t. Mostly sporting variations of the ubiquitous track suit bottom and assorted shapeless upper garments, the biggest one wore jeans instead of trackies, a coating of grease disguising the original colour and his arms were dark with tattoos. Prison tats, Terry would put money on it.

“Is this ‘im, Sean?” yelled the leading O’Connell, this one fully encased in a tracksuit, arms and all.

Terry walked into the middle of the road and waited, there was no traffic so he felt safe enough. He stepped slightly forward with his left leg, raised his heels and spread his balance evenly between both feet. He rotated his shoulders a couple of times and raised his open hands to his chest. The one he’d already tangled with dropped off to the left, hanging back while his brothers spread out across the road; effectively closing off escape should Terry have been contemplating this action, which he wasn’t but they weren’t to know that.

“Yeah, Jimmy, that’s ’im.”

“I’m ‘im, Jimmy,” yelled Terry, grinning ear from ear.

“You watch your mouth,” yelled the O’Connell on Terry’s far left.

Terry stared at Jimmy, fixing him as the leader; “is it one at a time or do you need to hold hands?”

“Don’t you fuckin’ worry ‘bout it, shit head,” yelled Jimmy, “it’ll only take one O’Connell to put you down.” That the direct contradiction to this statement was standing over to his side looking sheepish wasn’t about to deter him from making this rash boast. Terry smiled. He could have beaten them all together, at a push; easier to take them one at a time. “Take him out, Dale”.

Dale, the mouthy one on Terry’s far left moved forwards and pulled a short iron bar from behind his back. Terry nodded. Dale was now at a significant disadvantage; his whole attack would be based round swinging the bar whereas Terry had the freedom to strike with any part of his body, from any angle.

Dale went to raise his right arm so he could swing the iron bar but stopped short, seemingly recognising that doing this would expose him to an attack to his midriff or maybe lower, if Terry fought dirty. He stepped back slightly and pulled his right arm across his body so he could swing backhand. Terry adapted; stepped to his left, and, crossing his feet, slipped round to Dale’s right.

Dale tried to turn and swung his arm but Terry blocked, striking Dale’s elbow as his arm came round, at the same time he kicked him in the back of his right knee, sending him to the ground. He punched him in the temple and Dale’s world went black.

Terry stepped back and grinning beckoned the O’Connell on his far right forwards.

Jimmy waved him back, “No, not you, Brendan…Paddy.”

Terry turned to face the jeans wearing brother, made swarthy with tattoos, a bigger, heavier version of the now unconscious Dale. Terry raised his open hands to guard his face, crouching slightly to protect his lower ribs with his elbows. Paddy pulled out the motor bike chain he wore for a belt and started to swing it round, above his head.

Terry grinned, same mistake as his brother.

The chain came swinging towards Terry’s head and Terry slid backwards out of range. Paddy pulled back and swung the chain again. His recovery was slow and awkward but Terry wanted to check it again; he allowed Paddy to close in once more. Paddy swung the chain at Terry’s head a third time, angrily huffing as Terry ducked easily away. This time Paddy’s recovery was so ponderous that Terry allowed him to close again and when Paddy pulled the chain back above his head Terry followed in and placed a left jab clean on Paddy’s nose.

The speedy follow up - a right hook to the body - sent Paddy straight to the ground; the floating rib, it’ll do that to you. Terry stepped back and raising his eyebrows at Jimmy, said, “So who’s next, Jim?”

The O’Connell on Terry’s right started to move forward, “Leave it, Brendan” instructed Jimmy, “this one’s mine.” Terry grinned and made ready.

Jimmy took off his track suit top revealing a well defined muscular torso; a slighter build so possibly more flexible than his lumbering brothers. He cracked his knuckles and, clenching his fists, took up a good boxing stance. Terry nodded, he recognised the mistakes Jimmy had just made and could predict the ones he would make next. Clenching his fists had tightened Jimmy’s shoulders and reduced the speed of any technique he would deliver and if Jimmy’s fighting knowledge had led him to clench his fists then Terry was confident his movement would not be speedy.

Terry allowed Jimmy to close in. Jimmy threw out a left jab as Terry slipped back, tapping it down with his lead open hand. Nothing annoyed opponents like having a punch swatted away with an open hand. Predictably, Jimmy threw another left, fierce and angry and then threw a right but Terry ducked his way out of both techniques. Terry bounced round behind Jimmy knowing as he did so that the fourth O’Connell would try to take him from behind; he did. Terry threw out a reverse side kick into this new assailant’s floating rib; job done.

Jimmy tried to take advantage of this distraction but Terry had already danced out of range. Jimmy closed again and threw more jabs and rights but each time Terry, a broad grin across his face, blocked or ducked or danced out of range. Jimmy got more and more annoyed. Terry offered his chin. Taking the bait, Jimmy swung a right but Terry wasn’t there anymore.

“Come on, Jimmy,” he goaded, “surely you’re faster than that.”

Jimmy went to throw a left jab, pulled it and tried a quick kick but it was weak; uncontrolled and directionless. Terry shook his head and waited until Jimmy’s foot landed, leaving him off balance with his legs too stretched. Terry then bounced in, planted a left on Jimmy’s nose, a right on his left cheek, another left into his left side floating rib followed by a right upper cut onto his chin.

Jimmy collapsed onto his knees, swaying, dazed and bloodied. Terry bounced out and then swung a right legged turning kick at Jimmy’s temple stopping his foot millimetres from contact. He pulled his leg back and placing it behind him looked over to the one called Sean who waved his hands and shaking his head, backed off.

Terry returned to his flat followed by a large crowd of adoring fans.
∞
He was awoken by a loud banging. Surely not the brothers back for more; he rubbed his head and leaned forwards in the arm chair, all the while the banging continued. He splashed his face awake, yelling “All right! All right!” then jogged lightly down the stairs, and prepared to do battle, he flung back the door, “What do you want?”

“Hey Mister.” said the kid on the bike, “will you teach us how to fight?”

“Will you reach us how to fight like that?” this from his companion, standing just behind.

Terry frowned “Go away, an’ leave me alone.”

“Go on Mister.” shouted someone from the crowd gathered at the end of his path.

“Shove off, all of you!” shouted Terry slamming the door.

As Terry climbed the stairs the letterbox opened, “Go on Mister.”

“Sod off!”
∞
Terry left his house and went to the corner shop followed by a gang of about 20 youths.

“Go on Mister, teach us how to fight.”

“Yeah go on Mister.”

Terry ignored them, he was tired of shouting. They’d been on his case for the best part of 3 days now and he was well past bored.

“Please Mister.”

“Show us how to do that Kung Foooo stuff.”

“Go on Mister.”

Terry went into the shop and bought two cans of lager. When he came out the group was still there. They followed him home.

“Why not, Mister?”

“We’re good learners.”

“We won’t give you any trouble.”

Terry shut the door, climbed the stairs and fell into his arm chair. The banging started again.
∞
He woke up, his head shaking backwards and forwards, “What the…?” he mouthed, getting to his feet, his living room was full, “How did you lot get in?”

“Door was open.”

“Come on Mister, teach us how to fight.”

“No it wasn’t.” How the hell do you remonstrate sensibly with a roomful of kids? It was beyond his scope of reference.

“It was.”

“Oh come on mister.”

“Get out,” yelled Terry.

“Please.”

“Fuckin’ out!” yelled Terry pointing, “Now.”
∞
Terry pulled the duvet but it refused to move. He tugged harder but it still wouldn’t budge. He opened his eyes, the room was full of kids, and three of them sat on his bed, “Shit!”

“Come on Mister.”

Terry pulled the pillow over his head, “Fuck off.”

“Please!”

“Go away.”
∞
Terry walked to the local shop, followed by his usual entourage. He bought his usual supplies and a new lock, putting paid to the last of the money Debbie had handed him along with his bus fare. Irritation at this additional expense added unusual flavour to his accustomed response to their persistent demands. They drifted away, this time not following him all the way home.

“What we gonna do, man?” one of the youths said.

“Dunno… ‘e’s just not goin’ for it, is ‘e.”

“I’ve got an idea,” this from one of the smaller of the group “Sandra.”

“What? My Sandra?” One of the older boys spoke, pushing through to the front.

“Yeah, Darren, your Sandra.”

“She won’t do it.”

“Yeah she will.”

“No she won’t, she’s my sister, I should know.”
“You’re right, she won’t do it if you ask her, but she’ll do it for money.”

“No, she won’t.”

“Of course she will, everyone’s got their price.”

“Yeah, come on, Darren, you can at least try!”

“Alright!” said Darren, “but I’m tellin’ ya, she ain’t gonna do it.”

Darren was wrong and right; wrong in that she did agree to do it and right in that it wasn’t for money. Sandra had heard about Terry’s exploits and seen him from a distance and she liked what she’d heard and seen. Besides, anyone who could sort out Jimmy O’Connell can’t be all bad.
∞
There was a knock at Terry’s door, not like the recent banging, this time it was short and somehow polite. He got up from the kitchen table, still chewing his breakfast, ran lightly down the stairs and opened the door, not sure what to expect. Sandra smiled; petite, blonde, brown-eyed and altogether unexpected. He nearly choked on his toast.

“Hello,” said Sandra, calmly aware of the effect she was having.

Terry mumbled something, hid his toast behind his back and sort of shuffled.

“I’m Sandra Coogan,” she said, “I live round the corner. I thought I’d stop by and welcome you to the neighbourhood.”

“Sandra,” repeated Terry, “sorry, yes, hello, Sandra. I’m… erm…Terry.”

“Hello Terry.”

“Er…would you like to come in??”

∞
Darren leaned back on his bike, “told you she’d do it.”

“Shut it Darren.”

“You so did not, Darren.”
∞
“I’m a part-time care worker,” said Sandra. She was perched on the edge of the kitchen chair, her feet neatly together. He had the impression she was trying not to touch anything and he was acutely aware of how tatty the place was.

“Oh,” said Terry, staring at her, “what does that entail?”

“Entail?” She raised her eyebrows slightly, head tilted.

“Yeah, you know,” said Terry, “what do you do?”

“Well I help old people and people who need care.”

“Oh, you mean make them a cuppa and do their housework, sort of thing,” said Terry, “bit of cooking…” He realised he sounded stupid but she’d thrown him, appearing like this when he’d decided the place was populated solely by beer–swilling bullies and pre-pubescent children.

“Yeah, that and other stuff,” said Sandra, “you know.” Terry frowned. Sandra was clearly waiting for some form of comprehension on Terry’s face but when none was forthcoming, she continued “Well…I help them wash, and clean themselves, that sort of thing.”

“Clean themselves?” He frowned as he spoke.

She gave him an odd look, “Well some of them can’t go to the loo without help…”

“Whoa! Go to the loo! What? Do you mean you…you?”

“Yes,” said Sandra, “I help them….”

“You don’t mean?” interrupted Terry, “that you, you know.”

He ignored the signal her further raised eyebrows were sending and continued, “Well… wipe their bums and stuff.”

“Of course I do,” said Sandra, “who else is going to do it?”

“Ewww,” said Terry, “Ugh! That’s gross.”

“What d’ you mean ‘gross’! What are you, a child?” snapped Sandra, “These people need help and I’m a professional carer. If it wasn’t for people like me these people wouldn’t be able to….”

“Oh, no, nothing against you, god no… and I expect there’s good money in it”… thinking, there’d have to be, surely, but she shook her head in denial and he blundered on, “You’re, you know, you’re wonderful for doing that stuff.” Sandra stared at him. “No, I mean it, I think it’s really great that you help other people and besides, it’s not your fault.”

“Not my fault?” asked Sandra.

“That they haven’t done the decent thing.”

“The what?” Her tone was high but Terry was well into his flow.

“Oh come on, I mean, if it was me I’d rather be dead, I mean, let’s face it, it’s rather ignominious for both people isn’t it?”

“Igno what!” snapped Sandra scathingly.

“Ignominious,” repeated Terry, “um… humiliating, er… embarrassing…. Um... you know.”

“No! I don’t know,” snapped Sandra, “these people need someone to help them and at least I’m working which is more than I can say for some people round here.”

“No, no, no” said Terry desperately, “that’s not at all what I meant….really…please let me explain.” Sandra’s look would’ve stopped traffic but not Terry, “I think it’s great that you think you should help these people ….it’s just that ….well … it’s probably just me but I would rather be dead than be that dependent on a complete stranger.” Her expression was now concerning him greatly but he seemed unable to stop his mouth from working. “I just think that, well you know, medical science is all very good and all that but if you can’t control your bodily functions any more, then what’s the point?”

“The point?” repeated Sandra, by now extremely annoyed.

“Yes, I mean we’re here for such a short time surely it’s the quality of life that counts.” Sandra stared open mouthed. “Really,” said Terry digging ever deeper, “I mean, look….surely some of them, probably not all, but some of them would be better off dead.”
Her look of complete disgust finally shut his mouth. She stood up and swung away from him, obviously about to leave and he grasped for something to say that might halt her flight. Then she turned back and looked at him for several long moments.

“For your information, it’s an awful job and sometimes I hate it.”

Her voice was quiet and he waited, hoping he hadn’t ruined everything in a rash outburst. She fell silent, obviously re-living something in her mind and he wished strenuously that sometimes he could think before he spoke, especially to really pretty girls.

“But I like the people and they need help, so I do it and I don’t think about it.”

He took a deep breath about to launch into an apology when she put her hand up to stop him, “Anyway, let’s talk about something else, you for starters and where you’re from, ‘cause work’s boring.”