Makes all this coming back worthwhile.
Also, first chapter of
Saint's Alive.
One
It was Christmas Eve 2014 and all through the night, creatures of innocence were sleeping soundly in their beds.
For proper debauchery, you needed only to go down to the Golden Mile, for this was where the true fun was to be had on a rainy Wednesday night in Belfast.
Of course you still had other options: Cathedral Quarter, City Centre, the area around Queen's University, innumerable side alley pubs and various other outlets including off-licences – Belfast was, if nothing else, truly resolute in having the highest alcohol availability per capita in the United Kingdom – but the Golden Mile was the original Mecca of Belfast connoisseurs.
Unfortunately this Mecca, much like the real-life counterpart, had gone downhill in recent years, overrun by those who didn't understand the history and tradition steeped within its dirty gravel paths. The Golden Mile had been warped from a great bunch of pubs to crawl through with your mates into the modern day equivalent of New York's sewer system: Simply put, it was overflowing with shit.
Walk the Mile today, especially around a Saturday night, and thank your lucky stars if you don't have to sidestep a puddle of vomit, a passed out student, or ignore a loud-mouthed guy slurring his love speech to a girl he's clumsily groping against the side of a building.
Outside the M-Club for example, a large building with multi-coloured panels that flashed erratically, attracting zombified drunken students with promises of cheap alcohol and cheaper company, you could spy on any given night a group of half-clothed people shivering away together: Muscled males and frilly-skirted females, their pale Irish skin given an icy-blue pallor by the chilly wind.
Next door to M-Club was Benedict's Bar. Bookies wouldn't acknowledge you if you asked what the odds on someone getting chucked out of there would be, such was the certainty. Opposite, Lavery's was a three-floor establishment catering to age discrimination: First floor for fifties plus only, second floor enticing the young crowd, and the top floor for fathers and sons with friendly staff, a jukebox, pool tables, and food served until nine in the evening.
Further North or South of these establishments lay more identikit pubs, long since losing their unique identity, all serving the same tried and tested formulas: Guinness, Heineken, Tennents.
On this particular night, a small film of snow was dropping from the sky, just enough to lay on the ground without washing away should it rain. It was picturesque, so long as you ignored the people, which was impossible.
Lyle Hill was working the door at Lavery's that night, alongside Greg. It was an easy job, very little aggravation. The most he'd had to do so far was turn away a group of youngish looking guys, even though they flashed their passports and stood there with angst written all over their faces.
Truth was, he knew they were of age, even knew one of the lad's fathers (though the lad didn't know him), but the pub was nearing maximum capacity and management would bust his balls if he let these guys in.
It was an unwritten rule: When near full, get girls in who can pull. The logic was that girls would attract the attentions of all within, possibly get a few drinks bought for them, bringing in a bit of quick cash, before some guy pulled her to take her off for a quick one night stand in his student accommodation or parents' free household.
Tom, another bouncer who did the rounds on the Golden Mile bars, played Devil's advocate in asking why bringing more guys in wouldn't be just as lucrative, surely they'd stay there getting pissed and buying up the bar? No response from management.
The general belief was that it was probably made up by a frisky barman as an excuse to bring in more eye-candy for him to look at, and who can blame a guy for wanting a nice view during a ten-hour shift?
As he did every time Lyle worked the door, Makeshift Mutu – so named as he resembled a botched surgery version of Adrian Mutu, the Romanian footballer – shuffled up, shaking away at a plastic cup that he held outstretched under the doormen's noses.
“Big Issue?” The Romanian refugee declared, “Big Issue.” The stack of magazines he was trying to flog were still back at his post, gathering snow as they perched in a haphazard pile against an upturned pallet no-doubt stolen from a Tesco delivery truck. “Big Issue?” The cup shook noisily as the one or two pennies within clattered against the sides.
“Not today, thanks mate,” Greg said, “maybe tomorrow.”
“Big Issue!”
Feeling generous, Lyle reached into his pocket and pulled out a few loose coins, no more than fifty pence in tens and fives. “Here, mate,” he said, “get yourself a cup of tea or something.”
“Big Issue!” The Romanian said with a smile on his face before walking further down the street and shaking his cup at anyone within reach. He shook it at the wrong person, Lyle saw, watching on as a man, walking hand-in-hand with a woman, was accosted, responding by smacking the cup away into the air, the noise of coins falling muted as they hit the snow.
Lyle shook his head at the scene. “What a prick.”
“Can't deny he deserves it,” Greg replied off to his right, “shouldn't be over here in the first place. Doesn't even have the decency to learn English, just goes around saying Big Issue, Big Issue to whoever listens, like we're going to read that shite.”
“Isn't Romania war-torn or something?” Lyle mused, “you telling me you wouldn't get out of Belfast if the troubles came back?”
“Fuck no, I'd be front of the line fighting them back, I'm no runaway ponce.”
A taxi pulled up and a young woman started getting out of the back, drawing the bouncer's attentions away from the Romanian with the bad luck.
“Look see,” Greg said, perhaps a little too loud to be appropriate, “we've got ourselves a Cross-Eyed Mary if ever I saw one.” It was one of their inside jokes, based on the Jethro Tull song about a schoolgirl prostitute.
Lyle eyed her up: Hair tied-up into a tight ponytail, three layers of make-up, near transparent black tight-fitting low-cut top from River Island that wouldn't have been amiss on a thirteen year old, – no bra underneath, nipples like beacons – red pencil skirt that cut off way above the knees, cramped looking black heels with six inches of height; Greg had a point.
Two other girls scrambled from the taxi, each one more provocatively dressed than the last, the one getting out of the front shouting her thanks to the taxi, the slur of a few pre-party shots evident in her voice.
“Well fuck, we got ourselves a whole harem of Mary's here,” Greg was laughing, “think fast Lyle, here they come.”
The girls beelined their way to Lavery's entrance, only stopping as the imposing figures of Lyle and Greg came into their intoxicated view and Greg put an arm across the door.
“Need to see some I.D. Ladies,” Greg requested.
“Oh, hey there big fellas,” the obvious ringleader of the girls garbled, the one who had left the taxi first, attempting to sound sexy but failing miserably, the other two pawing at their skin in parallel failed attempts to look ravishing. The ringleader opened her purse and mocked her way through looking for identification, coming up empty. “Oopsie,” she said, hiccuping after she spoke the word, one of her friends laughing garishly at the sound, “I appear to have misplaced my identification...I don't suppose I could be let in anyway? We'd be so appreciative,” the last word coming out as
appreshituf.
“No can do, I'm afraid,” Lyle said, “no I.D. No entry.”
“Well, I suppose, for lovely ladies such as yourselves, we could let you in.” Greg winked to Lyle as he said the words, no subtlety required.
Lyle shook his head in dismay, knowing exactly what Greg was thinking. He activated his wingman mode, training his eyes over each girl in turn.
One was definitely too young, she had fifteen written all over her face. Lyle wouldn't be at all surprised to believe that the reason for their night out was because she had just turned fifteen. It was the eyes that gave it away, still full of innocence, a virgin drunk awash with those first mingling feelings you get within your stomach, that kind of acid smoothness only felt when alcohol settles inside you.
The other two were safer bets, especially the ringleader. Lyle sussed her as the older sister of Ms Fifteen over there, probably around eighteen, though cleavage was never a sure thing these days. Girls as young as thirteen could be seen walking around with an adult bust, make-up adding the years on. But there was no way she was below sixteen, so Greg would be fine.
Lyle gave a friendly pat on the shoulder of the ringleader, welcoming her in as he held a sly thumbs up behind his back to Greg.
“Here, let me help you up the stairs,” Greg said to the ringleader, “Lyle here will help your friends.”
Lyle ushered the other two girls upstairs, their heels click-clacking against the hard steps, listening out for the inevitable tumble that never came. Lyle had spent a fair number of nights in front of a paramedic, explaining what had happened as a broken-ankled woman was stretchered into an ambulance.
A few minutes passed without Greg returning. Lyle chuckled to himself, looks like he'd gotten lucky with her then. It was all too easy, really. He stared across at the M-Club, seeing the comings and goings of the student population in various levels of intoxication, wondering which of those would get up to something before heading home to their parents or dingy student flats around the University Quarter.
All he could think was thank god his daughter was too young for all of this, though she was creeping up fast, she'd be ten next June. He only hoped he could bring her up right, teach her to avoid places like the ones around here.
Too many parents tried outright banning drink but he knew that was the wrong approach. He'd make it fun, she could tell her friends how 'the old man' took her out for a few drinks. He'd teach her about drinking in moderation; the buzz was where it was at, not the blackout.
He went back and forth on whether or not to tell her the sobering tale of his alcohol addiction, that the only reason he believed in moderation now was because ten years of his life was nothing more than a blur, lost in a haze of alcohol-induced depression.
It was Karen's fucking fault. No, he shook his head, he'd not spent years in recovery learning to accept the blame just to throw it back in her face. Sure, they had been in frequent fights, the whole relationship had been one giant on-off will-they-won't-they saga, but it wasn't her fault. She'd done everything she could to stick with him through the rocky years and who could blame her for deciding enough was enough.
Breaking point had been Christmas 2010. Such a stupid argument: Lyle had wanted red baubles on a real green tree but Karen wanted a more modern black tree with white LED lights. He had got his way and they were decorating the tree when Karen let slip a complaint, something about red and white being cliché these days.
He'd been drinking all morning and the comment riled him up to no end. He had grabbed the tree and screamed “fine then, have it your way”, tore the tree down and tossed it across the living room, started pulling red baubles from a cardboard supply box and smashing them under his feet.
Thank god Suzanne, his daughter, was at a friend's house at the time, her parents on talking terms with Lyle and Karen from many a school run together.
Neighbours heard the commotion, thought someone was smashing glass and trying to break-in. The police arrived about thirty minutes later, at which point he and Karen were in separate rooms, Lyle on his third pint since the incident. Karen told the police it was all a misunderstanding, a fallen tree, a scared dog running around smashing up the decorations, and they left.
That was it for Karen. She'd grabbed a suitcase, packed away her things, and left a note. All Lyle heard of this was the door slamming shut. When he'd finally ventured out a little after midnight for a nightcap, he'd found the note taped to the fridge.
This isn't working out. I'll be with my sister until I can find a new place. I'll send someone round to grab the rest of my things. Lyle, please get help, you can't go on like this. I don't want Susie growing up without her father.
A commotion brought Lyle out of his thoughts. The Romanian was angrily arguing with a group of men, though the argument was pretty one sided with the Romanian's limited grasp of English stunting his ability to shout back.
A punch was thrown and the Romanian ended up on his back, blood pouring from a broken nose. The thug went in for another, straddling the Romanian and beginning to rain down punches, the Romanian already unconscious with eyes rolling into the back of his head.
Lyle rushed the group, shoving the punch-thrower off the Romanian and laying him out with a swift stomp in the solar plexus, winding him. The rest of the group weren't best pleased at his interrupting their fun and circled around him, throwing out taunts and insults.
This was trouble. Where was Greg? Had he really not finished with the girl after ten minutes? He swivelled left and right, trying to keep as many of the men in view at once. Four versus one, the odds weren't in his favour.
A punch hit him in the back of his head, he took it and swung his elbow back, felt it connect with someone's skull. Two rushed in with arms flailing. He smashed his head into one before the second grabbed hold around his waist, pinning his hands to his sides. They wrestled for a bit until he managed to pull a wrist free and swing a punch into the side of the guy's head, loosening his grip enough that he could sweep the guy's feet and watch as he fell sprawling to the ground.
A scream drew all their attentions, coming from a woman standing at the bus stop near the entrance to Lavery's. Lyle saw straight away why she was screaming: Greg stumbling out of the entrance with half his head caved in, blood pouring copiously out of the deep wound with part of his skull visible.
He ran to Greg's side, already faltering on his feet, landing heavily on one knee then slumping down face first. Lyle rolled him over onto his back and put his arms around his friend, tried to hold him up, but Greg was a big guy and right now he was nothing more than dead weight, so Lyle had no choice but to lower him to the ground and try to prop his back against the bus stop.
“What the fuck happened?” Lyle blared, “who did this?”
“Guy...” said Greg, still somehow conscious but finding it difficult to talk, spitting blood from his mouth between each word, “dressed...as Santa...” the words stopped as Greg's eyes dulled, the life fading from view.
“No!” Lyle screamed, “fuck no, this isn't happening, Greg, wake up mate!” But it was no use, Greg was gone, slumping sideways into the snow, his blood already beginning to stain the ground in increasing concentric circles.
He reached in his pocket for his phone to call an ambulance but it was hit out of his hand as a deluge of people began flooding from Lavery's, panicked screams mixing with the hard crunch of shoes on snow.
He was knocked to the ground and immediately on the receiving end of kicks from rushing people. He tried to crawl to safety as a pair of high heels used his face as a starting block, the heel scraping roughly off his cheek, another shoe kicking him squarely in the face before lurching onwards. A sharp pain bolted through his ankle as someone trod on him, the sound of cracking as a bone was put under immense strain.
With great effort, he managed to crawl over to the bus stop, take refuge behind the thin pane of reinforced glass and watch as people continued rushing out. Some of them were bleeding, others staggered out with broken arms cradled into their chest, a few individuals sporting grossly caved-in legs being dragged out by friends or crawling out themselves before collapsing in an exhausted heap wherever there was space, anywhere away from the stampeding procession.
A shrill shriek came from the entrance, an unlucky woman who was one of the last of those trying to escape, her hair grabbed by an unknown assailant with fingers covered in a thick black glove, pulled back beyond the view of the entrance.
There was a cut-off yelp from the woman before she came back into view, held at the nape of her neck by her attacker, pushed forward at full force until her face crunched into the wall, teeth snapping from her mouth as she was pulled back then slammed forcefully into the wall over and over, until her face began to disassemble, skull and flesh pulverised into a collage of mess.
The attacker let the woman slump dead to the ground, her face split open down the middle, before turning to face outside. Greg had been spot-on with his description, it was a madman dressed as Santa Claus. His belly was bulging, easily four hundred pounds of fat, with grossly oversized stumpy legs that rippled the costume as he took a step. He'd spared no expenses with clothing, this wasn't some cheap last-minute purchase from Elliott's Fancy Dress shop over on Ann Street, this was upmarket, custom-made clothing with fine stitching and expensive wool.
In one hand, the mad Santa held an overlong candy cane, the kind that resembled a colourful red and white hammer like you'd find in a cartoon held by a madcap villain, and an oversized cloth sack. Blood speckled the candy cane, with fresh wet blood dripping off the blunt end.
All around him, Lyle could hear people shouting into mobile phones, begging police to come and stop this psycho, describing the carnage in panicked details.
'My friend, oh shit oh shit, he's losing a lot of blood, his arm...fuck! He ripped his arm off!'
'Blood, blood everywhere, oh god please hurry, Santa's got some kind of axe.'
'My wife...oh god my wife, I can't find her, there's too many people, I can't find her anywhere.'
The man dressed as Santa stepped out, surveying the scene around him. Tiny golden bells on his suit jingled with every step. He spied a man leaning against the wall just to the side of Lavery's, clutching his chest as if having a heart attack. Santa's imposing shadow covered the man fully as he stood over him, Lyle could only see the back of the madman as he reached into his sack, humming a Christmas tune as he did so.
Santa pulled out a bowling ball and, for the first time, Lyle heard the loon speaking: “Ho ho ho, Christopher Kline of Locksley Gardens, Belfast, you've been a very naughty boy this year. If only poor Sophie knew about what you've been doing behind her back, for shame.”
The bowling ball was raised above Santa's head with ease, even though it looked to be one of the biggest bowling balls Lyle had ever seen, too big to appear practical, or would at least be banned from professional competitions for it was the kind of ball that could get you a strike simply by making it to the end of the bowling lane.
Christopher screamed, ended prematurely as the bowling ball was swung down and a loud crack of a shattered skull quickly melted into a soft squish as the bowling ball sunk deeper into the man, merging skull fragments, brain matter, muscle and flesh.
A woman howled from just down the street. “Chris!” She cried, “what have you done!” and she rushed towards the Santa with tears flowing.
Santa dropped his sack, gripped the candy cane hammer with both hands, and swivelled his hips as he swung the hammer into her approaching head. Her head was catapulted one hundred and eighty degrees around, with a thin spray of blood shooting up into the air from where the hammer connected just below her eye socket, neck snapping cleanly to see back on where she'd been, her body collapsing forward into the snow, lifeless eyes staring up at the stars in the sky, gone before she'd even hit the ground.
The mass panic continued, people running away in every direction, but Lyle was not one of them. Sitting beside Greg, he knew he couldn't run. His ankle was broken. He mustered all his strength and prepared for the inevitable.
Santa noticed him and smiled, showing two perfect rows of white teeth. He reached down and picked up the sack and waddled over to Lyle.
“Who do we have here,” Santa mused, rummaging through his sack. A confused look washed over his face as he came out of the sack empty-handed, “now this is unexpected.”
Santa reached into the sack again and came out with a scroll. He untied it at both ends and began reading, spools of paper reeling out over the snow, soaking up blood as the reading became more and more frenzied.
“Ah,” he exclaimed, “here you are, Lyle Hill of Muskett Park. I see my error, I should have done you in last year, but that was a different time, a different life. Luckily for you, this year you haven't been a naughty boy, but be warned, return to wicked ways, this year or any year thereafter, and I'll be paying you a visit.”
Santa refolded the paper and shoved it back into his sack, which even though it had been filled with blood drippings, didn't drip anything onto the ground, meaning it was either made of incredibly thick material or there was a mountain of supplies inside it, enough to soak up blood without it reaching the bottom.
Lyle was left alone. Santa simply waddled off up the street, humming away to the tune of Rudolph The Red Nosed Reindeer.
The sounds of police sirens were faint to his ears as he leaned against Greg, gasping raggedly for breath. They were coming from the wrong direction, from the city centre rather than from the Malone Road. He would need to tell them where Santa had gone, assist them in capturing that psycho.
He couldn't hold it in any longer, leaned away from his friend and vomited over the snow. His stomach was burning, empty and acid-fuelled and filled with the coppery taste of blood.
The ambulance would be here soon, Lyle held that thought in his head, it would be here soon. He allowed himself the safety of sleep, hoping to awaken and find that this was all somehow a dream.