Saturday

Delighted the weekend is here.  Keeping this blog going after four days is killing me!  How do people do it day after day?  Anyway, here is a rather tough story.  It was written during a five year spell in Ballykeel/Ballee estates Ballymena.  I see our particular estate has since been bulldozed as it became drug ridden.

 

The Devil with Blond Greasy Hair

Mary spoke English. She really did.  It was, however, spoken with the strongest Broughshane accent you can imagine.  My English friends didn’t understand a word she said but nodded knowingly in a bewildered fashion that polite foreigners adopt.  She was my neighbour and I realised very quickly that Mary was one of the few of us designed to live on this estate.  She had that streetwise cunning that is a thousand times more effective than intelligence.  It took me ages to appreciate this intuitive knowledge of hers that I’d always associated with that of a fox or wild animal.

She was my neighbour and the first time we joined forces was to tackle a mutual problem.  On our estate youngsters would drive their Ford Escorts at high speed and do hand brake turns in the parking area opposite our houses.  Mary was at number one and I was at number fifteen so we lived on opposite sides of a small clump of wretched houses, which was only a part of a huge depressing prison-like estate on the edge of civilisation.  We were both fearful of these drivers, especially as we had young children who played in the area where these yobos had their racing turns.  Mary had the idea first.  She explained that they did it to show off, to look cool in their shiny cars.  So the plan was to try to humiliate them and stop the practice.  She lived on one side and would cover that end while I was responsible for the other.  The plan required speed, preparation and rehearsal.  When the squeal of wheels on the gravel was heard coming up the road we had to drop everything we were doing and race outside.  Shouting obscenities (Mary was a natural swearer) at the drivers we would run alongside their cars like creatures demented. 

There were times I would feel a tinge uncomfortable about letting rip, but we found the minute both of us got going there was a kind of maniacal joint frenzy we got caught up in.  Instead of feeling embarrassed there was a strange satisfying performance quality to the whole event.  Our anger became artistic in its intensity.  A kind of mutual egging on.  If I thought Mary had managed a more vicious verbal attack I practised at the kitchen sink.  Of course some of the young men were equally aggressive in response.  One got out of his car seething with rage.  As I screamed at him for putting my children at risk, cursing and shaking my fist, he pushed me backwards and cursed even more effectively.  At that moment Mary arrived on the scene and got him in the face with her rage.  The presence of my acting partner triggered a renewed burst of confidence.  How dare this amateur try and outdo our rage.  We were livid, genuinely livid, and the estate reverberated with our shouting.  Other neighbours began to appear and of course were instantly on our side because they knew us.  Dear help the unfortunate few who stuck to their guns and wouldn’t back down suitably chastised.  The growing crowd of our enthusiastic supporters would intimidate anyone.  Then it would be all the more embarrassing for the victim, as usually the police would be called.  How innocent Mary and I would look, our children at our side, aprons still on, compared to the spotty delinquents and their vile cars.  We hardly had to speak; once the police arrived we were certain of victory.  Our joint maniacal rage would transform into distraught tears and righteous despair at the callousness of youth. 

No one stood a chance. We were professional performers.  Of course the fact that we’d done it so many times helped.  There is a kind of magic that happens when you perform with the same person.  I began to sense Mary’s intuition, her feeling for a situation, and learnt to follow her lead.  It was uncanny that we could ad-lib almost in concert.  At times it appeared telepathic as I threw in a line that Mary knew how to finish and vice versa.  Once - just once - did even our skills get pushed to the limit.

It was late, much too late for the normal skidders, but I heard the squeal of brakes and ran.  In the dark I saw Mary was already beside the car shouting.  The door opened and a figure I knew appeared.  It was Psycho Pete, one of our neighbours.  A huge mountain of a man with a terrible rage who periodically beat and kicked his wife senseless.  When his rage was aroused, usually after he’d been drinking, he was an animal, a dangerous animal.  He’d even have these long tirades with the devil, with whom he argued and threatened, long after his wife was taken away by ambulance.  His wife never called the police and his mad bouts became something of a repeated ritual.  I skidded to a halt on the other side of the car and my heart sank when I realised Pete was well into his Psycho phase.  This was dangerous.  Mary was retreating and looked scared.  “You fucking bitch, you fucking bitch…”    He wanted, needed, to hit and hurt someone; you could see it in his eyes.  I shouted, “Who’s the bugger in the front seat of your car Pete?”  Pete turned and came in my direction like a confused bull, cursing all the while.  Mary, inspired, screamed “Yeah, the guy with the greasy blond hair”. 

You could see Pete’s reptilian brain working, remembering.  His devil of over six months ago had matched that description.  He peered over his shoulder at the car and I knew from that quick glance we could win.  By now our old magic was beginning to work and, completely ignoring Pete, I walked up to the car and shouted through the window of the empty car “Come out, you devil, come out and we’ll beat the crap out of you”.  Mary as quick as lightening took my lead, “Pete, you watch the other door in case he tries to get out that way, we’ve got the bugger surrounded.”  Mesmerised he ran to the other side of the car and his rage fuelled by ours grew.  Mary took her hand and hit the window screen a blow - a loud smack that reverberated in the car park.  I pushed the car and it rocked from side to side.  By now Pete was on our side and his anger was white hot.  “Never mind that,” he said and grabbing a huge stick be began beating the side of the car.  The second blow broke the window and all the time he shouted, “can you still see him, the bugger, what’s he doing”? 

See him! Mary and I could still describe him in minute detail, down to the fancy ring he wore on his little finger, a month later.  After all the drama of that night he’s lodged in our brains that devil.  Pete’s fury exploded alongside ours that night and then just as quickly as it had come it went and Pete began to cry.  Like the seasoned actors we were, we took this in our stride.  Mary spoke soothingly, “It’s all right Pete, he’s gone”.  Pete sat on the pavement and wailed “but he’ll come back, he always does”.  “Not this time”, I said.  “Not after we beat the crap out of him like we did tonight. He was scared!”  Mary’s laughter was nervous but her tone was sure, “yeah, scared the shit out of me too, but we taught that bastard a lesson, didn’t we Pete?”  My laughter joined hers and we roared with relief that the violence was over.  Pete stood up and in a choked voice said “Thanks, no one ever helped before. I’ve always been alone, just him and me”.  When Mary and I hugged him he cried and cried.  Not like a man but like a small boy.  When he eventually stopped he shook our hands and thanked us from the bottom of his heart.  We were all exhausted but united in a weird magical way.