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Waiting at the bus stop outside the Relocations office; nothing if not convenient, he had time to reflect on this next stage of his life. He had few regrets; his old apartment had been nothing to write home about; the most exciting thing about it was the space it had afforded for him to train. Space well worth the distance from the office, as he’d thought at the time. Now standing here waiting for the bus that would take him to the sink estate he’d always dreaded, maybe distance should have won over space? Perhaps he could have put off this day?

The bus took him through two checkpoints and he watched carefully the verification process that allowed the transport to continue. His forearm chip could apparently be read at some distance, not requiring a scanner scrolled over it; he’d not been aware of that since previously his use of it had been to achieve access to buildings and to purchases. The process had a fairly foolproof look about it and the thought depressed him.

Deposited at the corner of Cameron St, again nothing if not convenient, he walked the length of it to get to number 300. He crossed a few side streets en route, Thatcher Close, Clegg Alley, MacMillan Mount and felt the desolation seep into him. The buildings he passed were ‘past their best’, that was the euphemistic phrase that fit most aptly. He’d relocated hundreds of people to streets just like these and was embarrassed to see, if not exactly hovels, homes that were definitely ‘past their best’. The apartment building he’d been in had been palatial in comparison.

He stared up at number 300. Now, this was squalid and no mistake; whether because he was due to go inside, to live there or whether it was a fact, but forget ‘past its best’ this one was squalid.

The square of grass that fronted the building was overgrown and littered with various objects; several tires reared up in a pile in the middle, a rusting supermarket trolley lay nearby on its side tangled with weeds, an old toilet posed near the front door of the building with a rather pathetic bush poking above the rim, a rusting metal bedhead leaned against the wall, partly covering several piles of bricks, rocks and stones. ‘Lovely,’ thought Terry, ‘just bloody perfect.’

“What you doin’ mister?” asked a kid on a bike.

Terry had been aware that the small crowd who’d been hovering near the bus stop had chosen to follow him to his destination. He’d also been aware that the crowd had grown en route, and was now quite large and noisy. He chose to ignore the spokesperson and picked his way up the path.

He entered the building, previously a single house, now re-structured into flats with a tiny entrance hall and doors off. Just outside the door to Flat 2, his home-to-be for the next 25 years, was a pile of beer cans and pizza boxes, he kicked them aside as he put his key in the lock. He opened the door and stomped up the uncarpeted stairs. He didn’t linger at the top but walked straight through to the living room.

The carpet was bright pink; faded in parts, thin and wrinkled and the wallpaper was a lurid green. There was a chair, faded blue, the arms worn and stained, the cushion torn and the headrest filthy with years of accumulated grease. He gave a thought to the previous occupant – how long had he or she lasted? The TV sat directly on the floor and looked to be more or less the promised 12”, at least that’s what he figured, whatever it was small.

He crossed the room to the kitchen area, checked the cupboards; all dirty. He found one plate, one bowl and one cup, one knife, one fork, one dessert spoon and one teaspoon – was someone trying to make a point? The sink was stained and slimy to touch, the cold tap dripped sullenly, there was plumbing for a washing machine but no washing machine, damp flourished all along the wall and the window (view over to rendered wall of adjacent building) was cracked.

He checked the bedroom; bed with a dirty duvet, torn pillow and, thankfully given the state of the duvet, no sheet. In the corner of the room was the promised double wardrobe; albeit with only one door. The carpet was the same as in the front room but the walls were painted yellow, Terry dipped his head and rubbed his brow. He was too disheartened to even look in the ‘think yourself lucky to have one’ bathroom.

He plugged the TV in and slumped into the sole chair. He pressed the on button on the hand control but nothing happened, he tried again, nothing. He removed the back, no batteries ‘Great.’



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 the door to the unwelcome sight of a red-faced teenager 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 six 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 annoyed 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 at six years 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,” he instructed.

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.”

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 adulating fans.

Cheers for reading and hope you have a nice week

Arun