Rhinoceros 18
On a blustery spring day Alan pulled up outside number 23 and stepped over the familiar motorbike without tyres lying on its side and was about to rap on the door with his knuckles when it opened. Not only that, but it was opened by Ryon. He grinned. “Mr Scope. I hope you’ve come to do business.”
Alan raised his eyebrows in puzzlement and stepped in. Doreen was stood, as ever, at the worktop smoking a cigarette. She was wearing a dressing gown over her lumpy features, like a badly upholstered sofa, and she grinned quite surprisingly at Alan. “Hiya, love. We thought you’d want to pay us a visit, didn’t we, Ryon? Go through.”
Alan looked in some astonishment around the kitchen. Where a unit had once been, neatly slotted into the gap, was a cage in which a pit bull, wide eyed and nervous, stared at him pleadingly.
In the process of recalibrating his surroundings Alan paused between the rooms. Doreen, unless he was very much mistaken, was sporting a pair of glittering, long ear-rings. And on the worktops Alan noticed several boxes, some sealed, some with Apple logos on their sides, other bearing the legend Panasonic, Samsung or Nokia. There was undoubtedly more to take in, but Alan felt the need not to be too obvious, especially as his reactions to events seemed to be life-threateningly slow, so he moved into the sitting room. The TV, large and looming as ever, was showing a children’s programme but with the sound on low. It was joined by another TV, equally as large, also switched on, but to a shopping channel. Around the edges of the room, hidden in gloom as the curtains were shut, stood various other boxes alerting readers to their fragile electronic contents.
Ryon assumed his familiar position on the sofa, at rest like a lion after a kill, and Alan took up his on the stool at Ryon’s side. Ryon said nothing but watched the nearest TV. There was enough time before anyone spoke to follow the beginning of the story in which Thomas the Tank Engine struggled up a steep incline to the taunts of Gordon. Alan decided to wait.
A fly buzzed behind the curtain and angrily tapped the window. The light of the TVs made randomised shadows with the boxes around the room so that they grew and shifted menacingly. A rare flash of intuition told Alan to wrap things up quickly and leave.
Ryon continued to watch Thomas, but began speaking. “You’re probably wondering what’s going on?”
“I’ve noticed one or two changes,” Alan said carefully.
“You remember when you visited me at Westwood?” Alan nodded. “They said I had an appointment straight after yours.”
“I remember,” Alan said. He weighed his words. He wanted to stand up and stretch his limbs as he was feeling increasingly on edge, but he sat still and watched Ryon, who watched the TV.
“Well, I thought they were lying, but it turned out I did have another meeting.”
Alan wasn’t sure whether he was meant to help Ryon elaborate. Ryon’s face was the usual mask of indifference, but he clearly wanted to tell the story. “So what was it about,” Alan finally asked.
“I walked into one of the offices, and guess who should be sat there waiting for me? Two pigs.”
Alan made faces of interest, but kept quiet.
Ryon continued to stare at the world of Thomas. “They wanted to do a deal over the Mitchelsons.”
Alan’s stomach twisted, a physical memory. “What kind of deal?”
“A deal to blow their set up apart.”
Alan kept very still. He could hear Doreen lighting another cigarette. “Wow,” he said.
“Yeah, wow. They did their usual pig bollocks of how they could make life difficult for me or easy when I got out, how the Mitchelsons were going down eventually anyway, with or without me, and how I could help them by making it quick and easy, blah blah blah.”
There was another long pause. Alan wasn’t sure what to say, so he said nothing. Ryon looked neither animated nor bored. Just there. “So I played along a bit.”
This was like dragging teeth, Alan thought. “In what way?”
“I told them a few things, things anyone could find out, a bit about the Michelson’s comings and goings, some stuff about their system, how they got packaging for goods and matched nicked stuff to boxes, all baby stuff. But they lapped it up like cats at cream. They loved it.” And Ryon smiled a little. He scratched his leg so that his tracksuit, unzipped at the ankle, rode up, exposing an electronic tag. Alan felt that this was a part of the conversation. Ryon chuckled, “reformed Ryon, eh?”
Alan couldn’t wait any more. “So the Mitchelsons are locked up?”
“The pigs aren’t that fucking efficient. Besides I did a deal with the Mitchelsons. Told them about the police visit, and that I’d said nuthink, but that they were due a visit, and we worked out a plan.”
Alan remembered the last time he had tried to pass on similar advice to the Mitchelsons, and he shuddered once more.
Ryon continued without acknowledgement of Alan’s anxieties. “You have had a look around the room?”
Alan nodded.
“So we shifted the stuff out of their house. Some of it here, some of it in other houses. They’re lying low for a bit, law abiding citizens.” And Ryon grinned again.
“But you told me you were careful, that you didn’t have stolen stuff at your house.”
“For fucks sake, have you been following this? I told you, I did a deal with the pigs. They think I’m keeping my nose clean whilst helping them fit up the Mitchelsons. A part of it is they don’t come round here poking their snouts in.”
“And you trust them.”
“No, but they’re useless.” And Ryon grinned yet again.
Alan didn’t like this grinning Ryon. How could anyone assume that these flimsy plans were workable? Alan thought about his parallel universes again. Ryon was certain that only one universe would transpire, the one he had done deals on. The details were inconsistent. It seemed to Alan about to fall apart at any moment.
“But the police…?” Alan couldn’t articulate his fears.
“The pigs are as thick as shit. They’ll strut about for a while on the estate, knock on a few doors, and then run back to Endington and fiddle the crime statistics. Weak as piss.”
“Still…” Alan couldn’t help being afraid, and he rubbed his sweating palms on the knees of his faded jeans.
“You wouldn’t understand,” Ryon muttered. “You’ve led a good life, Mr Scope. Always paid your taxes, kept your nose clean. You’ve not been given the chance to fuck things up, so you don’t know what it’s like.”
Alan felt like pointing out that he did, that his own life had its moments, too. But he knew what Ryon meant. He was thinking of the odds when you were born, the life chances already built into your future existence.
There was a long moment to consider further their respective positions. It was also true, Alan thought, that there was little to connect them. Other than being thrown together by Greenlands School (and that was tenuous), what other points of connection did they have? Yet Alan felt that there was once an understanding between them, unspoken, almost subversive, but there whenever they were in a room, whether it was a classroom or a sitting room or, on one memorable occasion, a hospital waiting room. It was a mode of operation that suggested a mutual benefit to their occasional contact, that one would somehow always support, or at least not undermine, the other.
But even that seems to have gone now. Alan no longer understood anything. How can Ryon be so unafraid? Where did the path that Ryon was taking lead? Alan’s life was so settled in its patterns, even with all the uncertainties thrown at it recently. His experiences, collated and viewed dispassionately, did not seem to allow for any alternatives other than Alan’s current existence. Yet Ryon could do deals and change his circumstances with apparent indifference to the consequences. In a way, Alan thought, you had to admire that level of confidence, that carefully sustained swagger and bravado. For some, it really seemed to work.
Ryon looked like he was about to say something else, but a loud bang from the kitchen stopped him, and he frowned instead. The voice of Doreen croaked, “What the hell do you think you’re doing?”
Alan’s senses went into heightened receptiveness, and Ryon turned his head slightly. Otherwise, neither of them moved.
A shape appeared at the doorway. It moved slowly into the room, and another shape took its place. From behind them Doreen continued, “You’ve got a bloody cheek, “ and then coughed a deep hacking cough and went silent.
“Well, well, well,” said a voice Alan knew only too well. “It’s the Thomas appreciation club.” And he flexed his bare arms, placing them firmly on his hips, and stood squarely before Alan and Ryon, at the side of the main TV. The other figure remained in the doorway. Doreen was quiet in the kitchen.
“Fuck off,” Ryon said flatly. He didn’t stir from his lionine position, but he was alert, his eyes slits roving around the room.
“Not very polite,” Mr Mitchelson said to the shape at the door.
“Especially as they’ve bin so helpful with the pigs, an’ all,” Gary Mitchelson added.
“Um, I’m not really a part of all this. Just a quick work visit,” Alan squeaked, and he made getting up gestures, patting his knees and puffing. “I’m expected somewhere now,” he hopefully added.
“Sit down,” Mr Mitchelson instructed in his quieter voice. The one Alan particularly didn’t like. “Besides, you are very much involved in all this, ain’t that right, Gary?” The shape in the doorway nodded.
There was the sound of breathing for a while, and the muted tones of Thomas and the other engines tooting and chuffing.
“I thought everything was sorted,” Ryon finally said. But he was still carefully scanning the room, tensed, it seemed to Alan, even though his position had not changed.
“It was,” Gary said, “until someone went and helped the pigs with their enquiries.” And he looked at Alan, who straightened up, both scared and surprised.
“Wait a minute, I…” he stammered.
“Shut it,” Mr Mitchelson cut in, without having to look at Alan.
“Let’s consider for a minute,” Gary continued, pausing for effect, milking his moment as though he was on a stage. “The pigs start to get clever around our business, ‘cause someone has decided to kick up a fuss. And with his help they put two and two together. They trace the YouTube films back to an account on our laptop and – “ here Gary turned to Ryon, “ – and, mysteriously they suss who has been nicking the gear in our house. Now, the pigs are too thick to work all that out themselves, don’t you think?”
Alan looked at Ryon and frowned, trying to piece it all together. What kind of game had Ryon played? How many times had he switched back? There were more unknowns than ever.
“I didn’t tell then nuffing,” Ryon said. “As if I would?” His eyes were still flicking around, as though calculating various odds. “He did.”
For an instant Alan wasn’t sure who Ryon was referring to. Then, when all eyes had settled on him, he panicked. “What…? But that’s… I didn’t even know…” And then he stood up, even though his knees shook.
“That figures,” Mr Mitchelson said, seemingly unsurprised by each turn of the conversation. “”Mr Good Citizen, Mr Teacher, sticking his nose in where it’s not wanted, getting the pigs to sort out all his problems. We obviously didn’t get our message across the last time.”
“Maybe,” Gary said. But he seemed dissatisfied. “Unless, that is, they both cooked this up. I wonder what it is they discussed at their long meeting at the Secure? I heard the pigs were there at the same time.”
“Fuck off,” Ryon said again. But he was still scheming, Alan could see it. No love lost between Ryon and Gary, thought Alan. Hopefully they’ll turn on each other and forget about him. As for Ryon: You bastard, Alan wanted to say. To turn on his teacher, his defender through all the crap in Ryon’s life, of all people. Alan stood there, trapped, alone. What about Doreen? Was she listening? Did she care?
“I really need to go,” Alan breathed.
“Go on, then. See you,” Mr Mitchelson said, suddenly looking at him. Alan thought, for an instant, that he was serious. Yet nobody moved.
Suddenly Doreen piped up. “If there’s gonna be trouble, I’ll call the police,” she rasped.
“Will you really?” Gary said over his shoulder.
Silence, followed by sudden movement.
Alan made a step towards the doorway, more in hope than certainty. Gary moved towards him, and in an instant Mr Mitchelson was behind him. A split second later Ryon had leapt to his feet. Mr Mitchelson clamped Alan’s arms expertly and familiarly behind his back. This time Alan struggled. “Gary!” Mr Mitchelson shouted. Gary rushed to his aid and they held Alan, one on each side, fixing his arms and shoulders as though set in concrete. Their sweat filled his nose as they squeezed inwards. Ryon stood in front of the TV watching them. Doreen appeared at the door, but she only pathetically said, “Don’t go too far, Arthur, not in here,” as though they stood on hallowed ground.
“This is ridiculous,” Alan gasped, “can’t you see I had no part in this? What are you playing at, Ryon? Tell them.” Alan had this new compunction to speak out, not to bottle things up. But Ryon merely shrugged. “I didn’t have anything to do with the films after my camera was stolen, it was all… Ryon mentioned something at the Young Offenders place, but it didn’t make sense. And then – “
Alan made a grinding noise through his teeth. His arms had been twisted back so far even breathing was painful. He screwed up his eyes and decided to endure like he’d never endured before in his life. “Why…don’t…you…ask…Ryon…?” he managed to squeeze out.
“Not such friends now, are they?” Mr Mitchelson said. Ryon watched and waited. The fly buzzed and tapped, and the theme music to Thomas the Tank Engine made a jolly and incongruous backdrop to proceedings.
“Tell you what, Ryon. This is your house. We mustn’t be rude. You do him in. Here he is, waiting for you.” Alan opened his eyes in terror, and then he tried to look at Ryon pleadingly. But Ryon’s eyes were averted. He seemed impassive, slack limbed, in shadow beside the TV.
“Go on,” Gary said, “he’s dobbed you in already. May as well even the odds. Nothing to lose, eh?”
“It is your house,” Mr Mitchelson added.
Alan made a final effort to struggle, futile as this gesture was, and then hung there between his tormentors, close to their exhalations and body smells, in an embrace of crunching pain. But he endured, panting, ready.
Where, he wondered, somewhat hopelessly, was Ryon’s moral compass? Does their joint history mean anything? And what about the consequences of throwing in his lot with the Mitchelsons? What had being locked up done for Ryon?
The TV moved on to Newsround. There were big events happening in the world, as Alan had told his form recently, but all of them occurred oblivious to the particular circumstances in this room.
There was a long, long pause.
Alan heard the first thud go into his stomach before he’d even registered the pain. At the same instant his arms were released and he cried out in fear and agony. Doreen screamed from the kitchen as Alan sunk to his knees and held his arms around his torso.
“Didn’t fink he’d do it,” Gary plainly stated.
Alan was in a state beyond caring. “You shit,” he spat at Ryon. He staggered on to his feet, holding on the sofa, as Ryon slunk back into the shadows. “I’m going,” he gasped, and he even made a turn toward the door, but Gary swiftly took a side step and blocked his path. Alan put forward his hand to shove Gary aside, but his arm was seized and twisted. Alan screeched and said, in panicky squeals, “What you going to do now? I’m going to leave at some point, and whatever you say or do I’m going to the fucking police. I’ll shop the lot of you,” and his rage ran around the whole room of boxes, TVs, people, even Doreen in the kitchen, who said, without conviction, “Let him go, now, lads, will yer?”
“Not ‘til he’s learned his lesson.” Mr Mitchelson growled. He pulled something from his pocket and threw it to Ryon who was still poised uncertainly in the shadows by the TV. It landed with a heavy thud at his feet. “Finish the job, boy.”
Alan looked from Mr Mitchelson, with his little eyes full of joy and hate, to Ryon, looking down at the flick knife at his feet. Gary held his arm behind his back so that if he moved it felt like it would break. “Oh god, no…” he moaned, “don’t be stupid. This isn’t Chicago in the 20s, this is ridiculous…” and he panted and stared at Ryon.
“He’s gotta learn his lesson, Ryon,” Mr Mitchelson said quietly. He seemed to be attending a ceremony, or administering a test.
“Get on with it,” Gary called from behind Alan, and he propelled Alan forwards, towards Ryon.
“Let’s put it this way,” Mr Mitchelson muttered, almost to himself, as though musing over the possibilities. “It’s you, Ryon, or this fucker. So make your mind up, quick.”
Ryon looked bemused, if anything, curious about the play of events, as though he was no longer a participant. He picked up the knife and looked at it, as an antique dealer would a Roman dagger. He weighed it in the palm of his hand, then turned it in his fingers and flicked the blade out. The sharp click made Alan jump. His eyes widened in disbelief, and he felt sweat trickle down his spine. He desperately wanted to piss.
He heard Doreen open the kitchen door and a blast of cool air came into the room. “I’m just gonna get some more fags,” she called, and for a second Mr Mitchelson looked worried and started to call, “Oi…” but she was gone with a bang of the door.
Alan could feel a rising sense of panic from Gary behind him, and he felt the spit on his neck as Gary shouted, “Right, let’s finish this and fuck off. Quick.”
Alan started to struggle. Gary’s hold on him, since he had pushed him towards Ryon, was looser, and Gary grunted, “Help me,” as Mr Mitchelson stepped across the room and tried to grab his free arm.
Alan swung his arm wildly and managed to connect with Mr Mitchelson’s face who flinched and grabbed his mouth. He took his hand away, and looked at it. There was blood overflowing his cruel lips and smeared across his fingers. “You fucking twat,” he gurgled, spitting blood.
“Ryon! Stop pissing about and do him. DO HIM, I say!” And as Alan writhed his whole body for all he was worth he felt Gary lose his hold. But a sudden pain shot up his side and he felt his knees bend sharply. He cried out again as Ryon approached him. His face was a statue of indifference, an amoral mask. He only briefly glanced into Alan’s eyes then looked away. He held the knife, not outwards, but more across his body, as though he was planning to chop some food. Then Alan felt more pain, his neck and arms, his shoulders, and a wrenching of his head as his hair was grabbed and ripped upwards, his knees scraping on the carpet until one of them jabbed into a small, sharp object. Alan felt it pushing into his knee cap with excruciating pain and he instinctively reached down to retrieve it. He winced from this action more than anything else as he clasped the neat object in his fist and his arms were held back again, as though for execution. The object, rectangular, vaguely familiar, became his talisman, his hope, and he squeezed it so tight it took away the other pains breaking out around his body.
He heard a shout, “GET ON WITH IT,” and then the room and the people and the TV melted away into a kaleidoscope of reddish blurs, and the last thing he remembered was warm liquid spreading around his thighs and down his legs.
