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Authors: John Barlow

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BOOK: Father and Son
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But now he’s got a reason to drive it.

“Freddy,” he shouts, walking back inside, the glass doors sliding
silently open for him. “Chuck us the keys for the 911, will you?”

“Eh? You never drive the Porsche…”

“Yeah,” he shouts over his shoulder as he grabs Jeanette’s MacBook
from the Saab, “but I’m going to see someone who hates my guts. I need the
wheels of a real pimped-up prodigal son.”

Chapter Fifteen

The Gaiety Bar, just
out of town on the north side, had in fact been five separate public bars
topped off with a futuristic double-peaked concrete roof. Built in the 60s, it
was a symbol of the regeneration of the sprawling urban landscape, modern and
optimistic, two fingers to the city’s dour, monochrome past.

By the late 70s the gloss had started to come off the Gaiety. Peter
Sutcliffe picked up his second victim outside the front door, leaving her on
waste ground nearby, her head smashed in with a hammer and fifty-two stabs to
the body. A decade after that, by the time the Yorkshire Ripper was locked away
in Broadmoor, the Gaiety had become infested with petty drug dealers. It was
boarded up in 1990. England’s post-war dream played out and extinguished.

Across the road from the Gaiety was The Ministry of Eternal Hope, housed
in a shop on the end of a Victorian terrace. A registered church, but more of a
hub of moral activism, the Ministry kept up a constant battle against the
rising tide of filth in the city. Wherever there was a drugs raid, at the Gaiety
or anywhere else, the Ministry would be there, mounting a peaceful picket
outside until the press arrived and took up the crusade. They successfully
pressurized the council into closing down several pubs and clubs, and in the
window of their premises they displayed blurred photographs of local drug
dealers at work.

Members of the Ministry also patrolled Water Lane and the Calls at
night, trying to persuade the girls working the streets to stop, offering hot
drinks and the promise of shelter; on Friday nights they would take down the
details of cars crawling the area, and distribute fliers in the city centre the
following morning, listing the model, colour and number plate of every car
under the title
Where Were You At Midnight?
They were fearless, in-your-face
campaigners, moral militants before it was fashionable. And they inevitably got
their message across. Because who was going to argue with them?

Back then the man in charge was Minister Len Holt, tall and lanky
with thinning, combed-back hair that gave him the appearance of a reformed
Dracula. He was rarely out of the papers, this self-styled spokesman of
decency
,
the kind of person who’d cross the road to reprimand youngsters for smoking or
dropping litter, who’d confront thugs and drug pushers wherever they loitered,
in the unshakeable knowledge that he was right, as if the protecting hand of
the Lord hovered over him.

It wasn’t just the Lord, either. Holt had a direct line to the
Deputy Chief Constable; one word from the Minister and you’d find yourself hauled
down to Millgarth waiting for a duty lawyer to show up and hoping for the best.
In those days Minister Holt was as much of an institution in Leeds as Tony Ray.

 

Where the Gaiety once stood there is now a community centre. John passes
it as he makes his way up Roundhay Road. He glances across to the other side of
the road, where the Ministry once stood. That’s gone too, like most of what he
knew down here, close to the city. Within sight of the community centre there
is now a mosque, so large and sumptuous that it seems to look down on the
tightly huddled terraces of red brick houses with benign authority, as if it’s
been there forever.

He continues up the hill out of town. This is the old Leeds, the one
that still resonates with him, for all its faults, the vibrancy and implied hope
of a place constantly in the process of renewal, where immigrants feel at home.
Up here the temples and mosques seem no more out of place than St Aidan’s
church, and probably do better business. When you walk past a grocer’s you
always spot at a least one vegetable that is completely unknown to you. Over on
Chapeltown Road the old synagogue is now a dance studio, and the Polish Health
Centre has been given a whole new lease of life; those few remaining Poles from
the post-War wave of immigration, on hearing the streets full of young people
speaking Polish again, must wonder whether they’ve been miraculously
transported back to Warsaw.

He comes to a stretch of the road lined on both sides with
three-story red brick terraces. The buildings themselves are shabby and
slightly crooked, as if their vertebrae are worn, their joints achy and
undependable. But they also manage to be dignified relics of a bustling
Victorian past, and the businesses they house, Punjaab Jewellers, Hasseen
Exclusive Wear, Kaspian Hair and Beauty, are colourful, modern renditions of what
would have been here three, four, five generations ago.

He exhales, immediately feeling at ease here, where the slow creep
towards dilapidation is masked by vibrant, home-made shop signs. And behind each
one, he knows, will be an immigrant trying to make a living, getting by on whatever
they’ve got, just like his own father had done when he arrived in the city half
a century ago. John’s probably eaten in every restaurant and cafe around here,
from African to Bangladeshi, Kurdish to Caribbean, and every time he does he
thanks God for immigrants. Without them Britain would still be eating boiled
cabbage and gravy.

He slows down, reads the card from Roberto’s wallet again:
The
Ministry of Eternal Hope
. But when he double-checks the address, there’s a Halal
butchers. He parks up and gets out, looks around. The street is familiar but
different, as if it’s put on new clothes; there’s a new pawn brokers, a boutique,
a Polish convenience store…

Then he sees the nameplate on the door. The Ministry is exactly
where it is supposed to be: upstairs, right above the butchers. They must have
fallen on hard times, because this is definitely not a step up in the world for
the eternal hopers.

He rings the bell. Not the best time to be calling. Worth a try,
though. Andrew Holt’s shift will have finished at the home, and where else is a
prick like him going to spend Friday night?

A crackly intercom buzzes into life.

“Yes?”

It’s him.

“John Ray here. To see Andrew Holt.”

A pause. On the street behind him a bus passes, the rumble of its
engine tapering away almost to nothing before Holt answers.

“Come on up.”

The hallway is cramped but neat, on the walls several posters for prayer
meetings and support groups; no mugshots of local badboys, though. A sweet
smell hangs in the air, pleasant enough, but not what one might expect in a
place that claims to be a ministry. He takes the stairs two at a time. Who’s to
say a church shouldn’t smell of pot pourri?

“Not the person I expected to see here,” says Holt, standing in the
doorway that gives directly onto the top of the stairs. “Welcome.”

He’s as tall as his father was, but not as imposing, the fire of righteousness
replaced by something lukewarm and vaguely unimpressive. He moves aside, allowing
John to enter.

The room is large, two rooms knocked into one, and there’s an air of
institutional homeliness, right down to the old cooker at the back with a large
metal teapot on it.

“You know what this reminds me of,” John says, noticing that the
smell of flowers has been replaced by the faint whiff of joss sticks, “the old
common room at school. You remember it?”

Holt smiles. “That’s what this is, really,” he says, indicating the
scattering of old armchairs and sagging sofas. “A common room. We talk, and
share. More of a meeting place than a church.”

“Less fire and brimstone than in your dad’s day, then?”

Immediately he wishes he hadn’t said it. The original Ministry
burned to the ground about ten years ago. Len Holt died of a heart attack a day
after the blaze.

“Yes, I suppose so. Less brimstone,” he says, still smiling. “The
Church of Less Brimstone. We should use that on our posters. You want to sit?”

The two of them take a couple of beaten up armchairs in the middle
of the room, the springs so loose that John finds himself staring at his knees
and wondering how he’ll ever get up again.

“I’m afraid you can’t smoke in here,” says Holt.

“You caught me this morning!
Very
occasional smoker, I am,”
John lies. For the past year he’s been getting through a packet a day, and
hawking up a basinful of acrid phlegm every morning for his trouble. If the
phlegm turns from yellow to green, he cuts down to half a pack.

They sit a while, riding the silence, letting things settle. But
then it’s over.

“So,” Holt says, like a doctor waiting to hear a patient’s ailments.

“So,” says John, “this is, what, like a drop-in centre? Could a
person come here if he was feeling, I dunno, confused, or low, or didn’t know
where else to go?”

The question surprises Holt. His expression brightens.

“Yes, exactly that. Technically we’re still a church. But these days
it’s more a matter of reaching out. Anybody, any faith, any background or
predicament. If you… I mean, are you…”

“No, no, not me,” John says, quickly getting that misapprehension
out of the way. The sudden spark of delight fades from Holt’s face as he
realises that he’s not about to become John Ray’s father-confessor. “I’m
looking for somebody.”

“We’re
all
looking for somebody.”

Holt says it with the same assuredness that his dad used to have, his
words enunciated with a calm, unfailing purpose. It irritates John, like it
always has, a person who
knows
they are right, the absence of doubt, of any
questioning. But for as long as he can remember he’s also harboured a nagging
respect for the Holts, father and son, the fact that they have stood so
resolutely behind their beliefs, often in the face of danger. There’s something
admirable in a person who’s willing to do that, something good and courageous,
however big a tool they are.

“No,” he says, “I’m looking for somebody in particular. Sixty, big
bloke, Cockney accent.” He gets the card out of his wallet and holds it up. “He
had your card. You probably know who I mean, right?”

Holt shrugs. “A lot of people come here.”

“Think again. Couple inches shorter than me, but still a big bugger.
He was an ex-boxer, gentle, affable, but you wouldn’t mess with him. I mean,
ever. If he walked through that door you’d know him straight off, however many
lost souls there were hanging about.”

“I can’t talk about people who come here. It’s a private thing. That’s
the point.”

“Yeah, well he’s in trouble so I’d appreciate it if you could make
an exception.”

“If he’s in trouble why not call the police?”

“Why don’t you call ’em, since you seem to know what this is about?”

Holt doesn’t flinch. He wasn’t expecting this to be a social call. He
takes a second, inhales. Then he pulls a quizzical face, as if he’s confused by
the question.

“If the man you’re describing did come here, what’s
that
got
to do with anything?”

“You know who he was, and you know who he worked for. Word gets out
he was coming here, sooner or later the finger gets pointed at you.”

“Because he came here? After all this time?”

“Because he’s dead. Murdered last night.”

“Jesus.”

Holt looks away, oblivious to his own blasphemy.

John struggles up from the armchair. “Shall I put the kettle on?”

Holt makes no reply.

“I’ll take that as a yes.”

 

After all this time…
It’s hardly a
secret. Towards the end of his life Holt’s father had become more ambitious, shifting
his attention from street crime to the more organised sort. This was when Lanny
Bride was making his move, buying up legitimate businesses, amusement arcades,
bars, car washes, extending his presence in the city, right under the noses of
the moral majority.

Low-level drug pushers were one thing, but people like Lanny Bride
becoming property owners? Minister Holt hadn’t liked it, and he’d made the fact
known. Then the Ministry was torched to the ground. One of Lanny’s men did it,
almost certainly. But was it Roberto? If so, why was Rob coming here ten years
after the event?

“You know what puzzles me?” says John, as he drops teabags into two
mugs, “your dad’s attack troops never went after
my
dad.”

He sloshes some milk in each mug and brings them over. Doesn’t
bother to take the teabags out. It’s not as if they’re going to drink it.

Holt chuckles. “Your father was never convicted of anything.”

“Strange, isn’t it?” John says, lowering himself all the way back
down into the armchair. “Tony Ray! The name still makes people smile, after all
these years. The loveable rogue, crafty criminal,
loved his mum
, all
that crap. Pathetic, isn’t it?”

Holt takes his mug, wrapping his hands around it and holding it
close to his chest.

“Let’s get one thing straight, shall we? I’m not the same person as
my father. I have my own beliefs, and I do things my way. When it comes to my job
at the home, that’s separate. When your dad arrived he was assigned to me
because I’m a trained physiotherapist. I get the patents who still have some
mobility. I can help them. In my work I don’t judge. Full stop.”

BOOK: Father and Son
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