Five Weeks
FLAT LAND
"Let go of my fucking hair!"
The blood cascading from my nose had turned my white shirt into a
shocking shade of claret, but I'd rather have felt the pummel of
their fists than hair being ripped from my scalp. Ignoring
my plea and returning with violent cursing, they
continued to haul me by my hair across the grimy black
and white tiles of the kitchen floor. It wasn't a poky one either;
it was at least twenty-five feet long.
Twenty minutes earlier my mate Steve and I were sat in the corner of
the kitchen watching two girls kiss seductively. Was it a show -
a show for us - or were they a couple in love? We weren’t sure,
but there was no mistaking their passion. We egged them on a
bit. Who wouldn’t, watching two hot girls get it on? But to be honest
they didn’t need two perverts encouraging them.
“Just going for a piss,” Steve said as he got up from the
bench, nearly knocking himself out on the door frame as
he clocked one of the girls sucking the
other's tongue and sliding it in and out of
her mouth.
As soon as Steve was out of sight, two burly men came
into the kitchen staring directly at
me, menacingly. That is when I knew I was in trouble. Steve was
nine years older than me. He loved a good old scrap and had the build for it.
He wasn’t scared of anything or anyone and he knew he was a great fighter. Me?
I hated fights. I hated violence, only ever had one fight and
that was as a school kid a few years back, which I lost.
They'd been waiting for the moment, that moment to catch me on
my own. The girls stopped their performance and looked
over. I’m sure they knew exactly what was
going to happen next, and before I had time to even
think, two colossal sets of hands came towards
me. Buttons flew from my shirt in all directions, bouncing
off the floor and walls, and I was grabbed by the
collar and hair and dragged onto the floor. In mid air I
felt a crack on the bridge of my nose and saw a fountain
of blood as they pushed me down to the floor.
“What the fuck d'ya think you're doing playing up to
our girls, you fucking wanker?" His accent was thick; Irish.
"D'ya think you’re funny?”
Before I could plead any sort of innocence, I felt another
crack hit my face, but I wasn’t worried about my nose I was more
worried about my hair.
They lifted me up by my neck and pulled me into the
hallway of the house, the atmosphere turned nasty and the invited guests had
receded to a handful. We were in Islington, North London, a few streets
away from where I worked. Whose party? No idea. We were
invited by friends of friends, of friends. Later that
morning, driving back home, Steve and I looked at each other
with blankness expressions, trying to figure it out,
trying to figure out what happen and why. But I didn’t really
care by then.
As they dragged me towards the front door, I heard
a familiar voice coming from the staircase. “What
the fuck's going on?"
Steve jumped the last three steps and landed a punch, right on the chin
of one of them. The guy flew backwards and bounced off the wall, but
not without taking another handful of my hair with him, the bastard.
“Fucking let go of him!” Steve shouted through gritted
teeth to the other guy, whose hand was still firmly
wrapped around my neck. “I will, I will but just get him
out of here, now.” “But he has done nothing wrong.” Steve replied. “I
don’t give a fuck just get him out of here.” The pale skinned
Irishman said as he released his grip from my
throat. I slumped to the ground in agony. He took a few steps
back, raising his hands in front of him.
“Okay, now get him out of here and there'll be no
more trouble,”
Steve ignored him as he helped me up. “For fuck sake,
look at you, you’re a right mess." He said,
shaking his head. “Bastards,” I heard him say under his breath. I looked
down and he was right, all I could see on my ripped shirt
was blood and hair and loads of it.
“They waited Steve...they waited for you to
leave.” I trembled as he took hold of me, put my arm
across his shoulders and walked me to his car.
Apart from Queen’s Greatest Hits droning in the background,
the journey home was quiet. The windows were open to let in some much
needed early morning breeze and every few minutes or so I lifted
my right hand and hesitantly touched the top of my head and in
amongst the hair, all I could feel was a cold piece of skin.
It was around four in the morning when Steve dropped me home. The
still of the night couldn’t prevent my hand shaking as I turned the
key in the door as quietly as I could, not wanting to
wake any of my family not wanting them to see me looking a mess.
By passing the stairs and going straight into the
lounge, I closed the door behind me
and flicked the light switch. My adrenaline surged through
my body as I stood in front of the mirror and raised
my head to look at myself. My stomach sank as the glow
of the ceiling light fitting above highlighted a three-inch bald
patch. I felt sick. I looked like a monk. A battered
monk who just had the shit kicked out of him.
After staring at my reflection, which seemed like hours, a
hint of the early morning sunlight crept through the gap in the
curtain, I made my way to the bedroom I shared with one of my
brothers. I cried myself to sleep on the bottom bunk,
not wanting to wake up. And when I did, the pain
and tears of earlier were still visible.
My folks were horrified when they saw me a few hours later with a busted
face, black eye, and a hideous bald patch. Talking about it sent a shiver
down my spine. A close friend of mine did try and make light of the
situation by saying that as a Jewish festival was around
the corner, wearing head-wear would hide the bald patch. I tried
to laugh but just couldn’t manage even a smile.
As I also worked in Islington, I knew that
I'd always be looking over my shoulders just in case I came
face to face with those men again, and driving to
work through the early morning rush hour gave me plenty of time
to think about what would happen if I did. Every morning
when I was about ten minutes away from the estate
agent’s office I worked for, paranoia would set in,
and as I parked the car I'd look around just to make sure I
wasn’t being followed or about to be jumped on. It wasn't
the best way to prepare for a busy day ahead.
It had been three months since the party and thankfully I
hadn’t seen the men who beat me black and blue. I stayed away
from the street where they lived, and as far as I
knew, they didn’t know where I worked. If we had a property to take
on our books that was for sale in their road, I'd make an excuse
and my colleague would do the valuation. I didn’t give a damn about
the commission I may lose. My hair had grown back a bit but
there was still a bald patch visible, covered with a pathetic layering of
fuzz. I just had to live with it. It was tough at first, I hated being
vain at times, but I got used to brushing my hair in a way that it wasn’t so
noticeable.
By this time, I’d met a nice girl called Jenny. One
afternoon she'd been looking at the display of properties for sale,
but every so often, she’d peeked round and smiled at me.
“Oh, another one being reeled in by his smile,” my boss
would say, two desks behind me. I enjoyed sitting at the front, it
did have its perks, mainly being the first contact for potential
buyers. Jenny had shoulder length blonde
hair, sparkling blue eyes and a smile that
showed off her straight, white teeth. She
looked so young, too young in fact to be looking
for a property I thought when I first spotted her gazing through
the window.
At nineteen, she was two years younger than me but acted older
and after a few dinner dates over a period of a
few weeks, we were practically an item. I was in
love with her. She had Irish blood, but that didn’t put me off after
what had happened at the party. But something
did finally put me of working in Islington again. One
evening after a day of negotiating properties
for many excited first-time buyers I knew that day was
going to be my last.
At the time this area of London was
booming with property developers buying and
converting period houses into apartments. 'Flat Land' we
used to call it, and there were many young couples taking their
first steps on the property ladder. But that day it all ended for me.
Without a single sight of those two thugs for months, that
evening at around seven and on my way to the car after closing
the office, I heard footsteps behind me. It was a cold evening
and being November, it was dark by three in the afternoon. I hated
the winter.
“Hey, you,” I heard someone yell with the words
echoing down the quiet residential street. I didn’t turn around. I
knew. I just knew straight away. I recognized the
accent and I was scared. I carried on walking, quickening my
pace. My car was close, just in the company parking bay. Just get
in the car, just get in the fucking car I repeated to
myself. Again, I heard, “Hey, YOU!” But it was louder, more
aggressive, and they were closer. “Come here again and
we’ll fucking shoot you, you hear? We’re watching
you.” His voice seemed so close now it was like
he was standing next to me.
Shoot me? Did they have a gun?
I still didn’t turn around. I wouldn’t dare.
My heart begun to beat simultaneously with the pace of my
steps and as I reached the car, I eventually opened the
door and threw myself into the seat, fumbling frantically with
the key to slide into the ignition. When the engine turned over,
I yanked the car into reverse, slammed my foot on
the accelerator and wheel-spun out onto the road, just
missing a passing car. Without braking, I thrust the gear stick
into first and looked in my rear-view mirror as I sped along. Under
the glow of the streetlights behind me, I saw two
men laughing, the same two from the party. I will never
forget their faces. And fuck, they did have a gun. One of them
was waving an air rifle in the air, whether it was loaded
or not, I had no idea, but I wasn't going to hang around to find
out.
As I made my journey home I thought about my next move. I wanted to
visit Steve, but he was away, and I knew I couldn’t work around in
Islington anymore, even if Jenny lived there. I didn’t want to
take the chance, so whilst sitting in the rush hour traffic, and
before I made it home, I’d already finished writing my
resignation letter in my head.
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