Things Have Changed Round Here..

The car you drive says everything about you.. that's what all the
stylish, expensive adverts said, and Brian Jeavons believed them. If
the gleaming new top-of-the-range Jag had been blessed with human
features, it would have contorted them into a superior, disdainful
sneer as it as it glided silently between the dented Nissans and
resprayed Capris.

"And.. yes, the old school's still there.." Brian spoke softly to
himself, keeping up a running commentary on the area he'd known so well
as a child - the inner-city suburb he'd grown up in, yet left without a
second glance when he made it to university: the place he'd never
planned on seeing again, not now that his parents had finally taken his
advice (and his offer of cash) and moved away too.

This was no sentimental journey, however, no dewy-eyed trip down Memory
Lane - work and work alone had brought Brian back to the frayed, dismal
fringe of this drab industrial city. Slowly, curiously, he swooshed
past his old school, a place of very mixed memories, noting that it was
now a run-down and crumbling "community centre" - whatever that might
mean. Behind it, most of the glowering Victorian factory buildings that
had so dominated the playground had either been ruthlessly cleared or
fallen down of their own accord. He didn't care which.

Looking round the untidy streets, he could understand only too well why
he'd been desperate to escape. There had been nothing to keep an
ambitious young man with no lingering emotional ties round here;
especially one so well qualified in accountancy and business studies.
That success had been his passport to better things and a comfortable
home up in the foothills of the Pennines where you couldn't buy a dog's
kennel for the price of one of these unkempt terraces. That was the way
Brian liked it, however - it kept the riff-raff out.

"Good Lord!" Brian murmured audibly as he caught sight of the pub.
Surely, it had closed ages ago? But no.. there it was, the very place
that he'd sneaked into, well under age, and swigged down his first
illicit pint. It had tasted foul, he recalled with a wry smile, but
he'd sworn to his older friends that it was just the way he liked it.
It hadn't stayed down long, of course: just past the newsagents,
halfway home, nausea had claimed him - to the unrestrained delight of
his older and more experienced friends.

There was no way he could resist taking a look inside. Parking
carefully to avoid the broken glass that littered the car park, he
climbed out and locked up. The building itself had been optimistically
repainted in garish shades, proudly proclaiming the name of its new
pubco owners. Unsubtle, frequently mis-spelled posters advertised the
new facilities: family room, food at all times, happy hour, big-screen
TV. The list seemed endless, but there were still precious few cars
dotted around the car park that had long ago replaced the old butcher's
shop next door.

Brian strode in, noting with astonishment the brash new decor and the
enormous pool table that dominated the knocked-through front rooms. His
current local, a stone-built village tavern with comfortable seating,
rows of personalised tankards and a well-respected chef, was light
years away from this dump. Nevertheless, he could still discern exactly
where he'd stood, guiltily supping that first pint. There hadn't been a
vast, flashy juke box there in those far-off days.

He ordered a pint of a lager he'd heard of, just for old times' sake,
and found himself a reasonably clean table from which he could survey
the bar and indulge in a harmless little bout of nostalgia. It was good
to see the old place again, he told himself cynically, if only to
remind himself of exactly how far he'd come.

"Oh, God," he whispered. An all-too-familiar figure had detached itself
from the noisy scrum around the pool table and was staring in his
direction. They'd not met since their teens, just before Brian had
departed for college, when a joint "business" venture had gone
spectacularly wrong. Brian had got out just in time, but he didn't
expect the episode to have been forgotten - as indeed it hadn't.

Brian had known that, sooner or later, there was bound to be a
confrontation. Nevertheless, he'd hoped to meet his foe in a more
neutral venue than this. Here, Brian was alone and his potential
adversary had more than adequate back-up. Fighting back the entirely
natural desire to flee, Brian sat tight as the man strolled
across.

"Brian.. Brian Jeavons!" the man mouthed in a disbelieving tone. Though
around Brian's own age, he couldn't have looked more different: no
expensive suit, no manicured nails, no haircut specially designed to
disguise the already-receding hairline. No, what you saw in Dave
Manners was exactly what you got - a shaven-headed, blank-eyed thug,
the muscles bulging in menacing fashion beneath his vest liberally
spattered with tattoos. The social gulf between the two former
schoolmates - one the strutting cock of his own filthy backyard, the
other the very model of the urbane businessman - could hardly have
appeared wider.

"Dave. Nice to see you," Brian said quietly.

"You don't mean that!" Dave laughed. "Come on, Brian, you was never
that much of a liar, right? Don't say that you and me ever got on, 'cos
we didn't. Okay?"

"Whatever you say," Brian shrugged. A couple of younger men, clones of
their master, had drifted silently up behind Dave. No doubt, Brian
thought glumly, these goons were paid well to watch their master's
back. The trio settled around Brian's table, though only Dave spoke.
Somehow, the catatonic silence from Dave's henchmen was even more
unnerving than his sneering tone.

"Well, back on home turf." Dave shook his head. "You got some nerve,
coming back here like this."

"I didn't expect to see you in here."

"I bet you didn't, my son!" Dave roared with laughter, glancing from
one to the other of his minders. "What you doin' now, then?"

"Accountancy.. well, I'm more of a management consultant
really.."

"What's that, then, when it's at home?" Dave interrupted brusquely,
more to unsettle the unexpected victim than to seek knowledge.

"I advise my superiors on profitability, future strategy, staffing
levels. I even conduct some deals.."

"Pah!" Dave snorted. "I do all that meself. Now, you and me got some
unfinished business, if you remember. From before you skipped off to
college or wherever it was you went."

"Oxford."

"Oh, Oxford?" Dave shouted, hand on hip, smaning at his unsmiling
cronies. "Yeah! Good old Oxford, eh! Was there meself once.."

"YOU were at Oxford?" Brian exclaimed, his mouth dropping open.

"Worthington Cup, semi-finals," Dave explained with a sickly leer. "Won
three-nil. Kicked the livin' daylights outta these two idiots. Great,
it was."

"I thought you meant.."

"The college, like? Nah. All ponces and poofters there, ain't
they?"

"Not quite all of us," Brian sighed, rolling his eyes heavenward at the
unwarranted display of ignorance.

"Anyway, you still owe me over that Wilson business, and I always
collect. Bad for my image if I don't, know what I mean?" Dave
growled.

"Water under the bridge, surely?" Brian said hopefully, looking
desperately round for a means of escape but seeing none. "You didn't
lose much, and it wasn't.."

"I lost some, didn't I!" Dave hissed malevolently. "And I ended up
looking like a right prat while you skipped off out of it. Nobody makes
a fool out of me and gets away with it."

"I lost money too.." Brian pleaded to no effect.

"Think I care a monkey's about what you lost?" Dave shrugged.

"No. What are you going to do, then, have a contract put out on
me?"

"No, I'm a respectable businessman now," Dave sneered. Brian wisely
resisted the temptation to laugh out loud at the ludicrous assertion.
"We got more civilised ways of dealing with these things."

"Things have changed round here," Brian whispered hopefully.

"You what?" Dave snarled. "Oh, look, you ain't got a drink!"

"I have.." Brian protested. As he spoke, Dave snatched away his
nearly-full glass and downed the fizzy contents in one.

"No, you ain't!" he shouted. "Now, let's go and get another round in,
shall we? On you?"

"I don't feel.. oh, okay." As Brian departed for the bar, sandwiched
uneasily between the minders, Dave gestured to a surly teenager who'd
remained draped awkwardly across the pool table. Nodding, smirking, the
youth retrieved a well-used baseball bat from behind the bar and
strolled out into the feeble sunshine. He knew exactly what to do, and
the stranger's flashy new Jag stuck out a mile.

"What the.." Brian yelped as the distinctive alarm sounded outside, but
he was forcibly turned back towards the bar to order. The youth had
begun with the light clusters, exploding them in turn in tinkling
showers of multi-coloured glass. That accomplished, he staved in each
tinted window in turn, watched by an appreciative and ever-growing band
of local kids. Playing to the crowd, the youth twisted in balletic
postures, ending each with a smart whack of his bat into the bodywork.
Gusts of applause greeted each dent, each shower of glass.

Every panel was dented, each visible component scratched or thumped for
good measure. Leaving the kids to happily engrave crude but illiterate
slogans into the remaining intact paintwork with shards of glass, the
youth loped contentedly in to collect his pint. It had taken no more
than a couple of minutes to write the car off.

"Bloody hell, that was really stupid," Brian sighed as he made his way
back with the fully-laden tray.

"Maybe it's your own fault. It was REALLY stupid of you to come back,"
Dave snarled. "You're insured, ain't you?"

"No, actually," Brian shook his head. "It's not mine."

"Oh, pity. Still, the hire company ain't gonna be too pleased with you,
are they?"

"Well.."

"Oh, you ain't met my lad Rick, have you?" Dave laughed.
"Cheers."

"No," Brian nodded. Nor had he wanted to meet the shaven-headed,
smirking clod who'd just deposited his bat back behind the bar and
downed his lager in one. "This place you run.."

"The 'Elektra'". The car wrecked, Dave felt more relaxed. "Biggest club
round here, biggest business on the estate.." He stopped, his eyes
narrowing. "Hang on, how'd you know.."

"Biggest business on the estate, but not big enough.."

"What you talkin' about?" Dave snapped. "How do you know anything about
what goes on round here?"

"A lot." Brian paused. "You're not exactly the big boss up at the
'Elektra', Ken is. And Ken is a very unhappy bunny lately, what with
the way profits have slipped. I had to bring the matter to his
attention, didn't I?"

"But.."

"That last consignment from Amsterdam.." Brian leaned forward, fixing
his erstwhile tormentor with a piercing gaze. "I brokered that deal,
and checked it personally. I know the street value to the nearest
tenner, and it's not ended up where it should. Anyone might think that
fingers have been dipping into tills."

"You.. you know Ken?" Dave's mouth had dropped open.

"I work for Ken Hughes Entertainment International, yes. And, in a
considerably more important position than you. I've come to deliver
your new instructions from the top, and you'd better act on the
contents pretty damn quick if you want to remain attached to your
kneecaps."

Brian produced a fat envelope from his inside pocket and skimmed it
carelessly across the sticky table. Dave stared at it in disbelief,
afraid to even touch it.

"Oh," Brian said, hauling his brand new, state-of-the-art, phone from
his pocket. "I'll need transport. Oh, your Rick.. he needs a
holiday."

"Eh? He's just been to Florida.."

"That's not far enough," Brian smirked.

"I don't understand.."

"Well," Brian drawled, savouring his new-found superiority. "I wouldn't
like to be in his shoes when Ken finds out what happened to his nice
new motor.."