Martin

Martin

The sight of the two well-built men in dark suits and white shirts rounding the corner some twenty yards in front of him wouldn’t usually worry Martin as he was still big enough to look after himself; he’d done so frequently in his younger days and although he didn’t consider himself a regular fighter anymore, he still remembered the pleasure he got for dropping those that tried it on. No, situations like this just caused his fists to begin to clench slightly and his heart-rate to quicken in excited anticipation of what might happen; violence was always close in Stockwell and Martin had always lived in Stockwell. He was only twenty eight but he’d seen the inside of enough cells and out patients departments for a lifetime; more the former than the latter though, but enough of each to have brought him up in front of the magistrates to try to defend his violent outbursts and, when failing, to warrant two short spells in the nick. It didn’t bother him and his time inside had been easy enough - whatever, they were before he got into the buses. It was all in the past; he’d been a bus driver for the past three and half years and was now a respected member of society.

But these men were different from what he might have expected at this hour; not only did Martin not recognize them (he thought he knew all the white men in Stockwell), they were too smart, too clean, too crisp. No, they weren’t from Stockwell and lacked the sort of menace he might have expected; the sort he’d encountered when the coked out doorman (now the ex doorman) from The Swan - Lennie - had inexplicably smashed his fist into Martin’s face as he left there one evening alone a year previously. Martin had always blamed himself for the depressed fracture of his left cheek that he received as a result of the wild swing; he should have seen it coming; Lennie had been onto him all evening for no reason. He’d got his own back a couple of weeks later, however; waiting until after closing he stood at the end of the subway he knew Lennie used on his walk home, he patiently stood around the corner until he heard Lennie’s whistling. At the last moment before he rounded the corner, Martin stepped out, looked Lennie straight in the eye before knocking him out clean and walking away. Lennie was always respectful after that.

Three o’clock in the morning is always a dangerous time on the streets of south London. The only women about were getting laid and paid, the men were boozed and brawlish and the police, as always, just wanted it all to kick off; nights were boring enough for them and so everyone on the street was, by simple association, trouble. Martin knew all this and over the years had grown to manage his is own barbarism for fear of another stretch - although his excuse that evening was innocence itself; he was just trying to get home after a late ‘afters’ at The Swan and had to work in the morning. No, he didn’t want trouble from anyone tonight, not from these two or the police. Since Dad had died, Mum had gone off her feet and she wouldn’t be able to stand Martin being away again.

“Wait there mate!” The two had paused, standing slightly apart on either side of the narrow pavement as if waiting for Martin to pass between them. The impression of doormen waiting to wish him a pleasant evening as he left a club was heightened by the outstretched hand of the shorter man.
“What?” Martin pushed past, slightly brushing the hand.
“Hey?”
“What?” This time the words were hissed as Martin turned, his face hardening and his hands tightening to hard knots deep inside his pockets – he had to keep his temper until he really needed to let it go, even though he could feel the pressure rising in his head and his breathing getting shallower. As if sensing the impending violence that Martin was capable of dispatching, the taller and slimmer of the two leaned towards Martin, his hands open and unthreateningly down by his sides, and whispered towards his ear.
“Don’t go round there mate - I wouldn’t if I were you.”