Word on the Street: Jonathan Greening

Beep beep. Beep beep.  The alarm had gone off; it was 7 o’clock.  Jonathan Greening rolled over and put a heavy hand on the sleep button.  He stretched and yawned, and then groaned.  Not that time of the morning again.  Not time to go to work again.  He lay where he was for 10 minutes, not moving, trying to adjust his eyes to the July sunlight filtering through the blinds.  The alarm went off again; John rolled out of bed and switched the alarm off.  He grumbled under his breath, and headed downstairs.
         “Morning John,” said his mother as he sat himself at the table.
         “Yep, morning,” he replied, struggling to focus on the cornflakes he was pouring into his bowl.
         “What time do you have work today?” asked his mother.
         “At half 8.”
         “What time do you finish?”
         “Mum, we’ve been through this,” John moaned, “you ask me this near enough every day, and every day I tell you I finish at half bloody 5.”
         His mum looked offended, “well someone got out of the wrong side of the bed this morning.”
         “Don’t wind me up,” John picked up his bowl of cornflakes and went into the living room to watch TV.
         At 8 o’clock, once John had showered and dressed, he left for work.  The walk to work wasn’t that long, but John hated being late, and he especially hated it when other people were late.  As he walked along the road, rucksack slung over his shoulders, he observed the dull, ignorant people going about their lives.  The stereotypical builder popping into the off-licence to get a pack of 20 ‘super kings’, whatever they were, but John knew the term well enough from where he worked.  Two young mums walking down the road, they should probably be in school right about now, John thought to himself, and he didn’t mean the kids.  All in all, John found his little town of Blackham boring and hopeless.
         As he turned the corner on Smith Street, he saw the usual group of young kids walking towards him. Great, now the stereotypical kids want to stereotypically take the piss out of me.
         “Hey look boys, its John Greening,” said the big one with his hoodie up, grinning and laughing to himself like an idiot.
         John felt his stomach churn, “oh look, a talking elephant,” he replied.
         The boy stopped grinning, “what did you just say to me mate?”
         One of his friends, a short boy with spikey blonde hair, pushed John, and another took the baseball cap John was wearing, and threw it into a garden.  All 5 of the boys laughed at John.
         “Look at you mate, 26 years old, still live with your mum,” said the first boy.
         “The only bird you could pull is a seagull mate,” said another.
         They all laughed at him, and John’s chubby, round cheeks flushed red.  He retrieved his hat from the garden and walked off, as the boys shouted ‘loser’ behind him.  Rather flustered, he checked his watch and realised he could now be late for work. I hate those boys, why does God have to put scum like that on this Earth?
         He reached work at 20 past 8, and rushed around making sure he was ready and had reported to his department before he was due to start.  John worked in a small convenience store, mainly behind the counter.
         His supervisor shook his head as he saw him coming in, “of all the people that come in late John, I’m actually a bit more concerned about you, and how eager you are to actually start work every day.”
         John smiled for the first time that day, “you know me Barry, always raring to go, it’s something my mums feeding me.”
         Barry sniggered, “whatever you say, you’re behind the counters again today John.”
         John was working behind the counter with two young teens on part-time hours, and their glum, expressionless faces even made John look slightly content.  The day dragged on though, and by the time half 5 came John felt as if he had been at work for a lifetime rather than 9 hours.
         On his way home, he stopped off at the off-license to get some beers.  No doubt Mum will moan at me again for drinking on weeknights, as ever.  As he approached his house, he saw a boy sitting on his front wall, with his hood up, playing on his phone.
         “Excuse me mate,” said John, “do you mind not lurking outside the front of my house.”
         As his head turned, he realised it was the boy who had caused him trouble that morning, “John,” he said laughing, “don’t think I forgot about you calling me an elephant, do you know who I am?”
         At that moment, his mates came out from behind bushes and cars and began throwing eggs at John’s house.  Each had a large pack, and they made sure they threw them all.
         “What on Earth do you think you’re doing!” shouted John, “I will call the police!”
         The boys merely laughed and ran away.
         “You little shits!” John called after them, not knowing what to say, “don’t forget at your age you’re responsible in the eyes of the law!”
         The boy shouted back, one word, “O’Connor.”
         That evening, John called the local police station and was a little upset with the reply ‘boys will be boys, we’ll keep an eye out for them though’.  A tap on the wrist, what is our law system coming to?

*

         
That night, John slept a stunted sleep, waking in starts and drifting off for small periods.  By the time his alarm went off in the morning, he had barely slept, and felt lethargic.  He went about his normal routine to get ready for work, although surprisingly his mum kept quiet at the table that morning.  One good thing was that it was Friday, and John didn’t work weekends.
         As John walked to work, he saw the same builder, and the same two young mums.  Blackham was a fairly repetitive place.  Unfortunately, he also saw the same gang of kids.
         “Hey, what you have for breakfast this morning John?” said the boy.
         “Eggs on toast?” said another.
         “Eggs benedict?”
         They all laughed, shouting ‘loser’ behind him once again. I have to do something about this, I need to have a think.
         Once again, John’s 9 hour shift dragged, but he did manage to zone out whilst working and have a think about what he would do.  He carried on thinking on the way home, and also when he went to the off-license again to buy another 4 pack to celebrate the end of the week.  He was nearly unsurprised when he bumped into the same kids yet again, in the usual spot.
         “Going home for a couple of beers with your Mum John?” said the big boy.
         “You best give her a call, tell her you’re not far from home,” said another.
         “Beer puts weight on you know John, maybe you should lay off looking at you,” said the big boy.
         By this point John really had had enough.  Reacting to the big boys last comment, and in a state of red mist, he swung the carrier bag with the beers in straight around the side of the boys head.  The boy fell to the floor dramatically, holding the side of his face.
         “Leave me alone!” shouted John.
         “We all saw that, you’re done for John,” said one of the other boys.
         “Just wait until I get my brother on you,” said the big boy.
         The other boys helped him to his feet, and they all ran off.  Typical, when things get messy he can’t handle it, and goes crying to his brother.  Who’s the mummy’s boy now?
         John walked home with his chest puffed out.  However, there was an inkling of self-doubt as to whether he’d now just landed himself in even more trouble.

*

That weekend was a peaceful one in comparison to John’s eventful week.  He did little more than play role playing games online, his favourite hobby.  John had no partner, and enjoyed the freedoms that it entailed.  He wolfed down bags of crisps, chocolate bars and beer as he played, talking and laughing with his friends over his headset.  He played through the night, until his mother finally came up and told him in no friendly terms to ‘quieten down’ in the early hours of the morning.
         By the Sunday evening roast, John was already dreading work the next day.  Most of all, he was worried about seeing the same gang of kids again.  The events of Friday night played through his mind.  Was he being serious when he said about his brother, or was he just calling my bluff?  He distracted himself by playing more games.
         When the alarm went off the next morning, John was tempted to just stay in bed.  Pull a sickie, no one will know.  Maybe if he pulled enough sick days, the boys would forget about him and leave him alone.  But he knew he had no option but to go out and stand up to them like a man.  That would be the only way to get them to leave him alone.
         As he walked to work that morning, he saw the same builder, getting out of his van, going to buy his cigarettes.  At least I’m on time, John thought to himself.  As he continued, sure enough he saw the same two young mums, pushing their kids in prams, chatting and gossiping about their lives.  He approached the corner on Smith Street.  His stomach raged like a storm.  He felt ill, he wanted to turn back.  It was too late.  He had to carry on.  He had to prove that he was bigger than this, better than this dispute.
         He turned the corner.  Nothing.  He almost jumped in delight; he beamed a bright smile to himself: these kids were but no match for him.  He walked to work from then on with a spring in his step.  They were calling my bluff, ‘brother’ indeed.
         Just around the corner from work, John saw a small dog tied up outside an off-license.  He put his hand down to pet it, but it only growled at him.  John pulled his hand away.  It was a small Staffordshire terrier, looking young and fierce, with broad shoulders and long, sharp teeth.  John carried on walking.
         “Oi, you,” John heard as he turned away, “what you doing to my dog?”
         John turned around, and saw a young man dressed in tracksuit bottoms with a polo shirt.  He had a chain around his neck, and his teeth were yellow and decayed from years of smoking.  In truth the man looked gaunt, yet John knew in Blackham this was the sort of man you didn’t want trouble with.
         “Sorry mate,” said John, “just tried to give him a pat on the head, that’s all, I didn’t mean any harm by it.”
         The young man still looked rather displeased, “okay, just leave it in the future yeah.”
         John began to walk away again, when he heard yet another shout, and this one made his stomach turn upside down, “hey, bruv, that’s that John Greening I was on about!”
         John looked over his shoulder to see the big boy standing there, a large bruise on the side of his face and a black eye.  His usual grin was absent, instead he looked very angry.
         “You what,” said the young man, “you John Greening?”
         John said nothing.
         “You best be careful mate,” said the young man, “you give my brother a black eye, and I’ll break your neck.  Watch your back.”
         John gulped.  The big boy and the young man walked away.  John now knew his first fears were true, he had just landed himself in even more trouble.  Even worse, the young man looked rotten, like he had come straight out of the gutter, and wasn’t afraid to put other people into it.  The swing in his step was gone.  The uneasiness had returned.  John knew he should be afraid.

*

         Unfortunately for John, the one day where he wanted work to drag, it didn’t.  It was unusually busy throughout the day, and so his shift flew by as he was constantly occupied and not left to talk to the dull part-time teenagers.  Before he knew it, it was half 5 and he was walking home.
         It was an incredibly hot day: John had changed for the walk home to a rock band t-shirt and cargo shorts.  Still he was sweating, the sun making the air clammy and humid.  All around him people were coming home, eating ice creams and sitting in the shade, too hot for anything more active.
         He was walking down Smith Street and sure enough the boys were waiting at the end of the road, and what was worse the big boy’s brother and a few of his own friends were there too.  His brother wasn’t wearing a t-shirt, and was showing off multiple tribal tattoos covering his upper body.  His dog sat by his heels, panting in the heat.          
         John made to cross the road, but sure enough the brother had already seen him.  He began to cross the road himself with his posse, walking towards John.  He gave the leash for his dog to one of his friends, and walked up to John, shoulders swinging, while his friends lurked in the background.
         “Don’t think I’m a pussy like my brother,” he said to John aggressively, “I don’t need my friends to back me up.  I’ve been to darker places than this.  I served time for 2 years, and nobody had my back in there.  Nobody.”
         John gulped, “what did you do time for?”
         “Robbery,” the brother replied, still maintaining the same facial expression as earlier, “look John, I’ve tried changing my ways since I got out of prison.  But at the end of the day, if someone hurts my family, then I’ve got beef with them.  I don’t care who it is, or in what circumstances, I’ve got beef.”
         John remained quiet, shuffling his feet.
         “You seem a decent enough guy, my little brother is an idiot.  One day he’s going to go to prison too, and then he’ll learn.  I’m going to have to beat you up now John.  It’s nothing personal, except you hit one of my own, and my mother always taught me that family stick together, through thick and thin.”
         John’s stomach turned.
         “If you don’t tell the police, I’ll make sure my brother leaves you alone, for good.  If you do, well I can tell you now there are worse people than me in my family.  If you go to the police, O’Connor will be a name you should fear, bear that in mind John. ”
         John looked into the man’s eyes.  He looked fierce and angry, yet there was something in them that he had not seen in his younger brother.  He looked like he knew something that no one else did.  He looked like he had seen something that no one else had seen.  He looked like he had been to hell and back.
         “But I don’t understand,” said John, “why risk everything for me?  Beat me up, if anyone sees this they could report it themselves.  You could be back in prison.  I can see you don’t want to go back there, why risk it?”
         The man laughed, “the people round here know well enough that to report an O’Connor brother is more trouble than it’s worth.  As soon as they see its Darren O’Connor dishing out the beatings, they close their curtains.”
         “But what if I go to the police?” said John in false courage.
         “Then you’d be a fool,” said Darren, “you’ve already mixed yourself up enough in my world, which is mostly my brothers fault.  Learn this lesson, you mess with an O’Connor, and all the O’Connor’s mess with you.  For you, this ends here, take that opportunity.”
         Darren moved closer to John, pushed him, and then punched him around the head.  John stumbled backwards, his face stinging.  Darren moved swiftly, with jabs and hooks.  John didn’t retaliate.  He fell to the floor, his face a mess.  Darren kicked him in the ribs, and again, and again.  John whimpered in pain.  Darren spat on him, swearing, and walked away.  John’s t-shirt was covered in blood, ruined.  He lay spread out on the floor, aching all over, beaten senseless.
         “It’s over John, go home,” said Darren.
         John somehow got up, and started to limp home.  Darren passed the boys, not looking at them, and walked into his house.  John stumbled past, his face bleeding.  Nobody said a word.