Bert looks at me sadly, flicking ash from his sleeve. He explains how Lenny had started at the garage as a diesel mechanic and then taken a pay cut to go on the road. Passengers loved his funny hats and his impromptu songs. When Liverpool beat Real Madrid in the final of the European Cup in 1981, he dyed his hair red and decorated the bus with toilet paper.
Lenny knew about his wife’s indiscretions, according to Bert. She flaunted her infidelity— dressing herself in miniskirts and high heels. Dancing every night at the Empire Ballroom and the Grafton.
Without warning, Bert windmills his arm as though wanting to punch something. His face twists in pain. “He was too soft— soft in the heart, soft in the head. If it were raining soup Lenny would be stuck with a fork in his hand.
“Some women deserve a slap. She took everything… his heart, his house, his boy… Most men would have killed her. Most men weren’t like Lenny. She sucked him dry. Drained his spirit. She spent a hundred quid a month more than he earned. He was working double shifts and doing the housework as well. I used to hear him pleading with her over the phone— ‘Are you staying in tonight, pet?’ She just laughed at him.”
“Why didn’t he leave her?”
He shrugs. “Guess he had a blind spot. Maybe she threatened to take the kid. Lenny wasn’t a wimp. I once seen him throw four hooligans off his bus because they were upsetting the other passengers. He could handle himself, Lenny. He just couldn’t handle her.”
Bert falls silent. For the first time I notice how the bar has filled up and the noise level has risen. The Friday night band is setting up in the corner. People are looking at me; trying to work out what I’m doing. There is no such thing as anonymity when you’re the odd one out.
The red lights have started to sway and the wooden floorboards echo. I’ve been trying to keep up with Bert, drink for drink.
I ask about the accident. Bert explains that Lenny sometimes used the engineering workshop of a weekend to build his inventions. The boss turned a blind eye. The weekend buses were running, but the workshop was empty.
“How much do you know about welding?” Bert asks.
“Not much.”
He pushes his beer aside and picks up two coasters. Then he explains how two pieces of metal are joined together by using concentrated heat. Normally the heat is generated in two ways. An arc welder uses a powerful arc of electricity, with low voltage and high current generating temperatures of 11,000 degrees Fahrenheit. Then you have oxy-fuel welders, where gases such as acetylene or natural gas are mixed with pure oxygen and burned to create a flame that can carve through metal.
“You don’t muck around with this sort of equipment,” he says. “But Lenny was one of the best welders I ever saw in me life. Fellas used to say he could weld two pieces of paper together.
“We always took a lot of precautions in the workshop. All flammable liquids were stored in a separate room from the cutting or welding. We kept combustibles at least thirty-five feet away. We covered the drains and kept fire extinguishers nearby.
“I don’t know what Lenny was building. Some people joked it was a rocket ship to send his ex-wife into outer space. The blast knocked an eight-ton bus onto its side. The acetylene tank blew a hole through the roof. They found it a hundred yards away.
“Lenny finished up near the roller doors. The only part of his body that hadn’t been burned was his chest. They figure he must have been lying down when the fireball engulfed him because that part of his shirt was only slightly singed.
“A couple of the drivers dragged him clear. I still don’t know how they managed it… what with the heat and all. I remember them saying afterward how Lenny’s boots were smoking and his skin had turned to crackling. He was still conscious but he couldn’t speak. He had no lips. I’m glad I didn’t see it. I’d still be having nightmares.” Bert puts his glass down and his chest heaves in a short sigh.
“So it was an accident?”
“That’s what it looked like at first. Everyone figured a spark from the welder had ignited the acetylene tank. There might have been a hole in the hose, or some other fault. Maybe gas had accumulated in the tank he was welding.”
“What do you mean ‘at first’?”
“When they peeled off Lenny’s shirt they found something written on his chest. They say every letter was inch-perfect— but I don’t believe that— not when he was writing upside down and left to right. He used a welding torch to burn the word ‘SORRY’ into his skin. Like I said, he was a man of very few words.”
9
I don’t remember leaving the Tramway. Eight pints and then I lost count. The cold air hit me and I found myself on my hands and knees leaving the contents of my stomach over the broken rubble and cinders of a vacant block.
It seems to be a makeshift car park for the pub. The country-and-western band is still playing. They’re doing a cover of a Willie Nelson song about mothers not letting their children grow up to be cowboys.
As I try to stand something pushes me from behind and I fall into an oily puddle. The four teenagers from the bar are standing over me.
“Ya got any money?” asks the girl.
“Piss off!”
A kick is aimed at my head but misses. Another connects with my abdomen. My bowels slacken and I want to vomit again. I suck in air and try to think.
“Jesus, Baz, you said nobody gets hurt!” says the girl.
“Shut the fuck up! Don’t use names.”
“Fuck you!”
“Leave it out, you two,” argues the one called Ozzie, who is left-handed and drinks rum and cola.
“Don’t you start, dickhead.” Baz stares him down.
Someone takes my wallet out of my jacket.
“Not the cards, just the cash,” says Baz. He’s older— in his early twenties— and has a swastika tattooed on his neck. He lifts me easily and pushes his face close to mine. I smell beer, peanuts and cigarette smoke.
“Hey, listen, toss-bag! You’re not welcome here.”
Shoved backward, I land against a wire fence topped with razor wire. Baz is toe to toe with me. He’s three inches shorter and solid like a barrel. A knife blade gleams in his hand.
“I want my wallet back. If you give it back to me I won’t press charges,” I say.
He laughs at me and mimics my voice. Do I really sound that frightened?
“You followed me from the pub. I saw you in there playing pool. You lost the last game on the black.”
The girl pushes her glasses up her nose. Her fingernails are bitten to the quick.
“What’s he mean, Baz?”
“Shut up! Don’t fucking use my name.” He starts to hit her, but she shoots him a fierce glance. The silence lingers. I don’t feel drunk anymore.
I focus on the girl. “You should have trusted your instincts, Denny.”
She looks at me, wide-eyed. “How do you know my name?”
“You’re Denny and you’re underage— thirteen maybe fourteen. This is Baz, your boyfriend, and these two are Ozzie and Carl…”
“Shut the fuck up!”
Baz shoves me hard against the fence. He can sense he’s losing the initiative.
“Is this what you want, Denny? What’s your mum going to say when the police come looking for you? She thinks you’re staying at a girlfriend’s house, doesn’t she? She doesn’t like you hanging out with Baz. She thinks he’s a loser, a no-hoper.”