As a miserable November day drew to a close and darkness fell, Thomas Edwards looked out onto the overgrown garden and the street beyond. It was only five pm but already the curtains were closed and the lights were on in the houses opposite. The poorly lit street was devoid of humanity, the only movement being a plastic Netto bag, blown by a skittish wind that danced fitfully past the parked cars that clustered beneath those scattered street lamps that were working. The houses on Atwell Street, like every other house on the estate was locked, barred and bolted, as the inhabitants waited fearfully to see what new horrors the night would bring.
The Gateford Estate had at one time been a nice place to live, a place where neighbours knew each other and children played in clean streets without fear of hurt or harm. But over time things changed, older residents died or moved into residential homes, new families from the housing list moved in and at first all was well. Then, a few years before he retired, the council in their wisdom began to move in problem families, on the misguided basis that they would, by the examples around them, improve their behaviour. That those elected to serve our needs could be so wrong headed as to believe such a thing, when everyone knows that a rotten apple will stay rotten no matter what.
Now, the blasted no-go-area, with its graffitied walls, burnt out cars and boarded up shops that once was an estate, was controlled by a gang of hoodlums. The twenty strong gang ranging in age from seventeen to twenty, was led by the eldest, a sadistic thug known as Ronnie Mac. Mac and his crew spent their days cruising the cities for miles around shoplifting, house breaking, any crime that would make them money, and for fun at night they terrorised the estate. After years of complaining to the council and the police to no avail and seeing the miscreants given a slap on the wrist. The residents finally gave up on reporting the vandalism, beatings and destruction that blighted their lives.
Thomas sighed, took one last look at the deserted street, drew the curtains, checked the doors and popped a liver and bacon ready meal into the oven. He would have his tea, settle into his arm chair, switch on the radio and wait to see what the night would bring. Three hours later, just when he thought they were in for a quiet night, he heard the sirens in the distance and knew they were heading for the estate.
Making his way into the hall, he climbed the stairs in the dark and as soon as he opened the bedroom door he could see the glow in the sky. The fire was two streets away in Clement Street, and while he couldn’t see what was burning, he could picture what was happening. The yobs gathering in the playground - as they did each night - with their cans and bottles of White Lightning, drinking and fooling around for an hour or so, then hitting the streets looking for trouble. A few windows broken, some car headlamps smashed and then finding something to burn. A car, a skip or anything that would make a good blaze would do, and then they would gather stones and waited for their idea of fun to begin.
Even as the fire engine reached the end of the street where the blaze was, they had to reverse back out, as a barrage of stones flew from the shadows to crack the toughened glass of the windscreen. If the fire had been in a skip away from the houses, it would have been left to burn. But the yobs had piled rubbish bags against the front of a house and already the flames were licking up the front door and the brigade needed to prevent the whole of the building catching alight. Luckily the police were already on the way and when they turned up mob-handed, the yobs melted away like snow in the rain, leaving the firemen to put out the blaze.
Thomas learned the details from Bob in the newsagent’s the next morning. Mrs Cecil, who’s house it was, had used the backdoor to escape and gone to her sisters at the other end of the estate and wouldn’t be back even if the council repaired the damage. Since it was safe to walk around though the day - the yobs didn’t get up until lunch time and then headed to the cities in the afternoons - Thomas made a detour down Clement Street to look over the damage. Apart the men who were busy boarding up the damage door, there wasn’t a lot to see, only a blackened area that reached to the upper window.
After returning home Thomas sat in his armchair with his head in his in his hands. He sat there until late into afternoon, thinking about the life he once had, compared to the way that he lived now and decided it was time to change the way things were. Since the authorities had their hands virtually tied by insane laws that seemed to be deliberately slanted in favour of the yobs, he decided to carry out the job on his own. The army, followed by years of working on the buildings had toned his body and despite being sixty-three years old, he still exercised and reckoned he was the fittest he had ever been.
Having made his decision, right or wrong, he checked through his old work gear that he had lain in the cupboard under the stairs for the past three years. Most of what he needed were there, all he required were a two more items and he’d be ready to carry out his plan. The next morning, using his bus pass, he travelled into town, picked up a baseball bat and one of those black ski masks that covered the head and face leaving only the eyes on show. The mask was needed because, unlike the yobs, if he was recognised, the police would lock him up. Unless the gang got to him first and tore him apart like a pack of feral dogs.
He had everything he needed, he knew where they lived and he knew every one of them by sight and by name, so he should, he had watch them for years like a wimp, as they destroyed everything they touched. But no more. Tonight he would begin his campaign to clean up the estate. By the time it was dark he was dress for action; black boiler suit, black socks, a pair heavy black work boots, three jumpers to bulk up his chest and an old donkey jacket. He looked at himself in the hall mirror and gave a wry smile, ’The Man in Black rides again.’ Pulling on the ski mask and a pair of black gloves, he slipped out of the back door, crossed the garden, and stepped into the back lane. He was early but he wanted to be in place before they began to gather.
An hour later as Spud Jones made his way towards the playground he stopped on hearing a sound from the bushes at the side of the path. The sound came again, ‘Psst,’
‘Who’s that?’
‘It’s me, you prat,’
He leaned forward to peer into the bushes, ‘Is that you Rob?’
There was a rustle from the bushes and the air exploded from his lungs as something shot out and rammed him in the stomach. He folded in half, fell to the ground gasping for breath and through the tears saw a dark shape step out from the bushes. At least six foot and built like a bouncer, the figure with the baseball bat definitely wasn’t his mate Rob and proved it by methodically beating him everywhere but his head.
Half an hour later on another path leading to the playground Thomas dealt out the same treatment to Spud’s mate Rob and a week later did the same to three more of them. After that the gang members seemed to realise that someone was out to get them and peace reigned on the estate for a while. But after a trouble free couple of months the slightly reduced gang were on the rampage again and Thomas donned the ski mask once more. This time he hit a thug called Trig and then Ronnie Mac himself, both of them in the one night, and finally the message sunk in.
Thomas didn’t think that the gang members had changed their ways, but their fear of ‘The Man in Black’ had stopped them terrorising the estate and that was enough for him. He consigned the ski mask and the baseball bat to the cupboard under the stairs, and there, he determine, they would stay. That is, unless the thugs came back again.
