Your prison number is given to keep track of your property, files and paperwork. It remains the same even if you move to another prison. It should be written on any letters addressed to you.
I didn't get any post, didn't want any. Who was going to write to me? Declan? Nah, he was busy getting himself fucked up. Word going round was that Dec had developed a taste for downers. Besides, I told him not to visit. Told my mam the same thing. My uncle Kenny told me I'd brought shame on the family. I told him to go fuck himself.
You have a weekly allowance of Ј2.50, Ј10 or Ј15 based on your privilege level. Smoking is not allowed in visits areas. Exercise is thirty minutes to an hour, depending on weather and category.
Rules and regulations, the twenty-three bang-up when a knife went from the kitchen or a tool from the workshop. Locked in and pacing the cell, wanting to look like a jungle cat, but ending up like a stray dog. Afterwards, the spurs shook with aggression. Some lads didn't take to being banged up. Which was fucking unfortunate.
Some lads thrived on the aggro.
A lifer called James Figgis had taken a liking to me. The bloke was an ex-hooligan with a London Intercity firm, said he had links to the severe right-wing extremists, the real bad blood-oath bastards. He followed me about the yard, gobbing in my ear when he talked. The world, run by Jews, the New
World Order dedicated to keeping the Anglo-Saxon down, how the Pakis and wogs and chinks and the rest of those faceless, bloodless East Europeans with their h6llow eyes and sticky fingers were ripping the jobs from the common white man. White was right and there weren't no black in the Union Jack.
He said he'd pegged a guy in Birmingham, a Rasta. Took a double barrel and the guy's kneecaps point blank.
'He screamed like a fuckin' coon,' he said.
That kind of attitude, it's not long before someone takes offence. The someone in question was an Asian guy Figgis took to be a terrorist. His name was Kumar, he was a Muslim, and he worked in the kitchens. One morning in the breakfast line, Figgis went to grab a bowl of Rice Krispies and Kumar threw a pan of boiling water in his face. The Asian watched me, two cons back, as Figgis dropped to the floor, screeching, steam rising off his face like piss on a cold day.
I couldn't take my eyes off Figgis. His hands up around his face, but not touching. Too afraid, his skin scalded, his eyes screwed shut and stinging red. Screaming like a bairn. Like 'a coon'.
A screw grabbed Figgis under the arms and pulled him out of the kitchen while we all looked on. Figgis' legs kicked out, his feet squeaked against the lino. Kumar returned to the back of the kitchen, but he never took his eyes off me. They had a matte finish, just completely black.
I didn't say nowt. Kept my mouth firm.
'Yeah, you better,' Kumar said to me on the spur. 'You better keep it locked, mate.'
His voice was too deep for his frame. It felt like God was speaking to me, some really nasty Old Testament cunt.
There was a bang-up after that. I would have been glad of it
if Kumar hadn't spoken to me. But his voice boomed in my skull.
You will be eligible for community visits after you serve at least three-quarters of your sentence, depending on your Parole Eligibility Date (PED) and your Sentence Expiry Date (SED).
It couldn't come fast enough.
'You can fuck yourself,' said Baz. 'That's what you can do.’
‘That's nice talk, Baz,' I said.
'You chucked a mug of fuckin' tea at us. I were just messing.'
'And so were I.'
I know when you're messing, Mo. And you wasn't mes- sing then.'
'Fuck off and get round here.’
‘Get the bus, nobhead.' I told you once, Baz.’
‘Get Rossie.'
'Get fucked. And get round here.'
I bleeped him off. Fuckin' Baz with a pet lip on 'cause I chucked a mug of tea at him. Fuck's sake, what were the world coming to when a mate couldn't chuck a mug at another mate without all this whiney bitch nonsense. Not like I burned him bad or owt. Fuck's sake, even if I did it'd be an improvement to that face. And the fucker had no right messing with us like that. He weren't the one worried about his fuckin' sister took up with a lad twice her age. It were embarrassing, man. Humiliating. What kind of family was we that'd let that happen?
So there were more to be done than pissing with Baz, know what I mean? I sat on me couch and smoked a ciggie, drank a bottle of Vittel. Did a wrap of speed to break me into the day. Me cheek were back to normal. Nothing scarred this cat.
When Baz rang the buzzer, I went downstairs, got in the passenger seat of his Nova. I laughed at Baz's face: it were bright fuckin' red and blotchy. 'Fuckin' hell, Baz,' I said. 'You want to stay out the sun, mate.'
'Where we going?' he said. He didn't look at us.
'We're going to see Innes.'
'I thought you was done with that.'
'What made you think that, Baz? I weren't finished with that.'
'But the lad — '
'The lad were a fuckin' scally. Bout time someone with some sense took this thing over.’
‘Mo — '
'You gonna shut the fuck up and drive, mate? I know what I'm doing.'
Baz stuck his bottom lip out some more and started the engine. We drove and he didn't say nowt until we was near Salford. Then he said, 'You sure about this?'
'What's not to be sure about, man?'
Your dad'll find out.'
'Me dad won't find nowt out. You think Innes is gonna go crying to him?’
‘He might.'
'Nah, I'll make sure he don't. So how's about you fuckin' button it and keep your eyes on the road.'
I pull away from the club, and I don't feel anything. I drive in silence, head for the motorway on autopilot. Paulo's right. But it's not my decision to make.
Part of me wants to be back inside.
The lockdown was safe. I had books and a Walkman that was so battered nobody bothered to nick it. I could close my eyes in there and pretend I was somewhere else until the lights went out. It was comforting, in a way. Yeah, there was the fear of what could happen on the landings, in the yard. But if I kept my head down and my mind off it, nothing would happen. That's what I believed, anyway.
There's a hold up, traffic backed up all along the M62 outside Hull. If I'd bothered to turn the radio on, I probably would have heard about it. As it stands, I'm stuck behind Corsa with a Baby On Board sign in the back, but no sign of a kid. I stare at the woman driving. Catch her face in her rear view. She doesn't have a kid. Not unless they've found a way to stop the menopause.
Part of me wants to rear end that Corsa. My foot hovers over the accelerator until my ankle cramps.
Paulo nearly beat the shit out of me. He had no right to do that, even if he is a mate. I stood up for him enough times in the past. People giving me shit because I was working for a homosexual. Oh right, like the only way I got out of prison was because he fancied me. Get a grip. Sly innuendo and finger pointing. But the trouble with finger pointing is that someone's bound to snap it off at the knuckle.
And Christ, when did I get so angry?
The Corsa turns off at the next service area, and so do I.
The air smells like exhaust fumes. I step into a cafe, order a fried breakfast. When it comes, it looks like someone's thrown up on my plate and put toast by the side of it. I drink a bad cup of tea (their fault) loaded with sugar (my fault) and wish I could smoke.
My jaw aches where Paulo took a right against it. My tooth still smarts. At least the bruises on my neck feel like they're disappearing.
The knife and fork squeak against the plate like nails on a blackboard, so I don't finish my breakfast. I grab a piece of toast. Halfway through it, I realise I need a piss. When I throw the toast back, there's blood in the butter.
In the gents, I splash water on my face and try to blink back the fatigue. I'm not that far from Newcastle now, I can feel it. My stomach clenches.
Fuckin' coward.
And Tiernan knows it. That's why he's using me. And that's why Paulo let me carry on. The same reason he lets a new kid take their frustrations out on him. Sometimes you can't be told. Sometimes you have to learn it the hard way. That was never going to happen with me on my arse waiting for work.
I had work, and I blew it out. Then again, what was that work? Trawling back alleys for someone daft enough to put Dennis Lang in hospital. And whoever did that had more balls than sense.
Which rules me right out. Thanks for thinking of me though, Donkey.
I walk back out into the cafe, hand over cash to a woman with a face that looks like it's been put together by a four- year-old. Then I'm out in the Grim Up North. I shield my lighter with the inside of my jacket, light an Embassy. This place is Yorkshire Ripper territory. Hindley and Brady. Sales- men, truck drivers and cheapskate families barrelling up and down these motorways every day. It's depressing the fuck out of me.
I never thought I'd say this, but the sooner I'm in New- castle, the better.
We pulled up and Baz were still sulking like a kid. I nabbed one of his ciggies before I got out the car and lit it with me Clipper, hand cupped round the flame. Took a couple lights, but I got the bastard smoking in a bit. Walked to the club doors, checked I had me Stanley in me trackie bottoms. Wouldn't need to use it, most likely, but a gunslinger don't leave the house without his shooting iron. Got a bad taste in me mouth and spat at the wall as I clocked a couple lads standing by the doors. They was lads I used to know from the estate. Used to be sound an' all, but gone the way of most of 'em round here. Fuckin' soft as. When the skinny one didn't move out me way, I gave him a dig. He looked like he wanted to make summat of it, so I gave him a couple seconds. 'You want summat, son?'
His shoulders dropped. 'Nah, mate.'
Mate. Fuck off. I pushed open the doors, got a whiff of the place. Christ, it stank in there. Sweat. Damp. I didn't notice it last time I was here, so they must've had a bunch of people stink the place out in the meantime. They looked like they was still working hard at it an' all. Couple kids in boxing garb in the ring, knocking the shit out of each other. Couple more on a bench. Got the Rocky theme in me head. Did a couple steps from me own repertoire.
And then there were Paulo Gray, come out the back office and headed straight for us. And fuckin' hell, he were ugly. I put me hand in me trackie bottoms, double- checked the Stanley. Aye, I were ready to cut this fuck up if need be.
'Help you, Mo?'
'Where's Innes?' I said.
'He's not here,' said Paulo.
'Fuck d'you mean he's not here? Fuck is he?'
'What d'you want Callum for?'
'Who gives a fuck what I want him for? Where is he?'
'You want to step in the back office, Mo?'
'Is he back there?'
'Aye, son,' said Paulo like I were a fuckin' spaz. 'He's back there. I want a word.'
I followed him. But when we went in the office, I kept the door open. Just in case he tried any of that poof shite on me. I wanted to have witnesses just in case. Paulo leaned against the desk and stared at me. 'What's going on, Mo?'
I jerked me head. 'Nowt to do with you.'
'Then why you round?'
I were after Innes. This is his place.'
'Nah, this is my place.'
'Fuck off,' I said.
'Tell you what I think. I think you should leave and I think you should stay far far away from here.'
'Fuck do you get off talking to me like that?'
I mean it, Mo. I'm giving you fair warning, son.'
'Fuck off. Where's Innes? You tell us where he is and I won't come round no more.'
'How about I don't tell you where he is and you don't come round no more?'
'You taking the piss, son?'
I ain't your son, son. You keep talking to me like that, I might have to persuade you to fuck off,' he said. I don't swing like that.'
Paulo smiled and he got away from the desk. Then I felt the fuckin' world choke out with a bang. Next thing I knew, the door were slammed shut and he had me up against the fuckin' wall. Hand on me fuckin' neck, thumb in me Adam's apple, like. I started on at him, but I couldn't get the breath to say owt.
If I wanted you as my fuck-puppet, Mo, you'd be toothless right now.'
I jerked at that. Nah, mate. No fuckin' way.
He held me tight and me heart started battering at me ribs.
'Don't worry yourself, Mo. You're not my type.'
I screwed me face up. Bout the only thing I could do to tell him to fuck right off. Struggled with me right hand, tried to get it into me pocket where I knew the Stanley waited.
'Cal's a good lad,' said Paulo. 'And you got the talent of everything you touch, it turns to shite. He's doing this thing right now because he thinks he has to. Don't get it into your head that he wants to do it, because I know for a fact he fuckin' doesn't.'
I shifted under his hand, felt me teeth grind together. If I could've got gob in me mouth, I would've spat at the cunt. Me fingers near the Stanley now. He caught summat in me face, though. I'd grabbed the Stanley when I heard this muffled crack and then this fuckin' agony in me hand. Paulo let us go and I dropped to the floor.
Looked up and there he were with me Stanley in his hand, staring at it like he'd found it up his arse. And he'd broke me fuckin' finger an' all, I were sure of it. I looked down and saw me first finger lean to one side. It weren't supposed to do that. Plenty of water in me eyes, but a throat that were dry as fuck.
Paulo chucked the Stanley at me. I got out the way. It clattered on the floor.
'Go on then,' he said. 'Pick it up. Billy fuckin' Big Bollocks.'
I looked at the Stanley. It shone. Looked back at Paulo. He were a big fucker for his age, like. And faster than I reckoned him.
'C'mon,' he said. 'You want to be the big man, you try coming at me.'
And if it'd been me, man, I would've told it loud and proud. But him, he were just standing there and talking dead quiet. Relaxed on the outside, but he had proper mental eyes, summat I'd never seen in him before. I cradled me hand and got up off me knees. 'You're fuckin' dead.'
'Aye, son? That right? C'mon, then.'
I shook me head. 'Nah, not now.'
"Why not now? Fuck's the matter with you? You can't take a sprained finger? Who's the fuckin' poof now?' He took a step forward; I took one towards the door.
'You're dead.'
'Keep saying it, son. One day it'll come true.’
‘You're fuckin' dead.'
And I left the Stanley on the floor, pelted it out the club and made it back to Baz.
'What happened to you?' he said as I got in the Nova. 'Nowt,' I said. 'Just start the fuckin' car.'
When I hit the edge of the city, concrete blocks looming across a sickly-looking sky, I turn off The Chemical Brothers.
Down by the Quayside, I find a parking space and book myself into a Travel Inn. The place is right in the middle of development. On one side, new office buildings, all glinting glass and virgin sandstone. On the other, council flats. Somewhere it feels like a line's been drawn, and neither party is going to cross it without a damned good reason.
'Would that be a smoking room?' says the receptionist.
I take a drag on an Embassy. 'Take a wild guess, love.'
The casinos don't open for another hour so I spend my time staring at the ceiling of my room. A quick scan of the Yellow Pages, and I only find two casinos in Newcastle. The city is behind the times. Manchester's got at least six legit clubs. But I'm glad. Two casinos are easier to canvass. That's if Rob Stokes is even up here.
I open the desk drawer, find a Gideon Bible and slam it closed again. Pull myself off the bed and wander through to the bathroom. I've nothing better to do, so I have my second shower of the day. It feels like I'm being beaten up, but after a while I can feel the knots in my shoulder melt. Towel off and have to use both sachets of coffee to get a decent cup. Then I reach for my mobile and check for messages. Declan's is still on there, so I give him a ring. 'How you doing, bruv?'
'I'm good,' he says.
'Where are you?'
'I'm in the pub. I just got out of a meeting.'
Oh, that's just fantastic. A guy goes to an Outreach programme, then nips to the pub afterwards. Mind you, I can't blame him. Anything that good for you has got to give you a thirst. 'You're doing okay, then.'
'Yeah, I'm doing fine,' he says.
'How's Mam?'
'She says for you to call her.'
I will when I can.'
'You said that last time.'
'I've got nothing to talk to her about, man.'
'Doesn't matter. She's your mam. She deserves a call every now and then. You still working for Paulo?'
'You still clean?' I say, then pause. 'Yeah, I'm still working for Paulo.'
'Can you throw a punch yet?'
'I'm trying, bruv. But I'm a lover, not a fighter.'
'Huh. When you coming up?'
'As soon as I can, mate. I'm stuck in Newcastle right now, but I'll try to get up for Christmas or New Year or something, okay?'
'What you doing in Newcastle?'
'Working,' I say. 'Look, I've got to go. Stuff to do. I'll give you a call at the end of the month, we'll sort out a session, okay?'
'Aye, alright,' he says.
'Take care.’
‘You too.'
I ring off and stare at the mobile. It's hard talking to my brother. In fact, it's a fucking chore at times. My whole family's like that. We'd rather skirt around the issue than have it out head-to-head. It took me a stretch inside to face up to Dec. After all, he was my older brother. I remember him beating the crap out of me on a regular basis and even when I did floor him, he had the ability to make me feel guilty as fuck about it.
We'll see what Christmas brings. A good bevvy and maybe we'll be okay.
Right now, though, I've got more important things to do. Newcastle's casinos are open for business.
'I'm sorry, sir, but I can't give out that information.'
'Okay, well, I was just asking. He's a mate of mine.'
'I understand that, but I'm afraid I still can't help you.'
'That's fine,' I say. 'Two o'clock tomorrow, then?'
'We'll see you then,' says a smiley female voice. A blonde voice.
I hang up.
Gaming regulations are gaming regulations, and they mean the casino staff can't tell me if Rob or Robin or Robert Stokes is a member. They also can't let me just swing by, not until after the twenty-four hour cooling off period. Christ, it's not as if I'm trying to buy a gun. But I joined up over the phone anyway. Both places. All they ask is that I bring identification when I come in tomorrow.
Which I told them was fine. I root through my wallet for my driving licence and dump the rest of my accrued crap into the bin, slot the driving licence back into a prime place. My wallet's still plump with cash, but otherwise it looks sparse. If I was found dead, they wouldn't get much information.
Twenty-four hours. I look around the room. Bland. The travelling man's lot: dull furniture, a portable telly and a plastic kettle. Porn on pay-per-view and five channels with bad reception, sachets of coffee and tea, hot chocolate if you're lucky.
I need to get out of here. And I need a drink.
At reception, I ask a girl with braids in her hair if there's a pub nearby. She looks at me with a smile in her eyes. 'You're on the Quayside, Mr Innes. It's all pubs down here.'
Huh. Maybe Newcastle's not the shithole I was led to believe. She gives me directions and I follow them to the letter.
You can tell a lot about a place by its pubs. Judging from the stretch along the Quayside, Newcastle's desperate to please. It's just like Withy Grove, but pulled taut and facing onto a rolling brown river. Looks like I'm coming out on the tail end of the lunch hour. I pass suits and skirts; a couple of young guys in the similar colour tie-shirt combo are talking loudly about how crap their jobs are.
Tell me about it, fellas. At least I don't have to dress up.
The first place I come to, The Pitcher & Piano, looks too expensive. I give it a glance, but when I realise the piano isn't real and the clientele look like twats, I move on. That's the trouble with this place. The bars are like those that have cropped up in Manchester. Ball-less, soul-less, all glass coffee tables, animal print sofas and bottled beers. Jukeboxes play- ing Joss Stone and cocktails with 'ironic' names. Wine bars for the noughties.
Fifteen minutes of walking, and I finally find a pub. Inside, the place is decorated with black-and-white pictures of famous Geordies. I only recognise some of them, and that's mostly because they look like stills from Get Carter and The Likely Lads. At the bar, they've got a few lagers on tap, which is a good start. I order a Stella and it comes without fuss. The price isn't too bad, either. I settle at a table and watch the pub. A guy in a suit is eating a burger and managing to get most of it on his tie. When he catches me staring, I turn away and light up. There's nothing like flicking ash into a pristine ashtray.
My stomach growls, but I'm not about to chance pub grub. I don't think I've got the constitution for it.
But I'm calmer now. This place isn't exactly heaven, but it's better than Manchester. For the moment, at least.
'Anyone sitting here?'
I look up. She's a brunette, looks a little rough around the edges. Like that drunk bird from Will and Grace. And from the way she's handling the chair, it looks like she's already had a few today. She's smiling and that's about all I can see. That, and a stunner with a good few years on me.
Course, it could be the drink talking.
'Nah, y'alright,' I say. Thinking she'll just pull the chair away somewhere else.
She sits down and places her drink on the table. 'You okay?'
'Yeah, fine,' I say. 'Couldn't be better.'
'Funny that.'
'Yeah?'
'Because you look like someone pissed on your chips.' A mouth on this one. I smile, say, 'I don't have any chips to ruin.'
'Aw,' she says. 'Tell you what, I'll buy you a drink.'
'Why?'
'You don't look like the kind of guy who'd ask that.' Known me five seconds and she's already got me pegged. 'I'm getting drunk,' she announces after she comes back with the drinks, a couple of chasers lined up. 'Looks like you already are.’
‘Are what?’
‘Drunk.’
‘Are you?’
‘Not me. You.'
'You got drunk fast,' she says.
I'm not. Why're you getting drunk?'
'Because I hate my job.' She crosses her legs and pulls her skirt over her knees.
'Everyone hates their job. That's why it's called a job.'
'Oh, you're funny,' she says, deadpan. She drinks, then: 'I've decided. I'm going to take a half-day.'
'It's already three.'
'A quarter-day. Whatever. I didn't go back after lunch. You up for getting sloshed?'
'You don't know me,' I say. I could be anyone.’
‘Yeah, you could be a murderer. What's your sign?’
‘Leo.'
She breaks into a beaming smile, shows fantastic teeth. 'You actually know your sign. Jesus, I was joking. What's your name?'
'Cal.'
'Like the Helen Mirren movie.’
‘Can't say I saw it.'
'You didn't miss much. Love story set in Ireland. She's the widow of a murdered Proddy copper, he's skirting about with the IRA. I'm Donna.'
'Pleased to meet you. So what's so bad about your job?'
She sighs dramatically. 'I'm a PA for a director of a PR company. It's all initials to make a job sound more impor- tant. What do you do?'
'I'm a PL'
Donna laughs. 'So we're in the same boat. What does PI stand for, anyway?’
‘Private investigator.'
'That kind of PI? Fuckin' hell, I thought you meant personal injury. I was about to say, you don't look like a lawyer, like. Wow.' She seems genuinely impressed. But then, she's slurring. 'So you're like a two-fisted kinda guy, right?
You do the cheating spouses, fraud claims? You solve the murders?'
'The first two sometimes. The police solve murders.'
'Sometimes. I heard there was this gadgie, they slit his throat and dumped him on the beach at Tynemouth. They never solved that one. But a PI, wow. How'd you get into that racket? That's the right lingo, isn't it? Racket?'
'I sort of fell into it. Did favours for a few people, they paid me for it. I discovered I had a knack for it. Not something I can explain. And yeah, your lingo's spot on.'
'Cool. You don't look like a private dick.'
'What am I supposed to look like?'
She thinks, then opens her hands and says, 'Mickey Spillane.'
'You know what Mickey Spillane looks like?’
‘Alright, Humphrey Bogart.’
‘Well, I'm sorry to disappoint you.’
‘I didn't say I was disappointed. So what you working on, Shamus?'
I shake my head. Too much for polite conversation, no matter how much the drink seems to be flowing. 'Nothing,' I say.
'Unemployed, eh? Looks like I'll be getting the drinks in, then.'
'You don't have to do that,' I say.
'I'm a modern woman, Cal. I can do whatever the fuck I want.'
And as we tan those chasers, I don't doubt it.
Came out Accident & Emergency with a splint on me finger. Doctor said it weren't broke, like, but what did that cunt know? It felt broke. And I were boiling over with things I'd do to Paulo given half the chance. The look on me face were enough to get the doctor rushing me through. And the bastard didn't prescribe any painkillers, either. Fucker.
Baz were outside in his Nova. He didn't want to come in; the lad had issues with hospitals. Said his mam died in one. When I got in the car, he said, 'Y'alright?'
I held up me splint. 'Do I look alright?'
Baz nodded to himself, started the engine. 'Where you want to go?'
'Pub,' I said. 'We got business to discuss.'
'What business?' said Baz.
'Alison.'
Baz sighed. 'Why you always got to go on about that, man? Christ, look at you: your finger's broke.’
‘It's sprained.'
'You got X-rays. It's broke.'
'It's sprained. And I'm gonna fuckin' kill that Paulo.'
'Leave it, Mo. He's not worth it.'
'What do you know who's worth it? I'll do the cunt.'
I knew I were a daft bastard for going round the club, but what else could I do? Summat had to be done. Summat had to be said. I had to tell me dad that I weren't fuckin' happy with
this situation, not one fuckin' bit. And going round the club were the best way of doing it. You tell us not to interfere, Dad, here's what I think of that. Fuck yourself.
Course, the whizz helped matters, gave us that extra touch of rock'n'roll. Trouble was it got snapped out of us when Paulo did his fuckin' finger trick.
I stared out the window. Fuck it. Reached in me trackie bottoms and pulled out me mobile. Realised I couldn't dial worth shit so I chucked it at Baz. He nearly lost control of the car.
'What's this?' he said.
'Call Rossie. We got to get a plan B.'
'You call him.'
I held up me finger. 'You been in a fuckin' coma, Baz? How'm I supposed to press buttons with this?'
'Aye, alright,' he said. 'Jesus.' He searched for Rossie's number on me mobile, one eye on the road.
And I started working on that Plan B.
At seven, Donna gets the bright idea to call a cab and pick up a bottle on the way back to her place. I try to put up a gentlemanly fight, but the booze has taken hold. She wants company, and if I get to thinking about it, so do I. So we keep each other upright and take the taxi. It's already dark by the time we get through the front door. The place smells like lavender. I feel my eyelids getting heavy.
I trip over a cat in her living room, end up on the couch. I think it's a cat, anyway. Could be a child or a midget. Whatever it is, it barrels out into the hall with a screech. Donna starts laughing. It's a great sound, and infectious. 'Stella doesn't like you,' she says.
'Stella?'
'The cat.'
So it was a cat. 'Why'd you call your cat Stella?'
She comes into the living room, screws up her face and puts on a bloke's voice. 'Stelllllllllla… Hey, Stellllllllllaaaaaa…'
'Rocky?'
'Streetcar Named Desire, you prole,' she says and returns to the kitchen. 'Or Seinfeld, whatever you prefer.’
‘I think I'm pissed,' I say.
There's a clatter from the kitchen. 'Yeah, well, Mr Innes. I believe I'm in a similar state.' The sound of ice in glasses, and she emerges with a bottle of Glenfiddich and two tumblers.
She sets one of them on the coffee table in front of me and sways as she makes her way over to a chair. I gaze at the glass, watching her splash the single malt.
'The good stuff,' I say.
'I save the crap for special occasions.'
'You know how to make a guy feel wanted.'
'Chin chin,' she says, and sips from her glass.
'Cheers.'
We drink in silence. I look around her flat. Lots of books. Lots of CDs. Church candles skewered in wrought iron candlesticks. The place looks like an Ikea showroom. When I look at her, I notice she's staring at me. 'What?' I say.
'You look lonely,' she says.
I always look lonely,' I say. 'The wind changed.'
'And you stayed like that.'
'Exactly'
'I think I jacked in my job today,' she says. 'Really?'
I should have gone back to work after lunch. If I'd had any sense, I would have gone back to work.’
‘Tell them you were sick.'
'I've been sick a lot recently' She picks out an ice cube and sucks on it, then drops it back in her glass. I hate my job.’
‘Get another one.'
I might have to. You need a secretary?' I can't pay you.'
'Cheap bastard.' She smiles. She has really great teeth. American teeth. She stretches in the chair and then shifts position, throwing her legs up over the arm and tugs at the hem of her skirt. I try not to look. 'I don't think I could be a secretary, anyway,' she says. 'Too close to being a PA. Besides, my shorthand stinks.'
'So what do you want to do with your life?' I say.
'I don't know. I suppose I could be a lady of leisure.’
‘That's not a career.'
'It's a vocation.' She knocks back the rest of her Glenfiddich and pours another. 'See?’
‘Yeah, I see. Very leisurely.'
Donna pulls herself up in the chair, narrows her eyes at me. 'You don't like me, do you?’
‘Don't know what you mean.’
‘I mean, you haven't tried anything.’
‘You what?'
She gets up with some effort, walks over to me and sits on the couch. 'I mean, you haven't tried chatting me up.'
'You want me to chat you up?'
'Ach, you're right. We're probably past that stage now.’
‘I think you're probably right,' I say, shifting in my seat. 'I should go back to my hotel, really.’
‘Hotel? You're staying in a hotel?’
‘Yeah.'
'You're not from Newcastle. I knew that, but I thought you lived up here. Why're you staying in a hotel?’
‘I'm up here on business,' I say. 'So you are working. You owe me drinks, pal.’
‘Kind of. It's too complicated to explain.’
‘I've got all night.'
We sit in silence. She pours me another drink. It glugs into the glass, a heavy measure. Too heavy for me, but I give it my best shot. After a few drinks, I'm sitting back in the couch and we're both listening to John Lee Hooker.
My eyes start closing. Then I say, 'I can't stay, y'know. Things to do tomorrow.'
'You don't have to,' she says. She's leaning against me, has her hand on the inside of my thigh. It hasn't moved for three songs and I haven't had the heart to remove it. In a way, it's comforting. In another, it ties my stomach into a half-hitch.
I should call a cab,' I say as the song finishes.
'Be my guest,' she says.
Donna follows me downstairs when the taxi arrives. I turn to talk to her, and she snakes her arms around my waist. The alcohol on her breath makes me lazy.
'You've got my number,' she says. 'You call me, okay?'
'I'll call you.'
'Course you will. You love me.'
I blink. If there's a reply to that statement that doesn't make me look like a soppy get or a complete shithead, I don't know what it is. So I keep my mouth shut. She reaches up, plants a smacker on my cheek, another on my bottom lip. 'Don't think so much, Cal.'
She has the clearest blue eyes I've ever seen. Maybe it's the booze, but I'm transfixed. She shakes me gently. 'Taxi's waiting. And from the look of him, he's already flipped the meter.'
'Course. Sorry. Look, I will call you, okay?' I know. And look, I'm glad you're a gentleman. I think I have a yeast infection.' Who says romance is dead?
I get in the cab and she watches from her door as the car pulls away. Then the whole weight of the night's drinking comes crashing down on me. I give my head a shake and wipe my nose.
How's that, Cal?
Things could have been different back there. She wanted me to stay the night, and not in a slumber party sense. It wasn't as if I'm not attracted to her.
No, that's not it. I was being a gentleman. Let's face it, she was drunk. I'm drunk. And brewer's droop is a real mood-killer.
And telling her I was a PI, for fuck's sake, what brought that on? Who the hell was I trying to impress? Private investigators have steel in their pocket and iron in their spit. Me, I've got shit in my pants and blood in my mouth. Maybe if I'd met her a couple of months down the line, when I was more settled. It could have worked then.
'Don't think so much, Cal'
When I get back to the hotel, I head straight for my room. As straight as I can, anyway — my legs are intent on following separate paths. I lock the door behind me, turn on the television. The volume makes my head hurt, so I tap the remote until all I hear is a murmur. Then I grab my mobile out of my inside pocket and sling my jacket onto the bed.
I need to harden up.
'Who's this?' says Mo.
'It's Cal,' I say.
'Cal?' He's shouting into the phone. From the noise in the background, I'd swear he was in a pub. 'Callum Innes, Mo. You know me.’
‘Right. Where are you?’
‘Newcastle.'
'Fuck you doing in Newcastle?’
‘Stokes is here.'
'Fuckin' hell, you are a detective, ain't you? Wait, I'll get summat to write this down.’
‘I don't have an address yet.’
‘Then why you calling me?’
‘I need to negotiate a fee.'
Mo laughs, a high-pitched cackle. 'You're taking the piss, mate. You already negotiated your fee with me dad.’
‘The case has changed.'
'The case! Fuck are you on, Innes? The case isn't a fuckin' case. You're up there to find the cunt. There's no fuckin' mystery to it. You're not out to nail Colonel Mustard because he topped some daft bastard in the conservatory with the fuckin' candlestick. You're up there to scout, you're up there to find a fuckin' thief, so don't go getting ideas above your station, mate.'
Okay, so this was a bad idea, but I plough on. 'You seem to forget, Mo. I'm straight. And when I find this guy, give you the address, you'll come up here and fuck him over. That makes me an accessory. He'll be able to identify me. And while you might be able to get out of a fuckin' sentence because some weak cunt keeps his mouth shut, I don't have that much sway, do I?'
'What d'you want me to tell you? You knew what this were about.'
I want more money.'
There's a pause at the other end. 'You're drunk.’
‘Expenses, Mo.'
'You're fuckin' drunk. I knew it. I told Dad, don't hire a pisshead. Christ.'
I give it up here, Mo.'
'Don't think you're threatening us, Innes. Get bolshy with me and I'll nail you to the fuckin' floor. Tell you what, I'll be the gentleman and think you're just pissed out of your tiny little mind. I'll put it down to the booze and I won't bear a grudge. Now get back under your rock and don't call us until you got an address.'
Click, and he's gone.
I sit on the edge of the bed. Look across at the telly. It's Bogart and Lorre in fuzzy black-and-white.
Bogie says, 'When you're slapped, you'll take it and like it.'
Never a truer word, but it doesn't stop that slap from hurting.
I grabbed Rossie round the back of his baldy ginger head and shouted in his ear: 'We's in business, muckaaaa.' Rossie struggled, said, 'Fuck off.'
I slapped his bald spot. 'Language, Timothy. Get us a brandy, muh man. I'm celebrating.'
Rossie went off to the bar and I slumped into me seat, grinned at Baz. He were rolling a fat stick. Had to hand it to him, he were a fuckin' craftsman when it came to rolling. He smoothed the edges and lit it with his Clipper. The big lad puffed hard, the smell of singed eyebrows and fine Northern Lights high in the air. When Rossie came back from the bar, he looked at Baz like the big lad had just farted loud and smelly.
I downed me brandy and banged me glass on the table. 'I call this meeting to order. Who's up for a fuckin' trip?’
‘Nah, me head's halfway to the shed already, Mo.’
‘Innes. He's gone to Newcastle.'
' Ya gan doon toon,' said Baz. Then he laughed. He sounded like a proper cunt when he laughed; looked like one too.
'You want to go to Newcastle,' said Rossie. He were squinting at us.
'I can't go anywhere. Me dad's got us locked down. And I can't trust Darren fuckin' Walker, can I? Nah, youse two are going to Newcastle. You're gonna keep an eye on the cunt.'
'I don't wanna gan tee Nyow-cassil,' said Baz.
'You got the accent down, Baz,' I said. 'Aye, but — '
'You're going to Newcastle.' I didn't want to hear a fuckin' argument.
'How comes your dad's got you locked down, Mo?' said Rossie. 'You're a grown bloke. You can do owt you want.'
'Aye, but not about this. I need to keep the old man sweet as, else he'll put the kibosh on it.'
'Fuck off the kibosh,' said Baz. His eyes had gone webbed and dark. Fucker was mashed already. 'You want to go to Newcastle, you go your fuckin' self, know what I mean?'
Rossie looked down at the table. Looked right through it.
I stared at Baz until he stopped drawing on the stick. The fucker knew he was in the shite, like. I were going to say summat, but this bloke in a Pringle jumper came over before I got the chance. 'Sorry, lads. Can't do that in here.'
I turned the stare on the Pringle. He had a gold chain around his neck. Hair poked through the links.
'You what?' I said.
'Your mate there. I can't have him smoking that in here.' I frowned. 'You tooting rocks in there, Baz?’
‘Nah, man. Just resin.'
'It's just fuckin' resin,' I said to the Pringle. He weren't happy about this. He were red in the throat, like he'd got burnt.
'It's still illegal,' he said. And if he were sure of anything, it were that little fuckin' nugget of information. 'Give it time.’
‘It's illegal now,' he said.
Baz looked at his spliff like he were shocked to learn that. I had to keep me blood cold to stop from smiling. So I pretended like I were thinking it over, what the Pringle had said. But what I were really thinking about were that five seconds ago I were ready to put me boot in Baz's ringpiece, and now this twat in the sweater were giving us reason to leather the fuck out of him. Choices, fuckin' choices. And just like a pair of cunts to spoil what were turning into a good night. When I'd made up me mind, I said to the Pringle: 'Where's your respect, man?’
‘You what?' he said.
'I said, where's your respect? You come over here, I'm in the middle of a conversation with a couple mates of mine, you don't give a fuck, where's your fuckin' respect?'
The Pringle got balls then. I saw him glance at me finger. Reckoned I weren't much of a threat, obviously. 'He puts that out, or I put you out.'
'Ah, you're threatening now,' I said. 'You're fuckin' threa- tening us.' I kicked me chair back and it crashed to the floor. I were on me feet, in the cunt's face. 'What's your fuckin' problem, you have to come round here starting shit?'
'Put it out,' the Pringle said to Baz. But his voice were wavering.
'You put us out, nobhead,' I said.
'You want to get nicked?'
'You want to get fuckin' cut?'
I reached for me Stanley, then remembered where I'd left it. Felt me heart skip. But it didn't show in me face. Rossie were getting up slow and quiet.
'Maureen, call the police.'
Baz grinned through the sweet smoke, set his spliff down in the ashtray. He reached into his jacket like he were reaching for his wallet, ticked out the blade of his Stanley and slapped the knife hard on the table. 'Fuck off out of it,' he said.
'Maureen — '
Rossie took his pint and broke it over the Pringle's head before he could shout double-knit. The Pringle swayed, but I
went at the cunt's gut before he got his feet. And there weren't a bastard in the place ready to jump for his love. The Pringle hit the floor, brought the table down with him. Rossie lashed at him with his butterfly. The blade cut slight, but the Pringle rolled like he'd been shot. Baz sucked his gut and made it round in time for the Pringle to sway up to his knees. When the Pringle opened his eyes, he had to blink from the light bouncing off Baz's Stanley blade.
I dusted meself down, wiped me nose. 'Cut his fuckin' eyeballs open.'
'Wait a sec,' said the Pringle. And his bladder emptied out onto the carpet. I loved that smell of piss in the air. Smelled like… victory.
'You know me,' I said. 'You know me now.'
Blood ran down the Pringle's face. Glass in his head shone like stars.
'Aye you know me, son.' I pointed at him with me finger- splint. 'I'm Mo Tiernan. And I'll have you buried in less time it takes to have a dump.'
It were fuckin' good to be me sometimes.
There's nothing as bright and painful as the morning after sunlight.
The walk to Central Station, and the casino near it, is a long one. My legs aren't happy about it, and neither's my stomach. But I pop into a cafe on the way, sit down with a cup of coffee and a bacon buttie. Smoke a few cigarettes. The owner, a camp guy with a Greek accent, welcomes me with a smile, but as soon as he smells the drink on me, he buttons up.
I don't want small talk. Just food.
The bacon is almost burnt, but I like it that way. The coffee is black and sugared. I drink it slowly and rub my eyes. I shouldn't drink so much. Or I should stay away from the spirits.
The drink-shakes private dick, a walking, talking cliche. I should be shot for crimes against reality. But instead I'm stuck looking for a dealer who may be somewhere in this city. Or I may be chasing up a lead from a Jilted John who'd tell me anything to stop Morris Tiernan coming after him.
I dump my Embassy, push away from the table. Stop your whining and get to work, Cal.
The place on St James Boulevard is new by the looks of it, purpose-built. It looks like a tombstone in a sea of concrete. I arrive at reception, all plate glass and plastic ferns. If they're going for the classy look, they've failed. Mostly because the girl behind the counter has yellow teeth and dead eyes. She smiles at me with her mouth only and it's an ugly sight.
'My name's Callum Innes. I called yesterday.'
She asks for ID and I hand it over. After a quick scan, she gets me to fill out a membership form. I lie about everything apart from my name. She gives me a card which I tuck in my back pocket, and I catch the smile slip from her face as she reaches under the desk. Probably caught the whiff of drink on my breath. Or vomit. Maybe just the stench of failure. You would have thought she'd be used to it by now. Besides, it's better than whatever Avon shite she bathed in this morning. A low buzz as the double doors unlock, and I push through into the casino.
The place is a space-age warehouse. Tables stretch back as far as I can see, most of them unmanned. The room is airy to the point of goose pimples. Looks like only three tables are open: one roulette, one blackjack, one poker. At the card tables, the blackjack dealer stares off into space, the poker dealer has something in his nose. An inspector stands between them.
If Rob Stokes comes in here, it's not during the day.
I head to the bar, order a pint and take a seat on a stool that threatens to examine my prostate. Looking over at the roulette table, I can make out an elderly couple playing the outside bets. Red or black, even money, but it means the dealer has to spin up for the sake of a fiver. He clears it; they'll get it back on the next spin. It's dull to watch. I can't imagine how dull it must be to play.
Sip my pint, light a cigarette. The hangover's gone into a slight remission; the beer takes effect but the Embassy turns my stomach if I inhale too deeply. The guy behind the bar wears a blue shirt with forced pleats down the front and a cock-eyed name badge that reads 'George'.
'How you doing, George?'
He bristles at his name. One of the many people who hate the informality of the service industry. 'Fine,' he says.
'How long you been working here?’
‘A while. Couple of years.’
‘Huh. You know many of the punters?' George's left eye closes halfway. He's either trying to work me out, or it's a nervous thing. 'Some of them,' he says. 'How well?'
'We're not allowed to fraternise.’
‘I know the dealers aren't.’
‘Nobody is. It's a security risk.'
'Right.' I drink from my pint. 'No, I get it. You have friends who aren't in the business, you're a criminal, am I right?’
‘Something like that.'
'Yeah, I know all about that,' I say. Shake my head and watch the old couple at the roulette table. 'Listen, you know your punters by name?'
'Some of them.'
'Rob Stokes ring a bell?'
'What's he look like?'
'A bloke. Salt and pepper hair. Tall. Bad attitude. A chip- chaser.'
'Mate, you just described ninety percent of the blokes we get in here.'
I finish my pint, order another. 'Take one for yourself.’
‘So how much does this Stokes guy owe you?' says George. 'Owe me? Nowt. He's a mate. I heard he came in here. Why?'
'You're not police,' he says. 'Nah, I'm not police — '
'And you're not a mate of his. Otherwise you wouldn't be asking questions.'
'Maybe I just lost his number. You have it?'
'I don't know who you're talking about,' he says. Smiling like he's really enjoying this. And he knows the guy, I can feel
it. I dig out a business card — one of those I got done at my local Shell — and bang my mobile number on the back with a wee bookie pen.
'Tell you what,' I say. 'If anything springs to mind, or your memory comes back, you give me a ring, okay?'
He looks at the card and the smile turns upside down. 'You're a private detective.'
'Investigator,' I say.
'What's the difference?'
'A private detective solves the case. A private investigator just looks into it. I'm not the type to gather suspects in the drawing room. I'm the poor bastard who follows cheating husbands, wives, runaways. I'm the one sitting in the car with fuck all else to do. And I'm the one who'll slip you a wad if you can point the finger, George.'
He blinks. 'You practise that speech in the mirror?'
'Twice a day. But the deal stands.' I down half the pint and leave the glass on the bar. 'You see him, let me know. I'll make it worth your while.'
'I'm not daft, Mr Innes.'
'Good lad,' I say. 'Make sure you stay that way.'
And I leave. Glad I got something out of him, even though I'm not sure what it is. A feeling, but sometimes that's all it takes. Most of all, though, I'm glad I could leave that pint unfinished. No self-respecting alkie would let that happen.
Which makes me one step on the road to normal.
So I had to go with them. No skin off my cock. They wouldn't go up without us, the born fuckin' leader that I were. So I said alright, what the fuck. I could keep Dad off me back for as long as it took. And I knew I wouldn't be able to keep meself from going mental if I'd stayed down here. Call me a control freak.
Standing outside this garage in Moss Side, and Baz were with us. Rossie were inside talking to this lad with a swallow tattoo on his neck. He looked like a proper hard cunt, like. I wished I had him with us instead of Baz, who were griping again.
'Why we got to be here, man? What's the matter with my car?'
'Your car's a fuckin' shitheap, Baz. Couldn't make it to Chester in your car. Besides, it's too suspicious. It looks like a gangster's vehicle.'
Baz looked a bit happier at that. Like he were the real deal. Like fuck he were.
Rossie came out the garage. 'Jimmy says he's got a Bedford we can use.'
'How much?' I said.
'Nowt. Just a favour for a mate.'
'You're kidding.'
'Nah, I help him out sometimes.'
We went through into the garage. Jimmy were waiting for us, didn't look like he wanted owt to do with us. Clocked me once and reckoned me a soft cunt. I wanted to prove him
different. As we went to the back of the place, I heard all these dogs barking somewhere. 'Fuck's that?' I said.
'Them's Jimmy's dogs,' said Rossie.
'Animal lover.'
'Nah,' said Jimmy. He had a growl of a voice, sounded like them dogs. You know what they say about pets and their owners, like. He had a rollie in the corner of his mouth that didn't smoke, but it moved when he talked. 'Them's me fighting dogs. I fight 'em.'
'Fuckin' hell, Jimmy. That's not much of a match, is it?'
'They fight each other, Mo,' said Rossie.
'Your mate simple?'
I ain't simple, Jimmy-son. Where's this fuckin' wreck you want us to drive?'
I don't know if I like his tone,' Jimmy said to Rossie.
Rossie looked at us to shut up. At the back of the garage, there were this dirty-looking heap. Jimmy kicked one of the tyres. 'This is it. How long you need it?'
'Couple days,' said Rossie.
I kept me mouth shut. Didn't like the way Rossie were handling all this, like. I were the one in charge. I looked at Baz, but he were already looking around for a way out, the bottling bastard. Went up to the Bedford and pulled open the back door. In the back of the van, there were a mattress that stank of dog and a cage between that and the cab.
'I keep me bitches in there,' said Jimmy.
'Good,' I said. 'Cause that's what we're gonna be using it for an' all'
'I want it back in good nick.'
We all looked at him then. Like we could trash this fuckin' heap any more than it already was. Rossie said, 'Yeah, no problem, Jimmy.'
And as we was driving away, the engine coughing, I said to Rossie, 'And the cunt called me simple.'
The receptionist at the Grey Street casino has black make-up clogged in the corner of her eye. She looks at me with resigned recognition and it's strangely comforting. A uniform that's been washed too much, a spare tyre around her waist and the gnarly hands of the serial drinker.
If I was a gambler, I'd be in here all the time. It's all faded glamour. Like the receptionist, the furnishings used to be lush, but now they're a little threadbare. A group of Chinese guys are crowded round a blackjack table. Every so often one of them yells. Then there's laughter, the kind that follows excitement. All over a steady rhythm of Mah Jong tiles being shuffled by some Chinese ladies in the far corner. It's difficult to see through the cigarette smoke. I add to it with another Embassy. My lungs are starting to scratch, but the nicotine helps keep that down.
I can hear 'Spanish Eyes' being sung by a guy with a whisky-soaked voice.
The bar's at the back of the room, so I start walking. With the music, I feel like I should be carrying a six-shooter. I hope nobody notices that I'm walking to a rhythm.
There's a girl behind the bar, cleaning something out of sight. She doesn't look up as I come over. I lean against the bar and try to look nonchalant. She carries on cleaning. I don't see her face, just the expanse of her arse and a visible panty line. But I try not to stare too hard at that. When she
straightens up, she starts. Colour rises in her puppy-fat cheeks. I can't place her age. She could be anywhere from sixteen to thirty. According to her name tag, she's called Pauline.
'Y'alright?' I say.
'Aye,' she says. 'Sorry, you gave me a fright.'
I smile my charming smile. It doesn't sit right, obviously, because she looks a little intimidated. I tone it down. 'Sorry. You open?'
'What you after?'
'Bottle of Becks.'
She smiles. There's no need for it, and her smile is like a bonny baby in a morgue. It makes me wonder why she works here. She fetches my beer and sets it on the bar. I pay, take a long swallow. 'It's dead in here,' I say.
'Always is this time of day.'
Another yell from the Chinese guys. Yeah, it's dead. Nice one, Innes.
'I just joined. Thought it might be a laugh.’
‘Don't get too attached to the place,' she says. 'They knocking it down or something?’
‘Nah. Just don't get too attached to the place.’
‘Right. I get you.' I take a swig. 'You just work in the afternoons?'
She blushes again. Probably thinks I'm flirting. And maybe I am. The beer's got me lazy. 'Why d'you ask?'
'I'm looking for a guy. I heard he might come in here.’
‘What's his name?’
‘You know names?’
‘I know some names.'
'Rob Stokes. He'll be a new punter. Probably started coming in a week or so ago. Mane accent.'
Pauline pours herself a Coke from the draught. Sips it, thinking. Then: 'What's he look like?'
I give her the description I was given. 'Apparently, he's got a temper on him.'
'They've all got tempers on them if they lose.'
'Fair enough.'
'What'd he do?' she says.
'He owes a friend of mine money.'
Her eyes sparkle. 'You're going to break his legs, is that it?'
I smile. 'Nothing like that. Do I look like a legbreaker?'
'You don't look like much of anything,' she says.
'Cheers.'
'I didn't mean it like that. I just meant you don't look like a legbreaker. I should think before I say stuff.' She drinks her Coke and leans against the bar. 'My boyfriend says that.'
'Your boyfriend sounds like a wanker,' I say.
'He is.' She looks out at the pit and yawns. 'He's a lazy bastard, right enough. Supposed to be at home right now looking after the bairn, right? Bet you he's out drinking.'
'You want to call him?'
'And get disappointed? Nah. I'll wait till I get home.’
‘He doesn't work?'
'Does he fuck. He's on disability. Reckons he's depressed.’
‘Aren't we all?'
'Aye. That's why he's down the pub or smoking tack in the house. Depression. Fuck's sake, he wants to get himself a job.' Her voice hardens, and for a moment, she looks a lot older. 'What do you do, though? He's a free babysitter.'
'A babysitter who smokes tack in the house.'
'Better than nothing. Christ, look at me. You want another drink?'
I drain the bottle. 'Why not, eh?'
She cracks the top off another bottle, says, 'So you just joined. What d'you think of the place?’
‘I think it's a shithole.'
'Aye, that's about right. So why are you really looking for this guy?'
I smile. 'He dropped his wallet. I have to give it back to him.'
'Uh-huh. And another.'
'He's my estranged brother. I just want to make up with him for Mam's sake.'
She laughs. 'That's sweet.’
‘That's the kind of guy I am.’
‘You're fuckin' nuts,' she says. 'Are they showing?’
‘Give me your number, then.'
'Your bloke might have something to say about that.'
'For when this Rob gadgie comes in,' she says.
I hand her a card. She cocks an eyebrow. 'You're a PI?'
'That's right, sweetheart,' I say in my best Bogart. I do a full-on Mike Yarwood bad impersonation, the quivering top lip, the whole bit.
'You alright?' she says.
I stop the lip thing. 'Yeah.'
'I thought you were having a turn.'
'Look, you see anything, hear anything, you drop a dime, okay?'
Maybe it's just the beer buzz, but I feel pretty good about myself, despite the fact the Bogie didn't go down well. She laughs again. It sounds too natural for a place like this. I leave the bar, cross the casino. On the way out, the receptionist heaves her way through a nasty coughing fit.
Now I just have to wait.
Three hours in a van with Rossie and Baz, man. Not my idea of a sharp time. I banged back a couple moggies on the way up 'cause Baz stuck in this tape of shite tunes and I wanted to sleep through it. So I went to kip in the middle, heard Rossie and Baz bitch at each other about the tape. Then Rossie got all pissy and chucked the tape out the window onto the road and Baz started bleating.
'Oi, Fatboy Fat, fuck up, will you?'
When we got to Newcastle, there weren't no vacancies. I said, 'What the fuck's this, like?'
'Westlife are playing at the Arena,' said the bloke on reception. He smiled and it were like his baby teeth never fell out.
'Westlife, fuckin' Westlife.'
'Fuckin' shithole this is, like,' said Rossie. 'Who's playing next week? Fuckin' Girls Aloud?'
'I like that Geordie one,' said Baz. 'She looks well fuckin' dirty.'
'I think there are some rooms at the airport,' said the bloke. Helpful cunt, this one.
'The airport? How far away's the airport?' I said. 'About forty-five minutes.'
Rossie kicked the reception desk. The bloke jumped. 'Aye, fine,' I said. 'We'll go up the airport.’
‘You're kidding,' said Baz.
I punched him in the arm. 'C'mon.'
We went out the hotel and I clocked a bunch of girls with backpacks. Looked like proper tourists. 'Alright, girls?' said Rossie.
They didn't say nowt, just walked past. 'Fuckin' lezzes.'
'So what now?' said Baz. 'I ain't sleeping in the back of the van, I tell you that right now.'
'We go up the airport,' I said. 'Before that, I want a pint.'
Left the van in an NCP and wandered about in the town. Fat fuckin' Geordies everywhere I looked, man. Some proper ugly in this town. Saw this place called Dobsons and we went inside 'cause it had cheap pints an' that. Got settled at a table by the window and I rubbed some whizz on me gums 'cause the moggies were still in me system, slowing us right down. I supped me pint and wiped me mouth. Looked around at me posse, but they was looking down, bags under the eyes.
'Cheer up,' I said. 'Might never happen.'
Rossie said, 'What we doing up here, Mo?'
'I told you.'
'I thought your dad had you locked down.'
'And I thought you said I were a grown fuckin' man.'
'I said that?'
'Aye, Rossie. You said that. No more fuckin' doves for you, man. Your short-term's fucked. Summat you got to learn, mate. I am a grown fuckin' man. I do what I want to do because I can. I don't give a shit what me dad says because you know what? He's not gonna be around forever. One day some cunt's gonna bury a hatchet in his fuckin' head and they're gonna need someone to help 'em do it.'
Baz stared at us. 'You'd do your dad?'
'If I got the right offer.'
'That's fucked up.'
'You'd do Morris Tiernan,' said Rossie. His mouth were twitching into a grin.
'What's Morris Tiernan, man? It's a name. It's a bloke with a rep. But a rep only goes so far, know what I mean?'
' You're fucked up,' said Rossie. He shook his head and took a sup.
'You don't think I'd do it?'
'I think you better stop with the pills, Mo. You sound mashed.'
'You don't think I'd do it.'
'Nah, mate. I don't think you'd do your own dad. Don't make sense.'
I gulped me pint, wiped me mouth. Me throat were still all dry. 'Don't make sense. Lot of things don't make sense. You don't know what he's like. And I'm not saying any day soon, but you mark mine, Rossie, one day I'll get an offer and I'm saying that when that day comes, I might just fuckin' take it with a smile on me face.'
'You're full of shit,' said Rossie.
The speed kicked in with a twitch and I wanted to go drink-chucking again, but I kept it down. I wouldn't have got a decent throw in, not with me finger in a splint. Proper fucked me up that one.
Go round Paulo's in the middle of the night with a couple cans of petrol, torch that fuckin' place to the ground, watch it burn from across the street with five doses in me blood. Paulo lived there, even better. I wondered what a fuckin' cock- jockey smelled like when he burned. Probably fuckin' lilacs or some shite.
Or give the outside of the club a new coat of paint. Me and Baz, we went to Homebase and I picked up an armful of spray cans. I had it all planned out in me mind, paedo paulo, sprayed ten feet fuckin' tall in red paint, aidsscumright next to it. I had
visions of mobs with naming torches 'cause of that one. They'd come storming down on his club like it was Franken- stein's castle, smoke the fuckin' monster out into the street and crucify him. Just the thought of that made me balls jump.
But I kept it buzzing under the skin. That were for later. I couldn't be a fuckin' kid about it. A lad what gets knocked and knocks straight back, he's a fuckin' chump, know what I mean? It takes time for payback. Time makes it sit better. Until I could pay Paulo back for me fuckin' finger I had Innes on me mind.
And I weren't the only one. I beamed back to the pub, saw Rossie staring out the window. 'What?’
‘Is that Innes?' he said.
I got out me seat, knocked me pint over. Lucky it only had a couple thumbs of beer in it. Nudged Rossie out the way and looked out at the street.
Well, fuck me. 'Rossie, get out there and follow the cunt.'
'You what?'
I gave him bug eyes. 'Get. Out. There.'
More time to kill, and the beer is wearing off. I think about another drink, maybe something stronger, but I don't want to chance it after last night. It's a short step from that first shot to becoming a bloodstain on a bed sheet.
Instead, I wander into town, looking for something free to pass the time. Pass a pub that looks too dingy for me and check my watch. Just after four. I find myself outside a gallery, then inside. Not my usual cup of tea, but it'll while away a couple of hours. A sign says I have to turn my mobile off. I ignore it.
An exhibition of portraits, or so the posters say. I follow the signs, stop in front of a huge painting. Proper Old Testament stuff, it looks like. When I read the plaque, it tells me it's the destruction of Sodom. From the looks of it, a Catholic put that bastard on canvas, probably Scottish. Fear and sadism. I remember it from my childhood. Sometimes I thought about telling my dad I was gay, just to see him hit the roof. But cowardice kept the thought at bay.
I move away from the painting, scan a couple of country- side landscapes that don't do anything for me. Usual sheep and lakes. An England that never existed except in the imaginations of those rich enough to buy this shite.
A guy in a black leather jacket shows the same distaste. I don't blame him. Then I head upstairs for the portraits.
The door to the exhibition has a blackout curtain over the
glass panes. Looks like it's closed, but I try the handle anyway. When I step inside, it's dark apart from a circle of upturned televisions in the centre of the floor. And this white noise of voices, sounds like screaming, and they're all out of sync. Movement catches my eye, and there's a young guy bent almost double, walking around the circle. For some reason, I can't breathe.
I stare at the young guy, wary of him. It sounds like a killing floor in here and the way he moves — slow, deliberate steps backwards, thrown into relief by the flickering tellies — he looks like something out of Twin Peaks. Jerky, but purposeful. I can't quite make out his face, not sure if he has one.
He looks straight at me and I nearly shit myself.
Not as much as he does, though. He twitches with fright, then straightens up, makes for the door.
Christ. The guy was just like me. And we scared the hell out of each other. I stay in the room for a while longer, crane to see what's showing on the televisions. A choir, different shots, looks like old footage from the Proms.
No wonder he got a fright. This is some creepy stuff.
The door squeals open again, and the guy in the black leather jacket steps into the room. He doesn't flinch, doesn't look at the televisions.
He just watches me.
I watch him right back.
I stay where I am. Don't want to confront the bloke. In the light, he looks bigger than he should be, flickering large like a nightmare. Besides, I've got a bad track record when it comes to dealing with people who might be following me. But he doesn't look like a scally. This bloke looks like a professional.
We stand there. The voices mesh into one strangled shriek. He doesn't even glance at the televisions.
Something catches the light in his right hand. Then it flips out of sight.
I make my way towards the door, my ears ringing. This got bad really fast. And I know for a fact that this guy is a tail. Who he's working for, what he wants, I'm not about to stick around to find out. I push open the door and the hinges screech. A plaque on the wall tells me that those tellies were Mark Wallinger's idea of hell.
Close, but no cigar, Mark.
I head for the stairs as the door squeaks open again. Taking them two at a time, I'm down in the gift shop before I get a chance to catch my breath. I pretend to look through some postcards, but keep an eye on the staircase. If the guy's following me, he'll be down in a minute or two.
He appears just as I head into the landscape section again. I keep my head down, but I can hear his footsteps against the floor. He's wearing boots.
I return to the gift shop, and he comes with me. He looks like he might be a copper. If that's the case, then Donkey's determined to bring me in. And if Donkey's determined to bring me in, then things in Manchester have taken a turn for the worse.
A crowd has developed outside a club down the street. I head straight for it. The reek of bad aftershave and flowery perfume battles with the smell of beer and bad Italian meals for air space. I keep my head down, light a cigarette. A Bruce Banner lookalike bears down on me, crisp Fred Perry shirt on his back. I swerve out of the way before I accidentally get a Regal in the eye.
I take a quick look over my shoulder, and the black leather jacket is nowhere to be seen. I take a moment to breathe.
Friday nights, the same everywhere. Hordes of chequered shirts and women with love handles and bad halter tops. I can hear the chorus of a group of Welsh lads pissed off their faces. The women are all white, shivering legs and high-pitched curses. I can't make out what they're saying, but it's probably bad.
This is hell, Wallinger. Look around you.
Up the spiral steps, across the bridges that criss-cross the motorway, cars roaring by on the edge of the city. It's a clear night. I stop by the barrier and watch the traffic for a moment. After a while, the headlights stream into long red lines. I find enough phlegm to gob a fat one onto the motorway from the bridge. It doesn't have the same sense of satisfaction it did when I was ten. I try it again, but it's a poor effort. I have to wipe the spittle from my chin.
Me and Declan used to do it when we were kids. Spent hours gobbing at cars, people, whatever passed under our bridge. It didn't make much difference. Now the kids lob concrete blocks from these places, kill guys my age. Times change.
I lean against the barrier and ditch my cigarette. I should get back to the hotel, but I don't want to. The heaviness in my legs might spread to the rest of me. And I need to stay awake, just in case. Knowing my luck, I'd stretch out for a second and wake up nine hours later with nothing to show for it.
My mobile rings. I answer it.
'Mr Innes, it's George.'
'George,' I say.
'I work at the casino. You gave me your card. I think Rob Stokes is here.'
'You're sure,' I say. But I know he's sure. He knows who Rob Stokes is. I knew that when I talked to him.
'As sure as I can be. He matches your description.'
'Uh-huh. He just walk in?'
'He's been in a while. I had to wait until I got my break.'
'Right, I'll be there in a bit. Try to keep an eye on him for me. Let me know if he leaves, okay?'
I disconnect, start back towards town. My legs ache and my bad tooth starts to throb. So Rob Stokes is at the casino, that's great. But something doesn't add up. Things are happening too quickly for me to get my head round them. I've been in town two days and found the bugger, so why couldn't Morris?
Because he never got this far. Gave up at the first hurdle, maybe.
I shouldn't think about it. Just go with the flow, see where the current takes me. If George says Stokes is there, he's probably there. If it's a mistake, then we're back to square one.
I check my wallet. If it's the right guy, I should pay George. Yeah, I've got enough. A couple of hundred should do it. And then all I need to do is keep an eye on Stokes and follow him home.
Then I call Mo and I'm out of here.
And then what happens to Stokes? I can't afford to care. At least if I'm out of Newcastle, I won't have to hear about it. Not unless Mo feels like bragging. But then, I'll be off the hook with Tiernan. There'll be no reason to see any of that lot again.
Keep telling yourself that, Cal.
I take the long way round, skirt the drunks and avoid eye contact. Outside a fun pub two lads in Hilfiger shirts shower each other with spit when they talk. One of them wears more jewellery than my mam. It throws light off his arms when he flaps his hands.
I press on. Hit Central Station, and the line for black cabs is already growing. People have started to walk up to the casino now, either beered-up and looking to blow the rest of their money, or out to impress whoever they have on their arm. I fall back from the herd, take my time. There's no need to rush. From what I know about Rob Stokes, he'll be there all night. It's not like he doesn't have enough money to lose.
'So I says to him, get the fuck out my way, like. Then I stots him right in the fuckin' face…'
This from a couple of bruisers in suits walking behind me.
'And he's like all bleeding an' that, fuckin' bubbling like a bairn. So I gives him a kick in the knackers for good measure.'
'Might as well put the cunt to the floor, like.'
I don't turn around. They speak like a certain copper I know, but they've got the greasy sadism of a couple of bouncers. If I didn't get the point before, it's soon hammered home.
I told him, I said to him, nae fuckin' students.’
‘Cunts think they're special.’
‘Not too special to avoid a slap.'
We get to the casino, and I hang back as the bouncers head straight for the guys on the door. It's all backslaps and missing-tooth grins. I slip past, unnoticed. Into the reception and I get caught up in a gang of young guys and girls who think this place is a proper hoot. One guy with spiky hair and oily skin is trying to sign them all in. Another guy sorts out the memberships while the girls giggle to themselves. The musk of aftershave is overpowering; before I know it, my eyes are watering.
I hand over my membership card. The receptionist gives it a quick once-over and buzzes me in. When I step into the casino, it's like the place has been transformed. Blue-and- white lights fill the place. The Friday night crowd are out in force. The hum of conversation, the clatter of balls hitting roulette wheels, excitement in the air. The brand new, hip and happening gambling experience. It's a far cry from
Tiernan's club, but then that's probably the point. This is the new school.
George is still behind the bar. I catch his eye and walk over. He nods towards a guy, tall and reedy, playing roulette. I can only see him from the back, but his hair is speckled grey.
I stop, find a seat at the edge of the pit. A valet crosses in front of me, asks if I want a drink. I order a coffee. When it comes back, it tastes like someone shat in it. And judging from the look I get when I don't tip the valet, they probably wished they had.
The guy at the roulette table, he's hunched over the layout, his hands a blur. He has a dealer's reflexes, and a punter's mixture of bad luck and worse temper. When the dealer calls out a number, he falls back from the table like someone punched him in the face. When he's watching for the spin to stop, he plays with his chips, clipping them over each other. It's a nervous action, and one that gives him away as an ex- croup.
He turns his head and I get a look at his face. Too many wrinkles, a sign of stressful living. I'm starting to see the same lines on my face these days.
I finish the coffee and make my way up to the bar. George needs to be paid. And I need a good place to watch Rob Stokes in action.
'You got a room?' I said to the receptionist at the Premier Inn. I tried to be nice and cool about it, but me heart were skipping all over the shop. Tracked the fucker down. Once Rossie managed to work out that he had to stay out of sight, he got the whole tailing thing sorted. Saw Innes come back across the bridge. And we had a wander about. And there were Innes' Micra in the Premier Inn carpark. 'Sorry, sir. We're full.'
She were lying. And that weren't nice. But then I looked at Baz and took her side. Baz were standing by the door looking like he were after summat to nick.
'Westlife,' I said.
'Sorry?'
'Westlife're playing, am I right?’
‘At the Arena, yeah,' she said. 'You like Westlife?' She smiled. 'Not really.’
‘Nah, you're too old for them.' She just kept smiling. 'And she's too old for you,' said Baz. 'Leave it,' I said. Then, to the receptionist: 'Ta for your time, love.'
Breath of fresh air outside. I nudged Baz for a ciggie and he handed one over. I lit it and stood looking at the hotel.
'I told you, Mo,' said Baz. 'I ain't sleeping in the back of that van. It stinks.'
'You fuckin' stink,' I said. 'And nah, we ain't kipping down in the back of the van. We ain't kipping down anywhere. We're going to wait until Innes shows his face and then we're going to scare the fucker off.'
'What's the point in that?' said Rossie.
'It'll make me feel better,' I said. 'What the fuck d'you think the point is? We scare him off, we can go looking for Stokes ourselves.'
'You think we can scare him off?' said Baz.
'If there's one thing I know about Innes it's that he's a fuckin' bottler. And he don't want to be doing this anyway. So all we're gonna do is give him an excuse to get the fuck out of Dodge, know what I mean?'
I grabbed the pair of them and pushed 'em back towards the van.
I stay away from the hard stuff, maintain a buzz with the watered-down Kronenburg the place has on tap. George busies himself with other punters. A guy at the end of the bar has his flies open, but nobody seems to have told him. He watches a plasma screen above the bar. Sky Sports is on, a wealth of stats and breaking news sailing across the bottom of the screen. He's transfixed, until something breaks the mood and he scribbles on a napkin.
At about nine, the music kicks up in volume. What was Dionne Warwick and Kenny Rogers slips into The Who and David Bowie. Right now, Bowie's singing 'Heroes'. It's an odd choice, considering the clientele. They're young and stupid enough to think the song's from a mobile phone advert.
Stokes is at the same table as before, but the dealer's changed twice since I came in. I've watched him rake in a couple of decent wins, but it means nothing in the long run. Any winnings go right back onto the layout. He's tapping his knuckles against the edge of table. The woman next to him resembles a tanned skeleton. She looks down at the sound, her face creasing up like a cat's arse. Then she realises she has to get some chips down before the balls stops and panics, shoves a couple of reds onto a column.
The dealer rakes them in. She looks fit to spit.
I order another pint, a Coke to go with it, just to keep me alert. 'How long are your shifts, George?'
'What d'you mean?'
'It just struck me, you were in this afternoon. How many hours do you work?'
'I'm on a double,' he says. 'I'm stuck here till the bar closes.'
'When's that?'
'Two.'
'Right. That's harsh.'
'Tell me about it. It's the only way to make decent money, though.'
'How long does Stokes usually stay?'
'Until he's pissed away his cash, Mr Innes.'
It doesn't look like I'll have too long to wait. A quick glance at the roulette table, and I can see Stokes is short-stacked already. His back is all knotted up, giving him a stoop and a concentrated look. One more spin, and that look becomes desperate. He sticks the last of his stack on an outside bet.
True to form, it doesn't come in.
'Fuckin' bastard,' he says. Loud enough for everyone to hear. I take a drink from my pint. He'll be popular with the dealers in here, no doubt about it. That kind of showboating marks him out, especially on a night where most of the punters aren't taking the games too seriously. And for a guy on the run with someone else's money, he's suspiciously high profile.
But then, he's a gambler. And from what I know about Stokes already, he's stupid and arrogant enough to think he's invincible. Suddenly the idea of letting Mo off his leash doesn't sound too bad at all.
I stifle a belch as Stokes pulls himself away from the table, and storms out of the pit.
Straight for me.
I turn away, try to be cool about it. He looks too wound-up to pay me any attention, but I pretend to fade into the cigarette smoke anyway. He pulls out his wallet and I get a glimpse of enough cash to make my tongue feel thick in my mouth. I take a sip of my pint and watch the plasma screen.
Stokes sucks his teeth and slaps a fiver on the bar. 'Georgie, I'm having a shitty night.'
'Sorry to hear that, Mr Stokes.'
I catch a twitch in George's face, see him glance at me. 'I'll have the usual,' says Stokes.
George shifts his weight from one foot to the other as he's pouring a John Smith's for Stokes. Sets the pint down and cranks a double Johnny Walker from an optic. He takes the fiver and dumps silver on the bar. Stokes takes a long pull on the bitter. 'You lot in here, you might as well fuckin' mug me. It'd be faster.'
'But less fun,' says George. He has a fake smile plastered on his face, like someone put vinegar on the roof of his mouth. This is banter to go with the drinks. About as friendly as he wants to get with me watching.
'You're right,' says Stokes. 'You're always right, man. The house has the advantage. I should know fuckin' better. It's not like you don't tell me that.'
George doesn't hear him. Or if he does, he doesn't show it. He moves to the other end of the bar. Out of the way. And I know why.
I don't know who you're talking about, mate.
Georgie doesn't know Rob Stokes. The lying bastard. The question now is how well does he know him. I make a mental note not to pay the barman. Fuck him. And his glance at me when Stokes arrived at the bar bothers me. I didn't get a look at Stokes' face, but I'm sure it was for his benefit. Like, here's the guy who's looking for you, Rob. Gets me thinking that George set the pair of us up.
Stokes drinks his bitter, then knocks back the whisky. He turns to me, says, 'I know you?'
I'm shaken out of it. 'Don't think so, mate.'
'You're a Mane,' he says.
'Salford.'
'Fuckin' hell, small world. I used to live down Manchester.'
'Whereabouts?' I ask.
He takes a moment. 'All over.'
If there's any fear in Stokes, he's not giving it up. As far as he's concerned, I'm just another transplanted Mane. How he knows that from my accent, I don't know. The more I drink, the more I sound like a Leith lad. Which means he's probably been briefed.
'Why're you up here?' I say.
His eyes flash, then he drinks. 'Girlfriend wanted to move up here. I fancied a change of scenery.'
'And what do you think of the place?'
'Newcastle? It's a shit pit.' Stokes leans against the bar, regards me with red-rimmed eyes. 'But it's better for me right now.'
'Why's that?'
'Just because.' He finishes his pint, sucks his teeth again. 'What's with the Coke?’
‘Stops me getting drunk.’
‘Expensive, though.’
‘It does the job.'
'Why you scared of getting drunk?' he says.
Because I'll end up twatting people like you, I think. I just hate hangovers.'
'Uh,' he says. He opens his wallet again, sorts out his cash. He removes a wad and nods to me. 'Nice talking to you.'
'And you,' I say.
I finish my pint as he strides back down to the pit and heads for a blackjack table. I order another drink, sip at my Coke while I wait for George to get his arse in gear.
When he finally hands over the pint, I look at him. He's gone white.
'You feeling alright, George?' I say. 'I'm okay.'
'Good.' I reach into my pocket. 'You want me to pay you now?'
He shakes his head. 'No good here. There's cameras all over the place. Just meet me outside after work.'
'Right,' I say. 'Wouldn't want you to get into trouble.’
‘Thanks. Is it the right guy?'
'I think you know fine well it's the right guy, Georgie.'
He looks at the floor. I notice his hairline is receding. Older than I thought. Not that it matters much. He has to serve another customer, so I let him go.
I call for a cab when it looks like Stokes is hitting rock bottom. It's outside waiting for me at ten-thirty when he calls it a night. As I get in, a Ford Escort's headlights go up full blaze and Stokes tears out of the carpark.
'That's my mate there. I got to follow him home,' I say to the driver.
The cab driver looks at me in the rear view. 'I mean it.'
'Uh-huh,' he says and breaks into a smug grin, pulls the cab out of the carpark and makes sure he keeps two cars behind all the way.
As Stokes turns off towards Benton, I check the clock on the cab dashboard. It's getting towards eleven. I can picture George hanging around outside the casino after his shift ends at two. Waiting for me to turn up and hand over the cash. He can go fuck himself.
I wonder how long he'll wait there before he realises he's been stood up.
And I can't help smiling to myself.
Stokes turns off Benton Road before he hits the Metro station into a residential area. Mostly bungalows and semi-detached. Nice gardens, well-kept. Obviously owned, no council.
But as soon as I see the block of flats, I know that's where he lives. This is definitely rented accommodation, but the council tax is probably a bigger expense. He turns left into the block carpark.
'Right here's fine, mate,' I say to the driver.
The cabbie lets me out. I tip him well and make a note of the firm's number. I'm going to need a ride back. As he pulls away from the kerb, I sink into the shadows on a patch of wasteground, squint through the gloom.
Stokes appears, goes into the door nearest the end of the building.
So he lives in one of six flats. It's a start. When I'm sure he's inside, I cross the grass towards the block of flats. I check the windows for any sign of life. The one at the far end has the door to the balcony open and a flickering blue light behind curtains, probably a television. The one below has a lit window, too. I scan the rest of the flats for any signs of someone coming home.
Nothing.
I keep watching.
I wait. Watch. Listen. The television keeps blaring out. Sounds like the theme tune to Sex and the City.
Georgie, I'm having a shitty night.
That bothers me. Something I've missed. Yeah, I know George knows Stokes. That's a given. But does it go any further than that? Something's niggling at me, something about the way George's face tightened when Stokes came over. Something about the way he kept his distance when Stokes was at the bar, like he didn't want to be associated with him.
They'd know each other. Obviously. If Stokes is a regular, and a regular loser at that, of course he'd know George. And the barman's a shift junkie, so he'd be in most nights. But something about that glance, that twitch of the face. It wasn't just the knowledge that I'd caught him out.
It was like he was scared of Stokes.
Fuck it, forget it. It's nothing. The barrage of an approach- ing hangover, the twinge in my tooth, the idea I'm doing something wrong, that's what it is. It adds up to paranoia. Nobody's setting me up.
A shadow crosses in front of the curtains, thrown into strobed distortion. From the flat I can hear voices, but I can't make out what they're saying. I try to get closer. The grass squelches underfoot and I hope to hell I didn't step in dog shit.
The voices aren't American. Male and female. When the male voice starts shouting, I know it's Stokes. The female voice hits the same volume, but I still can't make out what's being said. The television almost drowns them out.
Almost. When he hits her, the smack is enough to make the breath catch in my throat.
It goes silent apart from the girls in New York.
A low male voice, saying something that tries to be soothing.
The soft sound of someone crying. Probably Alison.
A temper like his, I shouldn't have thought he'd save it for the tables. Nah, he's a guy who likes to bring it home with him. And Alison's on the other end of it. Money's a bitch for bringing the worst out of people, especially when they've got an addiction to feed.
I should call Mo right now, tell him to get his arse in gear and up to Newcastle. I've got an idea where Stokes lives. I can wait for Mo to arrive, then point him in the right direction.
Something stops me, though. I don't know if it's fear, duty or the idea that, fuck it, I might have the wrong place. I should double-check that before I even think about calling Mo. Then when I'm sure that this is the place, I'll give him the address and go home. If I'm not sure, I'll have to hang around. And if Mo finds out what Stokes has been doing to his little sister, he'll make it messier than usual.
And as much as Stokes is doing nothing to get off my shitlist, I don't want to be responsible for that. It's not in my job description.
Yeah right, Cal. That is your job description.
I walk away from the flat, pull my jacket tight, head out to the sounds of a main road just up the way. I think I've got enough information. Anything more than that, Mo can sort it out.
But the white knight in me won't give it up. I've got to do something to help Alison. I should sort this out so nobody else gets hurt.
Hurt any more than necessary, that is.
There's a moral decision to make here, and I'm not sure I'm the right man to make it. Too many things don't add up the way I need them to. The more I think about it, the more I think George knows Stokes of old. I mean, Christ, the guy's only been in town a week or so. And a man like him doesn't strike me as the type to make friends easily, no matter how loose that friendship is.
No, George has got to be one of those friends that Kev mentioned to me. One of Alison's mates. And the only reason he would have for grassing Stokes to me is that he knows what's going on in that flat. Maybe he's playing the white knight himself. Or maybe he's just like Kev, besotted with Alison Tiernan and hoping I'll get Stokes out of the way. Grab himself a handful of the Tiernan family and end up being next on Mo's list.
Jesus, I really hope that's not the case.
I pull out my mobile and ring for a cab. Light an Embassy and take a long drag on it.
No, I won't be calling Mo just yet. I have too many questions.
And Alison Tiernan's the only person who can answer them.
Rossie were sparked out in the middle seat of the van, Baz all cloudy-eyed at the wheel. I'd just done another wrap and it kept me night vision proper enabled. Glared at Innes' Micra like it were sitting there teasing us. We knew Innes weren't there. We knew he were out and about, but he'd have to come back for his car. I checked me mobile to see if there were any messages, but a big fat zero blinked at us.
He knew the deal. He found Stokes, he had to call us. I felt like calling me dad and telling him what the fuck were transpiring. But then what did I know? Nowt. Far as I knew, Innes were holed up in a pub somewhere fucked out his brains.
But nah, he came to Newcastle for a reason.
I seen the cab coming down the hill and I fuckin' knew.
'That's him,' I said. 'He's got summat.'
Baz snorted. Fucker were half-asleep. I gave him a nudge.
'Baz. Wake up, man.'
He opened his mouth, then turned away. Bastard.
The cab pulled in the carpark and I got close to the window, squinted right up so's I could see what were happening. I watched Innes fuck about in the car, then he got out and started walking to the hotel. Felt like tearing across the street and leathering the cunt in the back of the head, but I stayed put. Mature, that were me. Fuckin' mature. Mature enough to handle ten times this job.
'There y'are, you cunt,' I said. I watched for a new light in one of the windows, but nowt came. Muttered to meself and gave up after a couple minutes. Fuck it. We didn't need to go in his room and work him over. I nicked one of Baz's Regals and got out the van, lit up and watched the hotel through the smoke.
I could've burned the whole place down. I wanted to. Summat in us wanted to see the sky lit up like that, knowing that Innes was in the middle of it all. Proper hellfire damna- tion. Try that on for size, you Catholic fuck.
But nah, that were the kind of thing the old Mo would do. He'dgo in there like guns blazing, kick arse all over the shop and leave no man standing. But this now, this were the New Mo. This were Mature Mo. I went in there and burned, there'd be consequences, and I heard me dad in the back of me head telling us that he weren't gonna stand by us no more. He'd leave us to the spurs.
I stayed out the 'Ways this long. I didn't fancy a trip now.
I opened up the van door and gave Baz a knuckle knock on his head.
'Ow, ya bastard. Fuck was that for?'
I thought you was asleep.'
'I was asleep.'
'And now you're awake.'
Baz yawned, then his face went all fat and rumpled again. 'What'd you wake us up for, Mo?’
‘You still got them spray cans?’
‘What fuckin' spray cans?' said Baz. 'The ones we was going to do Paulo's place with.’
‘Yeah.'
'C'mon then.'
'They're in the back of me car,' said Baz. 'You're fuckin' kidding.'
'I didn't know we was supposed to bring 'em with us.' I kicked the side of the van. The bang echoed in the street. 'Here, Mo, if you'd let us bring me car, we'd be sound right now.'
'Oh, you just figured that out, did you? I knew I kept you round for a reason. Get the engine going. We're gonna buy some spray paint.'
'Where the fuck are we gonna get spray paint this time of night?'
'I don't give a shit. We keep driving until we find a fuckin' garage, alright?' I got in the van. Rossie made a noise like he were waking up. 'Now let's get going, Baz.'
Baz shook his head, tried to get awake as he twisted the ignition. When the engine caught, Rossie woke right up. 'What's going on?'
'We're going to a garage,' said Baz.
'Sweet. I'll have a pasty if they got 'em.'
This were what I had to fuckin' deal with. No wonder I were so pissed off.
I don't get much sleep. It's too warm, the air too heavy. I open the windows in my hotel room and slump back onto the bed. Stare at the ceiling. Lights pass across it as cars go by outside. I reach for my mobile and sit with Donna's number in my hand. I don't know if I should call her. She might not remember me. She might put me down as a bad mistake. And it's late.
Press in her number, but I don't follow through. Come on, Cal. Grow some fucking balls. Then I connect.
It rings. And then rings some more. My throat goes dry. I take a drink from the glass of water next to me, but it doesn't seem to make it better. When she picks up, my mouth is full, and I realise I don't know what I'm supposed to say. I swallow.
'It's Callum.' Which is better than nothing, I suppose.
'Callum?' she says.
'Yeah, Callum. Cal. Sorry, it's Cal. Like the Helen Mirren movie. We met the other night, remember?'
'Course I remember. You were supposed to call me. Did you forget, or is it a bloke thing?'
'I… Well, I thought I was calling you.'
'I expected a next-day service,' says Donna.
'Sorry. I've been busy'
'Stop apologising. I'm joking.' She laughs. It should hurt, that sound. 'So what are you doing tonight?'
I check my watch. It's a scratch past midnight. 'What, you mean now?'
'No, I mean tonight.'
'I don't know. I have to work.'
'And then?'
'Then I'm going back to Manchester.’
‘Right.'
'But we can meet up before I go,' I say. She doesn't say anything. 'You still there?'
'Yeah,' she says. 'Well. You have my number. Call me if you want. I'll understand if you don't.’
‘I'll give you a ring.'
'Okay.' She doesn't believe me. Before I get a chance to say anything else, she rings off and I'm left holding a dead line.
Forget it.
I do. For the moment, anyway. And the rest of the night falls into blackness.
I wake up at noon, pull myself from the bed and stumble into the bathroom. Brush my teeth. The brush catches my bad tooth and I grunt, chuck the toothbrush into the sink as blood mingles with minty freshness. Look up at myself in the mirror and realise that a good night's sleep has still left me looking like death.
I grab my mobile and call Paulo. Something about that tail yesterday put me on edge. When he picks up, I ask him if Donkey's been round the club.
'Yeah, he's been round, Cal. Every fuckin' morning he's been round. The bloke's got a doctorate in mithering.'
'What'd you tell him?'
'What d'you think I told him? I told him you were out of town.'
'How'd he take it?'
'He told me to let him know the second I got off the phone to you. Said you were in deep shit. What'd you do?'
'Hey, what makes you think I did something?'
'Because you're asking more questions than you're answer- ing. What'd you do?'
'I didn't do anything. Donkey's got a fuckin' stiffy for me because I'm an ex-con. I told you about that.'
'He's leaning on me, Cal.'
'So lean back. You're a big boy.'
There's a silence on the other end. Then Paulo clears his throat. 'Who the fuck do you think you're talking to?'
'I'm sorry, mate. I just… I've got enough on my plate at the moment. I need your help on this, Paulo. Just fob him off or something, okay? I'll be back in a couple of days.'
'I got my club to think about. I'm not doing you any more fuckin' favours, Cal. Mo's one thing, but the police? That's a whole other story.'
'He thinks I did over this bloke, alright? He hasn't got a stitch of evidence, but he's after my blood.'
'You leaving town's not helped matters.'
'I know that. Look, tell you what. He left you a number, right? Give me the number and I'll call him myself.'
As Paulo grumbles to himself, it sounds like he's shifting furniture. I need to talk to Donkey, just to get the bastard off my back. I've got a throbbing pain in the back of my neck.
The guy in the black leather jacket, he must have been a copper. Donkey's watching me, just like he said he would. And this is the worst possible time for it. But me losing him in the crowd has tweaked Donkey where it hurts, so he's making things tough for Paulo. Typical Donkey.
'Got it,' says Paulo. And he gives me the number. 'Cheers, mate. I'm sorry. I'll sort this out.’
‘Be sure you do.'
I hang up. As I'm pressing in Donkey's number, there's a light knock at my door. My arse clenches. He couldn't have found me already. Part of me wants to bolt for the window, but that's a stupid move. I'm not dressed enough for a getaway, and if it's the police, I wouldn't get far after hitting the concrete. They'd be on me like flies on shit and I'd be in even more trouble than I already am. So I cancel the call, stuff my mobile into my jacket and open the door.
The braided blonde from reception stares at me. She looks like she just swallowed a pint glass of brine. I look up the corridor to make sure she's alone.
'Mr Innes?' she says.
'Yeah.'
'Do you own a white Micra?'
Takes me a moment to get my head straight. 'Uh, yeah, I do.'
'I'm really sorry,' she says. I mean, were really sorry.'
'Fuck. Give me a second to get dressed.'
And before I leave the room, I make sure I dry-swallow a couple of Nurofen to kill the toothache. Grabbing my jacket, I notice that the bin's empty. It could be house-keeping, but something tells me they're not the ones who have taken out the rubbish.
I can't think about it now. The receptionist has bad news for me.
They're sorry. That about sums it up. Out here in the carpark, it's starting to rain. I feel the weight of the car keys in the palm of my hand, stare at my car. The metal part of the key is cold against my skin.
'We're all really sorry,' says the receptionist. She's been saying that on and off for the past ten minutes. I'm getting a little sick of being apologised to.
'Not a problem,' I say.
My warhorse Micra. The windscreen's still in one piece, as are the wing mirrors. The bodywork is fine apart from that prang.
But someone's taken a spray to the paintwork and a blade to the front two tyres. Across the side of the car in stark red letters it reads: 'RIP'.
'I think it might be a tag,' says the receptionist. 'Some of the kids round here have them.'
I think it's Rest In Peace, but thanks anyway.'
I didn't want to say that,' she says. 'It doesn't bear thinking about.'
'Easy for you to say. It's not your car.’
‘I'm sorry?'
'Yeah, I know.' I crouch down by the side of the car. The front two tyres, they're shredded. Someone took their time over this.
'I mean, we have CCTV,' she says. 'We'll be forwarding the tapes to the police.'
'Don't bother,' I say. 'It's not worth it. Only a couple of tyres.'
Put the rubber together, you'd have a Westwood dress. Carved up.
'I hope this won't reflect badly on us.'
'It doesn't reflect badly on you, love. It reflects badly on this shithole area.'
Back in reception, I leaf through the Yellow Pages, find a garage in Benton and give them a ring. It'll cost me, they say. If I want them today, that is. And am I sure I want them to pick the car up from the middle of town? That'll cost too. I mean, they really want to be sure. The mechanic's voice has a twist of amusement about it, like he can't believe the kind of fish he's got on the line.
I'm sure. But there's one thing: I want a lift to Benton.
'Oh aye, that's not a problem, mate.'
'It better not be, the amount you'll skin me out of.'
Just because the Micra's out of action, doesn't make me a cripple. I still have work to do, still have questions that need to be answered. And I don't have much time.
Somehow that pissed-off dealer found out where I was staying, found out which car was mine and decided to take a knife to the wheels. If he'd left well enough alone, I wouldn't have been that arsed to wrap this up. But you mess with a man's motor, you get his attention. From what I've seen of Newcastle, it's populated with the same kind of narrow-minded scallies we have in Manchester. But at least when it rains back home, it really rains.
I turn to the receptionist. 'I'll be checking out today.'
She nods to herself. It's like she snapped out of sympathy, become this sterile jobsworth. I don't care, though. If they know where I'm staying, then it's just a matter of time before they get in my room, if they haven't already. And I don't want to be at the mercy of anyone.
It was the wind, Cal. Don't think so much.
I open my wallet, take out Donna's number, think about a pint. It's still too early, and I've got too much to do. Christ, I wish I'd met her somewhere else down the line. Somewhere I wasn't acting like a complete prat, playing detective. I crum- ple up her number, stick it in my back pocket and make a mental note not to take it out the next time I wash these jeans.
In my room, I pack the holdall and make sure I've got everything I came in with. Back out on reception the braided blonde hands me the bill and I pay it, no questions asked. Then I'm out on the street, waiting on the tow truck. I light up and think I couldn't be fucking this up more.
I'm not a private investigator. That's a fact. I'm a guy who tells people he's a PI, and that's as far as it goes. The job's not something I ever really wanted to do, but I admit that urban white-knight shit appealed after a while. I started off running errands for Paulo. Not much, really. If a kid didn't turn up to the club, he'd send me out after him, bring him back in. Sometimes they'd kick up a fuss, but most of the time they didn't reckon on Paulo sending someone after them. Those kids, they were used to pansy social workers, men and women getting paid too little to care too much. As long as they weren't robbing cars or shoplifting, the social couldn't care less. And why should they? Those poor bastards had enough on their books. What the kids didn't realise, though, was that the club was a labour of love for Paulo. He lost one kid, he lost a bit of himself.
And the job progressed from there. I got good at tracking down ex-offenders, maybe because I was one. This guy, Don Plummer, he was a local landlord. Had some houses in Hulme and Moss Side, a couple more in Longsight. And sometimes, he had problem tenants. I did him a legit favour every now and then by handing over eviction notices. Paulo didn't mind. It was legal, and it kept me working.
These things snowball. Next thing I know, I'm calling myself a PI and getting all kinds of shit for it. Donkey on my back for one.
I look up the street, see my lift coming over the hill. I nod to the driver as the truck pulls into the carpark. A skinny guy with a belly that looks like he's smuggling a bowling ball under his shirt gets out and looks at my car with practised disgust.
'Now that's a shame,' he says. 'That's a real shame.'
'Yeah, it's all I can do to keep the tears in,' I say.
He looks at me. When he realises I'm not serious, he sets about hooking the Micra to the truck. I get in and it's a short drive to Benton. Once we're at the garage, the skinny guy joins his colleagues and they take turns in surveying the damage. A chorus of tuts and sighs, the usual mechanic beatbox karaoke.
'I know it's bad,' I say. 'But you've got a day to replace the tyres. How's about that?'
'What about the paintwork?' says the skinny guy.
'I couldn't give a fuck. You just sort me out with some tyres.' I give him my mobile number and tell him to give me a call when the car's ready to go.
'We got other jobs on, mate. We can't just drop every- thing.'
'I'll make it worth your while,' I say as I walk out the door.
I light another Embassy as I head down the main road, away from the Metro station. Once I've got the cigarette on the go, I fish around for my mobile and call Donkey. Best to get this out of the way. It's the last thing I want to do, but I might as well do something for Paulo.
'Detective Sergeant Ian Donkin,' he says. His phone voice is official. For a moment I think I'm talking to a real copper instead of a fuck-up with a badge.
'It's Cal Innes,' I say.
'Innes, where the fuck are you, son?'
'You know where I am, Detective.'
'Nah, I mean it. Where the fuck are you? You any idea what kind of trouble you're in?'
'I thought you were keeping an eye on me.'
'Don't play funny buggers, Innes. I find you, you're in custody. And your poof mate won't be able to suck your way out of it, either.'
Poof mate. I'm sure Paulo'd get a kick out of that. And he'd aim it for Donkey's teeth, most likely. 'What's the deal with the tail, Donkey?'
'What tail?'
'The lad in the black leather jacket. The lad that smelled like the inside of a black maria.’
‘Where are you?’
‘You listening to me?'
'Where are you? I'll get someone to come and pick you up.’
‘Jesus, Donkey, you know where I am.’
‘If I knew, I wouldn't be asking.'
Okay, now I need to think about this. 'You know I'm in Newcastle, Detective. You sent a lad up here to follow me around.'
'You think I have them kind of resources, Innes?'
I can't say anything. If it's not Donkey following me around, then it's someone else and I don't want to think that through. 'Listen, I want you to stop going round the club.'
'You don't make the rules, Innes.'
'This shit between you and me, it's got nowt to do with Paulo.'
'Now that's sweet, but I don't care. You get your arse back to Manchester and turn yourself in, and maybe we'll talk about it. Until that time, I'll go wherever the fuck I want and cause trouble for whoever the fuck I want.'
'You're not bothering to investigate this, are you?' Donkey coughs into the phone. 'I'm investigating. Trouble is, my prime suspect did a fuckin' bunk. Now what does that say to you about their innocence, eh?'
'I didn't do a thing to Dennis Lang. If you'd bothered to ask questions — '
'Don't tell me how to do my job, Innes. I don't come to your work and slap Mo's cock out of your mouth, do I?'
'Fuck's that supposed to mean?'
'It means, you don't get back to Manchester quick-smart, I'll have a word with the police up in Newcastle and tell them what you're up to. And in the meantime, I'll make sure I do everything in my power to have your mate's club shut down.'
'You don't know a fuckin' thing.'
'Never stopped me before,' he says.
Don't I know it. 'I'll be back when I'm back, Detective.'
'I'll look forward to it.'
'In the meantime, you might want to get off your arse and ask some questions at The Denton. In fact, you might want to start off with Mrs Lang.'
Donkey starts to say something, but I cut him off. I realise I've been gritting my teeth.
As I turn the corner, the reason for me coming to Benton comes into view.
Alison Tiernan lives in that block. Enough running around. It's time I found out what the fuck's going on.
I look around for Stokes' Escort, but it's nowhere in sight. Which means I'm okay for the time being. I don't know how long that's going to be the case, though.
I walk round to the front of the building just as a fat guy wearing an anorak comes out of the block. I make a show of looking for my keys, and give him a smile when he holds the door open for me. He doesn't return it.
When I get into the hallway, my mobile starts ringing. It's George and he sounds like someone slapped him.
'Where the fuck were you?' he says.
'Sorry?'
'Last night, you were supposed to meet me. You owe me money, Mr Innes.'
'I owe you fuck all, pal. In fact, you owe me for a couple of tyres.'
'What?'
I click him off. The mobile starts ringing again almost immediately.
'Listen, George, I don't owe you a fuckin' thing. Sue me.’
‘Mr Innes?' It's not George. A female voice. 'Who is this?'
'Urn, it's Pauline. Remember?'
Shit. 'Yeah, Pauline. Sorry about that. What can I do for you?'
'That bloke you were after, he's in the casino right now.'
'You sure?'
'He just threw a strop with one of the dealers, grey in his hair. Yeah, he's the guy. You want to come over and take a look?'
'I can't right now, Pauline. Listen to me, try to keep him there if you can. Tell him he can have free drinks or some- thing and I'll pay you later, okay?'
I can't do that, Mr Innes.'
'Well, just try to stall him.'
'How?'
'You're a bright girl. You'll think of something.’
‘Don't patronise me. You sound like — ’
‘Bye, Pauline.'
I hang up on her. If she's got any sense, she'll leave Stokes alone. But I'm counting on her not knowing what kind of arsehole the guy is and playing it my way. It might buy me a little more time with Alison.
I take the concrete steps two at a time, and I realise that this block has a ground-floor flat and a first-floor maisonette. I walk towards the end of the landing, look out over the balcony and check out the carpark. Then round again to face the door.
This has to be it. It's the only one that could correspond to the window I was watching last night. I take a deep breath, adjust my jacket and knock on the door.
At first, I'm not sure if there's anyone in. I knock again, harder this time. I hear a voice from somewhere behind the door. For a brief second, I think it's Stokes and my gut tightens.
It can't be. He's at the casino.
The sound of a chain being put on the door. I brace myself just in case Pauline got it wrong. Thinking, well, if it's Stokes, I'll peg it and call Mo. That'll be the end of it, questions or no questions. I am the self-preservation society.
The door opens a crack. I can see one side of a girl's face. 'Alison Tiernan?' I say.
She starts to say something, then makes to close the door. I jam my foot in the gap. She slams the door on it and pain shoots up my shin. I curl my fingers round the door and pull it as far as I can off my foot. 'Listen to me, Alison. My name is Callum Innes-'
'I don't know you. Get your foot out my door.'
'Your dad sent me.'
'Fuck off.'
'You've got to let me in, Alison. I'm not going to hurt you, alright?'
'I'll call the police.'
'We both know you won't.'
'I'm not letting you in.'
I keep my foot where it is, but I let go of the door. 'Fine. Then I do this from out here. I know what Rob's been doing. And I know you two took some cash that didn't belong to you. But I'm here to help. If I wasn't, then I wouldn't have bothered knocking, would I?'
She stops trying to slam the door. Her lips purse and she looks at me through the crack. Figuring me out, wondering if I pose a threat.
'I mean it, Alison. If I didn't need to sort some stuff out, I wouldn't be here, believe me. I would've called Mo by now.'
We stand there in silence for a few seconds. Then she says, 'Get your foot out of the door.'
'Are you going to let me in?'
'Just get your foot out of the door.'
'I'm not moving until I get a chance to talk about this properly.'
Her face suddenly twitches into animation. 'Fine, okay?
Yes, fine, I'll let you in. Now get your fuckin' foot out of my fuckin' door, alright?'
I remove my foot, try to ignore the pain. She closes the door, slides the chain off and opens it up again.
'Come on,' she says. 'But if you're after a cuppa, you can fuck right off.'
I follow Alison down a dim hallway into a living room that looks like it's been decorated by a bunch of drunken students. The curtains are held up with drawing pins. Unframed posters dot the walls, a thin layer of dust on them. Alison heads straight for a ratty-looking easy chair with a throw rug on it, and sits on the arm. A small lamp provides the only light in the room, even though I catch a whiff of a scented candle.
'I've still got some things I need to ask you,' I say, taking a seat on the couch. I can't make her out. Sitting there on the arm of the chair, an oversized Elvis T-shirt stretched over her knees, she looks her age. I think. I can hear her biting her nails, but the light in this place makes her look like one of those anonymous witnesses, her features hidden in a half- shadow.
After a long silence, punctuated with her gnawing, she finally sniffs. 'Why didn't you call Mo?' I told you. I've got questions for you.’
‘Fuck do you care?'
I don't know. Got some stuff to get straight, that's all.’
‘So you're still going to call him?'
'You don't want me to? Way I see it, I'd have thought you'd be eager to leave.'
There's a sound that could pass for a laugh, but I'm not sure. 'You don't know the first fuckin' thing, do you?'
'That's why I'm here, Alison.'
She leans over to grab a cigarette from a gold Bensons pack and the light from the lamp catches her face. A flash of recognition, but I can't place who. It's not Mo. Her face is round, her body type a far cry from Mo's streak of piss physique. And she doesn't have Morris Tiernan's hard fea- tures. In fact, it's difficult to believe she's related to either man. Her face is softer, like a child. Mousy hair, mousy eyes. She must get her looks from her mother.
That is, what little looks she has left. A big ugly bruise covers her right cheek. It looks fresh and painful.
'Rob do that to you?'
She glances at me, then lights the Benson. 'What do you think?' She blows smoke at me. 'Who did your nose?’
‘A bouncer at that club you used to work at.' She smiles with the healthy side of her face. 'Good.’
‘What was the fight about?' I say. 'What fight?'
'The fight that landed you with that. The barney you had last night.'
'I didn't fight last night.’
‘I was outside, Alison.'
She takes a long drag on her cigarette, stares at me as she exhales through her teeth. 'Then why didn't you come up? You might've been able to help me out a bit.'
'I thought about it.'
'Thanks for that. A lot of fuckin' good thoughts do me.’
‘What are you going to do?’
‘About what?’
‘About Rob.'
'What can I do? It depends on you, dunnit? I don't have much of a say in the matter, do I? I'm fucked. So's Rob. But I'm not going without a fight.'
'Don't push it, Alison.'
She leans across the light again, sits back with an ashtray shaped like a seashell and flicks ash. 'What'd you say your name was?’
‘Callum Innes.'
She purses her lips, looks like a kid about to have a tantrum. 'Well, Mr Innes, I'm not going back to Manchester. You don't know the half of what's going on here.'
'Then how about you wipe that fuckin' pout off your face and tell me?'
Alison shakes her head. The pout's gone, but she's fallen silent.
'Nah, look. When I walk out of here, I'm calling Mo. That's a given, right? And I'm going to be watching this place to make sure you two don't do a flit and make me look bad because Christ knows it's been a hard slog getting to this point and I'll be fucked if I let some brat tell me how to do my job. Now all I can do right now is listen to your side of things. You want to keep your mouth shut, I can understand that. I'll just walk out of here and call your brother.'
'We shouldn't have done it,' she says.
'I know.'
'I can't go back.'
'You're going to have to.'
'Mo's a fuckin' bampot. I can't go back to him.'
'And Rob's any better?'
'You don't know Mo, Mr Innes.' She flicks more ash and sets the cigarette in one of the shell's grooves. 'You don't know what he's like.'
I know exactly what he's like. He's a psycho. And I'm not saying going back to Manchester's going to be easy, Alison, but it's got to be better than staying here, isn't it? How much of the cash has Rob done so far?'
'It's not that.' A sigh breaks out of her. 'Rob's got his problems, yeah, but we're working on them. And you know what Mo's gonna do to him when he gets up here. He's a jealous fucker.'
'What's he got to be jealous about?' I say as I light up.
Alison blinks. 'What's he got to be jealous about? How about — I dunno — the mother of his kid rips off his dad and buggers off to Newcastle with some bloke she's been fucking?'
'What kid?'
But I know the answer. That's where I've seen her before, that's where that spark of recognition came from. The toddler with Uncle Morris. The sleeping kid in the pushchair.
The kid looked just like his mother.
'Mo's your brother,' I say.
'He's my half-brother. My mam wasn't his mam.' She starts picking at something on her top lip. 'Dad doesn't know about it. Thought I got myself knocked up by some lad on the estate. But he went mental about it. And as much as I wanted to tell him the truth — y'know, see Mo get the same treatment — I couldn't do it. I kept my mouth shut.'
'Why?'
'I'm not a grass. And, fuck's sake, why would I tell him? It's not like it was rape.’
‘You're sixteen,' I say.
'Seventeen next month,' she says. 'And Christ, it wasn't as if Mo was the first.' Find me a runaway…
I exhale smoke, shift in my seat. Something rages under my skin and I can't get a grip on it, one of those internal itches. 'So, what? You run out on the kid and — '
'Make a new life up here.' Alison looks at me. Her right eye is half-closed. 'I'm not proud, Mr Innes. But you're right. I'm sixteen and I'm fucked if I go back to Manchester. You've got to understand, it was a mistake, me and Mo. It shouldn't have happened, but I'm a big girl now.'
'Yeah, a big girl getting the shit knocked out of her in a Newcastle council flat. That's a big step up, Alison.’
‘You judging me?'
I shake my head. She has fire in that one good eye.
'Who the fuck are you, eh? Hold on, let me guess, you're an ex-con with a favour to pay back, am I right? That, or you're one of Dad's hatchet men, a fuckin' monkey with itchy fists.'
'That's not true.'
She grinds out her cigarette. 'Whatever you are, you've got a nerve playing the good guy.'
'You're going back, Alison. There's nothing I can do.’
‘And what about Rob?’
‘What about him?’
‘What'll they do to him?’
‘Use your imagination.'
Alison looks away, stares at a faded stain on the curtain. She bites her bottom lip. I don't want to go back.'
'Like you said, it's not up to you. That's a nasty bruise, but next time it could be a lot nastier.'
'That's not the point.'
'It's exactly the point. Look, you want to be an adult, you start acting like one. And I know it's none of my business, but doing a runner isn't the adult thing to do. It's being a fuckin' coward, and I know enough about that. You want to be a big girl, you stand up and face your responsibilities. Morris isn't going to do anything to you. He's your dad, for fuck's sake. He just wants you back safe.'
'You know that, huh?'
'Yeah, I know that.'
'What about Mo?'
I can pick you up and take you back myself. I can call Mo from the road. That way you don't have to be around when he arrives, and you'll be settled in Manchester before he gets back.'
She looks like she's thinking about it. 'What if Rob doesn't stay put?'
'If he does another bunk, I'll find him. I'm not the brightest spark, but I got this far, didn't I?’
‘Why would you take me back?'
'Because I don't want to be around when Mo arrives. I don't know what he's going to do, and I don't want to know. And what's Rob going to think? That you grassed him up.'
Alison starts biting her fingernails again. 'He'd be right an' all.'
'Not your fault. But I don't think he'll see it that way.'
She takes a deep breath, lets it out as if it's her last. When she reaches for another cigarette, I notice her eyes are red. She sniffs and wipes at her cheek as she lights up.
'Well?'
'Okay,' she says. 'Okay?'
'Call it eight tonight. Ring the buzzer for thirty-five. I'll be ready.'
Couldn't be doing with this anymore, man.
Yeah, doing his car over gave us summat to chew on. Fuckin' loved that, like. Rossie made with the tyres and me and Baz did the paint job. That were fun. Got a buzz out of that, but it didn't sit still long enough. Grabbed at it, and the fuckin' fun went poof, out the window. I couldn't hang onto owt these days. Because none of it were bringing us closer to Alison. Felt like I were being fucked around is what it felt like.
Summat had to be done and done right. We was watching Innes ponce about, but it were like watching a film on Channel Five — I kept missing stuff 'cause I couldn't hear or I couldn't see. And when the fuck came out the flats, he had this look on his boat like he'd sorted summat out.
'Take it easy,' said Rossie.
'How the fuck can I take it easy? You think he's in there?’
‘If he was in there, Innes would've called you.' I dunno, Rossie. I don't fuckin' know. I don't trust that cunt.'
'Hang tight, Mo.'
'Fuck off.' I tapped the seat. Wrap of billy long gone and me nerves were fuckin' shot. 'We got to do summat. I can't be fuckin' waiting around forever. Christ, as bad as him, innit?'
'What d'you want to do?' said Baz.
'I want a word with him. Give us your butterfly, Rossie.'
'Nah.'
I looked at him. 'Give us your fuckin' butterfly, ginger nuts.'
'You talk with your mouth, not my blade. Use your own.’
‘He don't have it,' said Baz. 'What happened?'
'Give us your fuckin' butterfly,' I said. 'He's gone,' said Baz.
'You what?' I looked out the window. 'Fuck did he go?'
'Dunno.'
'You're lying.'
'I'm telling you, Mo, I didn't see.'
'You're a fuckin' liar,' I said. And the speed were scratching us up inside. 'Fuck's the matter with you lads, anyway? You bottling this?'
Rossie yawned. 'We're not bottling owt, Mo. You need to chill.'
'Fuck off. You're bottling it, the pair of ya. Fuckin' bottling cunts. Simple as, know what I mean? You supposed to come up here with me and we scope the fucker out and find out where Stokes is and we get my fuckin' sister back and that's the end of the story, right?'
'So why d'you want Innes?' said Baz. He had his mouth hanging open.
'Why do I want Innes?' My eyes fuckin' hurt, like they'd dried out. And I wanted a weapon, anything, wanted to slam the pair of cunts in the nose with it, whatever it was. A double whap and have 'em screaming blood all over. Why did I want Innes? 'Cause he's a cunt, like the pair of youse. He thinks he can take care of this, he's out of his fuckin' league. He don't know the first fuckin' thing what's going on here. And I want him out the picture, you hear me? I want him in the fuckin' hospital and away from us. He cocks it up and we're sorted.'
Rossie shook his head.
'Nah, you don't get it. Dad's got shit planned for us. Planned. Big stuff, know what I mean? We'll be working for the man. We'll be fuckin' untouchable.'
'Mo, you was ready to kill him before.'
I leaned in close to Rossie and said, 'Whatever it fuckin' takes, Rossie. Whatever it fuckin' takes. You lads, you can go through life just getting fucked up and nobody gives a shit, am I right? Me, I got plans, I got ambitions. And they don't need to be fuckin' scuppered by some jailbird. You know why Dad got him in on this? He did it to piss me off. Because he don't think that a bunch of scallies like us can carry summat like this off. And we can. As long as you bastards don't bottle it the first chance you get. Which is what you're doing right now.'
'What d'you want us to do, Mo?' said Baz. He looked tired.
I want more than just fucking up his car. I want him fucked up. I want a message sent out to him. You don't step on Mo Tiernan's toes.'
'Then what you got planned?'
I clicked me teeth together, looked for some gum. 'I'll tell you what I got planned. And you bottle this, I'll cut you both up.'
I walk away from Alison's flat on aching legs. Feels like I've accomplished something and when I get to the garage, it looks like I'm not the only one. I fork out for the new tyres, turn down the offer of new paint, and call Donna.
I ask her if she wants to meet up before I head back to Manchester. She agrees because, according to her, there's something we have to talk about. She tells me to meet her in the Egypt Cottage. Not her flat, and I get the feeling I'm about to be brushed off. It was bound to happen. A woman gets drunk, invites a bloke back to her place and she maybe thinks she said something she didn't mean, and sometimes it's easier to cut these things short before they get a chance to take root. The quiet fear of the blackout drunk.
Just another loose end to tie up.
Donna's already there by the time I step through the door. She's got a gin on the go and a cigarette in her mouth. When she sees me, she attempts a smile, but it doesn't register in her eyes. Yeah, this is going to be a bad one.
I grab a pint, sit next to her. She shifts position.
'I thought you'd be back in Manchester by now,' she says. 'That's what you said, right?'
Straight in with it. 'I'm not going back until tonight.'
'So it's all finished, then.'
'A couple of wee things to tie up. But, yeah, I'm pretty much done here.'
'Huh.'
We drink. I stare at the pictures on the wall. When I glance back at her, she looks like she's about to say something. Staring into her gin like the answer's at the bottom of her glass. Her mouth is open. Then she says, 'I was drunk the other night, okay?'
'Okay.' Setting myself up now, preparing for the kick into touch.
I don't normally do that. I don't normally bring people back to my flat, y'know? It's not what I do. But I'd had a really bad morning, and sometimes you just want a drink. Some- times that's the only thing on your mind and fuck respon- sibility. I was in one of those moods.'
'That's okay,' I say. I think I know where this is going.'
When she looks at me, her eyes are glassy. Gin'll do that to the best. It's industrial-strength mascara-thinner. 'Let me finish, Cal. This isn't easy.'
'Okay.'
'So when you don't call me the next day, and all I've got is like a few snapshots of the night, I get to wondering, like, how far did I go? And I remember you leaving, but I don't remember why you left. And I don't want you to think I'm some sort of slag, y'know?'
I know.'
'Because I'm not, Cal. I'm really fucking not.'
I never thought you were.'
'So… did we?'
'No, we didn't. I had to leave.'
Donna laughs to her,self, but she catches the sound in the back of her throat. She dabs at one eye, smudging her make- up. I do have some pride left, you know.'
'It's me, Donna. Don't worry about it.'
'So what do you want to do?' she says.
I drink my pint, swallow and sit back in my seat. "What do you want to do?'
'I like you, Cal. I just think we got off on the wrong foot. Bad first impressions and that.'
'Maybe.'
'I don't know how it can work.'
'You don't know how what can work?'
'Us,' she says.
'You want to chalk it up.'
'Pretty much.'
You can prepare yourself all you want, be as hard as you want. But at the end of the day, rejection is still a kick in the neck.
This is absolutely fine, I tell myself. This is just spot on. Tickety-fuckin'-boo. I don't hang around much after that first pint, make my excuses and leave, because I can't rationalise being dumped before a relationship begins.
Behind the wheel of the Micra, I stick in a tape and let it play out. I want to scream 'bitch', I want to call her and yell spiteful things down the phone, but that won't make much of a difference.
Chalk it up.
And if I'd slept with her? Maybe that would have been different. Or maybe she would have felt worse and not answered the phone. Depending on what she remembered. Christ, she gets drunk and I pay the price because I'm too much of a gentleman.
Like anything could have come from it. The age difference, the distance between Manchester and Newcastle, a million different reasons why it wouldn't work. Like the sex issue.
Fuck's sake, it always comes down to that. The sex is the thing, another Marie Claire myth. It doesn't matter that the guys who handed a scalding to James Figgis thought they'd teach me a lesson too. It doesn't matter that they bitched me. That kind of truth isn't first-date material, but then neither's sex. At least it wasn't when I was growing up. I feel like I've been out of the game so long, they changed the rules on me.
I stop by a chippy and sit with my dinner wrapped in newspaper. I stop by an off-licence, grab a half-bottle of cheap vodka and stick it in the glove compartment. It's a tic, an unconscious action. Something I do when I don't know what to do. The world just pissed on you? Buy booze. A nice little defence mechanism. I can't touch it, though. Not when I'm supposed to be driving Alison back to Manchester to- night. Give it three and a bit hours on the motorway, though, and I'll be gagging for a decent drink.
And a hot shower, my own bed. Some decent music on the CD player. Then back to my old life, for what it's worth.
I eat most of the chips; sling the rest out of the window. By the time I reach Alison's flat again, it's quarter to eight and I'm early enough to sit for a while and stare through the windscreen. Trying to be calm. Knowing that it's just a matter of time before I'm back home and all of this is memory.
Johnny Cash sings 'Solitary Man' as rain spots the glass. I click him off. I don't need to be reminded.
And I can't wait any longer. I get out of the Micra, hunch my shoulders to the rain, and trot across the road towards the block of flats. The place is dead, the way it should be. When I get to the front door, I press the buzzer for thirty-five.
I wait.
Nothing.
I buzz again, lean hard this time in case something's not connected. Then wait. And again, nothing. Check my watch and it's eight on the dot now. I take a step back and look up at her window. It's dark. Which means something's fucked here. Rob found out and beat her to death. Or she changed her mind. I check my mobile for messages. Nothing.
She's in the shower, she's asleep, she's knocked to the floor, gagged and bound and screaming for help in a dark flat.
Shut up, man.
So I buzz again, because it might just be that she can't hear it. And because it's something else to do. I'm out of ideas. Why wouldn't she be there? Unless someone got to her.
The guy in the black leather jacket, maybe. He's not a copper. He could be working for Morris, but then why would Morris check up on me?
I walk round to the carpark. Stokes' Escort isn't there. No lights in any of the windows, so either Stokes has found out and done something stupid, or he's managed to persuade her to do another bunk.
If that's the case, then I'm back to the drawing board. Even worse, they're going to be looking out for me, and they know what I look like, the pair of them. Christ, Alison, why'd you have to go and piss me around? I mean, she knows what's at stake here and it's certainly not a chunk of stolen money.
I should have kept my mouth shut. I shouldn't have gone up there; I shouldn't have talked to her. She's still a bloody kid, and she's not about to trust one of Morris' goons over her own boyfriend, even if he is a prize prick. If I was any kind of detective, I'd have known that. But I had to play Sir Galahad.
Bollocks to the job. I've had enough. Let Mo handle it from here on out. I'll get the scally on the phone, let him know the situation. As far as I'm concerned, I'm finished with it. I'm gone. Their fucked-up little family, their problem.
I start to cross the grass, hit pavement. I'll ring Mo from the car, then drive home. There's nothing more I can do here. And if he wants to get hard with me, I'll remind him that I have dirt to dish. Let's see how Morris reacts when he finds out his son's been keeping it in the family.
Somewhere, there's the sound of an engine. I don't hear it properly until I'm in the middle of the road. Then this horrible grating sound rises above the rain and I have to cock my head to figure out where it's coming from. It gets louder, closer. I narrow my eyes, peer up the road.
Definite movement.
And then two headlights blaze up like a couple of fiery white eyes. Roaring, the engine gunned for all it's worth.
I'm stuck. Caught and frozen in the glare, thinking daft thoughts like wasn't this the beginning of Randall & Hopkirk (Deceased)? And, fuck me, but tyres do squeal. I thought it was just the movies.
Too scared to move, too scared to stay put.
A small car with a grinding engine. Bearing down on me.
Fucking aiming for me.
The whole world shudders to a halt.
It's a full car. I can make out passengers, silhouetted.
I should jump. I should get out of the way.
And I try, just as a sudden wind whips around my legs. It feels like someone kicked me in the ribs. Twist up onto the bonnet. Clatter over the roof, and I'm thinking, hey, I'm going to be fine. It hurts like a bastard, but the impact didn't kill me, so I'm fine. I'm going to be -
I tumble off the roof of the car, slam off the boot and hit the tarmac with the top of my head.
The world goes grey for a second, but I'm brought back by the pain. I let out the breath I've been holding with a whine. Open my eyes to see nothing but the black of the road. Blink as much as I can, but I can't shake the blur.
I let myself go limp on the road. A fuzzy mental check and I don't think anything's broken, just battered. My head's
bleeding, though. Something warm and sticky is gumming my eyes.
My tooth throbs.
That little fucker just can't give it up for a second.
I don't think about where I am. I don't think about what just happened. All I think about is whether I need to change my boxers. When I move my leg, the skin stings with urine.
So yeah, I do. So much for Nan's advice.
I want to sleep, but I know I can't. More advice from Nan, that one. You go to sleep after a knock to the head, you'll end up in a coma. And I've got to stay alive. I concentrate on my breathing, try to keep it from slowing. My head spins. I've got blood on my tongue and the smell of my own piss makes me want to heave.
'I think I got him.' A whining voice. I know it from somewhere. I keep my eyes half-closed, playing possum. Like there's anything else I can do.
'Good.' Man, I know that voice too, but my brain's so fogged up I can't make any connections. 'Get him in the back of the car.'
'Fuck that. I'm not sitting next to him.'
'Stick him in the fuckin' boot, man.'
A pair of market trainers come into view. Pumas with a mucky red stripe. Old jeans swim into focus, the kind that look pre-distressed. Whoever knocked me over is a ponce. I lands grab me under the arms, pull me up with my feet dragging in front of me. My head lolls forward. One of my leg buckles and I hope it isn't broken. My back screams and I want to scream with it.
'C'mon, man, hold him straight. Don't dance with the fucker.'
A breeze dries the blood on my face. I can feel it start to crust up. It itches.
'I'm not dancing with the fucker, but if you'd take some of the fuckin' weight…'
I hear the boot being opened, feel myself turned. I keep my eyes closed now, but I can see light through my eyelids. They dump me head first into the boot. I crumple, double up and someone pushes my foot so it's twisted against my leg. Then the boot lid comes down with a thump.
No use in kicking up a fuss, not yet. Give myself a chance to heal first, get my head straight. Difficult to do when it feels like I've been pushed arseways through a woodchipper. I can hear muffled sounds outside the car. They're talking, arguing.
I recognised those voices, but I still can't place them. Fuck. Think, Cal. Can't. Too tired. Then I pass out.
Coach class.
I open my eyes to darkness, feel a jolt and think I've gone blind. Then I remember where I am. The boot vibrates under me, jiggling me about. So we're moving, which means they meant to hit me, as if I didn't know that already.
When I try to move, I can't. Pressed up by the back seats, there's a weight holding me to the floor of the boot. Some- one's sitting in the back seat, and he's a heavy bugger. That makes three in the car, at least. From the flash in the dark, I thought I could make out more, but it could have been the shock and the light.
I run my tongue over my throbbing tooth. It throbs harder, but it keeps me awake.
So that's three. At least. Maybe a couple more. Which means I'm fucked.
My knees knock together, my gut pitches, my spine feels out of whack. The boot has filled up with the smell of me and it's almost unbearable, the stench of urine and fear high in my nostrils.
God, I've got to try and think straight here. Okay, at the most, there's five guys in this car, not counting me. That's five guys who pose a threat. More than likely, there's three. Unless the driver didn't get out after they ran me down.
Fuck. Concentrate.
That weak voice, he's my first point of call if this gets nasty. When this gets nasty. I'll be able to connect that voice to a build, no bother. And if I know him, and I recognise the voice, it'll give me the extra fire I need to kick the cunt in the jewels. Because I'm not about to wade into big bloke and hope the rest of them go running scared. I do that, the big bloke'll just stomp on my neck while the rest of them wade in.
So nah, go for the weakling, aim a swing at that big fucking mouth.
Feels like my gums are on fire. Want to go back to sleep. Want to pass out. I poke the tooth.
Keep thinking, Cal. This is important. Keep awake, son.
Okay, so Stokes finds out about my visit to Alison. He gets scared and stupid, reckons the best thing to do would be to take me out of the equation. Fair enough, but how did he find out about me?
He smelled a rat at the casino. Placed me by the Mane accent I never knew I had. Another time I should have kept my mouth shut. But then he talked to me first. What was I supposed to do? Another punter could have told him. The guy with his flies open. Or Pauline could have spilled some- thing to keep him at the other casino. But I know who it was. It's as clear as crystal who grassed me. Georgie.
He tipped off Stokes. Just like he tipped me off, playing both sides to see who'd pay him more. Or maybe he did it because I stood him up.
And that weak voice, that's George. A high-pitched version of him, anyway. A George scared out of his mind. And it would make sense that he was driving too.
I think I got him.'
That's about right. This car's too small for Stokes' Escort. If it had been Stokes behind the wheel, I get the feeling I wouldn't be breathing now.
It was George.
He sets me up, tells Stokes. Stokes goes home, talks to Alison. And guess who just paid her a visit? But then, why would she mention that? I'm missing something.
So here I am, rattling about like the last Pringle in the tube, coming up with theories left, right and centre. But then, when you're trapped in the boot of a car that knocked the shit out of you, you tend to take stock. Alison, George, Stokes, Mo, Morris, even Donna. The whole lot of them, whirling around my head and it's difficult to stop them colliding with insane conclusions. I've been stitched up, I'm in pain. I can't think straight and all I want to do is go to sleep. Because I know the worst is just around the corner. I know as soon as this car stops, I'm going to be dragged out of this car and get a kicking I won't be able to crawl away from.
I can take a beating with the best of them. I've proved that since I started pretending to be a PI. But I like to have a good reason to get knocked about. I do something drunk and
stupid, that's fine. I pick a fight with the wrong lad, that's also fine. That's a lesson learned and chalk it up to bad decision- making on my part.
But this? A car ploughs into me and I get bundled off somewhere remote, cloak-and-dagger style, it doesn't fit with me. It's too serious, too fucking life-threatening. It's not something I've experienced, and the thought of it becoming a reality makes my bowels loose.
I'll be buggered if I shit myself too. I clench.
The engine growls, the rumble under me slowing to a dull vibration. I can hear the click of the indicator light.
We're pulling in somewhere.
This is it. I tell myself to buckle up.
The first punch lands heavy against my cheek, the second fires up a ball of pain where I think my nose used to be.
I hit the road in a heap, hands in my armpits, legs curled under me, dead to the world.
It's cold out here, the middle of nowhere. Some motor- way, surrounded by black trees and all the life sucked out of the scene by the cars that whoosh by. It's hardly private, but who's going to stop when they're going sixty. And it affords these guys a convenient hard-shoulder burial if they need it.
My right eye is closing up. Through the slit, I can make out three of them. One of them is Stokes. I recognised his voice as soon as I could fit it to a figure. One of the others is George, I know it. The third is a mystery to me, but he's doing most of the grunt work and he's got power in his fists.
I try to sit up. Another blow to the head makes me reconsider. And fuck, I can't see again. It hurts, but doesn't add too much. If this big guy knew how to beat the shit out of someone, to keep the pain going, he'd be dangerous. As it stands, he's just here to batter me into submission, which shouldn't take too long.
I cough up blood and spit. Christ, I'd kill for a cigarette. A passing car throws a light over George. He's skinnier than I remember. I smile at him as best I can, say, 'You're fuckin' dead, mate.' But it comes out like gawfaggagekmay…
He gets the point. His face creases up and he pushes the big guy out of the way, launches a weak right at my head. It connects with my scalp, but it hurts him more than it hurts me. He takes a step back, a pained expression on his face. He blows on his knuckles, eyes sparking at me from the shadows.
'Salford, eh?' says Stokes.
I turn my head to the sound of his voice, but I can't look up. I concentrate on the sparkling tarmac. A light rain is falling. It's the only thing keeping me conscious.
'What d'you wanna do with him?' A Geordie voice. Must be the big guy. Sounds like a big guy, but not the voice of a muscleman. More like he's having trouble breathing. If I can keep him battering me, maybe he'll have a heart attack or something.
Jesus, get your head together.
'Fuckin' Salford,' says Stokes. 'Not what I expected, like. Has to be said. I expected Mo.'
I jerk my head up and grin at him. I can taste blood in my mouth and my lips are wet. I must be a right looker.
'You like that?'
I keep grinning.
'You think that's funny?'
I push bloody spittle through my teeth and shake my head slowly. Fuck am I doing? Slap-happy, punch-drunk, that one- way ticket to Palookaville checked and stamped. Whatever it is, it's messed up my coordination.
Stokes steps forward and crouches down in front of me. Streaming headlights carve clarity in his face. I can make out a deep scratch on his cheek, a bruise swelling his bottom lip. He reaches into his jacket and I automatically flinch.
He smiles. Getting off at playing the hard man.
When his hand emerges from his jacket pocket, it's holding my mobile.
Ah, for fuck's sake…
'You know Mo's number off by heart, do you, Innes?' My head falls forward.
'Lad like you,' he says, 'a fuck-up scally like you, I don't think you've written it down, have you? Nah, what you did was just stick it on your mobile and leave it at that.'
I shake my head, bring up some blood-laced lung butter and let it fly full in his face. He recoils, stands and kicks me in the throat. I drop back, end up sprawled on the tarmac, staring through a haemorrhage at a moonless sky. Choking. I can't breathe. Trying to cough, but my vision starts closing in.
I roll onto my side. Stokes plants another size eleven in my gut. I spew onto the road, tears searing the cuts around my eyes. I try to blink, but it hurts too much. Coughing, spluttering air out of my lungs, bile burning the back of my throat.
Stokes drops my mobile in front of my face, makes sure I'm paying attention. Then he brings his foot down on it. I flinch hard, my body jerking. Once cracks the fascia, twice kills the display. The third smashes the mobile to pieces. He grinds his heel on the plastic then leans over. I feel the wet slap of gob hit my cheek.
'Tou-fuckin'-che,' he says.
I want to weep. He's right. I just saved Mo's number onto the mobile and left it. There are other ways of getting it again, but that would be admitting failure. And Stokes must know I didn't call Mo yet. Which means something that I didn't want to admit to myself.
Alison's the one that fucked me over.
Another volley of kicks, and I'm on my back. I keep wanting to draw my knees up over my stomach, but I don't have the strength.
'What d'you wanna do with him?' The big guy. Yeah, answer him, tell him. Let's get this over and done with.
'We kill him, he'll be out of the picture,' says George.
Thanks, mate. You'll get yours.
'We kill him, we'll have to deal with his body.'
'Howeh, Rob, he's fucked up. Might as well follow through. What's to deal with? We dump him in a fuckin' ditch and call it a night.'
'It's too risky. People know he's up here,' says Stokes.
'Aye, but we'll be gone.'
'I'll be gone, George.'
'He's grassed you right up,' says George.
'Nah,' says Stokes. 'He hasn't told Mo where I am. Least that's what Alison says.'
'Who gives a fuck? Better safe than sorry.'
'Take it down a notch, Georgie. You're beginning to sound like a proper psycho. Far as I'm concerned, this isn't worth the bother.'
'And I'm saying better safe than — '
'How about you shut up, George? You're not the bloke Morris wants. You're a fuckin' tourist, so hang onto yourself.'
My lips start flapping. In my mind I'm calling George all the bastards under the sun, but it comes out as a gurgling wheeze. George doesn't like it. He kicks me hard. I roll over onto my other side, curl up into a ball. Shut the world out, try to keep breathing.
Best to keep my mouth shut. Let them sort this out.
Stokes says, 'We'll dump him in a ditch. By the time he makes it back to Newcastle, we'll be long gone.' He leans close to me. 'You hear that, Innes? Long fucking gone. You messed up, son. You dropped the ball.'
I can't see him anymore.
'Pick him up,' says Stokes.
'Fuck that, I'm not touching him.'
'George, don't make me tell you twice, mate.'
I feel hands under me again, feel the sky get that little bit closer before my head falls to my chest. The world starts spinning and I have to blink to keep myself from throwing up again. I'm upright, looking down now. I notice my shoelaces are untied. Wondering how the fuck that happened. My ankle turns, a stabbing pain at the top of my foot. Then I drop face forward into a ditch by the side of the road. The mud is cool against my face. If I close my eyes, I can pretend it's my bed.
Footsteps disappearing, the sound of the engine.
They're not going to kill me, but they've left me for dead.
Small mercies.
I wait for the engine sound to fade away. All that's left are the sounds of passing cars and my own whistling breath. It's cold out here, getting colder all the time. I should make a move, but I don't want to. Not yet. Enjoy the rest.
My head starts feeling heavy, then the fear of coma spikes me with adrenaline. I put my hands out into the mud, sinking them deep. I try to push myself to my knees. It takes a couple of attempts, and when I get there, my head's thumping. Keep my eyes narrowed, because the world's going to get bright soon, I know it. It might be dark here, but the headlights of oncoming cars feel like they're burning my eyes right out of their sockets.
I concentrate on the road, lit up, raindrops like stars. They burst as my focus shifts.
And something catches my eye. It shines white against the tarmac. I pull myself closer on my hands and knees.
A tooth.
That tooth.
I finally got the bastard out.
And it hurts to laugh, but I do it anyway.