You will be taken to the prison reception.
Reception made me think of an airy room with a bubbly blonde behind a counter, all smiles and bright eyes. It was a room, that's where the similarity ended. Badly lit. It smelled vaguely of shit, and I couldn't place the source. I didn't mind. I'd get used to it.
Already conditioning myself.
You will be allowed to keep some things. These things will become your ‘property’. You will be asked to sign a form saying that you have seen what is in your bag, and that it has been sealed in front of you.
They asked if I understood what was happening to me. I stared at the fat guy with the pockmarked skin behind the reception desk. I watched the way his face moved. His cheeks buckled around the sides of his mouth. Before he got a chance to ask me again, I nodded. I understood exactly what was happening to me. I leaned over to sign the form. My wrist ached as I pressed down on the pen. When I set it down, I noticed blue ink on the inside of my hand.
You may have a bath or a shower.
I'd already had one that morning. The skin on my face still felt tight, newly shaved.
You will be given a prison number and told where to sleep. You will be seen by a member of the prison health team. Please tell the health staff if you feel very down or panicky or if you can't cope with your feelings or worries.This will be treated as medically confidential.
I went through the examination without complaint. I was fine, I told the doctor. Absolutely fine. I wasn't panicking. I wasn't worried. Everything was fine. Because I'd told myself this was inevitable. At twenty, I'd resigned myself to Her Majesty's pleasure. I'd already gone through the bullshit accusations in my head a long time ago. I'd already spat at the police, kicked off with the duty sergeant, and it had got me this far with a cracked rib (healing) and not much else.
And, Christ, I didn't show it, but I was knotted up inside. Scared wasn't the word. Petrified. Terrified. Stone cold fucking dead on my feet frightened.
Sometimes it doesn't matter if you're innocent or not. Sometimes all that matters is how you do your time.
I had a maximum of five years to look forward to.
Thanks to Mo Tiernan.
Always get the client to come to the office. Rule number one. Get them to come to the office or they try to fuck you over. Especially when they're out of their heads.
But my client isn't a client. If he was a client, he wouldn't have followed me into the gents' toilets at a pub called The Denton. He wouldn't have that Parkinson's tremble. And his grin wouldn't be so fucking desperate.
'You got the wrong Innes, pal,' I say.
The skinny guy with a face like a rolled-up newspaper shakes his head side to side. He has got the wrong Innes. He's after my brother, Declan. The brother who's now out of the city, in rehab, and a shadow of the junkie he once was.
But try telling that to the quivering psycho in front of me.
'C'mon, I got nowt. Got coinage, but I'm good for it. You know I'm good for it.' When he opens his mouth, he shows bad teeth. A by-product of the methadone, his gums purple in places. His eyes are clouded up like marbles. That's the valium, the temazepam. He should be calm, the amount of sedative in his system, but something sharp looms over the haze. Because behind that stare, there's a million thoughts swirling into one unassailable notion: I'm holding out on him.
'I don't have anything, mate. I think there's been a mis- understanding.' Trying to be diplomatic when my arse is clenching in time to my heartbeat. I start to back away from
him. I'm slow, but the movement's still too fast for him. I'm holding out, and he's not letting me go without a scuffle. A blade falls into his hand. Short, jagged, looks like a chib. I've seen them before. I had one of my own not so long ago.
I wish Paulo was here. He'd know how to handle this. He's been working the doors since Moses wore blue jeans. But he's not here, so I give in. Hands up, show him my palms. Nothing here, mate. Nothing up my sleeve, either. 'C'mon, put the knife away, eh?'
His right hand curls and flexes around the handle, smooth wood, like he's just jammed a blade into a piece of dowel.
'Put it away, man.' My voice hardens. 'Don't be a dick- head.'
He thinks it over and goes for the second option.
He's slow with it. One step forward, and I feel myself pull to the side. My right foot digs into his instep. I hold it there, twist hard and watch him lose his way. His foot stays where it is, but his body crashes through the cubicle door behind me.
There's a clatter as he goes head first into the toilet. The blade skitters from his hand towards me. I toe it towards the door to the gents as he tries to pull himself up, one hand on the toilet bowl. His head turns, one eye closed. Searching for the knife.
What now?
Subdue the bastard. Wash behind his ears. I slip into the cubicle with him, drop to my knees and get a firm grip on the back of his head. There's no hair to hang onto, but I squeeze my fingers tight against his skull. He feels it, squirms under me.
I push his face down sharply. It connects, but the muffled crack tells me it wasn't with water. Blood runs down the porcelain. His body goes into spasm. Tries to pull up, but the back of his head catches the toilet seat, jamming him in place.
He spits blood at the wall, screaming he's gonna kill me, just you fuckin' wait. The toilet seat rattles on its hinges.
I use my weight on his head, make sure his face goes under this time. His right arm flails. His back tenses up. Got to keep him under. Just enough so all the fight's drained out of him. But not too much. I don't want to kill him.
The smackhead's right arm shoots out, elbow catching me full in the cheek. The shock keeps my grip tight, but my head starts buzzing. I can taste blood in my mouth.
He bubbles with rage just under the surface, grabs air when he can. Keep him held down until my arm is soaking wet, the muscles in my shoulder twitching painfully.
Then he goes limp.
About thirty seconds pass before I realise I'm still holding him face down. My fingers loosen on his skull, my knees ready to push up.
His head flies back, roaring, and I'm on my feet. He coughs, gagging on day-old toilet water. His eyes are screwed shut and there's a piece of shit on his cheek. When he coughs, he sprays a mixture of piss and blood at me. I grab him under the arms and yank him out of the cubicle. My feet slip on the floor; his start kicking feebly.
We stumble through the door to the gents, out into the bar. He kicks his legs out at passing tables, rattling ashtrays, spilling pints.
One bloke grabs his glass, lager slopped into his lap, and yells at me to take it outside.
'Fuck d'you think I'm trying to do?'
When we hit the front double doors, I launch him through. He buckles on one knee, tumbles down three steps into the street. Rolls forward onto his stomach, gags again, then spews onto the road. I watch him from the door, shake the water from my arm. Try to massage the knot out of my shoulder.
He pulls himself to his hands and knees, spits the last of the vomit from his mouth and fixes me with a glare. He'll be back. But I won't see him coming.
Oh yeah, I'll look forward to that.
I watch him get to his feet and back off down the road. Fireworks scream through the sky, glowing orange, bonfires raging from Salford to Hulme. A rocket explodes and throws the smackhead's shadow three ways before he disappears. The smell of smoke in the air makes my eyes water. The stench from my jacket doesn't help matters.
In the distance, I can hear kids screaming. Writing their names in the air with sparklers and looting industrial estates for pallets to use as kindling. Hell on earth to commemorate a traitor.
It's enough to give a guy a thirst. I spit blood at the street and turn back towards the bar.
Settled in at a corner table, a pint of Stella in front of me. I managed to salvage a few cigarettes from a wet pack of Embassy and I've got one of them on the go. The rest are pulped, a stodgy mess of wet paper and tobacco. The cigarette tastes like toilet water, but I still smoke it.
My shoulder still hurts, but not as much as my mouth.
I should've known better than to meet the client here. He didn't tell me his name on the phone, but he had that urgent tone I took to mean he needed help. Course, at the time, I didn't know what kind of help he had in mind.
Sip my pint, wash the beer around my mouth. The bugger took a good swing at my tooth. I poke around with the tip of my tongue. One of the molars towards the back waggles in the gum. I poke too hard and it starts throbbing. Another drink to numb the pain.
If he'd been a client, I would've charged him extra to get that fixed. And normally he would've paid it. But then normal clients don't take a swing at me. They get me to snoop on their beloved wife or follow their kids to see what they do nights. That's what clients want, a personal spy who doesn't judge. But business is slow, almost dead. That's why I came here. I must be losing my mind.
A plump blonde with black roots leans over the bar, giving the landlord an unhealthy dose of cleavage. She grabs a clear drink and spots me looking at her. I look away, but it's too late. She wanders over, her legs crossing as she walks. She probably thinks it looks sexy. It just looks like she's pissed.
I drain half my pint as she slumps onto the seat next to me. She takes a moment to adjust her dress, a black number that probably looked good when she was twenty pounds lighter, but which now clings to her like shit on a blanket. She fumbles with a pack of menthols, puts one between her red lips and lights it with a pink disposable. A few puffs, then she sets the cigarette in my ashtray. The filter's scarlet where her lips touched it: her lipstick, or her gums are bleeding.
'My husband's a bastard,' she says. Shifts her position so I'm pinned in the corner. She takes a drink from her glass. The smell of gin is heavy on her breath when she speaks. 'He's playing around on me.'
I don't say anything.
I know you,' she says.
'You know me.' Plenty people know me. Most of the time, I don't want to know them. But there you go; can't have it all. 'Who am I, then?'
'You work for Morris Tiernan.'
My tooth pricks at the gum. I cover it with my tongue for a second to kill the ache. Then I take a drink to get rid of the blood in my mouth. 'I don't work for him.'
Her eyebrows arch. I thought you did.'
'I was working, Tiernan got involved. Doesn't mean I work for him.'
'Oh, right.' She closes one eye. Trying to wink, but she looks like she's having a stroke. 'I understand.'
Somewhere in the pub, a jukebox wails out a country standard. Stand by your cheatin' man, even though he beats the shit out of you and the dog. I don't want to be here much longer. As long as it takes to finish this pint, then I'm off.
'He's a fucker,' she says.
I follow her gaze to the landlord. He's a stocky guy, shirtsleeves rolled up to the elbow revealing two muscular and hairy forearms. From here I can make out blue tattoos, faded over time.
'That him?' I say.
'That's him.'
The knot in his jaw, the way he looks at his customers. Yeah, the guy's a fucker. But it's got nothing to do with me.
'There's always marriage counseling,' I say.
'Too late for that.' She turns to me. The light catches her face, and she looks drunker than I thought. No different to the rest of the wannabe divorcees who've accosted me since I got out of prison. Heavy round the hips, sagging up top. Lines around the mouth like the first strikes of a chisel against rotting wood. A sultry look that may have worked at one time, but has grown sickly with overuse. These women, they must smell Strangeways on me like a cheap aftershave. The prospect of rough trade, or something far worse.
She looks me dead in the eyes, says, 'How much would something cost, d'you think?'
'Something?'
'Something to happen to him.'
'I don't follow,' I say. But it's pretty obvious what she's after. Sometimes it's just a case of making them say it.
'Course you do.'
I smile, but I don't mean it. I look back at the landlord. He's fiddling with the till. 'I don't think you've got the money, love.'
'I can get the money.'
'And that's not the kind of thing I do.'
'Then what do you do?' she says. She squints at me, smoke from her cigarette swirling up into her eyes.
'What's your name?'
'Brenda.'
'Well, Brenda, you shouldn't be asking strangers to do over your husband. It isn't nice. Now, I never met the guy, but he looks like a proper shithead. And I feel for you, I really do. But knocking him off isn't going to solve anything, no matter how much you've had to drink.'
'I'm not — '
'Yeah, you are. Tell you what, you sober up and you still feel the same way, you give me a call, alright? We'll look at some less drastic options that don't involve GBH.' I write my name and office number down on a beer mat, slide it across the table to her. 'Don't get yourself worked up for nowt. God knows I'm cheap enough, so you have a think about it and get back to me.'
I down the rest of my pint and get to my feet.
Brenda looks up at me. Her eyes are watery, her mouth twisted. 'You need to help me,' she says.
'And I will. Just give me a call, okay?'
She thinks about it, stares at the beer mat. Then she grinds out her cigarette. Her hand is trembling.
'You okay?' I say.
'Fuck off,' she says.
She lights another cigarette as I move away from the table. Staring at the glass in front of her. It's all fun and games when she's playing with the idea of killing her husband. But once morality kicks in, she's deflated. Daft cow. Telling me to fuck off. It's her right, but I don't have to like it.
I pass by the bar. Brenda's husband gives me the evil eye. I give him one straight back.
Time I left, anyway. The whole night's been a bust.
'Mo, fuck's the matter with you?' said Baz.
I looked up. He were in the middle of summat, but I'd not catched it. He were looking at us, his eyes wide like I were supposed to say summat. He were a fat fuckin' bastard, were Baz. Big shoulders and a belly like a fuckin' toddler hanging off him. Didn't help that he always had his T-shirt tucked right in his trackie bottoms.
'You what?' I said.
'I were telling you summat, Mo. Rossie, he went and fucked a brasser up Cheetham Hill.'
'Uh.'
'Sharone,' he said. 'You know Sharone?'
'She's a fuckin' crack whore. I seen her with fuckin' Columbo, man. He selled her fuckin' rocks.'
'Aye,' said Baz. 'And Rossie did it.'
'Fuck's sake. He wants to get himself to the clinic.'
'Call him Johnny Nob-Rot, man.'
'Fuck off.'
'G’an, call him Johnny Nob-Rot.'
'You call him Johnny Nob-Rot. I'll call him Rossie Skank- fucker.'
Baz lapped that up and the vallies kicked in. I smiled. Didn't laugh, mind. Because even with the vallies, I still didn't feel like it. Not after the news I just had. I downed the rest of me pint and pulled on Baz. 'C'mon.'
'I still got a half here.'
'Fuck it. I'm off.'
Which meant he were giving us a ride. Baz swallowed what he could and we went. I got Baz to drive us over to the Wheatsheaf. He started on with pissing and moaning, but when he clocked the look in my eyes, he said nowt. Baz might've been a big bloke, but he knew when I were serious as fuckin' cancer.
'I got to go and see Callum Innes tomorrow,' I said when we was in the car.
'You need snooping done, like?' said Baz.
'What d'you mean?'
'Way I hear it, he's a private eye.'
'You what?'
Baz cracked a grin. 'Aye, he's a private eye. Like a fuckin' detective an' that.'
'You're kidding.'
'You never heard then.'
'Nah, I just thought he were a jailbird.'
'He got out,' said Baz. 'Fucker thought he'd set up his own PI business.'
'Fuck does he think he is?'
'Straight, from what I hear.'
'How can he be straight working for a poof like Paulo Gray?'
Baz liked that one. He laughed and I stared out the window some more. A private detective. Wondered if me dad knew about that. Probs. Which were why I had to go and see him.
Fuckin' private detective. Shit. How did that happen? Weren't so long ago the lad were throwing up on himself 'cause he were so scared.
Baz turned up the music, but it were gonna take a lot more than a tune to keep this lad from churning.
We got to the Wheatsheaf. I left Baz in the bar, went through to the lounge and saw me dad. He were in his usual place, right up against the window. He had a pint of the black and he were smoking. His old mates all around the place. Little Frank were crooning out summat about a daft tart called Kathleen. The fuckin' Irish, man, get 'em drunk enough and they'll sing any old shite. Dad liked the bloke, but I knew for a fact Frank liked to cut off cats' heads and leave 'em in people's cars as a joke. Yeah, he were sick in the fuckin' head, you ask me. Lad should've been banged up a long time ago.
But that weren't what I'd come for. I went right up to me dad and stood in front of his table and said, 'I thought you said we was keeping this in the family.'
Dad looked up at us like I were shite. 'I'm not talking about this.'
'You said we was keeping this schtum.'
'We are.'
'So what's this about me going to see Innes?'
'You're going to see him.' Dad screwed his Rothmans into the ashtray and lit another one, sucked half of it down with one draw.
'How's that keeping it in the fuckin' family?' I said.
He pointed at me with his ciggie. 'Watch your fuckin' mouth, Mo. Sit down and show a bit of respect.'
I looked around. People was staring. I wanted to knock a hole in their fuckin' heads. But I didn't. I sat down, said: T thought I were taking care of this.'
'I never said that. That's not going to happen.'
'You promised.'
I promised nowt. You go sniffing about with your scally mates in tow, you'll fuck it up.'
'Dad — '
'Don't «Dad» me, you little prick. Do as you're told. You go round there tomorrow and you tell Innes I want a word. That's all you do. You don't tell him nowt about this, you don't say a fuckin' word, else I'll knock you sideways, you hear me?'
Wanted to tell him to show a bit of respect. Felt my left eye twitch and sting. Shook it out. 'Dad, he's a fuckin' pisshead. You want someone you can trust, know what I mean?'
'Yeah,' he said. 'I want someone I can trust. So do as you're fuckin' told.'
I had plenty I wanted to say; it were boiled up in my head. But I had to swallow it back. I stood up, left the lounge bar and slammed the door as Little Frank went into another song about Galway Bay.
Baz saw us and went, 'Y'alright?'
'Nah, mate,' I said. 'I'm pretty fuckin' far from alright, know what I mean?'
'Uh,' he said. 'Get us a Kronie.'
Baz got the landlord over — a fat lad called Brian — and told him what I wanted.
'Get us a brandy, too,' I said. And walked away from the bar. Slumped behind a table and stuck me hand in me pocket, felt for a couple vallies. Head spinning, and it'd take too long for the beer and brandy to kick in. I needed a helping hand. I popped the vallies and chased them down with the brandy Baz brought over.
Dad were Dad, like. I weren't about to argue with him, even though I wanted to. He said jump, you fuckin' jumped even if you was family. Used to be, he'd brought me up like I was his only, even after me mam fucked off. But these days, there were summat worn, summat frayed at the edges. Like he
were itching to knock me on me arse. And there were nowt worse than getting floored by your own father.
Dad might've been a soft touch with everyone else, but he had a fuckin' blue-veiner for making my life shite.
My head rattles like Stomp in stereo and the Greggs sausage roll I'm trying to eat is burning the roof of my mouth off. I huff and puff, finally spit the pastry onto the road and let the rest of it follow suit out of the window. Watch it jump and splatter under the wheels of the car behind me. Tell myself it was rank anyway.
Round Salford, the morning sun is a disc of yellow in a sky of smoke. Some of last night's bonfires have yet to be extinguished. Now the place looks like a riot's just finished. Footage of Bosnia, Belfast, Baghdad and now North Manchester. The streets are dead; all that's left is the vibe of something exciting.
I drank at home after I left The Denton. It took the best part of a bottle of Vladivar to kill the pain in my cheek. A quick examination in the mirror told me that the smackhead had almost knocked the tooth out of my head. I wish he had. Right now it's hanging by a nerve, throbbing like a bastard. I'd go to the dentist, but I don't have the cash. And it's been that long since I had a check-up, my old dentist is probably pushing up the daisies. Fuck it, I'll soldier on.
I'm on my way to a morning spar with Paulo, so he'll probably do me a favour and knock the tooth out for me. He's good like that. The guy might be pushing fifty, but he's still got a nasty right hook and an uppercut that could floor an elephant.
At this time of the morning, it's a quick drive. But when I pull up outside the club, Paulo's waiting for me with a face like a smacked arse. I check my watch: I'm still half an hour early. I slow the car; wind down the window as he ap- proaches. This can't be good.
'What's up?' I say.
Paulo leans in. 'You've got company.'
'A client?'
'I fuckin' hope not, Cal. And you want to get him out of there before I get back from the paper shop, else you're both on the street, you understand me?'
'Hang on a sec — '
'I want him out. No buts about it.'
Paulo pulls away from the car, points at me, then starts walking towards Regent Road. I park up and get out of the car, chew the inside of my cheek. Company means one of two things. Either a client's in there, or Detective Sergeant Donkin's decided to pop by to fuck me over. Neither of which have made Paulo this edgy before. In fact, not a lot makes Paulo edgy. He's famous round here for being cool as.
Which makes me jittery as fuck.
I push open the double doors to the club, feel a wave of heat across my face. My back starts to sweat. This place was a second home when I got out of Strangeways. Paulo was the guy who got me my parole, stood by me. He saw something in me I couldn't see in myself. Took me to one side, threw me in the club with the rest of the prison-fresh lads and watched us beat the shit out of each other until we'd had enough. I was twenty-two then, it's a couple years on now, and I've worked out plenty of aggression in that time. I might be too old to keep coming back, but Paulo's got plenty of work for me. It's part of my probation that I still attend this place. Two years down and six months to go, then I'm a free man. Until then, I have to pop in and see my PO every couple of weeks. It's hellish. That tiny wee office, sitting there while the skinny prick patronises the hell out of me. He doesn't give a shit, to be honest. The moment he saw me, he saw the crime. And he didn't want to see any further. Which was fair enough. Because when I first saw him, I saw a prick. And I didn't want to see any further.
Me and Paulo talked about setting up the agency, one- horse operation that it is, and it was a joke until people started coming to see me. I don't advertise, but word spreads round here, and most of my clients aren't the type who have the money for a professional outfit. Either that, or they just don't trust the pros. It's got to the point where Paulo's charging me rent on the office.
He's got a cheek. It's really nothing more than a broom cupboard with a desk and two chairs in it. Oh yeah, and a window with a fine view of the bins.
The door's open. I can make out movement in there. Someone gangly, moving about at random.
My stomach turns.
No wonder Paulo didn't want to stay around. It's not the kind of company any ex-con would want to keep, especially one who's straight as a die and intends to stay that way. I blame Brenda for mentioning the name last night. Morris Tiernan's ears must have been burning.
So he's sent his son round to have a word.
Morris Junior, called Mo to avoid confusion. He's a six- foot-four beanpole with all the charm of a liquid cough. Bad skin, worse attitude, shaved head, a natural born scally. When Manchester was mad for it, Mo had his plooky hands full dealing out of a pub opposite the Hacienda. He was minting it then, but had his dad's knack for staying out of any serious trouble. When a couple of kids on mountain bikes let loose with a converted air pistol at the club's bouncers, people knew it was Mo fucking about. One dead, three wounded, and not a single charge the Tiernans' way.
Then Tony Wilson called it a night. Some say he was pushed into it. Too many drugs, too many bad influences, and Madchester was fading fast. The last night the Hacienda was open, when Wilson spread his arms and told the clubbers to loot the place, Mo was first in line. Back then Mo was pilled up and hip. These days he just gets pilled up and fashion can get to fuck.
I make my way across the club floor. Mo doesn't pay social visits. I look around the club for anyone I don't know. It's unlike him to turn up on his own; he's normally got a couple of shellsuits hanging about the place with car aerials in their trackie bottoms. But I don't see anyone. It looks like an average morning.
Step into my office, and he turns at the squeak of the door. His pupils are pinpricks in a sea of blood vessels. This isn't an early morning for him; it's a late night. He holds a bottle of Yop in one hand. When he sees me, he takes a swig, leaves froth on his top lip. It makes him look like a rabid dog.
'Y'alright, Mo?'
He studies me, then points one long finger at my face. 'Pastry,' he says. 'You what?'
The tip of his finger wiggles. 'You got pastry on your face.'
I wipe my cheek with the back of my hand and try to smile. Normally I'd close the door, but I decide to leave it open. If Mo flies in here, I'll need witnesses and an escape route all planned. 'What can I do for you?'
'How you doing, man?' He perches himself on the edge of my desk. His foot taps the floor.
'I'm okay. Hanging in there.'
'It's tough coming out, innit? Even what — two years, wunnit?'
'Two and a half.'
'A lot changes in that time.' He takes another swig from the bottle. He has a long, trimmed fingernail on his pinkie. The bastard wants to be a coke-snorting pimp. His tongue licks away the yellow foam, then he sucks his teeth. I hear you're all straight an' that now.'
'Straight as I can be.'
'You working for Paulo?'
'This and that, yeah.'
'Cause I heard you was like a private eye.' I wouldn't go that far,' I say. 'How far would you go?'
'I've done some work like that, yeah. Word gets around, I'll do some again.'
Mo nods, but it's not an affirmative. More like the DJ in his skull just mixed in a buzzing song. 'Fuckin' hell, I wouldn't have took you for a gumshoe, eh? Things change. Been a while since I seen you. Here, what happened to your brother?'
'Declan's in Edinburgh.'
'How is he?'
'He's clean.'
'That's good. Fuckin' gear, fucks you up. Kudos to the kicker.'
'I'll tell him you said hello.'
'No need. I'll probably see him soon enough.' Mo's lips part into a yellowish grin. 'Once a Mane, always a Mane'
A Leith lad in Manchester is a Mane now. That'll make me Liam Gallagher. I'm not about to correct him, though. My accent was beaten down by the scally tongue a long time ago. I suppose it helps me blend in.
I light a cigarette. Mo's not here for a reunion. The last time we spoke, I called him a daft cunt and butted him sharply just above the nose. I had my reasons. I was younger, stupider and I knew I would have been too scared to do it at a later date. But the way he's sitting there, dancing along to whatever rhythm his head's picked up this time, he's not here to do me over. This is a business call and, from the looks of him, he's not happy about it. 'What's up, Mo?'
His eyes narrow for a split-second, as if he's trying to remember why he's here. Then he licks his bottom lip and says, 'Me dad wants a word.'
'Anything in particular?'
'He just wants a word. Here, don't give us that face, either. He knows you're on the level now.'
Uncle Morris wants a word. That means he'll get a word, whether you want one or not. No questions asked. You're summoned, you go. Else he'll find you.
'Where's he doing business these days?'
'Usual place, mate.'
'Okay,' I say.
Mo gets up off the desk, smiles at me as he walks out of the office. I watch him as he lopes across the club. One of the lads recognises him, looks at me. I close the door and take a seat. Feels like I've just done six rounds; my legs are shaking. I stare at the floor, light an Embassy. Breathe smoke from my nostrils, watch it billow and disappear.
So what now?
A knock at the door. Paulo comes in and looks around the office before he speaks. 'Well?'
I don't look at him. 'It was nothing.'
'You sure? Fucker looked bloody happy with himself.'
'He's Mo Tiernan. He always looks happy with himself. Pills'll do that to you.'
'You about ready?'
I shake my head. 'Can't do it today, Paulo. Got other things to do.'
'Like?'
'Business, mate.'
Paulo watches me leave; I can feel him staring.
The Wheatsheaf is a corn-fed pub just out of town. Too close to the motorway to be anyone's local, but it gets the family day-trippers every Sunday. The kind of pub with mock antiques and a wood-chip play area for the kids. A beer garden, horse brasses and a landlord called Brian West, whose name's on the lease but that's as far as it goes. To those of us in the know, it's The Uncle's office. And if you know that, you're already ears-deep in the shit.
I pop two Nurofen and wash them down with a bottle of warm water. As I pull into the carpark, I see a fat child screaming her way down a slide shaped like an elephant. Her dad, a Pringle sweater with the look of a fortnight father about him, sups a pint of real ale and watches her out the corner of his eye. Sunday drinking. Warm and relaxed, even though the skies are streaked grey and black. Outward respectability when a storm is brewing.
The way the story goes, Morris Tiernan once had a bad debt slit from arsehole to appetite. It happened at The Wheatsheaf. In the men's toilets, right by the novelty condom machine. Someone took a sharpened screwdriver, gutted him. While the guy was bubbling his last bloody breath face down in a urinal, Morris Tiernan bought a round of drinks for a wedding party he didn't know.
And now he wants a word.
I get out of the Micra, dump my final cigarette of the journey and crush it into the gravel until the smoke stops. Take a deep breath, check my watch. It's noon. I spent a while in my car, unable to turn the key in the ignition. My hand shook too much. Thinking that they could call me back to the 'Ways just for talking to this guy.
It's taken me all my time to get here and now I am, I'm set to turn on my heels and hit the road. Morris knows I'm straight, but he still wants a word. That doesn't make sense and my stomach knots. The guy hasn't done a legal thing in his life, so what does he want with me?
There's only one way to find out.
I walk to the pub doors, pull them open. Inside, the place is dead. As I head to the bar, the doors close behind me like a gunshot. I flinch. Brian gives me a matey smile from behind the bar. A fat, balding guy with a moon face. He's nice enough, but he's one of the defeated. He'd let the world and his dog walk all over him if it meant avoiding trouble. Which is why he's in this hole. And he won't stop digging until he's six feet under.
Brian nods to me. 'Y'alright?'
'Been better,' I say.
'Drink?'
'Nah, I'm not staying long. He here?'
'He's in the lounge. He's expecting you.'
I push open the door to the lounge. It glides across the carpet with a whisper. Morris Tiernan sits in the corner, dressed in a dark blue Adidas tracksuit. Light from the frosted window next to him catches a large scar above his left eye. He's reading The Racing Post, a pint of Guinness on the table next to the paper. One hand rocks a pushchair. A toddler with a face like a bag of marbles is fast asleep.
The lounge door clicks shut. Part of me thinks it just locked. The same part of me starts panicking.
Morris looks up from the paper. 'Callum.' I smile. My cheeks hurt. 'You wanted to see me, Mr Tiernan.'
'Yeah, take a seat.'
I look around for a chair. Nothing but leather-cushioned stools, built for midgets. I pick one up, buckle a little under its weight, and drag it over to Morris' table. Then I plant myself on it as casually as I can. My knees press into my chest. I look like I'm in pain.
'Who d'you reckon in the three-thirty Chepstow?'
'I'm not much for the horses. I wouldn't know where to begin.'
He scans the paper, bright blue eyes twinkling under a heavy brow. He takes a drag off a Rothmans and rubs it out in a large ashtray. Then he raises his head, stares at me. Sizing me up. I've changed since he saw me last, and he's noting each and every difference.
'You look better,' he says. 'Strangeways ironed you out.'
'Yeah.'
'That's good. Glad it had that effect on you. Don't want to end up like your brother.'
'He's fine.'
'Is he?'
'He's clean now.'
Morris raises his eyebrows. One of them doesn't move very far thanks to the scar tissue. 'Good for him. So what you doing these days?'
'This and that. I'm still on licence.'
'That's a shitter. Your PO a prick?'
'They all are.'
I hear you're working down Paulo Gray's club.'
'Yeah.'
'He's a good lad, Paulo. You ever see him fight?'
'Not professionally.'
'I saw him fight once down the Apollo. He had a good combination on him, but he didn't have the balls to follow through on it. He could take a knock with the best of 'em, though.'
'I heard he was a good fighter.'
'He still work out?'
'We still spar.'
'Got to keep on top of your game.' He folds the paper, drops it on the seat next to him. Then he takes a long drink from the Guinness. His Adam's apple jumps as he swallows. He replaces the pint glass on its condensation ring and regards me. 'So you're a hardboiled dick now,' he says, making it sound like a personal threat.
'Sorry?'
'You do detective work. That's what I heard.'
'Nowt as flash as that, Mr Tiernan.'
'You find runaways?' I have done.'
'Good. I need you to find me a runaway.'
I feel sick. 'Listen, no disrespect, Mr Tiernan — '
'People say that, Callum, then they say something really fuckin' rude.' Morris' fingers tighten around the pushchair handle. The toddler's still asleep. He looks like he'd reach into the buggy and snap the kid's neck just to prove a point. And here I am with the spit gone from my mouth, trying to think of a way to say no.
'Nah, I don't mean to be rude.' I clear my throat. 'I'm not going to be rude.' Cut myself off before I start babbling. 'All I'm saying is that I might not be the guy for the job.'
Morris lets go of the pushchair. He lights a cigarette and stares at me through the smoke, unblinking. 'You're a good lad, Callum. Don't think I forgot what you did for Mo. That was beyond the call. You're straight; I can respect that. That's why what I'm offering is on the level. I wouldn't want you to get recalled. That's a kick in the bollocks.'
I nod to myself, try to control my breathing. Jesus, why am I so scared?
Because I know what he's like. I know how dangerous he can be. It's not like Mo. Mo's just a headcase. He'd top you and then puzzle about what to do with the body. Morris is the kind of bloke who has a shallow grave already prepared. And right now, the idea of a wood-chip burial is enough to make the back of my neck sweat.
'What is it?' I ask.
'Like I said, you find me a runaway. Simple as.'
'What kind of runaway?'
Morris flicks ash from the end of the cigarette. 'He's a dealer. Used to be, anyway. He worked for me until last week. That's when he went missing. And so did a sizeable amount of my money.'
'A dealer?'
He smiles; his teeth look bleached. 'Cards. I have a vested interest in some of the clubs round here. He was a blackjack dealer.'
'How much money are we talking about?'
'Ten grand.'
I try not to look surprised. 'I thought casinos had strict security.'
'Who said anything about casinos? I said clubs.'
'Right.' So the job's not legit. I had no reason to think it would be. But it's a hell of a lot more legal than I was expecting. 'What's the dealer's name?'
'Rob Stokes.'
'Anything more formal than Rob?'
'It's short for Robbin' Bastard. Who cares? The guy took my money.'
'So this isn't a runaway. This is a thief.'
'He ran away. That makes him a runaway. The fact that he stole from me's just another reason I want him found.'
'You have any leads?'
He bristles. 'If I had leads, I'd be chasing them up myself, son. It's not my job to have leads.'
I wish I'd bought a drink now, something to calm my nerves. And I wish I'd had the guts to say no straight off the bat. 'What happens when I find him?'
'You got a mobile?'
'Yeah.'
'Then I'll give you Mo's number. You find him, you give Mo a call and he'll take care of the rest.'
'Mo! Mo money, mo problem!'
That were Rossie, shouting across a crowded pub at me and Baz when we came through the doors. Rossie were wearing that leather jacket he said were Ted Baker, which were fuckin' bollocks, and made him look like double the twat he already was. Honest, like, a ginger cunt like Rossie, he'd look a twat in most stuff. But this jacket were his pride and joy. It hung off him like it were three sizes too big, which it probably fuckin' were. And Rossie didn't have the kind of hardness to carry it off. He were too small to be dangerous- looking, but that's why I liked him. Cunts reckoned they could start on him until he jammed that butterfly he carried in their balls. Surprise, surprise.
The place were chocka, the lunch trade in full swing. The landlord here did a fine line in proper Corrie Betty hot-pots, all meat and gravy and rank veggies. I wouldn't touch 'em with yours, like. Because I knew the lad what punted the meat on to this place. And beef didn't used to fuckin' miaow, know what I mean? Rossie did his upward nod from the bar and I jerked me head in response, did a saunter through the crowd. Digged a fucker in the ribs like I wanted to. He turned with a full-on wanker face. I gave him the teeth and he backed right off. Like I reckoned, soft as shite.
'Y'alright, Mo? Baz the spaz?'
'Fuck off,' said Baz.
'Get us a Kronie,' I said.
'Kronie,' said Rossie to the barman.
'And scratchings.'
'And scratchings.'
'What's up?' said Rossie.
'Eh?' I got me Kronie and sipped it. Cleared out the shite in me mouth.
'You look like someone pissed in your porridge.'
'I'm alright,' I said.
But I weren't. That cunt Innes put us right on edge. Couldn't get to sleep last night, so I kept pilling it. Feeling bone-cracked tired now, like. And I had to go over that cunt's place and play messenger?
As the Cockneys say: 'Faaack youse.'
Got Paulo giving us the evils as soon as I got through the door. Like I were summat he just scraped off his shoe. No way does a fuckin' cock-jockey get away with that, like. But nah, not right then. I were there on business, so I had to be ice. Suffer the fucker when I wanted to break his face.
Waited on Innes and took a look round his office while I was there. Nowt, man. If the lad was a private detective, he should have a bottle in the drawer or summat, but there were nowt. There was me, I were in the need to half-inch summat, just to keep me hand in, and there were nowt. So I got fuckin' edgy. Innes had put on weight since the last time I saw him. Fat fucker. Prison's supposed to harden a lad up, innit? Strip him lean and build him out of rock. But then, what the fuck did I know, eh? I'd never seen the inside of a cell. Been too fuckin' smart.
I supped me Kronie. Cadged a snout off of Baz. He had a mate what robbed them out the Kwiksave warehouse, so he were always flush. Lit it up and, through the smoke, I saw this boat I knew.
'That Dougie Harris?' I said.
Rossie picked at his teeth, followed me stare. 'Aye,' he said.
I hadn't seen him in a coon's age. Last time were when we was kids, like. He used to hang out with us in the tram station down Piccadilly. That were when I were on the cider and the blues. Dougie were always out his fuckin' skull on pills, like. Last I heard, he were on the smack. And it looked like it an' all. He had a bowling ball for a head, nowt in the way of hair and legs that'd break in a strong wind. The kind they said had a hard paper round, know what I mean? And top that off, it looked like Dougie'd seen the wrong end of someone's fuckin' boots. Burst mouth and two shiners. He were drink- ing a pint like it nipped his skull.
'I'm gonna chew the fat,' I said.
'C'mon, Mo. The lad's a fuckin' ghost.'
'Get off it, Baz. He were a mate.'
'Was, like.'
I went over to Dougie's table and slapped him hard on the back. His eyes swivelled in their sockets. When he looked at me, the colour went from his face — from white to fuckin' see- through. 'Y'alright, Doug? Rossie, get Doug another pint.'
'Tell him to get his fuckin' own,' said Rossie.
'You what?'
'Nowt.' And Rossie went back to the bar.
'How you doing, Dougie?' I said. Baz came up and took the other seat, looked from me to Dougie, then back again. He didn't know what the fuck were going on. And neither did Doug, from the looks of him. 'You look like pan-fried shite, son.'
Doug flickered with a dirty yellow smile. 'Bad night last night.'
'Tell us about it. What you doing these days?' Baz shook his head. I looked at him.
'Nowt much,' said Dougie. 'This and that.’
‘Same here,' I said. 'This and that. More of that. You working legit?'
'Nah.'
'You working?'
'Nah.'
'You need work?'
'I'm alright, Mo,' he said.
'I'm asking 'cause I might have some work for you, you need it.'
'I'm alright.' Dougie started gulping at his pint. Tried to neck the whole fuckin' thing rather than talk to me. Now what the fuck were up with that? A lad can't have a friendly how-you-doing without some cunt getting edgy? I sipped me Kronie, slipped a hand in me pocket and watched Dougie out the corner of me eye. 'You need owt, Doug?'
He shook his head. 'Nah, I'm off it.'
'Off it? You fuckin' must be, son. Baz, you remember that time Dougie took a dump in the canal?'
'Aye.'
'By Castlefield, wunnit? You just ripped your keks down and curled one right in the canal. Man, I fuckin' ended meself.'
Rossie came over with two pints. He sat one in front of Doug. I said, 'You brew it yourself?'
'Eh?'
'Where you been?'
Rossie frowned. 'At the bar.'
'Your face looks painful,' I said to Doug. 'You want a couple pills?'
Doug glanced at his fresh pint, looked like he was gonna throw. 'Nah, Mo. I'm fine. I'm clean now.'
Clean, my arse. I didn't need to see the tracks to know he'd been trainspotting, know what I mean?
'Aye, well,' I said. 'You can have a half.' I broke a pill and slid it up close to his new pint. He drained the old Kronie and chewed his bottom lip. He shook his head.
'You don't have to pay us nowt, Dougie-son. I know you're strapped. You always was. It's a freebie.'
'I told you, Mo.' He were smiling like it were a joke.
My left eye hurt. I had all snot in me nose, so I sniffed it back and swallowed. Cleared the rest out my throat with a gulp of beer. Picked up the half-pill and held it up to Doug. Then I dropped it in his pint. Bubbles fizzed all around it, like. Dougie Harris just looked at us, big old black eyes dead to the world, not a light in 'em.
Nah, it weren't a joke.
'Tell you what, I fancy a Courvosier. You want a brandy, Baz? Rossie?'
'I could drink a brandy,' said Baz. 'You want one, Doug?'
He looked like he were about to shit his pants. I got to my feet, slapped him on the shoulder. 'Course you do,' I said. 'Who turns down a brandy?' Lit a ciggie on the way to the bar, all fuckin' swagger and shit. Doug Harris turning down a pill. Pull the other one; that one's got fuckin' bells on it. That cunt what used to knock 'em back like Smarties and now the lad had a clean-living bullshit halo over his head?
Nah, man.
Leopards. Spots.
I leaned against the bar, waiting on the brandies. Watched the back of Doug's head, looked at Baz. If anyone were gonna help the cunt out, it'd be Baz 'cause Baz were a soft cunt even though he were a big cunt. And if he helped Doug out, I'd have it out with him.
Doug were talking to Baz. I couldn't hear him. The way Baz were talking back, they both must've reckoned I were having them on. I wanted to go back over there and stove the pair of them fuckin' nobheads in.
As the brandies arrived, I saw Doug knocking back his pint. Got back to the table, and he weren't finished with it. Felt my gut knot up so I dropped a couple of full kilt moggies into Doug's brandy and necked one myself. Sat and watched until Doug swallowed the rest of his pint, one eye on the brandy in front of him. 'That's it, Dougie-son. You sup up.'
'Mo, I'm off it'
I know, son.'
'Nah, I mean it, Mo. Joke's a joke, innit?'
'Sup up, Dougie.'
'Mo — '
'You a simple cunt, Dougie? Fuckin' tapped or what? Sup up.'
After another couple brandies spiked with half me stash, uppers and downers, Doug were having it large in his own back yard. Rossie and Baz and me, we watched him turn all the colours of the rainbow, watched him blink slow like his brain were fizzing out hardcore. Dougie Harris had turned into a proper lightweight. He looked like one of them rats they test the vaccines on, itching like a fucker. I watched him squirm and drank some more.
'We going out tonight?' said Baz. He weren't looking at Doug. Like he couldn't stomach it.
'Aye,' I said. 'We got to go see Columbo.'
'Fuck's sake,' said Rossie. 'Columbo's a creepy cunt.'
'You ain't gonna be in there, Rossie. I need you to do us a sly one.'
'What?'
I'd been thinking about it while I watched Doug wind
down. Dad wanted Innes to do this job for him, find Stokes, I still weren't comfortable with that. Innes were a fuckin' pisshead and whether he was a proper private eye or not, he had nowt in the way of bollocks. Certainly not enough to carry out a job like this. So fuck him and fuck Dad. I needed to sort this out on me own. Til tell you in the car, Johnny Nob-Rot.'
Baz spluttered on his pint, laughing. Aye, I were a funny cunt. Doug giggled like a fuckin' girl, like a nah-ha-ha-nah, and choked out quick.
'You heard then,' said Rossie. He had a face like a cat's arse.
'Yeah, I heard. Now sup up and let's get the fuck out of here.'
We drank 'em off as Doug leaned on the table. He were dozed right out. Before I left, I went through his wallet. The lad had a score on him so I took it.
Way I saw it; it served him right for being a cheeky cunt.
Half now, half when I call Mo. I haven't opened the envelope Morris gave me, but it feels heavy in my hand. He gave me the address where Stokes used to work, a tattoo parlour on Hanover Street. I didn't know people gambled there, but then that was probably the point. It's a members only club. Morris said I'll be expected. Just head to the first floor and give my name. They'll let me in, no problem.
Morris promised me that we'd be even after this. I had no choice but to believe him.
And now I'm sitting here in my local, I'm wondering. Even for what? I've never done anything to Morris, I don't owe him a bloody thing. If anything, he owes me.
Find a runaway, simple as.
It's always simple as. Do a little work for Uncle Morris. Yeah, he's a little shady, got a few fingers in a few pies, but that doesn't make him a proper criminal, does it? It's good money and you know he pays in full.
A job, simple as. Keep your mouth closed, simple as. End up doing half a five-year sentence in Strangeways so a judge can prove a point. Keep a look out over your shoulder and try not to get killed.
Simple fucking as.
I sip my pint and stare at a framed picture of Manchester in the grimy days when it had an industry that wasn't customer service. A group of blokes wearing shellsuits are at the bar,
talking loud and laughing louder. I try to ignore them. Tap the envelope with the tip of my finger until it becomes too much for me and I open it up, peek inside. About five hundred in twenties. I close up the envelope. A lot of money for someone like me, too much to explain away.
I have to tell Paulo about this. That, or avoid the club altogether. I don't see that happening, though. Paulo'd get suspicious. And then what? Out on my ear.
I could tell Morris I've thought about it, but I'll have to turn down the job. Life would be easier that way.
But then, according to The Uncle, I owe him. And I'll still owe him if I turn this down. The next job he offers me might be mandatory, and it might throw me back in the 'Ways.
Fuck. I have to do this. I don't see any way around it.
This runaway dealer, he's either ballsy as fuck or just plain stupid. I'm banking on the latter. That way maybe I can clear all this up before Paulo gets wind of what I'm doing, who I'm working for. Because I know I'll be up the creek if Paulo finds out. I drain my pint and push back my chair. Tuck the envelope into my jacket pocket, reckon I might as well get to work straight away.
The sooner I'm done with this, the sooner I can get back to normal.
The pub door opens as I'm putting out my cigarette. It's Paulo. Got a face on him. He heads straight for me. Fuck.
'Cal,' he says. 'Fancy one?'
I check my watch. 'Bit early for you, isn't it?'
'You already started by the smell on you.'
He orders at the bar, two pints. He looks at his with the eyes of a guy who used to enjoy his drink too much. Paulo shouldn't be drinking, not if his doctor has anything to do with it. But having Mo at the club's put him in a drinking mood. Paulo's got a good thing going on at the club, but it's precarious. He reckons it's because he's an ex-con, and that's probably got something to do with it. No matter how open- minded people say they are, you mention either mental illness or prison and they start looking for the nearest exit.
Paulo's had both in his life. One led to the other. He used to fight. Started out amateur when he was sixteen, turned pro in his twenties, but he never rose above mediocre. The way some of the old lads tell it, Paulo had flashes of brilliance in the ring, and he could take a punch or twenty. They kept mentioning Jake La Motta with his iron jaw. The guy was a bull, built like the proverbial shithouse.
Trouble was, Paulo Gray had something in his brain that wasn't quite right. He'd zone out at times, and that left him open. He'd sit in his dressing room and stare at the wall. One night, they say, it took two guys to drag him out of there. He wasn't scared, just depressed.
After that, he couldn't get the fights. He drank. And he ended up doing a bloke in a pub in Cheetham Hill with his bare hands. Paulo says he doesn't remember it and I don't push him. He's got other stuff to worry about. Sorting out the young offenders that come through his door in droves is part of it. Taking his medication is the other part.
Normally, I'd be out of here, but he's paying.
We return to my table and it's a while before he drinks. Even then, it's a sip. He savours the taste and looks at me. 'Got a new lad started this morning,' he says. 'Reminds me of you.'
'Good-looking, is he?'
'He's fuckin' angry is what he is. Tried to pick fights outside the ring. I had to batter him, teach him some manners.'
'Spare the rod, eh?'
'You know the way I work.'
Yeah, I do. Paulo's hard but fair. Once you have him as a mate, you're sorted. Stand by you thick and thin. And Christ knows there's been a famine recently.
'What did Mo want?' he asks.
'He wanted me to see Tiernan.'
'And?'
'And I went.'
'And?'
'Fuck's sake, Paulo. He wanted a chat. Asked me to do something for him.' And my heart skips, tooth pricking. T told him no.'
Paulo stares at me with clear blue eyes. Doesn't blink. 'What was it?’
‘Does it matter?'
'You're right. I don't want to know. And you told him no,' he says. 'Yeah.'
'Good lad.' Paulo finally lets himself blink, returns his attention to his pint. Takes a large gulp. 'I shouldn't be drinking,' he says. 'Doctor said I shouldn't. One pint is all it takes, he says.'
'You're doing alright, though.'
'Yeah, because I know when enough is enough.' Paulo looks up at me. 'Self-discipline, it's tough. But it's worth it.'
I don't say anything. I just nod like I understand. But I'm already too busy thinking about Stokes.
I talked to Rossie in the rear view. He were all stretched out in the back of Baz's Nova, head against the window. It fucked Baz off summat rotten, but what were he going to do 'cept whine: 'Get yer feet off me seats, dickhead.'
Rossie shuffled his hand at Baz, then made sure he wiped his trainers all over the back seat. Baz glared at him.
'You know Innes?' I said to Rossie.
I know the name,' he said.
'You know his brother.'
'Smackhead?'
'That's the fucker.'
'He were on that job with us,' said Baz. 'I ain't seen him about,' said Rossie. 'The smackhead's up in Edinburgh. Innes says he's on the programme,' I said. Baz laughed.
'What's so fuckin' funny?'
'A smackhead goes to Edinburgh to clean up? Fuck's sake, that's comical, man.'
'Huh.' I didn't get it. They was both Jocks, it were where they came from. Why the fuck shouldn't the smackhead go back home?
Baz pulled the car round into Columbo's street. Columbo were old-school Moss Side Massive. Didn't matter how rich he got, he'd never move out. Like me dad, except Columbo had nowt. And I didn't like going round to see the cunt, but he were cheap and he knew not to tread on the merchandise too much else I'd have his balls.
I went up to Columbo's front door and pushed the bell. It were a musical one and it went on for ages. When he came to the door, Columbo hunkered up around the peephole. Which were a waste of fuckin' time because his front door had this pane of frosted glass in it. I slapped the glass and Columbo flinched. Jumpy fuck.
He opened up. I smiled. 'Y'alright, Columbo?'
He didn't look alright. He looked like he were passing a kidney stone.
Me and Baz slumped on Columbo's shit-brown couch. It smelled like someone pissed themselves on there and no- body'd bothered to clean it up. Baz were in the middle of rolling one that'd kill the smell just as soon as he sparked it.
Rossie were outside. He were making a call for us. I had to get him to do it. Them lads, they hear it from me, they might shit it 'cause I'm such a hard cunt. That, or they feel their balls getting bigger and start giving it with the jaw that they're working for Mo Tiernan. That couldn't get out. I weren't that fuckin' stupid — this had to stay under Dad's radar. So I got Rossie to make the call and I were laughing, man.
Baz sparked and I got on that bastard like it were mother's milk. Columbo were doing nowt in the way of trade right now. Too busy giving it some gum flappage about this red-hot dog-fuck porno he borrowed off this lad he did stir with. I didn't want to hear it. We was here to score, not listen to some daft cunt getting hot under the collar 'cause he saw some skank take it up the shitter from an Alsatian. He were talking about this bird licking the dog's balls when I said, 'Here, Columbo, you selling or what?'
Columbo were a fuckin' dwarf, or as good as. Looked like the old bloke on the telly, had a glass eye the same as him. He were the only person I knew who had a glass eye, like. And it used to fascinate us, trying to work out which one were the fake. But now I just got fucked off with him 'cause I knew it were the right eye and Columbo were a cunt about bending your ear about nowt.
I handed Baz the spliff. Columbo pushed out his bottom lip with his tongue. A second there, and I thought the fucker were calling us a spaz. All ready to spring up and cut the cunt's tongue out his head until I realised he were just getting a bit corn out his teeth. His knees cracked when he got up, went to the sideboard. Columbo said, 'How much you want?'
'Eighty notes,' I said.
'Hundred,' said Baz, coughing through the tack smoke.
'You got the extra score?' I asked him.
'Yeah.'
'A hundred, then.'
Columbo mumbled summat under his breath. I didn't catch it, said, 'You what?'
'Nowt,' he said. Columbo slid the sideboard door across, pulled out a big bag of pills and wiped his nose. Made this noise like a slow-draining sink. 'All Bruce, eh?'
'Yeah,' I said. 'Chuck in a couple tammies an' all.'
'You want some Ritalin?'
'Fuck would I do with Ritalin, Columbo?'
'Swallow it,' said Baz, so I taxed the spliff off of him.
'I ain't got ADD, fuckhead,' I said to Baz.
'Nah, Ritalin's like whizz if you ain't got ADD. Give us a couple Ritalin, Columbo.'
Columbo measured out the pills. He kept wiping his nose. Wouldn't surprise us if he'd done a few lines before we came over. And it didn't surprise me that he didn't fuckin' offer it about, either, the tight cunt. I dug the cash out me back pocket, held it out to Baz for him to slap a twenty on there, then I tossed it onto Columbo's coffee table. Columbo looked at the cash and his tongue started roaming his mouth again. He dropped the bag of pills on the table. I went for it before Baz got a chance. 'Fuck's this?'
'Hundred notes,' said Columbo.
'Fack orf, mate. Where's the rest?'
Columbo sighed. 'Mo, you do this — '
'Looking at a pound a pill, ain't we? That don't look like a hundred.'
'You do this every fuckin' time, Mo.' Columbo closed his good eye and shook his head. 'If it weren't a hundred notes' worth, you'd know it, son.'
'Fuck you think you're talking to?'
'I'm talking to Morris Tiernan's son,' he said. 'And I wouldn't fuck you over because of that.'
I gave him a glare, then smiling teeth. 'I'm just messing. You're a good lad, Columbo.'
Rossie came into the room. He were putting his mobile in his pocket.
'We sorted?' I said to him.
Rossie nodded. He were ice cold, even if he did look a twat in that jacket.
'Then we're sorted.' I got off the couch and tucked the baggie of merch in my jacket, kicked Baz's leg until he got up. Took a couple of sharp ones, the fuck was feeling The Warm too much. When we was about to go, I turned around. 'Just one more thing, Columbo.'
'Aye?' He looked sick of my shit.
'You don't fuck me over because I'm Mo Tiernan, not 'cause I'm Morris Tiernan's son. You don't fuck me over 'cause I'll fuckin' cut you up if you even think about it, you hear what I'm saying?'
Columbo just looked at me. I couldn't read him. Didn't matter as long as he got the message.
'Yeah, Mo,' he said. I hear what you're saying.'
'Make sure you fuckin' do,' I said.
And I took the lads and left, went back to Rossie's gaff to prepare for the night's business.
It's not easy driving in Manchester city centre. In fact, it's a pain in the arse. Minicab drivers without fear, bus drivers with more road rage than sense.
So I leave the Micra in the shadow of Victoria Station and pay for an overnighter. I shouldn't be gone that long, but I can't take the chance of the car being towed. That happens, and I might as well be in a wheelchair, the amount of work I could do. Hanover Street's not far from here and the walk'll do me good.
The wind picks up around my waist; I pull my jacket tight. Rain is in the air. And the cold is making my head throb. As I turn the corner, I see the tattoo parlour, a place called Roscoe's. A blue neon sign advertises 'peircings'. The windows are plastered with posters, mostly bands and DJs I've never heard of. One of them has a drawing of a mean-looking Goth holding up a dripping heart. I look for the handle to the front door. It doesn't have one, so I push. A small bell rings somewhere.
An antiseptic smell in the air, the trace of lemon. The floor is covered with linoleum that makes a tacking sound as I walk across it. A couch, coffee table and dirty-looking chair dot the room. A girl sits behind a counter with more band posters stuck to it. Probably the only thing holding it together. The girl looks like she covered her face in glue and headbutted a bag of ball bearings. She's reading a well-thumbed magazine with a bored expression. When she finally looks up, I notice her eyes are purple. It's a little startling.
'Can I help you?' She shows teeth, one of them streaked with a calcium deposit. Something shines in the back of her mouth.
'My name's Callum Innes.'
She blinks. 'You expected?'
I think so. There should have been a call.'
'Uh-huh. Well, straight up the stairs, second door on your right. You can't miss it.' The girl points to a beaded curtain to my right. I nod, rifle through my jacket for my cigarettes. When I pull the pack, she taps a sign with one purple fingernail. 'Health regulations,' she says.
'Oh, right. Sorry.'
'No biggie.'
I part the curtain, feel the strands flick against my head as I pass through. Look to my left, and there's a small room with what looks like doctor's table. In a chair next to it is a guy with a full-on Rod Steiger, stripped to the waist, a roll of fat hanging over his belt. He's leafing through a thick book of tattoo designs, more of which hang on the walls. Celtic bands, swirling multicoloured dragons, flaming Bowie knives. He looks up at me and for a moment, my arse goes into spasm. I blink and see he's wearing opaque contacts. What is it with these people and their fucking eyes?
'You my three-thirty?' he says.
'Nah,' I say. 'I'm here to do some money.'
He runs his tongue over his top teeth. 'Kay. Well, she'll have told you where to go.'
'Yeah. Up the stairs, second door on the right — '
'And straight on till morning,' he says. He smiles, but only for a second. Then he goes back to his book. Yeah, thanks, Peter.
I head up a narrow stairwell. No need for a banister, the walls are that tight on me. When the space opens up into a landing, I'm confronted by a mountain masquerading as a bouncer. He's stuffed into a tuxedo two sizes too small. His shirt cuffs ride up on his wrists, prison ink spilling out from under. I need to take a step back to look up at his face, then wish I hadn't. He's done time, this one, and it wasn't easy.
'Yeah?' he says.
'Callum Innes,' I say.
He digs into his jacket pocket, pulls out a wrinkled sheet of A4, lined. Studies it as if he needs glasses but he's too vain to get them. With a boat like that, vanity should be the last thing on his mind. I don't tell him that. I value my scrotum too much.
'You got ID?' he says.
I show him my driver's licence. He takes it, compares the picture to what's standing in front of him. 'Morris sent me,' I say.
'Big whoop. Morris sends everyone.' He hands me my licence, jerks his head. 'Go on.'
I try to give him a friendly smile, but it doesn't feel right and he doesn't offer anything in return, so I move past him into the club. A cloud of cigar smoke hits me in the eyes as soon as I step through the door. The sound of chips being click-shuffled, the muted rattle of a roulette wheel some- where and the throbbing undercurrent of cards hitting felt. As the smoke clears, I blink through the tears and get a better look at the room. It's crowded with gamblers, most of them too dangerous to hit the legit casinos. The bad vibe of barely-concealed aggression. Low ceilings smother us from above, thick carpet threatens to do the same from the opposite direction. A small bar on my right, blackjack tables in front of me, the roulettes behind them. And right at the back, huge red curtains tied back to reveal private rooms.
I recognise a couple of scallies with temper problems drinking at the bar, but they don't recognise me, thank fuck. Tiernan's lads. The last thing I want is to get into conversa- tion with them. I'm sick of telling people Declan's clean, sick of seeing their eyes glaze over.
Oh, right, yeah. Your brother's clean, he's off the junk. Good on him. No more gabbing to the busies for a baggie of black. No more living in his own filth. He's fine, that's a good thing.
Have a drink on me.
I head to the nearest blackjack table, find a spot and get seated. Hand over a tonne to the dealer and get twenty reds back. I sit and fiddle with the chips, try to look like a proper punter. When I see the dealer staring at me, waiting, I smile and slip a tenner onto the table. He clicks onto autopilot, starts dishing out the cards.
Five minutes later and I'm down to half my stack. The other players aren't the best conversationalists. In fact, they haven't said a thing. They came to play.
'Been a while since I been in here,' I say.
A grunt from two seats down. The dealer doesn't acknowl- edge me.
'Yeah, used to be a dealer here, a guy called Rob. He still about?'
'Card?' says the dealer. He stares at me intently. Something in his eyes, but I can't make out if I've hit a nerve or not. He might just hate all the punters in here. I look down at my cards. Sixteen. I take another. The dealer flips a four. I stay.
'So I don't see him about,' I say. 'What happened? He get the sack or something?'
No answer. The dealer continues as if I'm not there.
'Fine, fuckin' hell. Just trying to make a little conversation.'
The Chinese guy next to me turns his head, looks me up and down. 'No here for talking,' he says. 'You play, you no play.' He points at me with his right hand. I notice two fingers cut off at the knuckle. A tattoo on his neck, a bluebird peeking out from under the collar. He's an old-time wannabe Triad, maybe a real one. I don't want to find out which.
'Okay,' I say. 'That's fine with me.'
'Card?' says the dealer. This time, there's a twinkle in his eye. If I didn't know better, I'm sure he's laughing at me. My heart starts to beat faster.
I have seventeen in front of me. 'What do you think?' I ask him.
His lips twitch as he moves to the Chinese guy.
'Oi,' I say. 'I didn't say I was staying. Gimme a card.'
The dealer's eyes narrow for a second. Then he slaps a queen in front of me, rakes in the cards and my cash in one fluid motion. The Chinese guy is sitting there with nine, and he looks fit to cut my throat.
'What a pity. Never mind.' I get up from my seat, taking the rest of my chips with me.
Fuck the dealer. I should have known he'd keep his mouth shut. And I was hardly subtle about it, but then I'm not used to being in places like this. Word spread, obviously. Employ- ees banding together against a common enemy. In this case, it's Morris Tiernan. And me, I stand for Morris. It's okay, though. I'll find someone with a mouth on them. I always do.
I just have to bide my time.
A couple of bottled beers later and I feel loose in my skin. I'm leaning against the bar, sipping a Becks. The scallies I know have gone, so I'm more relaxed. I'd be even more relaxed if these drinks weren't costing me so much.
The barman is a gangly lad with a perpetual stoop. Like every other employee in here, he's wearing a dress shirt and dicky bow. But the dark sweat patches under his arms and the luggage under his eyes give him away.
'You work here long?' I say.
He doesn't say anything, busies himself with the optics. I watch him. He's trying to avoid me. I slap two red chips onto the bar. 'Oi,' I say. 'I'm talking to you.'
The barman turns, clocks the chips. 'You want another drink?'
'You know a guy called Rob Stokes?'
'Nah,' he says.
I light an Embassy. 'He was a dealer here.' The barman shakes his head. 'You don't know the dealers?'
'Nah.'
'You don't take breaks together?'
He doesn't answer. He's watching something over my shoulder. Feels like the floor just listed to one side, so I'm guessing the bruiser on the door just walked in.
'What are you, a fuckin' mute?' I say.
'Nah,' he says.
For fuck's sake. 'Fine, don't talk to me.'
I turn away from the bar, take a swig from the bottle. Sure enough, the doorman's looking at me, even though he's pretending not to. Got that shifty-eyed glance going on, as if he's not sure what he should be doing. I stare right at him. This place is tight. No wonder Morris couldn't get anything out of the staff.
'You don't have to talk to me, mate. But you will have to talk to someone sooner or later. This Rob Stokes isn't going to get away scot-free.'
I let that hang in the air. The barman's stopped moving.
'Tell you what I'm going to do. I'll leave you my number. You get over your lockjaw, you give me a bell and we'll talk about it.'
'I don't talk to the police, mate,' he says.
'I'm not the police. And I'm not your fuckin' mate.' I turn back to the bar, see he's still looking at the bouncer.
I write down my mobile number on a napkin, push it towards him. 'My name's Callum Innes. I'm a private investigator. And whatever you say to me is just that: private. You've got nothing to be afraid of.'
The barman gives me a look like who do I think I'm fooling?
He's right. It's all shite. But sometimes it works. 'Everything alright here, Kev?'
It's the bouncer. And I didn't hear him coming. He's almost right on top of me when I turn. 'Everything's fine,' I tell him. 'Me and Kev were just shooting the breeze.'
He doesn't look at me. The mountain and the barman, exchanging glances like a couple of star-crossed lovers. It's enough to make me sick. 'Here, Kev, I'll have another Becks, mate,' I say.
Kev doesn't move.
I think you've had enough,' says the bouncer. 'You what?'
His hand opens, gestures towards the door. 'You're not welcome here. C'mon.'
'C'mon where? I've had three fuckin' beers.'
'No need to get lippy with me, son.'
'I'm not getting lippy with you. I'm stating a fact. I've had three beers. I'm a member.'
Look at the bouncer's eyes. They disappear into his skull. His piss is pure boiled about something, but his voice doesn't show it. I think you've had enough,' he says again, and puts one huge hand on my shoulder.
Two ways to go with this. I can kick off and get battered, or play possum. The rising heat in my face makes me want to take this empty Becks bottle to the mountain's head. His hand on my shoulder tells me to think again. He's got power in those fingers, so God knows what the whole limb's capable of.
That's what makes me bottle it. This place is far too dangerous for someone with my disposition. Fuck knows I've tried not to panic since I got out, but times like this, the fear takes over.
Keep calm, Callum.
Smile. Be nice.
I smile, but I can't be nice. 'You want to take your hand off me, pal?'
'I think it's time you left.'
'And I think you do too much fuckin' thinking.'
'I think — '
'Watch it. Your noggin might overheat. But you know what? I think you're right.'
I neck the rest of my beer and slip out from under the bouncer's grip, head to the door. Behind me, I can hear conversation, but can't make out the words.
Yeah, I think. Who was that masked man?
Someone told me that the difference between a pub and a bar is that a bar has more mirrors to show you how fucked up you are.
I need a drink after my brush with the bouncer. Something to settle my heart rate. Somewhere to lie low and take stock. I'd head up to Oxford Road, bury myself in an old man pub vibe, but it's too much of a walk. So I scout around and find a place in Withy Grove that looks like Austin Powers' worst nightmare.
Beggars and choosers spring to mind.
Lines of purple and white swirl across the ceiling. I go down the stairs into a club that's already starting to fill up. Air-conditioned, dark red and pink. I feel like I've walked into a lung. A quick scan of the place then I walk over to the bar, hoping to get a drink down me before the music kicks in properly. At the moment, I can hear a low funk-jazz thing going on, the kind of music that makes me think I should be wearing a pimp suit and shoes with goldfish in the heels.
I pay for a bottle of Holsten Pils and try to look cool by leaning against the bar. From the glances I get, I'm not doing a great job. They know I'm not one of them and they're vaguely annoyed.
Yeah, these people, they're a completely different class. Seems to bother them more than it bothers me, though. I look around, not afraid to make eye contact.
A working-class hero is something to be. But then, six bullets, point blank, and not one of them hit Yoko. Think on.
The young and the restless, the upwardly mobile and sexually aware new professionals. Formal coats, suits and ties. Mobile phones that come with cameras, games and wireless broadband internet capabilities. Glasses that didn't come from Specsavers, more likely to have Red Or Dead on them.
I could have been this, I reckon. Minded my schoolwork, stayed clear of the wrong crowd. Remained in Leith, kept my head down, grown a fucking goatee and ended up doing data entry for enough money to get hammered on the weekend.
Yeah, right. Like there were data entry jobs in Leith. And I didn't have the brains to work in HMV.
I lied to myself about the chances I'd wasted. That's the way the song goes, even if the tune doesn't stick.
Rob Stokes took the chance. The only thing he lied to himself about was thinking he could get away with it. He's done a pretty good job so far, but it won't last. He got out of there, and the staff at the club won't talk. It comes back to me, that lifer look in their eyes. They don't talk about Stokes because it isn't true, can't be true. This phantom dealer with the balls to grab ten grand and bolt, he's a myth. Those dealers, the last thing they want to believe is that it's possible to get out of the business. And so they keep quiet and keep the cards coming.
I drain the bottle, stifle wind. Call the girl behind the bar and get her to set me up with another and, what the hell, a double Jamesons to break the gas.
A couple of blondes, one obviously more attractive than the other, are settling into a booth. Giggling, gesticulating. Career girls through and through. The attractive one has the burnt sienna skin of a sun-worshipper; her friend the Tango hue of a stand-and-tan, pale flab peeking out from under a crop top. The sad thing is, they're both out of my league.
There was a girl at school, but that was too long ago to mean anything. Some more along the line, but nothing you'd call love. Certainly nothing I'd call serious.
Sex hasn't been an issue.
They told me inside, that's all I'd want when I got out. Some lads, they became obsessed, nearly went blind with wanking. Which was a tough thing to manage, considering you didn't get a lick of privacy. But that's what they talked about, who they'd fuck their first night out. Jo Guest, Cameron Diaz, could've been Anne Widdecombe — it didn't matter who, any hole's a goal and all that. It didn't happen for me. I had other things on my mind.
Something always gets in the way.
I down the Jamesons — balls to savouring it — and finish off the burn with a swallow of beer. And Christ, I wish this place had tables. Somewhere to sit. My knees are starting to feel loose. I pull myself upright and wander about, bottle in hand.
Totally self-conscious as Bobby Womack launches into 'Across 110th Street', the volume rising, bass shaking. It's official. I'm Shaft in photo negative.
Up a flight of steps, and there's a seating area overlooking the dance floor. I take the steps two at a time, feel a creak in my knees. Halfway up, I have to take a breather. I lean against the railing and survey the dance floor.
A couple of hours, and I get my exercise going to and from the bar. My own fault — I broke the seal with that first Jamesons. When I check my watch, I have to concentrate on the numbers. Fuck. I should go home, but my legs feel like they want to stay here. Counting the drinks since this morning and it all adds up to too many.
A scally lad just walked in. He's at the bar now, counting the change in the palm of his hand. I freeze. He sticks out like a sausage in a synagogue, and paranoia tells me it's me he's after. It doesn't make sense. But then, that's the thing about paranoia. It doesn't have to. I keep an eye on him as I climb the rest of the stairs, stick to whatever shadows I can find.
The scally turns and leans against the bar, a pint in his hand. He hasn't touched it, surveying the dance floor with all the intensity of a tail. He's long-bodied, pale in the light. And he doesn't look like he's bothered about being out of place in here. He's too busy thinking about something else. His steel face gives it away. Reading his watch would give him that same concentrated look, though.
I sit on the edge of a backless couch with a cow-print pattern as the lights in the place start to move, dappled, across the dance floor.
He looks around the place, his head bobbing as someone moves into his line of sight. He doesn't think to lift his head. He sips from his pint. I'm trapped up here.
Nah, nobody's trapping this bloke. I'm a bigger man than that.
I get up, finish my beer and put the empty bottle on the table next to me. Go straight for the stairs and down onto the dance floor, keep my head down but the scally in my peripheral vision. There's only one way to get round this, I reckon. And that's to call the bugger's bluff.
The scally rolls his shoulders back when he sees me. He's definitely a tail. I turn on my heel and make straight for the bar. His face tightens. As I reach him, he moves to one side, his trainers squeaking on the floor.
'You want a drink, mate?' I say.
I know you?'
I was about to ask you the same thing.'
'Dunno what you're talking about,' he says. His left eye- brow twitches; a terrible fucking liar. 'Tell Morris I'm handling it.'
'Fuck you talking about?'
I look at him, make sure I've got his full attention. 'You tell Morris I'm fine by myself. I don't need help on this.'
He shakes his head. 'Who the fuck's Morris?' His face all screwed up, not meeting my eye.
'I see you again, I'll knock you on your arse,' I say.
'Whoa, what's up with you, man? I'm just having a drink.'
'You're a fuckin' scally.'
'Who you calling a scally?'
'I don't like being tailed.'
'Tailed?' He laughs. It makes him sound like a twat.
I grab him by his tracksuit and his hand opens around his pint. The glass drops to the floor, smashes. And suddenly he's all indignant, puffed up and ready to fight. I push him hard in the chest and he slams off the bar. The scally gets his balance the same time he gets his breath and makes for me.
Someone shouts for security. But I'm already out the door.
I pull my jacket tight, shivering from the cold and maybe just a little fear, start walking back to Victoria Station. I look over my shoulder, waiting for the tail to come running after me. He doesn't. The pit of my stomach feels like it's twitch- ing, trying to digest something that isn't there. I let loose with a loud belch, then light a cigarette to stave off the cold.
My head's whirling. Maybe I'm going nuts.
Get it together.
I find my Micra, slip behind the wheel and chew the inside of my cheek. I could go home, but I wouldn't sleep. Check my watch, and it's probably about time the dealers at Morris' club knock off. I could stop by, see if I can't have a word with that barman again, maybe chip some information out of him.
I turn the key in the ignition and Billy Bragg starts playing, a busker voice and a one-amp guitar. Twenty-one years when he wrote this song. Doesn't want to change the world. Who does? Too much work, too little respect. I'd settle for beer money and a roof over my head.
A short drive to Hanover Street, and I park behind a Ford Escort with a bad paint job. I'm guessing that the staff go in the same way as the punters, so I watch the front door, Bragg turned down.
This is how I spend most of my time these days. Sitting. Waiting. Watching. Listening to music at an inconspicuous volume and hoping to Christ I don't get spotted. When I started this job, I was prison-hard. I wasn't afraid to walk down them mean streets with a rude wit and clenched fists. I had ideas. But the streets take their toll, and I soon found out it was safer to sit in a car than be out in the open. I don't run as fast as I'd like, not as fit as I need to be. So the Micra it is.
I turn off Bragg, stick in The Smiths. I should invest in a CD player for the car. Spend some money on it. But then the kit would be worth more than the car, and I'd come out the flat one day, find a gaping hole where a Blaupunkt used to be, the rest of my motor in flames. Kids'll torch anything round our way.
So I'm sticking with tapes.
Eject Morrissey and Marr, stick in The Animals. I listen to the opening bars of 'We Gotta Get Out Of This Place' then stop it before Eric Burdon kicks in with the vocals.
Fuck's the matter with me?
You're being followed, Cal.
That's not the case, though. I know that. That bloke in the bar, he could've wandered in just like me. He could've been checking out the meagre talent on display. There are some blokes who don't realise that there are boundaries when it comes to scoring. I've seen enough pissed-up tracksuits trying it on with office totty. He might have been one of them.
It's this job. I'm not sure of anything. Doubt's a pisser.
Sitting in silence now, wishing I was home, but knowing I can't go back yet. My skin crawls with the cold. I'd turn the heater on, but it'd be like kicking this car in the bollocks. Besides, the amount of drink in me might knock me out if I get too comfortable. I crack open a window, light a cigarette and inhale.
My mouth feels dirty. I open the glove compartment; see if I can't find a mint or gum or something. A tidal wave of mix tapes spills out onto the passenger seat. Tom Waits, Joy Division, more Smiths, Warren Zevon, The Stranglers, Elvis Costello, Ian Dury and some crappy tape I got free from a magazine that promised New Wave, but gave me New Romantic. And, at the back, an opened pack of Extra. I struggle with the wrapper, take the last piece. Pop the gum in my mouth even though the coating's cracked and it tastes like an inner tube.
I start shovelling the tapes back into the glove compart- ment, manage to pile them all in there and close it with a dull click.
'Fuck are you doing here?'
I jump across the car. It takes me a moment to place where the voice is coming from, and when I do, all the alcohol drains from my system.
The doorman. That big bastard bouncer who chucked me out this afternoon. He's wearing a black puffer jacket. Light catches the massive sovereign rings on his fingers and a dirty twinkle in his black eyes. 'What'd I tell you?'
I try to get my cool back. 'What did you tell me? My memory's shot'
'You're not welcome at the club.'
I'm not at the club.'
'You're near enough. What you waiting on?'
'A bloke can't sit in his car?'
'Get out.'
'You know I'm working for Morris.'
'I don't give a shit who you're working for. Get out the car or I fuckin' drag you out.'
'Listen to me,' I say, but my voice cracks into a whine. 'Morris Tiernan hired me to find a dealer who used to work for him. His name's Rob Stokes, right? And he's fucked off with Morris' money. Now Tiernan wants — '
One hand on my mouth, the other wrapping fingers around my throat. I choke out. The bouncer removes one hand, pulls his fist back and cracks me hard with those sovereigns. I black out for a second, come back to the here and now with his fingernails digging into my neck. Blood all over my jacket and one nostril feels like it's been ripped open. I scrabble against the door, black flies instead of vision.
He gazes at me, eyes half-closed, and squeezes my throat.
I try to tell him to wait up, hold on, let me explain, but it comes out like Donald Duck with a voice box.
'Get out the car,' he says. Low, soft.
I get out the car, I'm as good as dead. I don't get out of the car, I'm as good as dead. Rock, meet hard place. My hands flap, telling him to calm down. Ease off so's I can open the door. If I get out, I might have a chance to take off running, even though my lungs feel like they're fit to burst. I know I wouldn't get far, but when the devil shits in your pillow, sometimes you've just got to pretend it's extra stuffing.
The bouncer's fingers loosen. I try to smile at him. He doesn't smile back.
I glance at the tape deck. It's still on. Which means a swift
twist of the ignition, and I'm out of here. That's if I can manage it without him crushing my windpipe.
Reach across and unlock my door. The doorman removes his hand and cracks the knuckles. I rub my bruised neck, cough my voice back into action. 'I wish you'd let me explain.'
I put one hand on the door handle, click it open. My foot eases onto the accelerator.
He catches the movement. He lunges.
As I turn the key, the engine coughs. The bouncer's eyes become wide, like what the fuck do I think I'm doing? This was supposed to be a one-on-one. His top lip curls.
The engine catches as I throw open the driver door. It glances off his right knee as he makes a grab for me. One short dig in the kneecap and he twists away, his hand falling short, his face all screwed up with anger and pain.
I floor it.
Pull on the steering wheel as hard as I can, and the Micra jerks forward, pranging the car in front with a grinding shudder. I keep the pressure on until something snaps. One of the Escort's hubcaps goes spinning into the street. The Micra's engine screams at me to take it easy, but panic has taken over. I need to put as much distance between me and the bouncer as possible. I hear his hand slam the boot of the car and tense up. Keep the motor gunned, trying to do nought to sixty in first gear.
Nothing but the roar and whine of the car in my ears now. When I'm halfway up the street and the engine sounds like it's going to blow, I force myself to ease off on the accelerator. A quick look in the rear view and the bouncer's nothing but a hulking shadow. Jesus, that was close. I ease down at traffic lights, head back to Salford. Settle back into a rhythm; let my lungs catch a decent breath. My throat stings, feels like
someone took a cheese grater to it. I cough up something slick that tastes of blood and spit out of the window. Check myself in the rear view mirror. I'm a fucking mess. My nose has stopped bleeding, but one nostril is torn in the middle. Those bastard rings. Big ugly bruises on my neck, and it feels like he broke the skin somewhere.
As I pull into my parking space, I light another Embassy. Something is seriously rotten in Morris' club, and I'll be fucked if I let some steroid freak stop me finding out what it is.
I get out of the Micra, inspect the damage. The left wing is scratched and battered to hell, but I suppose it adds character. I'll put it on expenses, let Morris pay for it. Maybe I'll have a word with him about his bouncer. I might even let Mo have his wicked way.
Man, my neck really hurts. And to cap it off, my tooth's started throbbing again. I get into my flat, pull the half-empty bottle of Vladivar from the freezer and take a swig. The first hit tugs on the raw nerve, the second freezes the pain. Bring it with me into the bathroom. I take drinks from it as I mop the blood from my face with a damp flannel. Dabbing, not rubbing.
Yeah, my nostril's ripped. Not a lot, but enough to give me the look of a bad boxer: I peel the back off a plaster and slip it over the tear. A couple of prods, and it looks like it might stick fast. Another drink to celebrate.
I can't do anything more tonight. Might as well try to get some sleep.
I think I deserve it.
'You fuckin' what?' said Rossie. His face had gone a slapped- arse red. 'You fuckin' what? You're having a fuckin' laugh aren't you, Darren?'
Baz and me looked at each other. Baz said, 'Some lads don't like to swallow. Crying shame, innit?'
'I asked you to do one thing for us, right? One fuckin' thing. And you couldn't do that, could you?'
I watched Rossie in the rear view. He had his head down. I saw a bald patch starting on the top of his head.
'Nah, don't give us that, son. And don't think you're getting a fuckin' penny, either.' Rossie beeped the lad off and sucked his teeth. 'That scally fuckin' wanker.'
'Didn't go well then,' I said.
'He fucked it up.'
'Then you ought to fuck him up, Rossie.'
'Innes spotted him.'
'Who'd you use?'
'Darren Walker.'
'Why'd you use that cunt? He couldn't find his arsehole, two hands and a map.'
'He owes us a favour,' said Rossie.
'Looks like he still owes you that fuckin' favour.'
We was in Baz's Nova, headed out for the night. Baz had turned on his Fast and Furious underlighter, which made the
car look like shit, but Baz were proud of it. I reckoned it looked about as gay as you could get.
Normally I would've been buzzing, but that phone call Rossie just took put a proper crimp on the evening. I turned round in me seat. 'So what'd he say?'
'He says Innes saw him.'
'Where'd he go?'
'Some bar in Withy Grove.'
Baz snorted. 'Darren in Withy Grove. No wonder he got fuckin' spotted.'
'Before that,' I said.
'He was round at the club,' said Rossie. He had a sour face on him, like he didn't care for me asking all these questions. Like I gave a fuck.
'The club?' I said. 'Yeah, right. The club.' Course he would've started there, wouldn't he? Stokes worked there, it were only fuckin' right the cunt Innes would've started beaking it round there. But he would've got nowt, like. The word had already gone round that place like fuckin' wildfire, Just a rumour — Mo'll kick your fuckin' teeth in, you say owt — but a rumour well spread. Dealers, man, they fuckin' shite it at the first sniff of a pasting. And I were discreet about it. I didn't do nowt 'cept get Rossie to break a lad's wrists.
Try dealing now, cunt.
We pulled up in the NCP in town and I got out and let Rossie stretch his legs. Baz lit a ciggie. I taxed it off him after he'd had a few puffs. Baz pulled a face. 'Here y'are, nobhead.'
'I'll get you another pack laters,' I said. Took a draw, but it tasted like fuckin' socks. That were the trouble with the pills, like. They proper fucked up your tastebuds. I took another puff and chucked it at the ground. Baz pulled another face, the twisty fucker.
'What d'you want to do?' said Rossie.
"Bout what?’
‘Innes.'
'Fuck him. He won't find out nowt, know what I mean? The lad might call himself a private dick, but he's a fuckin' drunk.' I tapped the side of me head. 'If he didn't whistle, he wouldn't know where to wipe his arse, the daft bastard. Fuck it. Forget it. We got other shit to be doing.'
Walked out onto Whitworth Street, got a gust of wind right in the boat. Getting cold these nights. I needed the sweat of a proper club in me armpits. We headed up towards the Village, but I weren't going to try me luck in any of them places. Aye, there were a market for the uppers and poppers in there, but fucked if I were gonna get touched up. Places was full of shirtlifters and fag hags. So nah to the pink parties and on to the student union. The students had the most money in this town. Fuckin' rich kids with Mater and Pater paying their way through Media Shite Studies. Disposable income. And they wasn't bothered about getting caught. I had that to say for fuckin' students: they didn't give two shits about the law. Most of 'em, they did one module in it, they thought they was Perry Mason.
A big bouncer with a shaved head, proper monkey goon cunt, tried feeling us up on the door. I wouldn't have minded if he were a proper bouncer, like, but you could never tell with the student nights. This big bastard had a yellow vest on and like a tight T-shirt underneath, so he could've been fruity. I bared my teeth and gave him the wild eyes. He knew us then. He knew Rossie an' all. Rossie slipped the bouncer a twenty and he let us in.
Bright lights, slick air, man. I were in me element. This were what a lad lived and breathed, like. Could kill you if you went too far down the line, but the secret for me was stamina and pills and water.
Pills for owt. Up, down, left, right, screaming singing all through the night and a couple vallies for Lorraine Kelly in the morning before the big daytime nap.
So Baz went straight for the bar with a proper thirst on and me and Rossie held back, scanned the territory. I always liked to keep Rossie with us, because he looked like a card-carrying hard fuck when he needed to. He stopped any bother before it happened. It were still early, but it seemed like they was rolling out the tunes especially for me. This one's a fuckin' thumper for the Tiernan lad, welcome to the club, and the punters'll be lining up round the fuckin' block to buy.
Oi oi, you lahky peep-holes. N-tsh-n-tsh-n-tsh.
Business went fast, kept the night banging underfoot. I sorted it out, got me turnover turned over sharpish, like. A half decent DJ spinning. And some blonde piece wanted a slice of Mo. I had to knock her back, like. Not that I were one not to mix business and pleasure, but she had tan lines and smelled rank.
'What's that perfume, love?' I said.
'J-Lo!' she shouted. 'Does it suit us, you think?'
'Well, you got the arse for it.'
She got all pissy at that, but what the fuck were I supposed to say? She were fat as yer mother. More in Rossie's league, know what I mean? He'd fuck mud. If mud'd have him.
'You got snow, mate?' said this fattish cunt in a black leather waistcoat. He had glasses on, thick ones. The light made his teeth look too big for his mouth.
'Nah, mate,' I said. 'Pills.'
'I don't do pills,' he said.
'You want business, you stump up. Otherwise, fuck off out of me sight, alright?'
The Waistcoat blinked like a million times. Lairy fuck, this one. Stand Up Tall, fuck arf. Rossie saw it in the cunt's eyes,
even behind them glasses; Waistcoat were gearing up to go off on one. Coke flies in his head. Rossie moved towards the Waistcoat, sucked his teeth and showed the Waistcoat the butterfly in the palm of his hand. That were all it took to make the Waistcoat's bowels loose.
'Here, I didn't mean nowt,' he said.
'Fuck off,' I said.
'Get yerself a Smirnoff Ice,' said Rossie.
Baz came up behind the Waistcoat and hammered the point. Baz were a big fucker. Waistcoat turned off, went back into the crowd as Baz pushed a bottle of Becks into me hand. I necked half the beer right away. The medication I were on had dried us right out. And I were sweating like a paedo in a creche, man. I kept some pills for meself and sold the rest on to a shorn member of the rave generation born five years after his time. I didn't even fuck about with the price. Cunt reminded me of the old school. Could he get a rewind? Certainly fuckin' could. And I rolled back the prices like fuckin' Asda.
The Becks got us a thirst, so I had to push through to the bar and got me a couple Martells. Double and trebles to clear the chalk in me throat. Baz got bleary and had to hang onto the bar, the fuckin' lightweight.
Weren't long before I started slowing right down, like. My head started getting mangled about four hours in. When I banged back the last two, washed 'em down with beer, I were ready for the floor and ready to get loved the fuck up. So I went out there, left Rossie and Baz holding their cocks while my blood were mercury on fire and the beat took the thought of Innes and Stokes and everything fuckin' else right out me head.
Normally, I'm okay when I wake up. Normally I've killed dreams with booze or a half-dozen Nytol. Normally, I get to wake up without the stifling fear that I'm back inside.
This time, it feels like the walls are coming down on me.
Eyes still closed, I can't hear anything above the sound of a jackhammer. I can't get my head straight enough to find the source, but I'm up. There's no doubt about that.
My neck clicks painfully as I reach for the alarm clock. Open my eyes and red lines blink noon at me. Pull myself out of my kip. I swallow. It hurts.
As I pad into the living room, the front door's rattling in the frame. Much more of this, and it'll come flying off its hinges. Another volley of blows make my head throb.
'Fuck's sake,' I say. 'Alright, I'm coming. Jesus…'
I squint through the peephole. Nothing. Black. A pause in the battery, then it sounds like someone kicking the door. Hard. I take a step back. I know that knock. Detective Sergeant Donkey Donkin of the Manchester Met. And I don't have much of a choice in the matter. I have to let him in.
Fuck.
Pull the chain off, open the door.
Donkey stands there with a sick grin on his face. His body is just like that boat of his, overstuffed. A lanky streak of piss in a uniform stands next to him, the Matchmaker to his Creme Egg. The uniform has a sour look, probably thinks it makes him look professional, but constipation's the first thing that springs to my mind. At first glance, he's not old enough to be wearing the uniform. At second glance, he doesn't even look old enough to shave. It makes me wonder why Donkey's brought him along. If he's here to roll me, then he's best doing it without witnesses. Unless Donkey's taken up teaching his moves. Anything's possible. 'Morning, Detective.'
'It's afternoon, you lazy bastard. What's with the China- town look?’
‘I cut myself shaving.'
'Don't play funny buggers, Innes. Let us in. We got something we need to talk to you about.’
‘You got a warrant?' I ask.
Donkey thinks I'm serious, but only for a moment. Rage flashes across his face, but once it hits his mouth, he parts his lips in an ugly grin. 'Yeah, son. I've got a warrant. My boot up your arse. You got the kettle on?'
I don't want Detective Sergeant Donkin in here. Not that I've got anything to hide. It's just that I hate the fucker and once he gets in, he'll start playing The Sweeney with me. And, to be fair, he does have a touch of John Thaw about him. If John Thaw was twenty stone and smelled like a dead dog. But if I slam the door on him, he'll just kick it down.
I step back and leave the door open. It's up to him. He squeezes through, the uniform following at a safe distance. I catch the young copper glance up and down the corridor as if he's afraid of a rear attack.
'So d'you want a brew, then?' I say.
Donkey licks his thick lips and apparently finds something wedged in his teeth. 'Aye, why not? Milk and four.'
'Sweet tooth.' I walk into the kitchen, fill the kettle and grab a couple of mugs from the draining board. 'What about your boyfriend?'
'Nah,' comes the reply. 'He's on duty.'
Click the kettle on and dump a teabag into Donkey's mug. I make sure to hawk up a fat one to keep it company. Sometimes it's the little things that brighten your day.
While the kettle boils, I lean against the doorway to the living room. Donkey's already made himself comfortable on my couch. Going for the regulation Burtons suit with the egg stain on the tie, he's also wearing one of those retro brown leather coats that stop at the arse. The sides are bunched up around his thighs. It makes him look fatter than he already is, which is some feat. His neck is thick to the collar, but when he moves, I catch a brown stain running around the inside of his shirt.
He watches me with rodent eyes.
'This business, then?' I say.
'I'm not here to admire the wallpaper.' Donkey reaches into his jacket, pulls out a tin with a Harley Davidson on the lid. Pops it open and sticks a reed-thin roll-up between his lips. 'Is that anaglypta, by the way?'
'What's this about?'
He lights the ciggie with a knock-off Zippo, takes a few puffs. The smoke smells like pipe tobacco. 'Where was you the other night?'
'The other night? You've got to be more specific than that, Detective.'
'Last night, smart arse.'
The kettle clicks off in the kitchen. 'Be right back,' I say.
I make the tea, brain ticking over. He can't have heard about my run-in with the bouncer. Doesn't make sense that the big bugger would go crying to the busies, especially considering his line of work. But stranger things have hap- pened. Donkey's notorious for keeping his ear to the ground, mostly because he's as bent as they come. Not difficult to find out stuff happening in the underworld if you're part of it.
Make sure to give him the sugar that's congealed into a hardened lump, shot through with old coffee. He'll have to chew the last mouthful.
As I give him his mug, he says, 'You got an ashtray?'
There's one right next to him.
'Never mind,' he says, and flicks ash onto the floor. 'So where was you last night?'
I smile. 'I was out at Withy Grove.'
'Fuck me, going up in the world, eh? You'll have plenty witnesses.'
'Probably. I didn't take any names, mind. Didn't think I'd need 'em.'
'Oh, you need 'em.'
This is Donkey through and through. Thinks he's a proper hard case, reckons he should be down London and head of the Flying Squad by now. The closest he's going to get is watching Regan and Carter on Granada Plus and getting pissed up on duty. Oh yeah, and maybe the odd bit of police brutality.
He sets his mug on the table next to him, reaches into his pocket for a hip flask. He adds a nip to the brew. 'How's Declan?'
It always comes down to my brother. 'He's fine,' I say. 'He's clean.'
'Wonders never cease. Send him my best.'
'I'll do that.' Even though I won't do anything of the sort. Declan knows Donkey's been asking after him, it might be enough to throw him back to the wolves.
I take a sip of tea, look across at the uniform. He hasn't said a word so far. It bugs me. He's standing on a couple of bandy legs, his hands behind his back in a classic plod pose. Weedy bastard. If Donkey's brought him along as muscle, he needn't have bothered. This kid doesn't look like he could throw a tantrum, never mind a punch.
'You been to The Denton recently?' says Donkey.
'I was in there Bonfire Night,' I say, still staring at the uniform.
'Have any trouble?'
'You know I did. You ask me about The Denton, it's not my local, you heard someone mention my name 'cause there was bother.'
'Clever boy.'
'I'm not fuckin' daft. And what's the story with PC Haddock over there? You going to arrest me for some- thing?'
Donkey's tone changes. He looks at the floor as if he's trying to remember the correct phrase. 'If you'd be more comfortable in custody…'
'You got fuck all on me, Donkey.'
He's out of the seat and at me before I know it. Hits me hard in the gut. The breath shoots out of me. I tumble to the floor, mug of tea tipped all down my front. I don't feel the burn until I try to sit up. Then it's like my chest's on fire.
'Fuckin' wanker.'
'You watch your mouth, Innes.' He's standing over me. Looks like he's ready to put the boot in if need be.
I pull my shirt away from the skin. Look down and my chest is lobster red.
'Call me Donkey, son, I'll kick like a fuckin' donkey.'
'That's police brutality,' I say. 'I'll have you suspended.'
'It's not police brutality, mate. You're not in custody. And you keep talking like that, you won't be until I've broke your fuckin' skull.' Donkey crouches by me. His breath smells like wet tobacco. 'You know better than to play funny buggers with me, Callum.'
He rips the plaster from my nose, takes the scab with it. I start bleeding again.
Christ.
I turn over, get to my feet. The uniform still stands there. Taking it all in like a good boy. No wonder the Met's in such a state.
'Fuck do you want, Detective?’
‘Where'd you get the nose job?'
I remember the line: 'Your wife got excited. She crossed her legs a little too quick.'
Donkey sighs. 'Constable, if you'd do the honours.'
The uniform wakes up and pulls cuffs from his belt. Starts on with reading me my rights. Which he doesn't have to do, I don't think. Unless this is more serious than I thought.
'I know my rights. And one of them is that I'm allowed to get cleaned up before you two go to work on me, okay?'
I walk into the bedroom, change my shirt, grab some jeans. I catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror. Those bruises on my throat have turned nasty. My nose prickles. My tooth throbs in sympathy. I'm a wreck. Grab another plaster from the bathroom and press it onto my nostril. This is bullshit. Donkey's got nothing on me. If anything, he's heard that I'm working for Morris. He'll bring me in, sweat me down and hope that I spill whatever I'm supposed to spill. He used to do it with Declan all the time. But my brother was weaker than I am. He had a habit and a fear of dying in a dirty police cell.
I return to the living room with my arms out. The uniform obliges by cuffing me. Not too tight. Look in his eyes and there's a glint of sympathy. Yeah, mate, you probably had to endure a whole morning of the fat bastard. I hear Donkey
likes Dido. And he would have insisted it was played con- stantly. So yeah, I pity that uniform something rotten.
'Who's grassed me up?' I say. Smiling through it all. What the hell.
'You don't get it, do you, Innes?
I get it. You hear that I had a barney at The Denton, you come round here with Dixon of Dock Green and slap the cuffs on me, think I'll grass up anyone to stay out of jail. Bring it on, Detective. I'll be out in time for Corrie.'
'And I'll see you right back in the 'Ways, you little wanker.'
Something doesn't sit right. That didn't sound like an idle threat.
'Shit, that smackhead didn't die, did he?’
‘Your wrestling partner? Nah. But Dennis Lang might cark it before the day's out.’
‘Who's Dennis Lang?'
But I don't need Donkey to tell me; it clicks into place quick enough. The landlord at The Denton. 'That bastard?’
‘That bastard. And his wife says you did it.' Shit.
We know the steps to this dance, even when there's no music playing.
The uniform leads me outside to Donkey's Ford Granada, a car that looks like a prime candidate for a mercy killing. Someone's written unmarkedpolicecarin the grime on the bonnet. It was probably Donkey. He's weird like that.
I get into the back of the Granada, the uniform sitting next to me. Donkey pulls himself behind the steering wheel and 'White Flag' starts playing. Knowing full well that anyone with a pair of ears is likely to crack with that deaf bird twittering her way through three-minute chunks of shite. Above the whine, Donkey starts to hold court on how to subdue a suspect with minimum force.
Minimum force, my arse. Donkey's a batter first, make up excuses later kind of copper. You know the type. They're the ones that end up getting the boot or hitting the top of the ladder. One of these days, DS Donkin's going to go too far. He'll beat the shit out of the wrong guy, or end up in stir himself. Then he'll be fair game to any con with a grudge.
Hope springs eternal.
We arrive at the nick and I'm bundled out of the car. Brings back sore memories of the last time I was here. Then I had puke on my shirt and shaking legs. Now I'm shaking, yeah, but it's anger.
We go into reception, Donkey too close for comfort. He
pops a Polo to hide the smell of booze on his breath. He cracks the mint between his teeth, knowing it irritates the hell out of me.
The duty sergeant looks bored and tired at the same time. One of those guys who shave their head to make up for a receding hairline. There's a scar in the right crook of his widow's peak. I stare at it.
Donkey finds a vacant interview room, hauls me towards
it.
I'm innocent, but it's a small consolation. If I remember rightly, I was innocent the last time. Lot of fucking good it did me, too. Donkey's obviously done his homework, but maths was never his strong point. He's added two and two, come up with me. I have an alibi for last night, for what it's worth. I don't know if I want them to call the bar to check up on it, though. Assaulting a customer probably isn't the rosiest light that could shine on my situation.
So Dennis Lang's in critical condition. Brenda Lang thinks I did it. Why? Because we talked about it. And I said no, didn't I?
It wasn't the first time she'd talked to strangers. I got that vibe straight off the bat. She had that drunk storyteller thing going, probably spent most of her nights getting slurry and talking to anyone who'd listen. Mine can't be the first ear she's bent. So what happens? Her hubby gets done over, the police go to the wife, and who does she think of?
The person who told her no. The person who upset her.
Never talk to wannabe widows. That night is starting to have a rulebook of its own.
But Donkey doesn't have a leg to stand on. No evidence, no holding cell, at least not for long. When I finally get myself settled in an interview room that stinks of Mr Sheen and sweat, I try to relax. Donkey leans against the wall, his arse dangerously close to the panic strip. From his face, I can tell he loves every second of it. The first bona fide investigation he's had in a long time. The only reason he got this is because he knows me, reckons he's the best man for the job. The constable stands behind me, his back to the door. There in case I try to make a run for it. The tape turns.
Donkey clears his throat. It sounds thick. 'So,' he says. 'You were in The Denton Bonfire Night.’
‘That's right.'
'And you had some trouble in the toilets.'
'Correct.'
'What happened?'
'You know what happened, Detective Donkin.’
‘For the benefit of the tape, Mr Innes.’
‘Ah, well then. For the benefit of the tape, I was due to meet a client at The Denton.'
'A client?' There's a hint of sarcasm in Donkey's voice. 'That's right.'
'What kind of client would you meet in the gents?’
‘He wanted some privacy.'
'You renting your arse these days?' He looks over at the constable and winks.
'I run a private investigation business,' I say. It sounds so weak.
Donkey grins, then: 'You licensed?’
‘No.'
'Then you shouldn't be running any kind of business.’
‘I didn't start like that. People ask me to look into things for them.'
Donkey pulls a roll-up out of his tin, lights it. As the flame from his Zippo catches, his lips pucker. Smoke streams into the air.
I reach for my cigarettes. Donkey shakes his head. 'Non- smoking station, Mr Innes.' Oh, I get it.
'So you're a private detective,' he says. 'And you meet a client in the toilets.’
‘Yeah.'
'You don't have an office?'
'He didn't want to come to the office.'
'Why not?'
'Because he was a smackhead,' I say. 'And he wanted to score.'
'This a sideline of yours?'
I glare at him. 'You know it's not.'
'But you agreed to meet him anyway.'
'I thought he was a real client. He didn't tell me what he wanted over the phone. Junkies don't tend to be that fuckin' open about their hopes and dreams. And when I met him, and he said what he wanted, I told him I wasn't in that business. Which I'm not.'
'And then?'
'Then I showed him the door.'
'Huh.' Donkey flicks ash onto the floor and sniffs. 'See, that's not what I heard. What I heard was that you beat the shit out of him and dumped him in the street. Quite a tumble, by all accounts.'
'He pressing charges, is he?'
'Nope. Haven't found him.'
'Then why are we talking about this?' I say, but I know exactly why we're talking about it. Donkey's trying to make me look like a scally thug. Get it all down in Dolby Digital, then black-and-white: Callum Michael Innes is a piece of work with a sideline in drug-dealing. Oh, he says he's a private dick, but the truth is he's still Morris Tiernan's errand boy. Morris says jump, Cal asks how high.
I could calm down, stop playing the hard case, but I'm so riled, it's difficult.
I'm establishing a context,' says Donkey.
'You're wasting my time.'
'You talked to Brenda Lang that night,' he says.
'She talked to me. She was piss-drunk, came over and sat next to me, starting talking about me killing her husband for money. I told her I wasn't the bloke she was looking for.'
'You told her that.'
'After she'd finished talking. Took a while. You know how drunks like to talk, Detective.'
'And then what? You just got up and went?’
‘She told me to get out.'
'And you did what she said. This drunk woman intimidated you that much.'
'Her husband was a mean-looking guy. I didn't want him throwing me out. Besides, I'd had enough of that place.'
'Again, not what I heard.'
'Then tell you what, why don't you tell the fuckin' story? Obviously you know more about it than I do and I was there. Fill me in, Detective. What did I say?'
Donkey kicks the free chair. It scrapes against the floor. 'You want to sit down, Mr Innes?'
'For the benefit of the tape, I am sitting down. Jesus, Donkey, what next? You going to throw that chair across the room so it sounds like I put up a fight? Get to fuck.'
His eyes flare. Donkey leans across the table, glances at his watch, and says, 'Interview suspended at three-oh-six.' He shuts off the tape. Then: 'I told you to watch your fuckin' mouth, Innes.'
'Yeah, you told me. And I heard you the first time. Now how about you do me a favour and admit you've got nothing on me?'
'You got a mouth on you, lad.'
'And you've got brass balls to try and set me up for this.'
'I'm not setting you up for anything, Innes. You're fucked enough without my help.'
'Charge me or let me go.'
'We can hold you.'
'Charge me or let me go.'
He looks at the uniform. 'Broken record.'
'You know I don't have it in me,' I say.
I know plenty. I know your brother's a junkie grass, I know you're working for Tiernan right now, and I know you didn't get them bruises pillow-fighting. So stop the karaoke, son. Having a drink problem doesn't make you Mike fuckin' Hammer. And you might not have had it in you when you got sent away, my lad, but that's not to say you didn't learn a few tricks when you was inside, just like that phoney fuckin' Mane accent you picked up.'
Blood in my mouth. Feels like I've been punched. I fold my arms. 'Charge me. Or let me go.'
Donkey straightens up, crushes the rollie under his shoe. 'We're not going to charge you, son. Not yet. But if you think you're free as a bird, you got another thing coming. You're a scally, Innes. No brains. And you'll fuck up sooner or later, mark my words. When you do, I'll be there.'
'I'll look forward to that.'
'One word from me, and you'll be recalled,' he says. 'Christ, are you finished?’
‘For now, yeah. Think on.'
I tapped the Clipper on the table and stared out the window at Piccadilly Gardens. We was in this caff what did a good fry- up, but I weren't hungry. Had a bacon barm sitting in front of us, smelled so strong it made me want to throw. So I got out my seat, pushed past Baz and went to take a shite in the bogs. Hadn't had one in three days, all backed up. When I managed it, it were a knee-trembling buckshot blast and the smell told us me guts was rotten.
Summat up in me head. Should've been cool with it, like, this whole Innes thing. But the cunt were a thorn in me side. He buzzed about. Couldn't shake him no matter how hard I tried.
Just like when he were going up in court that time.
Dad told us to leave off that time an' all, but I weren't about to let that lie. I said to Dad, I said, 'Here, c'mon, that cunt gets a deal, he'll fuckin' grass.'
Dad said, 'Leave him.'
'He'll grass us up.'
'Maybe it's what you deserve, son. Leave him.'
Leave him. Always fuckin' leave him.
Never fuckin' look after your own, eh? Keep it in the family, and now Innes were part of the fuckin' family? More trusted than me, just 'cause he kept his mouth shut. And who were that down to, eh? Who made the cunt keep it zipped?
Me.
When we did that job, me and Rossie and Baz and Innes and his smackhead brother, that were me what saved the fuckin' day. Swear to fuckin' God, that security guard, that fat piece of shite, I never hit him hard. Tapped him. Supposed to be a judo-chop 'cept I used me torch. You know, like you seen in the pictures. One quick hi-ya- whap and the fucker were out cold. And he would've been, except he twatted his head off the floor. I couldn't have seen that one coming, could I?
Dad went off it. Called us all the cunts under the sun. Like it mattered to him. I were the one up for the fuckin' charge if Innes spilled it. He were the one what got caught. Him and his smackhead junkie fuckin' brother. And I sweated big time on that one. Got so's I had to track him down and have it out with him man to man. But then he got uppity and I reckoned, what the fuck. Let him rot.
I made my point, know what I mean?
I wiped and looked in the bowl. I'd pebble-dashed the cunt, so I flushed and left it. What didn't go could fuckin' stay. Let the Paki bog cleaner deal with it.
Washed me face and looked at meself in the cracked mirror. Yeah, Innes were a problem. He'd have to be dealt with, but I didn't know how to do it. It were like the fucker had the luck of the devil. And it were like Dad liked him more than he liked me.
Well, fuck the pair of 'em.
I got out into the caff and punched Baz in the shoulder. He made out like it hurt more than it did. 'Fuck's up with you?'
'Bored, fuckin' bored is what's up with us, mate.'
'You wanna go down the amusements?'
'Amusements? What am I, twelve?'
'You want to call that blonde piece?' said Rossie. He had a mouthful of sausage.
'You what?'
'That blonde piece from last night. She gave us her number for you.'
'You never said that.'
'You want to?'
'Nah, she were dog rough.'
'Dog rough, but nineteen,' said Rossie. He raised his eyebrows.
Baz shook his head. He rubbed his shoulder. 'Nineteen's too old for Mo.'
Silence then. I stared at him. 'Fuck's that supposed to mean?
'You like 'em younger is all,' said Baz. He smiled. Always smiling, that fat fuck.
'Aye, and fuck's that supposed to mean?' I had a grip on me cuppa. Some spilled onto me hand, and it was hot. I felt the burn, but it were nowt compared to what were inside. A fuckin' volcano, just waiting on that shift.
'Baz didn't mean anything by it, Mo,' said Rossie.
'Let Baz talk for his fuckin' self, Rossie. Fuck were that supposed to mean, Baz? Calling us a fuckin' paedo or summat?'
'Nah — '
'Nah, what? You call us a fuckin' paedo, I'll put your head through that fuckin' wall, how's about that?'
Baz were laughing like he always did when he weren't sure about summat, the simple fuck. Rossie put his knife and fork down. 'C'mon, Mo,' he said.
'Fat cunt's got summat to say, let's hear it,' I said.
'Hey,' said Baz. He didn't like being called fat. Which was unlucky, like, because he were the fattest cunt I knew. 'I was just messing.'
'Fuck off.' And I chucked me tea at him. Baz were fast
enough to miss the mug, but too slow not to catch the brew right in the fuckin' face. He went off it, yelled, knocked the table when he got up. I planted two fists in his chest and he slumped into his chair, nearly went over. Then I got out from the table and went outside.
I could hear Baz kicking off. Calling us out an' that. But I lit a ciggie and took a draw. Held the smoke in me lungs hard and tight.
Rossie told him to calm the fuck down, then he came outside with me. 'Fuck was all that about?'
'He wants to start summat, he better follow through,' I said. 'It's a cunt with a mouth and nowt to back him up, you know that.'
'He was just messing with you.'
'Aye, so what? You want us to take that kind of talk on the chin?'
'Fuck's the matter with you? You mashed up or what?'
'Nah, mate. I'm clean as. It's that bastard what needs sorting out. Fuck it. Go back to your boyfriend. I'm off.'
I chucked the ciggie at Rossie's feet and made for the tram. I didn't look over me shoulder or nowt.
The afternoon turns to early evening, rain to drizzle. I've been sitting in this car for two hours now with nothing to show for it apart from an empty pack of Embassy and a throaty cough.
Nothing stirring. I've toyed with the idea of calling Brenda Lang, find out what the score is, but decided against it. I don't want to get any deeper. Right now, I'm innocent of every- thing. If I start digging around, phoning her back, it won't look good if this ever gets to court. No contact means no evidence. I've got to watch my arse when Donkey's involved.
I get out of the car, stretch my legs. There's no use waiting for a lead to drop into my lap. Something's got to be done. I start walking towards the tattoo parlour, an idea growing in my head. If I can't talk to the dealers and that barman's nowhere to be seen, there's always another option.
The bell rings as I push open the door. As I expected, the bionic girl is still behind the counter. And she's still reading that same magazine. When she looks up, her eyes are bright blue. Her nails are the same shade. She must change colours daily.
'How you doing?' I say.
'Straight up the stairs, second door on your right,' she says. Then goes back to her magazine. 'Nah, I'm not here to punt.’
‘You want a tattoo?'
'Not today, no. I wanted a quick word with you, if that's alright.'
'What about?' She looks suspicious. 'You know what goes on up there. You know the staff. You know a guy called Rob Stokes?’
‘What's he look like?’
‘I don't know.'
She raises her eyebrows, then scans an article on body- piercing. A photo of a guy with a face like a human gimp mask catches my eye. 'Then I don't know who you're talking about.'
'You never heard the name Rob Stokes.’
‘Nah.'
'You hear anything about a guy doing a runner with casino money?'
'You think I listen to what that lot say? They're a bunch of arseholes.'
'Couldn't agree more. So you never heard the name, and you don't know anything about it.' It was worth a try. 'Am I under arrest now?' she says. 'I'm not the plod, love.'
'Then I really shouldn't be speaking to you, should I?’
‘Yeah, you and everyone else,' I say. 'What do you do, then?’
‘I'm a private investigator.'
She starts laughing. Too long, too hard. But I'm used to it. 'A PI? Jesus, I thought they was just in the pictures. Fuckin' hell. Where's your hat?'
I left it in the car.'
'And you're tracking down this Rob fella.’
‘That's right.'
'You're doing a shit job of it.'
I know. And thanks for your time.' I turn to leave. Then: 'D'you know Kev?’
‘The barman?'
'Yeah.'
'Yeah, I know him. Proper sleazy bastard, that one. Keeps trying to get me to go out with him.’
‘Anywhere nice?'
'Place called The Basement. It's a proper dive.’
‘That's his local, is it?'
'Yeah,' she says. 'They try to get him to go somewhere else, he shits it. The place is his home away from home. He told us once that he missed a night and they called his flat looking for him. Like that's something to boast about.'
I smile at her. 'What's your name?'
'Brianna,' she says. 'Why?'
'Brianna, you're a fuckin' doll.'
'And you're not my type.'
The Basement is a student bar, and it's as rough as the name suggests. I get past the bouncer, a skinny lad with a nice line in gold teeth, and have to duck my head as I head down the stone steps to the bar. This place looks more like a cave than a basement, all chipped walls and dim light. In one corner, a small stage with a tinsel backdrop. On it is a guy who looks about eighty. He's singing 'Golden Brown' as if it was an old- fashioned love song. Beside him, a karaoke machine blinks like it's on its last legs.
He gives me a nod as I head to the bar. I nod back, order a Coke. The place isn't busy and I could have a long wait on Kev, if he shows up at all. Get my change and a filthy look from a blonde dreadlocked barman, take my drink to a table and sit down. It's nicely shadowed here. I should be able to keep an eye on the door and not be seen.
The old guy finishes off his song with a flourish, then picks up a tumbler of whisky. He toasts us all, though most of us aren't even looking at him. Then he downs the treble. From the karaoke machine, I can hear the opening bars to 'Pea- ches'. The guy's a Stranglers fan, obviously. These days, somebody's got to be.
I smoke a cigarette. Kev might not turn up. That's a possibility.
Check my mobile again. Another message from Brenda Lang. I let it play and then save it. Laters.
I sit there most of the night, sipping Coke and smoking. Students come and go. One of them, a ruddy-faced Royal wearing a rugby shirt, starts taking the piss out of the singer. I feel like smacking his head in. Yeah, the old guy's a drunk, but at least he's not obnoxious.
The crooner launches into 'Nice 'n' Sleazy'. The rest of the Royal's group sing along but fuck up the words. I get out of my seat and order a treble as a sign of solidarity. At the bar, I catch the old guy's eye and toast him. He toasts back, beaming from ear to ear. About time someone appreciated him.
The treble turns into another, this time with a pint. A few rounds later, and I'm starting to feel tired. My bones ache. But I keep drinking. It's something to do.
At two, the place starts to get busy. A group of guys wearing dicky bows make their presence known. I shake myself awake, try to focus on the bar. I should've stuck to the Coke. Curse myself for being such a fucking drunk.
I get to my feet as I see Kev at the bar. Look around for the bouncer. Nowhere in sight. I didn't expect Kev to come here with a minder, but I couldn't be sure.
I shake the deadness out of my legs and walk over to the bar, sidle up next to him. Kev doesn't notice me until I order a pint of Stella. Then I turn towards him, punch him playfully in the arm. 'You never called me.'
His face goes white.
I'm beginning to think you don't like me much, Kev. It's almost as if you're trying to avoid me.'
He makes a move to go. I pay for my pint with one hand and grab his arm with the other. 'Where you going, mate? Me and you, we're having a chat.'
'Fuck off,' he says.
'Hey, c'mon, that's no way to behave. I'll tell you some- thing because under that hard exterior I think you're a decent human being. I'm not fucking about here, okay? I know you know something.'
'I don't know what you're talking about.'
'I know you know something. And I will find out what you know if it takes me all fuckin' night. I'm not asking for free, either. But if you insist on playing the eel with me, Kev, I'll tell Morris Tiernan there's a barman who needs his mouth broke.'
Kev's cheek twitches. Could be a smile. Most likely, he's panicking.
'Yeah, you know that name, don't you?' I say. 'Now how's about I buy you a shot to go with that pint and we'll talk.'
'I don't know Rob Stokes,' he says.
'I don't care,' I say and get the barman's attention. 'But you're scared about something, and that's a fine place to start.'
Kev sparks one of my cigarettes with a red disposable. He's already necked the shot, coughed his way through the burn. I'm patient. I just watch him get used to the situation. Part of me thought that being a good detective meant being a friendly guy, open, willing to help people. I thought that if people saw that, they'd be cool with me. Turns out, it's easier to bribe or threaten someone.
Whatever Kev needs to keep his conscience clean.
'Rob Stokes,' I say.
'Uh-huh. I told you, I don't know him.' He shrugs. The alcohol's made his posture loose. I hope it does the same to his mouth.
'Where'd he go?'
'You listening to me?'
'Just because you don't know him, doesn't mean you don't know where he went.'
'Then I don't know where he went,' he says.
'Okay.' I drink my pint and stare at him over the rim of the glass. Try to think what Donkey would do in this situation.
He'd probably break the guy's legs and piss in his mouth.
Not something I can do in a crowded bar, no matter how much it might help me. Besides, I went to the bog before I ordered my first pint. Starting to simmer down a little now in The Basement. The karaoke guy has just done his last cover for the night, stepped off the stage to a loud round of
applause from the pissed-up Royals. As he comes past, I catch his eye.
'Nice work,' I say.
'Thanks, son. I try me best.'
And he goes, a smile on his face. I turn back to Kev. 'So you really don't know anything.'
'I told you.’
‘Okay.' I pull out my mobile, put it on the table between us. I want you to call Mo.'
'Who?'
'Mo. Morris' son. I want you to pick up the phone, call him, tell him what you just told me.’
‘Fuck off.'
'I'm serious, Kev. If you're telling me the truth, you've got nothing to worry about. Make yourself known. Mo will believe you, I'm sure.'
'What you playing at?'
I pick up the mobile and start punching in Mo's number. Hold it out to Kev. 'There. All you need to do is connect. Just press the wee green button and tell him what you told me.'
'I'm not gonna do that.'
'Why not?'
His voice raises an octave. 'I don't know the dealers, alright? I don't hang out with them. They're fuckin' arseholes, the lot of them.'
'Then how do you know who Rob Stokes is?'
'You mentioned him.'
'But you don't know him.' I make a show of raising a finger to my temple, proper Columbo-style. 'See, now I'm confused. You know the name, but you don't know the name. Which is it?'
I don't know the name.'
'So you don't know he did a runner,' I say. 'You didn't hear anything like that.'
He pauses, looks at me. He's thinking. Course it's stupid to say he didn't hear anything about a dealer doing a bunk, especially when there was cash involved. Kev is slowly coming to that realisation. He works his mouth.
'Well?' I say.
'I heard someone left. They were pissing and moaning about the shifts they had to cover. And I was single-handed on the bar for a week.'
'Stokes was a dealer.'
He frowns at me. 'Yeah, and?'
'So how come you were single-handed?'
'Because Alison left too, man.'
I lean back in my chair, wait for him to follow that up. When he doesn't, I have to ask, 'Who's Alison?'
There's a moment of panic in his face. He spilled too much and he knows it. But his thirst takes hold, becomes a moment of triumph because I don't know the half of what's going on. And some blokes, no matter how scared they are, thrive on being smug. 'Tell you what,' he says. 'You get another round in and I'll tell you.'
Alison Tiernan.
No coincidences. Not anymore. Alison fucking Tiernan.
I keep buying the drinks, Kev keeps downing them. His mouth runs away from him, then he falls into a mumbling slur. This carries on, swings from one extreme to the other, but I end up with the whole story eventually. I have to keep asking him to repeat himself, because the rowdy Royals are singing their own songs on the other side of the bar.
Alison Tiernan, sixteen-year-old daughter of Morris Tier- nan. She worked behind the bar at Morris' club. The way Kev told it, Alison was supposed to be learning the value of money, having to earn it herself. She confided in Kev. She reckoned they were the best of friends. But the barman didn't know the difference between friendship and a come-on. When she up and left, he got angry.
I don't owe her a fuckin' thing,' he says. 'She was a fuckin' prick tease.'
'And you didn't know she was planning to leave.'
He stares at his glass, his lips puckered. 'Yeah, she talked about it. Christ, they all fuckin' talk about it. Not an employ- ee in there that doesn't talk about leaving. You got to understand, we get all the shit in that place. The punters what've been thrown out of the other clubs. Punters with issues, man. Hygiene, anger management, you name it. It was no place for her. Christ's sake, she was only sixteen.'
So you know that then. It's a start. One click away from a paedo, Kev. Watch yourself.
'What about the money?' I say. I light an Embassy. His eyes flicker to the pack, so I offer him one.
I don't normally smoke,' he says. 'I'm not a smoker.'
Social smoker, living in denial, never buys his own. This lad's not doing anything to get himself off my shit list, that's for certain. 'The money, Kev. Did she say anything about the money?'
'No.' He lights up, takes a long pull and closes his eyes. 'Gave them up five years ago, but I fuckin' miss 'em at times.’
‘Where'd she go?'
He blinks through the smoke in his eyes. 'Alison? Well, I suppose she went off with Rob.' Talking to me like I'm a special needs case.
'She say where?'
'No idea. She has friends up in Newcastle. Kept mention- ing them, but tell you the truth, she got a bit boring with all that. I tuned out.'
Newcastle. 'You have an address?’
‘I told you, I tuned out. Why the fuck would I have an address?'
'What about Rob?'
'What about him? I told you, I didn't know him. Fuck's sake. All I know is that he fucked off with Alison, right? That's all I know. And he should be shot. She's sixteen. They could put him behind bars for a stunt like that.'
The rugby players make a loud exit, chanting that they're either going to eat pizza or Ibiza. Either way, it's good fucking riddance.
'What does he look like?' I say.
Kev looks at me, incredulous. 'You're after a bloke and you don't know what he looks like?’
‘Tell me what he looks like, Kev.'
He grins, shakes his head. 'Fuckin' hell. What do I care, eh? He's tall, dark hair. Grey in it, know what I mean? Not fat, not thin.' He shrugs. 'Just looks like a bloke.'
'Oh, you're tons of help.'
Kev takes another drag. He doesn't look like he's used to smoking, got that kid playing adult thing going on. Look at me, I'm smoking. I'm a grown up. 'I didn't know they'd actually do it,' he says. 'I just thought it was talk. People are always whinging about something. And I didn't think she had the guts to do it, didn't think she'd be so bloody stupid. Listen, mate, you think what you want, but we had something going, me and her.'
I've been getting an honest-to-God Jilted John vibe from him all night. It's grown the more booze he pours down his neck. But that's the kind of drunk he is. Regretful, emotional, one step away from a Loretta Lynn song and self-pity rolling down his cheeks. He knows there was nothing between them, but the sick romantic can't give that up.
I don't give a shit as long as the information's correct.
I knew they'd send someone, y'know,' he says. 'I knew it would happen. I even told her, said, "Look, there's not enough money in the world to make you safe".'
'Should've argued your case a bit better.'
'He's a prick, y'know. Rob. I know I said I didn't know him, but I know his fuckin' type. He'll blow the lot. He'll flush it down the bog.'
'He have a drug problem?'
Kev looks at me with a sheen on his eyes. 'He's got a losing problem. He's a punter. There's not a dealer in that place who isn't. Dealers, man. Fuckin' dealers, they reckon they've all got the inside track on the bet. Like they deal the games, they know the way they work. You watch people lose all night, and you think you're better than them?'
Not better, I think. Just different.
'You're a good lad, Kev. Don't let this place grind you down.' I get to my feet.
'What's going to happen to them?' he asks. I rub out my cigarette. I don't know.’
‘Then what are you doing?'
'I'm being paid to find them, Kev. After that, it's out of my hands.'
'So you're setting them up,' he says. 'I'm just hired to find them.'
'You're a fuckin' hatchet man. You're setting them up.’
‘Go home. Get some sleep.'
He pulls himself out of his slump. 'You're a fuckin' hatchet man!' he shouts.
I walk away from the table, resist the urge to reach across and smack him hard in the nose. He repeats himself, then deflates like someone stuck a pin in him.
Hatchet man. Fuck's sake. I can't get anyone on my side.
I were watching Predator 2 when the doorbell went. Put me spliff in the ashtray and downed me Courvoisier and got out me beanbag, went to the door to give the cunt some grief.
Dad stabbed his Rothmans out on the doorway. 'Mo.'
'Y'alright, Dad. I were just watching a film, like.'
'Uh-huh,' he said and he went into the lounge. Danny Glover were investigating a crime scene done by the Predator. Drug dealers dead all over the shop. I didn't give a shit, like. Already seen the good bit when the Predator fucked 'em all up, Rastas getting proper splattered all over the shop and this bird with her tits hanging out giving it with the vocals. Weren't as good as the first one, mind.
Dad looked down at the telly, grabbed the remote and knocked off the volume. 'You been working, Mo?'
'This and that,' I said.
'Pills is what I heard.'
'Aye, I do some pills. Some shrooms, some resin.’
‘It paying alright?' he said. 'I didn't know people were still doing pills.'
'The old school still like 'em. Sometimes I do 'em powder, like.’
‘Coke?’
‘Nah, the E.'
'Uh-huh.' He looked around. 'What's your mark-up?’
‘On the powder?'
'On the pills.’
‘Couple quid.'
Dad nodded. He looked like he were thinking about summat. 'You do the Bruce Lees, but you don't do coke.'
'Nah. Too hard to get hold of. You want some speed, I can get you some speed, Dad.'
'I'm not looking to buy, son. You be interested in the bigger deal?'
I looked at me dad. Then at the spliff and the brandy. Man, I wanted a drink and a draw right then, but it weren't right. Would've made us look like a junkie, unprofessional. 'What d'you mean?'
He were still thinking. 'I mean what I said. You interested in the bigger deal?'
'What, like smack or what?’
‘Like volume, Mo.'
I didn't know what to say. So I said, 'Aye, course I would.' Dad looked at the floor. 'Glad you said that, 'cause the way you're going, boy, you'll be lucky to keep peddling pills.’
‘Eh?'
I came over here because I wanted to offer you something. I wanted to get you involved.’
‘Cheers, Dad.'
'But I get word that you don't take leave it as an answer. You stood in front of me and you promised that you'd wait on the fuckin' call from Innes; you promised that. And I said leave well enough alone, let Innes sort it out. That's what I said to you, wasn't it?' Dad lit a Rothmans. 'That's what I told you.'
'What's this got to do with — ?'
'I told you to do nowt, didn't I? I said Innes was handling this.'
'Aye, and he is.'
'Then what's the score with Walker, eh?'
I shook me head. 'I don't know nowt about it, Dad.'
Me head jerked back like whiplash. Me cheek caught on fire. When I brushed the water away, I saw me dad with his hand returning to his side. 'Thought I'd raised you to be a better liar, Mo.' He walked over to me beanbag and picked up the brandy bottle. 'I told you, you took care of this, you'd fuck it up. You got Darren Walker to tail Innes, you got made.'
I gritted me teeth. Me cheek were flared, man. Fuckin' hurt like a bastard. 'Swear to God, Dad, I don't know nowt about it.'
Dad took a swig from the bottle. 'You lie to me again, son, I'll break this bottle over your skull.'
'You wanted to keep this in the family,' I said. 'You got no right to get Innes on this.'
'I had every right.'
'Alison's my fuckin' sister.'
'And you haven't got the nous to deal with it. You're your mother's kid, Mo. And I kept you on from the goodness of my heart. But you're old enough to get your arse kicked. So don't go pissing me off. Because I don't owe you nowt.'
'You're me dad.'
'I'm your dad, but I wouldn't trust you as far as I could shit you, son. You're a fuck-up. You're no good to me and you're no good to yourself. You want to get yourself a proper fuckin' job and stop playing the gangster, because you haven't got the bollocks for the real thing. You carry on playing and you're gonna get hurt. And I'm not gonna be there to kiss it better, you understand me?'
'I can handle this,' I said.
'You can handle the rough stuff if you want. You get to deal with Stokes but only when Innes finds him, alright? Don't go beaking it, Mo. You're nowt but a pair of fists and flick knife. Sooner you get that in your skull, the better.'
I didn't say nowt. I stared at him. Fuck him. I wanted to deck the fucker. Cunt. Me eyes hurt. My throat hurt. Fuck him.
I wanted to get you involved, Mo. I really did. I thought if you could handle keeping your fuckin' nose out of this thing with Alison, you were mature enough to do some good work. But you couldn't even do that. So you're locked down, son. And if you get yourself in trouble with the law, I'll leave you to the spurs.'
'Dad — '
'You're lucky I don't call this whole thing off right now. But the deal stands because I'm a soft bastard. In the mean- time, you stay well away. You get me?'
I shook me head. There were no talking to the cunt.
'I ask you a question, you answer it,' he said.
'Aye, I get you,' I said.
'Good. Make sure it sinks in this time.'
And when Dad left, he took me bottle with him. I sat on the edge of the sofa and rubbed me cheek. Fuckin' bastard, talking to me like that.
Don't touch Innes, Mo. He's far too fuckin' important to piss about with. He's fuckin' golden balls, isn't he? Moral fuckin' fibre an' all that. And a brain in his head.
He weren't the only one with a brain.
Dad didn't say nowt about Rossie and Baz. I could stay locked down, but them lads were free as fuckin' birds.
Which meant that Innes were fucked big style.
Stokes is with Morris' little girl. And Alison's in Newcastle.
It explains a lot. Why Morris was so keen to use me instead of one of his scallies. He wants to keep this hushed and he knows I can keep my mouth shut. Word gets out that Tiernan's got Lolita for a daughter, well, anything could happen. It's a weakness. And Morris has got any number of enemies who'd play on that something rotten. So he's nipping the bugger in the bud before it becomes public. Keep it close, which is why I have to phone Mo when I find them. It makes sense, but something about it makes me feel sick.
So I'm going to Newcastle. I don't know anything about the place, other than it's chock full of angry Geordies and bad football. Girls with scrunchies so tight in their hair, they look permanently surprised. The same as Manchester, only colder, more hostile and all delivered in an accent that makes Glaswegian sound like Received Pronounciation. Wish you were here.
Check my mobile. More from Brenda.
'Mr Innes, it's Brenda Lang. I can understand why you don't want to talk to me, but I need to talk to you. Please call me.'
'Please, Mr Innes. I'd like you to call me at this number.' More pleases. More Mister Innes. Then the messages become slurred.
'Call me, Callum. I need your help.'
'You promised you'd help me. You remember? You pro- mised.'
And then finally, the heavy, throaty voice of a depressed and angry drunk: 'Fuck you.'
She's a charmer. I can see how a guy would be smitten enough to marry her.
I grab a pile of clothes that smell cleanish, chuck an extra pair of pants into my holdall. Nan always said, you got to wear clean skids in case you're ever in an accident. What she didn't mention was that it didn't matter. At the moment of impact, you shit yourself thin. But Nan's advice is hard to shift, even if she was a bampot. Clear my bathroom out and dump the essentials into the bag. I pocket some Nurofen. I get the feeling I'll need them on a regular basis. Maybe I'll see if I can get something stronger up there. Until then, I know I'll be popping these fuckers like Smarties.
I check my nose, realise it's not healed yet, and replace the plaster. Check my throat and it looks worse than it feels. Give it a few more days and I shouldn't look like I've had a fight with a hoover.
Look at my watch. It's early yet. But what the hell, I call Brenda Lang. I promised myself I wouldn't, but this is the end of the line for her. Put a full stop on the end of that sentence.
'Mrs Lang, it's Callum Innes.'
'Innes?' She sounds groggy. I must have woken her up. Sounds like she has a thumping hangover. Good. 'I've been calling you.'
'I know you have, Mrs Lang. And it's got to stop.’
‘Wait, I wanted to apologise.'
'For what? Grassing me up for something I didn't do? Or leaving obscene messages on my mobile?’
‘My husband's in critical condition.’
‘So I hear. But if you think I'm going to head round to ICU and hold a pillow on his face, you've got another think coming.'
She launches into a coughing fit. It sounds painful. When she's finished, she says, 'I know you didn't do it, Mr Innes.'
'That makes two of us. How's about you tell the busies that so I don't have walk around with an extra shadow, eh?'
'I have told them. I'm sorry. I just got scared. Is there somewhere we can meet?'
You what? 'I'm leaving town today, Mrs Lang. And we've got nowt to talk about.'
I need to find out who did this,' she says, he voice rising into a whine.
'Then you need to trust the police.'
'If it's a question of money — '
'It's a question of being fucked over once already, Mrs Lang. Look, I'm sorry you don't have the perfect marriage, and I'm sorry that your husband got done over. But you've got to understand, you put me in a position where I can't play the PI for you. Get someone else.'
'You were the only person I talked to, you know.'
'I don't care. It was none of my business then, and it's certainly none of my business now.'
'I thought you were a professional,' she says.
'A professional what?'
And I hang up before she answers. I suck my teeth. A bad taste in my mouth. I try to swill it out with coffee, but my brew's gone cold. I spit back into the mug, go to the kitchen, drink a glass of water and stick the kettle on. As I wait for it to boil, I lean against the counter and stare at a brown stain on the lino.
That could have gone better. But fuck it; it's over with now. Hopefully. I pour the dregs from my mug into the sink and make myself another coffee. Light a cigarette as I walk back through to the living room.
Christ, what did she think I was going to do? The woman got me nicked. She think I was just going to roll over and forget it? Probably. Most people do. Brenda, Donkey, Morris fuckin' Tiernan.
But this Innes has balls.
I shouldn't be working for Morris; I know that. But it's something I have to do. I'll try to keep Paulo out of it as much as I can. Let him know that he's not involved, and this is something that I'll finish, no harm done. It won't take more than a couple of days of visiting casinos before I find Rob Stokes. The way Kev went on, the dealer has a gambling problem. And with all that cash at his disposal, the first itch he's going to get is to punt it.
It's not much of a plan, but it's something. It's a lead. And a lead's better than sitting here.
I grab cash and keys, head out of the flat. As I tuck some of Morris' money into my wallet, I notice a brown fleck on one of the notes. I pick at it with my nail and it comes away. Dirty money, blood money, it bubbles to the surface of my mind. And then I tell myself to shut up.
Yeah, keep telling yourself this is going to work out peachy, Cal.
Down the stairs, out into the carpark. My Micra looks like it's fit for the scrap yard. I only hope she can make it up to Newcastle and back. But what the hell, I'm living danger- ously. The caffeine's slipped into my blood stream, got me a little hyper. As I slip behind the wheel, I slam in Hamell On Trial.
'I'm good to go, I'm good to go, y'know…'
The lads' club still has the smell of church about it, that musty odour of enforced worship hanging in the air. At first glance, you'd think Paulo was running an under-age fight club. The lads in here have scars; they fight like they mean it. All Paulo tries to do is control it, mould that rage into something that might end up in a career. That, or they tire themselves straight. Hard knocks, but it seems to work.
I walk through the middle of it, strip lighting above giving everyone jaundice, casting their eyes way back in the sockets. A couple of lads I know are in the corner, slapping gloves. As I pass, one of them turns and gives me a nod that passes for a greeting. I nod back.
Paulo's in the ring, a ginger kid's forehead against his. He's talking low and intense. Looks like they're praying together, but I know he's prepping the kid, jazzing the little fucker up. I notice that Paulo's holding up a pair of focus pads. As the kid steps back, Paulo brings up the pads and hunkers down behind them. The kid's eyebrows knot in the centre of his forehead, his eyes crinkled at the edges.
Then the kid lets fly, windmilling three wild punches into the air. His fourth connects without force. His fifth catches the edge of the pad and throws him off-balance. He stops, wheezing. As I get closer, I watch the kid wipe a mixture of tears and snot from his red cheeks. Paulo slaps him on the back, sees me, and tells the kid to get changed.
'Y'alright, Cal?' he says.
'I'm okay.'
'Just, I ain't seen you about, son. Thought you might be avoiding the place.'
'Nah, I've just been busy.'
Paulo leans against the ropes. 'You up for a spar, then?' I check my watch. 'Nah, mate. Can't do it. I've got business.'
'Going somewhere?’
‘Newcastle.'
'You'll need a warm-up, then. Them lads up there, they're not the Queensbury Rules type.'
'I don't know if I've got the time.' Check my watch again to make the point. I'd thought about telling Paulo exactly what's going on, but all that just flew right out the window. I've bottled it and, yeah, I'm a fucking coward, but what about it? I want out of here. And once this job's all over and done with, maybe I'll find the nerve to come back.
This is Paulo, this is the guy who got me out on the community visits, basically got me out of prison. And I bring the Tiernans into his club. Talk about gratitude.
'C'mon,' he says. 'We'll get you loose before you hit the road.'
As I get changed, my stomach growls. I don't feel right — this is a bad idea — but there's fuck all I can do about it. My tooth tweaks and I suck the blood from my mouth, wonder how much I can swallow before I get sick. Feels like I've already reached that stage. I look around for a gum-shield, but can't find one, so I walk out into the club hoping that Paulo's going to go easy on me.
He's already up in the ring. As I swing through the ropes, he turns and smiles at me. He's not wearing a gum-shield either. Which means he wants to talk.
As soon as he notices the bruises on my neck, Paulo says, 'What's up with that?'
'Nothing,' I say.
'Them love bites?'
'No, they're not love bites.'
He bounces on the balls of his feet, slaps his gloves together. 'Then what's up with your neck, Cal?’
‘I told you.'
'What's it called? That auto-erotic stuff? You're not into that, are you? Never struck me as the kinky type.'
I throw a weak punch. 'Fuck off.'
He knocks my glove away with his right. 'I'm just asking.'
'I'm not kinky, Paulo. You know me better than that.'
'What about your nose?'
'Cut myself shaving.'
'Uh-huh.'
We circle each other. I try to concentrate on what I'm going to tell him about Morris, but he breaks it with a swing to the left. I catch the side of it with my cheek. My tooth screams. Give my head a shake and I move that little bit faster. Paulo's a big lad and he lumbers, but he can take a shitload of damage before he breaks step. Comes from taking beating on a regular basis for the last forty years, lines and scars marking his face like a roadmap of bad moves.
'Pity you weren't in yesterday,' he says. 'You had a visitor.'
'Yeah?'
'Old mate of yours.' He shakes his head, working out the kinks in his neck. 'A copper.'
He bounces to my left, and I jump too far, miss what should have been an easy blow. He punches me lightly on the shoulder. Playing with me. Testing the water.
'Donkin?' I say.
'Aye, that was his name. Fat lad, looked like he could use a spar himself. Except he had scar tissue on his knuckles.’
‘What'd he want?'
'He wanted you,' says Paulo, faking a right, throwing a left.
I miss it, but only just. 'And what'd you say?'
'I told him I wasn't your fuckin' secretary and he should find you his fuckin' self.'
I smile, but it gets knocked off my face with another quick left. It connects, hard. I grab a few steps and back away. Paulo meant that one.
'Why d'you think he was sniffing about?' he says.
'You know what the fuckin' busies are like, especially the likes of Donkey. Once a con, always a con. You must've had your fair share.'
'Yeah, but not without reason. What you been doing, Cal?'
'I've been busy.' Another duck, bob, smack in the head with Paulo's right. That one makes me dizzy; I have to shake it out. Takes me a second.
'Then it's to do with Morris,' he says, punctuating it with another blow to the side of my face.
I back off again. Shake my head clear. Fuck's sake.
'I'm not working for Morris.'
'What was Mo doing in here the other morning, then?' I didn't take that job.’
‘So there was a job.'
'Yeah, but I didn't take it.' I get my vision back, hold up my gloves.
'Good lad,' says Paulo. He one-twos, batters some air. Telegraphs his right and I sneak in with mine. My glove connects with his ribs, a decent shot, but he absorbs it. 'You wouldn't bottle it and not tell me, would you?' he says.
I hunker, dodge. He doesn't even try. I feel like a ponce. 'What you getting at, mate?'
He lunges once my gloves part, lands two heavy blows in quick succession to my midriff, follows up with a corker to my mouth. The tooth goes into overdrive.
'Fuckin' hell,' I say, putting one glove to my cheek. 'Hang fire, Paulo.'
He doesn't. Paulo dips to my left and winds me with a deep blow to the gut. I crease, feel bile burning in my throat. Down to my knees with a thump and water in my eyes. I wheeze like a dying dog.
Can't catch my breath. I look up at him and my head's gone light. He's swirling in a mist. I blink a few times and hot water leaks down the sides of my face. My mouth hangs open. The tooth doesn't hurt so much if there's air running around it.
Paulo has stopped moving. Standing there, staring at me.
'You know what I did after I got out of the ring, Cal?' he says. I bounced. I worked the doors. Sometimes I worked the doors up Cheetham Hill and nearly got fuckin' shot doing it. So I tried the city, right?'
I nod, because I can't find the breath to say anything.
'I worked seven nights a week, doubles on the weekend. Got so's I couldn't look at a fuckin' beer, 'cause I knew what it did. It made lads bolshy. And I was doing the only thing I know how to do. Fight. Or break up fights by knocking heads. Most of the time it was pretty much the same thing.'
I whistle out a slow breath through my nose. Stare at the canvas. I can see drops of blood and wonder where it's coming from. Probably my nose. I'm a captive audience, just the way he wants it.
'The money was shit and the work was shittier. Then one night, Morris Tiernan comes up to me and he says do I want to work for him. Nothing harsh, like, but he needs a bloke who can handle himself. And I'm like, nah, that's alright, don't worry about it, I'm fine, right? You listening?'
My tongue goes to the tooth. It waggles in the gum. A copper taste. I pull myself to my feet and wipe a trail of bloody snot across the back of my glove. Paulo's staring at me like he's waiting on an answer, so I give him one: 'Yeah, I'm listening.'
He smacks his gloves. 'C'mon then.'
'I think I'm about done for the day, mate. My tooth's killing me.'
Paulo launches a quick left at my shoulder. I'm thrown off- balance, one foot back to steady myself.
'We're not finished yet, Cal,' he says.
'I mean it, Paulo. I've had enough.'
'Not yet,' he says. There's a weird glint in his eye. I've seen it before, normally when he's bawling out one of the kids for throwing a dirty punch or giving him shit about why they haven't attended the club. I'm telling a story here, Cal. And we're finished when I say we're finished.'
'Paulo, I've heard this story.'
I know you have. But somewhere along the line you missed the point of it.'
He wants to play hard, fine. Fuck him. I sidestep as he lunges. One of his punches hits my chest. I land a strong glove on the side of his head. Paulo shakes it off. I try another. He punches my wrist.
'So I tell Morris Tiernan where to go, right?' he says. I tell him I'm not interested. And that should've been it, am I right?' He holds out one glove to me. I try to hit it, but he whips his hand away in time. 'You'd think he'd get the message. But no, he sends a lad round to keep asking. And this lad, he won't take no for an answer either. So he starts on with the lip, starts on with the "stupid fuckin' cunt" bit.'
I try to back up, but Paulo bears down. 'What's your point, Paulo?'
'The point, Callum, is that Morris Tiernan doesn't stop at one visit. Which means when Mo doesn't turn up here the next day and neither do you, I get to thinking. And I don't like what I come up with.'
'Paulo — '
'You took the fuckin' job,' he says. Straight out with it, deadpan.
I stand still, arms by my sides. He winds down. I can't look at him. I stare at his feet.
'Well?' he says. 'Yeah,' I say. 'Yeah, what?'
I look up at him, feeling like one of those lads of his. 'Yeah, I took the job.'
His jaw clenches, but he tries to look calm. He nods slowly, then breathes out. Says, 'That's what I thought.'
I shrug. 'I had to, mate.'
'Nah, you're alright,' he says. His eyes have glazed over. When he speaks, it's like he's reading it off a cue card: 'You think you should do this, you think you should risk another five-stretch, you go ahead and do it. You were good to keep it out of here. But you finish this off quick. This is the last time. I hear you're working full-time for the man, I'll cut you off. You play favourites and you'll find yourself out in the cold.'
'I get it.'
He looks at me, frowns. There's a brief flare, then back to glass. 'Nah, mate. I don't think you get it at all. That's the fuckin' problem.'