Parole is granted on the basis of reports by prison and probation staff, on the nature of your offences, your home circumstances, your plans for release and your behaviour in prison.
An Irish guy with a soft voice gave me a book about the American penal system.
'Read this,' he said. 'But I want it back. It's part of my library.'
I read it in a day.
Six months before the Parole Eligibility Dates and thereafter annually you will be asked whether you wish to apply for parole.
This book was about the Depression in America, made up of all these first-hand accounts of convicts over there. And they were fucked from the start. See, these guys had no education, they were mostly black, and had fuck all in the way of civil rights. No money in your pocket, you're sent down for vagrancy. You stay too long in one place, you're loitering.
Four months before your PED you will have the opportunity to see the reports and to make written representations stating why you believe you should get parole and what you will do on release.
God help you if you wanted a little action. The girls might have been pros, but they were being employed by the law to snare these guys. You got drunk, thought that girl with the come-to-bed eyes actually wanted a slice of you, the next thing you knew you were behind bars.
Three months before PED you will be seen by a member of the Parole Board who will write a report for the Board. You can see and comment on the report. He will be a kindly-looking guy in a beige shirt, white collar. He won't ask you if you feel like you've been rehabilitated, because that's a bullshit question.
In '30s America, convicts were leased out as slave labour to wealthy landowners. When their sentences were up, they were pressured into signing contracts they couldn't read. Then they were slaves for another ten years. Couldn't leave, either. Not unless they wanted armed guards with hounds on their tail.
Two months before PED — a panel of Board members will consider your case. You will not attend. They will focus pri- marily on the risk to public of a further offence being committed were you released, although they will consider the benefits of early release under supervision.
A Glaswegian called Harry Beggs collared me when the news filtered along the spur. He threw an arm around my shoulder and said quietly, 'Don't think about it, son. You think about it, you'll go nuts instead of flying, ken? Dinnae let them clip yer wings before you get a chance tae use 'em.'
I didn't, which is why I read so much in those final months. But it weighed on me. When I heard I'd been approved on condition that I report to Paulo's club, it felt like my stomach was lined with lead. This was what freedom was about, moving from one cage to another. When I gave the Irish guy his book back, he said, 'The Irish are the niggers of Europe.'
'What about the Scots?'
'The Scots are the Irish who could swim.'
Bloke had an answer for everything.
When Paulo came by before that final hearing, I was in no state for his usual bullshit. We argued hard. Part of me
wanted to tell him to go fuck himself, that I'd wait until the last moment of my sentence before I agreed to work for him.
We fell into silence. I focused on the tattoo on Paulo's arm. A blue heart with three names: Mam, Dad and Keith.
It was fear that kept me inside, but a greater fear that made me back down and agree to his terms.
Back then, I was my own worst enemy.
Nothing's changed.
It's a long night and a longer limp back to civilisation. Or Sunderland, which is the next best thing. Road signs point the way north, and the freezing wind lets me know I'm getting there. As much as I want to slump into a ditch by the side of the road and sleep for forty hours, I know I can't. Things to be done, loose ends flapping in the breeze.
So I follow the signs along the side of the road, a constant whoosh of cars flying by. I watch the night crack into morning, grey skies above. Dishrag clouds. More rain. I let a downpour wash away the self-pity, replaced it with anger once I started walking, and now all I have are images of Stokes, George and Alison. The rage keeps me limping, even though every bone in my body wants to rest. Muttering to myself, it's no wonder people don't give me a ride. Well, shit on 'em. If they don't fancy giving a lift to a stranger covered in blood and mud and piss, then that's their loss. I could have paid them well, made their day with a stack of cash, but no. The great British public, otherwise known as It's None Of My Fucking Business.
Another thing to keep me going: the promise of a service station. The signs have been pointing to one for the past six miles, and I'm desperate enough to believe in them. Anything to get out of the cold for a while, get myself cleaned up and rested before I work out my next move.
When I finally get to the service station, it's in the arse end
of nowhere and somewhere in my battered head I wonder if it's the same one I passed when I drove up here. I hobble into the carpark, lean against the side of an articulated lorry and catch my breath. I've resisted smoking until now, but after the walk, I think I've deserved it. I light up an Embassy and break into a nasty, painful cough.
I ditch the cigarette. I haven't healed enough to enjoy it, but it kills me to see it wasted, so I move on.
Into the rest area, past the blaring arcade machines and into the Granary Restaurant. The woman behind the counter looks like she just caught a nostril full of something rancid. It's probably me. I make the mistake of talking to her, and her top lip pushes further into her nose.
'I'm sorry, sir. But the toilets are for customers only.'
'I just want to clean myself up, love.'
'And I'm sorry, but the facilities are for customers.'
'I'm a customer.' I look around, grab a muffin wrapped in plastic and slam it onto the counter. 'There you go.'
She looks down at the muffin. When I follow her gaze, I notice the muffin's all mashed up. And when I look up again, she's staring at me like I'm a psycho.
'How much?' I say.
'Three pounds.'
'For a fuckin' muffin?'
Her face crinkles. One step from calling the police or hammering a panic strip. I root around in my jacket, pull out my wallet. Stokes and his mates are a bunch of amateurs: from the looks of the wad in my wallet, they didn't even have the sense to rob me. I hand the woman a tenner. When she takes it, there's dirt on the note.
'Have you anything smaller?' she says.
'Is testing my fuckin' patience part of your job descrip- tion?'
'I just asked — '
'Keep the change. Call it a tip. Customer service like yours, you deserve one.'
She points to a sign for the toilets and I drag myself across the restaurant. I manage to stun a couple of kids in the process. They were happy enough throwing their breakfast around, but one sniff of me seems to have killed their appetites stone dead. As I push open the door to the toilets, I hear the mother say, 'Don't stare.'
Listen to your mother, kids.
It's too bright in the gents. I think about knocking one Of the lights out with my shoe, but I'm too knackered to do it. I move to the basin, feel a wave of nausea rise and crash in my gut. Run the cold water and splash some on my face. I watch the dried blood streak and feel my cheeks go numb. It looks like my face is melting. My fingers brush stubble as I wipe the excess water away and the bruise on my jaw aches.
What a fucking state.
I grab a fistful of paper towels, run the hot water and start dabbing at the cuts around my eye. It's no good, though. I can't focus properly.
Count them off: a battered nose, swollen; major damage to the cheek and my right eye; the left eye swelling in sympathy; a nasty purple bruise where I got kicked in the throat.
Oh, there's plenty to pay back here. And I haven't even checked below the collar.
Back in the restaurant, I don't get as many stares. I grab my muffin from the counter, give a cracked smile to the woman and make my way out to the phones. I have a plan. But it requires equipment, and it requires that I get some rest first. But I can't phone Mo without his number. And there's nobody else I can trust up here.
Well, there's one.
I feed a handful of change into the payphone and listen to it ring.
'Donna, it's me.'
'Cal. How are you? How's Manchester?’
‘I'm not in Manchester.'
'What's up with your voice? Sounds like you had the shit kicked out of you.'
'That'll be because I had the shit kicked out of me.’
‘Are you okay?'
'I'll live. I think. Look, Donna, I really need some help. Can you come and pick me up?’
‘Where are you?'
'I'm at the services south of Sunderland, I think. I'm near Sunderland. I saw a sign for Darlington, too. I don't know. I'm near somewhere, but I can't see it.'
'Calm down.'
'I'm calm. It's been a rough night, that's all.' I close my eyes for a second and feel my legs start to buckle. Snap awake. 'Please, Donna. I swear. This'll be the last time.'
'Give me an hour,' she says.
I wander out into the lobby of the station and watch the carpark. Another hour and I'll be out of here. And then what?
Knocking me down and beating the shit out of me stank of desperation, like Stokes didn't know what to do with me. He's just another scared amateur trying to make things better but fucking them up worse.
Rob Stokes, playing the hard arse, the proper gangster. What he's seen in hip-hop videos and Al Pacino movies. All posture with none of the balls to back him up. I'm working for the real thing here, and whatever movie Stokes has been watching, it just bubbles and flares on the screen. He's not living in the real world.
Uncle Morris Tiernan has been linked to the deaths of over
thirty-seven men in his career. Some of them used to be mates. And Tiernan hasn't done a day behind bars for any of them.
Rob Stokes has no idea who he's fucking with. He's about to find out, though.
I bite into the toffee muffin and feel like throwing up. Drop the muffin onto the ground, put my head between my legs and spend all my time trying not to pass out. The sound of an engine makes me look up. Donna gets out of her car and looks at me with a mixture of disgust and pity on her face. When I get into her Fiesta, she tells me to open the window.
'You're minging,' she says.
I know,' I say. 'And thanks for this.'
'No problem,' she says.
And for a moment, I actually believe her.
I couldn't fuckin' stomach talking to them cunts. I sat in the corner of Dobsons by meself, had a large double brandy. Them bastards was useless, fuckin' useless. Bottlers.
I said we did summat to Innes, they looked at us like I was going mental.
'Enough with the speed, Mo,' said Rossie.
'Aye, c'mon, Mo. You're off your tits,' said Baz. 'We did his car. That could be enough, right?'
'His car? His fuckin' car? What's the matter with youse cunts? Where's your balls?' And I were raging in that van, felt like knocking both their skulls off the bonnet until they went limp. And maybe it were the speed what made us itchy, but it weren't just that, couldn't have been. I looked in their faces and I knew that them bastards weren't up for the real deal. Aye, it were alright if you needed someone cut or knocked about, but you talked about killing a fucker, then they shit it. Didn't mind blood on their hands, unless it were the last drop spilled. Leave that to some other poor bastard like me.
I weren't given up. Nah, I just had to factor in their cowardice. Just like everything, man. You want summat done, you got to do it yourself.
Always been the same. Back when we was kids, I were always the one with the ideas. Rossie and Baz, they was followers. Fuckin' sheep. But now I were drinking, slowing, I realised summat: they wasn't sheep no more, they was pawns.
They did like I said, else they'd end up the same way as Stokes were gonna be. I had me plans already drawn up for that cunt. And Innes. And Alison.
Alison most of all. Who the fuck did she think she were, eh? Little bitch, little fuckin' slag bitch, all playing the grown- up one minute and spreading for any fuck and then sucking on a wowwy-pop the next. I didn't mind when she up and said she wanted nowt to do with us. Nah, I didn't mind. Bitch were fuckin' pregnant, anyways. So I just gave her a fuckin' kick in the gut and left it at that.
Homemade abortion, right?
Nah. Didn't kick the bitch hard enough.
And I kept me mouth shut and so did Alison, 'cause if Dad found out it were me what stuck it to her, we'd both be out. Alison's mam was a whore, and her little girl were just the same, but she were still a little girl and Dad always liked her more than he liked me. I must've reminded him of the fuckin' shack-job what spawned us or summat 'cause when I were a kid I used to look at meself in the mirror and I never looked a bit like me dad.
I drunk the brandy right down, like a warm hand on me gut. I'd bought a pack of Rothmans at the Paki shop and I lit one now, got out me seat and went to the bar. Got a pint of Guinness and brought it back to me table. You smoke like The Man, you drink like The Man, you become The Man. Rossie tried to say summat to us, but I ignored him.
Slipped behind me table and took a sip of the black stuff.
This were it. Like I'd ripped me dad's heart out and ate it, wore his skin like a fuckin' suit.
All I'd wanted to do were take the fucker out. That were all. Simple operation. Nobody would've missed Innes. Way I heard it, he had family in Jocksville, but he never talked to them no more.
Maybe Paulo would've said summat.
Fuck, I didn't know no more. It might've been a risk worth taking, like. But then maybe it were the billy and the fuckin' pills mangling me head and not letting us think right. And I had to think right.
But what the fuck, eh? Top and bottom were that because them bottling cunts didn't let us do what I wanted, we lost the bastard. We'd swung by the hotel, I went inside, asked, 'Did Mr Innes check out yet?'
The receptionist said that she couldn't give out that information.
'Nah,' I said. 'I'm a mate of his. We was out last night on the piss and we lost him somewhere in town. I just wanted to make sure he got in alright, know what I mean? I'm his best man. He's getting married. I'm his best man.'
Fuckin' speed.
But she didn't give up nowt.
So we was stuck here. All I could do was wait. Hoped the fucker hadn't spotted us and hoped to fuck he gave us the call when he were supposed to.
The bath water is a notch too hot for comfort, but it feels like it's easing some of the tension away. I'm laying back, my head on a blue flannel, staring at the shower that overhangs the bath. It smells good in here, despite my presence. Donna's bathroom is full of wee wicker baskets overflowing with soap. I'm playing with one shaped like an apple. Give it a sniff, and it's uncanny. Close my eyes, and I'd swear it was the real thing. I half think about taking a bite out of it, but then I'd have to finish it. I don't think I could explain a half-eaten soap.
I can't stay here. I think I've gone the limit with Donna's hospitality, might have even crossed the line with this one, especially considering she dumped me twenty-four hours ago. My clothes are being washed right now and once they're dry and I'm changed, I'll be out that door and back in the game. Maybe pay her or something. I don't know the etiquette. But I can't afford to stay around. My body might be relaxed in the water, but my head's all over the place. Every time I close my eyes I can feel the rain on my face.
Someone's going to get proper fucked for this one, but I have to get out of this bath first.
The aches aren't gone completely, and my back feels twisted out of shape. I don't realise how bad it is until I try to get up and I can't. Panic turns the water ice cold. I try to move my legs. They don't shift, not even a ripple.
Christ. I'm paralysed.
I grab at the side of the bath and try to pull myself out, but the strength has long gone and I drop back, splashing water onto the floor. I've seized up from the waist down. My fingers hurt from gripping the bath and my head starts thumping with a full-on panic attack.
Shit isn't the word.
There's a knock at the bathroom door. 'Cal?’
‘Donna, I…' What the hell am I going to say? 'You okay in there?'
'I don't know,' I say. 'I can't move.' The door clicks. 'No, don't come in. I mean it.’
‘Don't be daft.'
'Can you call someone? Just don't come in.' She pushes open the door and I try to move under some bubbles. She stands there with a weird look on her face. 'Jesus, Donna, what'd I say?'
'It's my flat and you're being a fucking baby. Now can you really not move?'
My voice cracks. 'You think I'd make this up?'
She grabs a large blue towel from the rail and throws it into the bath. 'Cover yourself up. I'll help you out.'
It's a tough job; I'm a dead weight. But we manage, me holding the towel to my waist, her with her hands under my arms. It's the most she's ever touched me, and I feel like asking for dinner and dancing first, but neither look possible with my legs fucked. Thinking that makes my throat hurt and I have to fight back the urge to cry. It's not manly.
We make it to the couch and I drop and adjust myself. I'm still wet from the bath, the couch cover sticking to me. We both let out a long breath at the same time.
'You really can't move,' she says.
'I really can't move.'
She looks me up and down, then leaves the room. I can hear her on the phone, her muffled voice urgent. Thank Christ this happened here. If it had happened on the road, I'd be dead right now.
When she comes back in, she goes into the kitchen and pours us both a stiff drink. She hands me the glass and says, 'Doctor should be here soon.'
I take a drink. 'Thanks, Donna.'
'He says it's probably just temporary, but he wants to take a look himself.’
‘Christ…'
'Hey,' she says. 'How about you drink up? No sense in feeling sorry for yourself.’
‘Look, Donna — '
'Save it,' she says. And takes her drink into another room.
The doctor looks like he should be on the front cover of a Mills & Boon novel, an honest-to-goodness clean-cut poster boy, Dr Kildare without the latent homosexuality. When he walks into the living room, he's in the middle of a conversa- tion with Donna. He stops talking when he sees me sitting on her couch wearing nothing but a towel. I'm glad; this doctor has the plummy voice of another class way higher than mine. When he smiles, he shows the same American teeth Donna does, but they look false. A pair of expensive-looking specs sit on the end of his nose. It's an affectation, I'm sure.
'Callum, right?' he says.
'Yeah.'
'Richard.' He extends his hand. I shake it. He looks back at Donna.
'The waist down, Doctor,' she says. 'Ah.'
He's too gentle to be a bona fide doctor, but he talks like one. I need X-rays. I need to see a specialist. An MRI is mentioned. So are the words 'fracture', 'chiropractor' and
'back brace'. It's enough to put the fear of God, the Devil and all the Nolan sisters into me.
'I'm not saying all this will happen, but you'll need to get checked out thoroughly. We don't take chances with the spine. It could be that you're just bruised and your muscles have just seized up. Or it could be that you've suffered severe spinal damage and you might never walk again.'
'Oh, cheers.'
'I'm just saying «might», Cal. It's not paralysis, I don't think. Not yet. And I don't want to treat this lightly.'
'I don't want you to treat this lightly.'
'You'll need bed rest,' he says, then turns to Donna. She nods and sips her third drink since he walked through the door. 'But you'll also need to take some light exercise. Go for a walk. Don't overdo it.'
'Ah, right. Let me get my trainers on and I'll be out of here,' I say.
He writes a script and reads the drugs off as he's writing them. Ibuprofen, codeine if the pain gets worse. Diazepam. And he peers at me over his glasses as he writes the last one: 'And from what Donna's already told me, you'll need some antidepressants.'
'Cheers, Doc'
'You'll be alright with him?' Dr Dick asks Donna. 'I'll be fine,' she says. 'Then I'll leave you to it.'
She follows the doctor out into the hall and there's more muffled conversation. At one point, I think I can hear her saying, 'I'll be fine, Richard, okay? Just let me handle this.'
The front door closes with a clatter. When Donna reap- pears in the doorway, her lips are tight.
'Sorry,' I say.
'You okay?' She drains her glass, sets it on the coffee table and avoids my eye.
'I'll be okay, yeah.'
'I'll pick up your scripts.'
Donna's gone for about an hour. I know, because I watch the clock on the video until she comes back. I've made this drink last because I've had to. The bottle on the coffee table cries out for me to up-end the bugger into my glass, but I can't reach it. Donna must have left it there on purpose.
Doctor Dick. Yeah, he wasn't a doctor. He looked like one, but he didn't act like one. I'm grateful for the prescriptions, but if he's NHS, I'll eat my socks. And Donna doesn't strike me as the kind of woman who'd have private healthcare. Nah, Dr Dick is a friend of the family, maybe more. The more I think about it, the more it burns me up. I need to get out of here, but I can't bloody move, and that burns me up even more.
I really want a drink. I try to move on the couch, but the towel starts slipping. The last thing I need is to be found face down on her carpet with my arse bared. No, I can wait.
I'm not paralysed. I've just seized up. But Doctor Dick can't be sure. Christ knows what I'd do if I end up paralysed. Yeah, it worked for Ironside, but I'm not Raymond Burr. I don't have his courage. And he could walk — he was just a lazy bastard.
Shut up, Innes.
I hear the front door open and hope that it's not a burglar. 'Donna?'
'Yeah,' she says. The clinking sound of bottles. She sounds tired. I got your prescription.'
'Just take the cash out of my wallet,' I say.
'Don't worry, I will. And I know you shouldn't drink with the pills, but I want one.'
'That's fine with me.'
I drink with the pills anyway. Donna doesn't stop me. After a couple, though, I'm ready to pass out. We make it to the bedroom before I lose consciousness. And just before I go, I'm sure I can feel her hand brush my forehead. My foot twitches as the bed sinks around me. Maybe there's hope after all.
When I open my eyes, I have to blink against the daylight. I had bad dreams, violent, full of those screeching choirs and the heart-thumping fear of being recalled to Strangeways. If I slept, it was in thirty-minute stretches at most. A quick look around the room with blurred vision, and Donna's nowhere to be seen. I rub the crusted drool from the corner of my mouth and swing my legs out of bed before I realise what I've done.
Praise be and thank fuck for Doctor Richard. I'm shaky, but I can stand. Pain in my right leg, but I can limp. Which is better than wheeling myself around. I take a breather against the wardrobe, grab a dressing gown and slip it on.
'Jesus Christ.'
I look up and Donna's in the doorway. I smile at her. 'Nah, but aren't miracles grand?'
'You scared the shit out of me.’
‘Sorry.'
'You want a drink?’
‘What time is it?’
‘Noon.'
Six hours' worth of waking up and dropping out. That's the closest I've come to a good night's sleep in a long time and I still feel like I've been dragged through a rusty fence. 'And the bar's open?'
'Early doors.'
She helps me through to the living room and I ease myself onto the couch. A mournful song on the CD player, a piano and an alcoholic's voice. Donna brings me a glass and fills it from a half-empty bottle on the table. 'I washed your clothes,' she says.
I sip my drink. Sweet with no burn, another single malt. 'Thanks. I thought I'd have to chuck them.'
'You still should. How you feeling?'
'I can walk, so that's a start. Doctor Dick did wonders. How do you know him? He can't be your GP, not with that kind of service.'
'He's a friend.'
'Uh-huh. Close by the sounds of it.’
‘He's helped me in the past.’
‘What with?'
'I don't want to talk about it.'
'Okay,' I say. Another drink and there's a dribble at the bottom of the glass. I swallow it and struggle to my feet. 'Thanks again, Donna. I should be going, though. Stuff to do.'
She doesn't answer me as I limp back into the bedroom. What am I supposed to do? I can't thank her again, and I don't know what else to say to her. It's like we're trying this on for size and it fits neither of us, this relationship hanging dead around our necks. And who am I kidding? What fucking relationship? I grab my jeans off an easy chair, slump into it as I pull them on.
Thanks for picking me up, thanks for getting the doctor, thanks for the booze and the bed. Thanks for clamming up. Thanks for making me feel like a shithead because I've got other more important things on my mind.
This isn't the time to get involved, even if it was possible. Even if she didn't put up this front every time I open my mouth. Every time she looks at me, she sees what? A drunk woman picking up rough trade in a pub?
I'm pulling on my shirt when I feel her presence in the room. The clink of ice cubes in her glass gives her away.
'You didn't tell me what happened,' she says.
'You wouldn't believe it.'
I picked you up. You owe me.'
'I got knocked down by a car,' I say. 'And then they chucked me in the boot, drove me out to a lay-by and worked me over, left me for dead.'
'You know who it was?'
'Yeah.'
'So what're you going to do?’
‘I'm going to fuck them up. What else can I do?’
‘You could quit,' she says. 'Next time they might make sure you're dead before they leave you.’
‘I'm not about to do that, Donna.’
‘Why not?’
‘Difficult to explain.’
‘Try.'
I do. Start right at the beginning; fill her in so far. The job, the journey, George, Stokes, Alison, the fight, the supposed flight, the man in the black leather jacket. We take it back into the living room, and I spill the story over another couple of drinks. I let her know that these people, they're amateurs. I made plenty of mistakes, mind, and I admit that too. Trusting George, trusting Alison. Playing saviour when I should have been watching my own back.
'But I'll make up for it,' I say. 'They should have dug that fuckin' grave and dropped me in it.'
Donna sits in her chair, staring at me. Stella ambles into the room and hops up onto the arm of the chair. For a moment, I think Donna's eyes have glazed over and she's not listened to a word I said. Then she pipes up. 'So they'll have gone by now.'
'You what?'
'This Stokes guy, Alison. They'll have skipped town by now. If they know you're after them.'
'Yeah.'
'So what's the point in carrying on?' she says. 'You've got nowhere to go.’
‘I've got George.’
‘Give it up, Cal'
'I can't.' I take another drink, ice knocking my teeth. 'I can't do it. I let this go now and they've won.'
'You let this go now and you get to live, Cal. Look at yourself. You're a bloody wreck. It's only the booze that's holding you together right now. You go out there and cause trouble, you're asking for a casket.'
I check my pockets, pull out a pack of Embassy and open it up. There's not one of them that hasn't been mangled beyond repair. So I say: 'What the fuck do you care?'
It slipped out before I got a chance to think.
Donna sits back in her chair and disgust flickers across her face. 'You know what, Cal? You're right. What the fuck do I care? What the fuck do I care if you go off and get yourself killed when I could have stopped it.'
'That's not what I — '
'If you'd just bloody listen to yourself, Cal, you'd know why I'd fuckin' care. You're a mess. You're in no state to think straight and you haven't been from the moment you came up to Newcastle, by the sounds of it. So you're looking to blame anyone you can get your hands on because you can't hack the truth of it.'
'I don't need this.'
'Nah, you probably don't. But you're not right in the head. A guy in a black leather jacket following you? You have any idea how mental that sounds?'
'He's following me,' I say. 'It's not Donkey, but it's some- one. Probably Stokes. I don't know.'
'You're paranoid,' she says. 'You're delusional.'
'And you don't know what the fuck you're talking about. You don't know the kind of world I live in.'
'Aw, stop the PI bullshit for just a second. I've seen kittens tougher than you. Just because you can take a beating, it doesn't make you a prizefighter. And I don't want to be the one who sees you hurt.'
'You won't have to. You made that clear,' I say.
'You don't get it, do you?'
'I get it. You're happy with me when you're pissed, but anything more than that and the doubts set in.’
‘You know that's not true.'
'Why'd you pick me up in the first place, Donna? Doctor Dick knock you back and you were out for a pity fuck?'
Her blue eyes flash once, then go dead. She raises the glass to her lips, but it's empty. When she speaks, it's like someone shut off the electricity. 'Forget it, Cal. You do what you want to do. Go beat the crap out of the rest of the world if it makes you feel better. Just do me a favour and don't ring me the next time you're scared. I've got enough problems in my life without having to worry about yours.'
'I'm sure you do.' I head to the front door, cigarette still on the go. Then come back and grab the prescription pills off the table. 'Thanks for washing my trousers, Donna. I appreciate it.'
I leave the door open as I head out into the hallway. If I go to close it, I'll end up slamming the bastard in the frame. And once I get outside I realise I've no idea where I am. After an hour of painful hobbling, on and off, I find a Metro station, hop aboard a train and head into town.
And I'm burning up inside, but it's got nothing to do with Stokes.
I get off the Metro at the Monument stop. I've got a few errands to run before I pick up my car, and the city centre's the only place I can run them. I'm blinded by sunlight as I step out of the station onto Northumberland Street, and the moment my eyes adjust, my heart sinks.
Sunday afternoon, a shopping extravanganza. Like the Arndale Centre, but more people packed into a smaller space and pissed off about it. The street is jammed and most of the crowd have no peripheral vision. Pushchairs and screaming kids, old women who think they've got the right of way, young hoodlums and scally lasses hanging around with gimlet eyes and too much saliva in their mouths.
I visit a couple of sports shops, but they seem to be selling clothes and nothing else. It's summer, it's the height of the season, but I can't find what I'm looking for. A parade of children with name badges and attitude problems give me nothing but cock-eyed stares. I end up sweating through my shirt, my lips dry and my patience frayed.
I yawn, bone-shattered.
God bless the Index catalogue shop, that's what I say.
Air-conditioned, kept at a temperature somewhere between freezing and frostbite, it's like heaven compared to the hell outside. I wander up to one of the catalogues and leaf through it until I find what I'm looking for. Sporting goods. I can't smile because my face feels swollen, but inside I'm beaming.
That's the bastard right there.
I fill out a wee form with a chewed pen and take it up to the counter. Spend the next ten minutes waiting for my number to come up, gasping for a cigarette. My skin feels itchy, and I wish I hadn't talked to Donna like that. Fuck's sake, she was only looking out for me. But I'm in no mood to be civil. Things to do.
I have a plan, but it's blurred around the edges. I wouldn't go so far as to call it revenge, but it's a way of evening the score a little.
When my number fizzes up onto the screen, I go to the counter and pay. Then I tuck the package under my arm and brave the sun again. Only for a second, stocking up on cigarettes and Lucozade. I get short-changed, but I don't care. Outside, I light up, take a few puffs to get enough nicotine slammed into my brain, and then I'm back across the road and checking out the mobile phones.
I don't want anything too expensive. If Stokes shows up again, he might get as stamp-happy as he was the last time. So I scan the shelves for the cheapest phone there is. As I'm doing so, a guy built like a jockey's whip ambles over. He stands behind me, but I can catch a whiff of Cool Water.
'The new Motorola's a doozy,' he says.
'I'm after something cheap,' I say. I try to enunciate. It makes me sound like I have learning difficulties.
'Ah. You want contract or pay-as-you-go?'
'Whichever's cheapest.'
'And what extras were you thinking about?'
I finally turn round and get a decent look at him. The lad's riddled with acne, sports a tuft of blonde hair under his cracked bottom lip and looks like he'd fall over if I breathed too heavily. But then, he probably doesn't think I'm much of a looker, either.
I want a fuckin' phone, mate,' I say. I don't care if it comes with a Jacuzzi and a wet bar. I want something I can make a phone call on that isn't two soup cans and a piece of string. Something cheap, something durable and something that I can press a number on without having to use a fingernail, alright?'
His face tightens, looks like a pimple on his forehead is about to start weeping at the tension. 'Okay. Then I'll see what I can find for you, sir.'
Really hammering that 'sir'. Little prick. My head's started banging. I need to get back to the Micra, take some Nurofen, take a breather.
The sales kid shows me a phone. It's cheap. It looks cheaper.
I take it.
Outside, I grab the first taxi I can find, slump into the back seat and tell the driver where I'm going. He stares at me in the rear view mirror. So I tell him again. Once he pulls away, I catch him glancing at me like I'm some sort of free freak show. I feel like telling him to keep his eyes on the road, but I'm too tired. I crack the window to get a breeze going.
First things first, I need to get in touch with Uncle Morris. After a couple of wrong numbers courtesy of a directory enquiries service, I get the number for The Wheatsheaf. Three rings and the landlord answers.
'Brian, it's Cal Innes. I need to speak to Mr Tiernan.'
'What for?'
'It's personal.'
There's a pause. Then: 'He's not here.’
‘If he wasn't there, Brian, you wouldn't have asked me what it was about. Now go fetch. I can wait.' I told you — '
'Don't fuck me about, Bri. I'm not in the mood.' I glare at the driver to make sure he gets the point too.
'Fine,' says Brian, and puts the phone onto the bar with a clatter. It's silent at the other end now. The Wheatsheaf is as dead as usual. It's nice to know some things don't change. A minute later, Brian comes back on the line. 'He says he'll call you back.'
'Then let me give you the number.'
'He's already got it.'
'Not this number he hasn't.' Jesus Christ.
Brian grumbles, rustles something. 'Okay. Fire away.'
I give him the new number and disconnect. The cab passes a girl with low-cut jeans and a hanging belly.
'Jesus, would you look at that,' says the driver.
I grunt, realise I'm hungry. My mobile starts bleating. After three shrill rings, I pick up. 'Mr Tiernan.'
'Mr Innes.' Morris doesn't sound too impressed. Either bored or homicidal; I can't work out which. 'You were supposed to phone Mo.'
I would if I had his number,' I say.
I gave you his number.'
I lost it. I had an altercation with a couple of Stokes' boys.’
‘They beat the shit out of you.’
‘You can tell, huh?'
'You're mumbling,' he says. 'So you know where Stokes is.’
‘He's about. But I don't know how long he'll hang around. He thinks I'm out of the picture.’
‘Then I'll get Mo up there.' I want to find him first.'
'It's too late for that. I'll get Mo to call you from the road.' And he hangs up, leaving me with a dead line and an open mouth.
Well, that could have gone better.
I check my watch, try to work this out. Okay, give Mo a couple of hours to rally his bruisers, three hours on the road and he should be up here by tonight. Which doesn't give me nearly enough time. Donna's voice keeps telling me I should let this lie, but I can't do that. I don't relish the idea of Mo taking over. This is my job, and if he finds Stokes without my help, I'll still owe Tiernan. Which sends me right back to square one.
I can't have that. This is do or die.
When I glance at the cab driver, I see him staring at the package on my lap. His forehead is furrowed deep. I'm not surprised. A guy with a knocked-up head gets in his cab and starts talking about finding another guy, well, I can see how he'd leap to conclusions. I decide to play it friendly, give him a smile to show I'm harmless. He goes white.
'It's alright, mate,' I say, but my voice is too guttural.
He doesn't reply.
In fact, we don't exchange another word until he drops me off in Benton. Just to show there's no hard feelings, I tip him, but he's still out of there sharpish. I watch the taxi disappear before I light up and walk to my Micra, still where I left it.
There's no pleasing some people.
'Dad, I'm at home, where the fuck else would I be?’
‘You weren't at home last night.'
'Nah, I were out with Rossie and Baz. Had some business to take care of.'
'You make much?' I didn't like the tone of Dad's voice. Summat wrong with it, either like he were trying to butter us up or he were taking the piss.
'Some,' I said.
I got a call from Innes,' he said. Me cheek reacted, but me voice didn't. 'What's up?’
‘Nothing much. He's in Newcastle. Stokes is up there.’
‘He got an address yet?'
'No. He knows where Stokes is, though. And he's going to need all the help he can get. A couple of Stokes' boys worked him over.'
'When were this?'
'I don't know. Just get whoever you need and get up to Newcastle. And give Innes a call from the road.' And then Dad gave us Innes' new number. I wrote it down. I broke the connection and sat there staring at Rossie and Baz. Baz caught me eye and I jerked me head. They could come back from fuckin' Coventry.
'What you grinning at?' said Rossie.
'Stokes and his lads did over Innes last night.'
'Fuckin' hell.'
'Saved us a job,' said Baz.
Yeah, I thought. Like you two would be any fuckin' use. 'So where's Stokes?'
'I dunno yet. But I want to go back to that flat, see if anyone's about, know what I mean? He were looking fuckin' proud of himself yesterday, so he got summat there. If he got a lead, we'll get a lead.'
'You don't know which flat it is,' said Rossie. Always the fuckin' nay-sayer.
'I'll sniff it out. If Alison were round there, I'll know it. Trust us.'
'Cause there were summat I had that Innes didn't. I knew me sister inside out. I knew what she were like and I knew the way her fuckin' mind worked.
Which meant that I'd get the bitch before Innes did.
'Y'alright, mate? I lost me keys.'
This lad with a beard and a belly didn't care, and he held the door open for us to prove it. I pushed through, Baz and Rossie behind us. 'Cheers, mate.'
Went up the stone steps, looked about the walkway.
'Well?' said Rossie. 'Where's she live?'
I didn't know. Shook me head. I could work summat out. Just had to think about it. Headed up one way, but it was all fuckin' pot plants and fancy number signs. Nah. Went back to the other end, and I knew we was in business. The door to thirty-five was open and the place stank like a burning poof. That were Alison. She loved all that fuckin' incense and shit. I looked at Rossie and Baz, jerked me head towards the door and pushed it wide open.
On the right, there was stairs. I told Rossie to go up them and check it out. Baz came with me. I didn't have nowt in the way of protection apart from me fists. But Baz and a wicked- keen Stanley. We went into the front room, all quiet. Ready to fuck someone over if they wanted to play ninja. Nowt in here.
Looked like the place'd been fuckin' trashed an' all. I picked up a cushion and squeezed it like a stress ball. Me nose started running so I wiped it on the cushion and kept squeezing.
'You sure this is the right place, Mo?' said Baz.
I didn't answer him, went out into the hall and shouted up the stairs. 'Rossie, you found owt up there?'
Rossie appeared at the top of the stairs. 'You don't want to see this fuckin' bathroom, man.'
I tossed the cushion, took the stairs two at a time, pushed Rossie out the way. He were right — I didn't want to see the fuckin' bathroom. The smell were enough. Alison were a proper pig. That's why she used all that incense, hide the smell of her dirt. I said to Baz, 'Give us your Stanley.'
Baz dug deep into his trackies, handed it over. I clicked the blade out as far as it went and pushed open a door. The bedroom. Me eye itched so I scratched it. Went over to the mattress on the floor, still had the sheets on it, but nowt else in the room. They'd done a runner. That, or they lived like fuckin' squatters. On that mattress.
'Y'alright, Mo?' said Rossie.
I pushed the bedroom door shut, didn't take me eyes off the mattress. Lousy fuckin' cooze. If she wanted to come back, she'd have summat waiting for her. I got down on me knees and started slashing at the mattress, cut the fucker to ribbons. Tugged me way through the sheets and whistled while I worked, got me bladder pressed. When it were time, I pulled me cock out and pissed all over the remains.
Try fucking on that, Alison.
When I got out the bedroom, Rossie and Baz was waiting for us.
'What now?' said Baz. Rossie were staring at what was left of the mattress.
'Now we tear what's left of this shithole apart until we get a lead,' I said.
And I pulled Rossie away from the bedroom so's we could start on the downstairs.
The GM Maxi Senior Cricket Bat.
It's a big bat in every way; handcrafting bows the blade into the drive area to produce the unique GM PowerArc shape. A special pressing technique blended with a massive swell and strong edges gives the powerful players the bat of choice for awesome hitting.
Awesome hitting. I like that. Nice ring to it. The Maxi's sitting across my lap right now. It feels too light to be of any use, but then what do I know? As long as it doesn't break into firewood on the first decent swing, I couldn't care less.
But then, the box doesn't say anything about using it on someone's legs.
Anger management. Controlling your emotion so it doesn't spill out and hurt yourself and other people. I know all about that. I did courses in jail about that. I had to. It made the authorities think you were serious about rehabilitation, and it passed the time.
'When you feel that urge, Deffenbacher suggests that you picture yourself as a god or goddess, a supreme ruler, striding alone and having your way in all situations while others defer to you. The more detail you can get into your imaginary scenes, the more chances you have to realise that maybe you are being unreasonable; you'll also realise how unimportant the things you're angry about really are.'
This from a young guy who crossed his legs too tightly and had a PhD in Patronising Prisoners. He was the leader of a group
that encouraged enhanced thinking skills and anger manage- ment. We met twice a week in a cold room with green-and-white walls, sitting in a circle while this guy talked, his hands flapping like a couple of coked-up birds. He had his pet subjects, his pet theorists. He loved talking in a slow, soft and completely judgemental voice, telling us exactly why we were inside.
And we had to put up with it. Not that the group was compulsory. It was just that it looked better on your record if you attended. Which I did, because by that time, the last thing I wanted was to stay behind bars.
The group leader once told this brick-headed fucker called Hawkins that he needed to concentrate on his cognitive restructuring.
'You fuckin' what?'
'It means that when you're angry, your thinking can become exaggerated. Cognitive restructuring lets you under- stand how silly you're being.'
Silly? Hawkins looked like he wanted to batter the little prick. If he'd thrown a punch, I got the feeling the rest of us would join in.
'It's silly to lamp a cunt, is what you're saying,' said Hawkins.
'See, now — ' The group leader raised one finger. '- you're using humour. That can be healthy, but there are problems with that. Can anyone tell me what they are?'
'Nobody laughs?'
His voice sounded like a sigh. 'There are two cautions in using humour, gentlemen.' The leader got to his feet and went to the white board. 'First, don't try to "laugh off" your problems.'
He wrote 'laughoff' and drew a line through it. 'Rather, use humour to help you to face your problems more constructively.'
'We should be more constructive,' said Hawkins.
'Second, don't give in to harsh, sarcastic humour; that's just another form of unhealthy anger expression.'
He wrote 'sarcastic' and 'unhealthy'. Between the two words, he drew an equals sign.
Anger management. Manage my situation, you speccy fucker.
'All an angry person is saying, really, is: "Hey, things aren't going my way!"'
Fucking tell me about it.
I feel the weight of the bat and then lay it down again. Nah, it should be fine. I'm only going to use it the once. Before I got here, I was at the pub. Dutch courage, maybe Scotch and a pint or twelve of Belgian lager to make it a European dream. I called the casino, pretended I was George's brother, that his dad had had a stroke. When he got on the phone, I hung up. He's working tonight.
I did a slow recce of the casino carpark before I got settled in. George's car is a blue Fiat with a scuffed bonnet and dark spots on the boot. The bloke didn't have the foresight to scrub my blood off his car. Which means I'm not watching for him anymore, just anyone who goes near his motor. It's a good job, too. It's getting dark now, making it almost impossible for me to make out faces. I've already had my hand on the door a couple of times, ready to get out, heart thumping. But so far it's been nothing but false alarms.
I pop some Nurofen, notice I've got two left in the pack, and throw the box back into the glove compartment. Then one of each from the little brown bottles that Doctor Dick prescribed. I chase the pills down with a swig from the half bottle of vodka. Good job I bought that bastard, I think. The beer and whisky buzz is fading fast and I need something to keep me ticking over. Rage is a bitch to maintain.
Mo's coming. He'll be on his way right now. Sick bastard.
Gets his own sister pregnant. Alison, the wee whore. Stokes, the bullshit chip junkie.
And George. Borderline psycho. Workaholic. He'd rather do double shifts behind a bar than live his life. He's the only one with ties here. Stokes and Alison might have left the city, but George wasn't about to go anywhere.
He was stupid enough to think I wouldn't come after him. He's been sloppy and turned up for work, regular as. So my phone call might have spooked him a little, but he'd get over it the minute he gets a decent tip. The more I think about him, the less I care about Alison and Stokes. It isn't about them anymore. It's about that little prick who thrives on being an arsehole. Stokes had a reason to do me over but George got off on it. And that kind of violence, it's a drug. You know you're safe, you can play out your sadistic wee fantasies on whichever poor fucker you've got cornered.
Yeah, I've seen that happen enough times. Been on the receiving end more than I like to admit.
The power trip George was on, that rush of adrenaline, he should channel it elsewhere, because one day he'll throw it at the wrong bloke and it'll end up biting him in the arse.
I'm that wrong bloke. And better I bite him now than he ends up dead later on. At least I've got a conscience. Someone else, someone single-minded, someone greedy, fucked-up, twisted, some junkie, they might not be as nice to him.
What I'm doing here is teaching a bloke a lesson. And some lessons need a personal tutor. I'm doing him a favour.
It's all about anger management.
I notice I've started drumming my fingers on the blade of the bat. I stop, take another swig of vodka. All this waiting's killing me.
Donna loves me. Right. Donna doesn't want to see me hurt. Fuck her. She doesn't know me. Some drunk bitch wants a life mate, she should look somewhere other than bars. I mean, Christ, picking someone up in a pub. How desperate is that? It stinks of Brenda Lang. And look where that got me. On the fucking run. I hope Paulo's alright.
Shake that thought from my head. No point in dwelling on that. Donkey's all talk. He wouldn't do anything to Paulo. He couldn't.
More vodka.
I watch a minicab pull into the carpark. A drunk punter comes staggering out of the casino. He holds onto the roof of the taxi and struggles with the door.
Some people just can't take their beer.
After the punter slides into the back seat, the cab pulls away. I watch it head past the casino and out of the carpark. Then look back at the side of the building. Two girls, two lads. My fingers tighten around the rubber grip of the bat.
It's George. The bar must be closed for the night. Telling a joke, a stupid story, he's doing everything he can to impress these two girls. They're not having any of it, but his mate is laughing his arse off. Overdoing it to make George look better. They stop in the light from reception and George points in the direction of his car.
Don't do it, girls. He's not worth it, really.
And you, George's mate, fuck off. I don't need an audience for this.
The group breaks apart, the girls heading for the main road, the two lads backing off towards George's car. George has his hands up and is shouting something at the girls.
Blown out. My heart bleeds.
George's mate is still with him.
Shit. I don't need this. I don't need witnesses. But needs must. Needs fucking must. As they reach the Fiat, I push open the car door, GM Maxi Senior in one clammy hand. My right leg is numb; I have to shake the blood back as I try to stride across the carpark. I zero in on George. Difficult to do, because there's sweat in my eyes.
He's still talking, the mouthy bastard. Concentrating on getting his key in the car door. I wouldn't be surprised if he's a little drunk. Tonight, we're all tipsy. It helps us do what a man's gotta do.
The lad with George is a mealy little bugger, skinny as a wicker man and twice as fragile. He sees me coming, but he can't get his brain around it. So he stares. He starts gold- fishing. As I get closer, I can hear tiny noises in the back of his throat, wee grunts and clicks. The fucker sounds like Flipper.
'They'll come running back,' says George. 'That Debbie loves me, Trev. I can smell it on her — '
I cut him short with a chop to his right knee.
'Howzat, you cunt.'
The bat makes a dull thump, not the ear-splitting crack I was hoping for, but George buckles, knocks his head off the roof of the car and crumples to the ground. His mate looks at me, wide-eyed and visibly shaking. There's a moment before George realises how much pain he's in. When he does, he starts screaming like someone poured acid in his eyes.
'Back off,' I say to Trev. 'Turn around and walk the other fuckin' way.'
George loses the breath to scream, falls into heavy sobbing. I want to take the bat to his head, but Trev's still here.
'Don't make me tell you twice, son. This is none of yours.'
I raise the bat. It's the picture he needed painting. Trev bolts straight for the casino and the bouncers. I need to hurry this thing along. I grab George by the shirt collar and drag him across the tarmac. He starts screaming again; no words, just noise. A quick glance at him and tears are streaking the blood on his face. He must have broken his nose on the way down.
Bonus.
For someone so bloody thin, he's a dead weight. I manage to get him to the Micra just as I look across at Trev. He's telling the bouncers what happened, pointing at me. I pull the driver's seat forward and say to George, 'After you, mate.'
He looks up at me. 'You broke my fuckin' legs!'
'Bollocks. I didn't break nowt.' I lift him under the arms and heave him into the back seat. One of the bouncers shouts. I look up and see one of the bruisers in full pelt towards me. The other one's disappeared. He must be calling the police. I slam the seat against George's fucked up leg and he yelps. Then I slide behind the wheel.
I start the engine and it catches no problem. There's a first time for everything. I gun it out of the carpark, light an Embassy as we pull onto the main road and away from the city centre.
George babbles in the back seat. 'Listen man, I'm sorry, alright? I got carried away, it happens. I'm sorry. I didn't mean to — '
'Save it, George.'
'Nah, I mean it. C'mon, you can't think I was really gonna kill you, do you? I'm all talk, you ask anyone. I'm a fuckin' coward, man. I'm a fuckin' wreck. Look, you just let us out here, I'll be fine, right?' He tries to move his leg and chokes. 'I'm gonna be sick.'
'Go ahead.'
'What d'you want, man? I'm not Rob, am I? You want cash, I got some on us, but if you want serious cash then you'll have to drop us off at a bank — '
I look at him in the rear view. 'What d'you think I want?'
He looks blank. The pain's made him slow. He'll get it soon enough, though.
Even if I have to break his other leg.
Another night, another motorway.
I pull in, flick on the hazard lights and get out of the car. Cold out here, my breath misting up in front of my face. The drive here gave me a bastard behind the eyes. I didn't take anything for it, either. Let the pain dull the senses, stop me from thinking about what I'm about to do. The headache subsides for a second once I get some fresh air into my lungs, then I pull open the driver's door and flip the seat forward. George is still in the same position. He's frightened out of his mind, his eyes shining in the dark.
Good.
'Get out the car, George,' I say quietly.
'Howeh, you're not thinking straight.'
I grab his bad leg and pull hard. George splutters a shout as he tries to fight me off, but I give a good hard yank and he comes spilling onto the road, landing on his back with a thump. I give him a dig in the ribs. George tries to double up, winded. I drag him like the sack of shite he is over the lay-by and send him rolling down into a ditch. Then I reach into the car, heft the Maxi to my shoulder and stare at him until he manages to turn himself over.
'Fuck's the matter with you?' he says. His voice is strained, hoarse. Too much screaming, his fear boiled into anger now. I know that feeling all too well. Let him get wrapped up in darkness until it clamps around his lungs like two damp fists. Let him suffer those sudden jabs of light from passing cars.
Give him a taste of his own fucking medicine.
'Where is he, George?'
George shakes his head. 'Where's who?'
'Stokes.'
'I dunno where Rob is, man. He fucked off. He's gone.’
‘I don't believe you.'
'I don't give a fuck. I'll have you locked up.'
Better give him something to grass up, then. I bring the sharp end of the Maxi down on his right shin, a swift hard stamp. He spasms on the ground, yelps like a scalded puppy. Bring the bat down again and twist the bastard against the bone. George tries to move his leg, but he hasn't got the strength. He keeps calling out for God. And I keep the pressure on.
'Where is he, George?'
'I fuckin' told you where he is.'
I twist the bat, feel bone stretch and crack under my weight. Then the bat's back up at my shoulder and over his yelling, I tell him, 'You told me nowt, mate.'
George curls up as best he can, snot all down his chin. He chokes on whatever he's trying to say because his whole body is racked with sobs. I toy with the idea of battering his teeth out, but then that would defeat the purpose. It's hard enough to understand what he's saying, thanks to a swollen top lip and a collapsed nose.
I grab the bottle of vodka from the car and take a swig until my lips feel dry and stinging. Then I screw the cap back onto the bottle and let the bat touch my leg. 'What's the matter with you, George? Stokes did fuck all for you, mate, except get you here.'
'He didn't tell me nowt' It comes out as a scream, the indignant wail of a kid. A flash from passing headlights shows his red eyes, his bleeding mouth, the colour rising high in his cheeks. Like someone held a scarlet filter up to his face.
'He's a mate, though,' I say. 'You two are close. He must've told you something. I can't believe he didn't give you an inkling at least.'
'Rob's not a mate,' says George. 'He ain't fuckin'…' He shakes his head, gobs thick spittle from his burst mouth. 'Rob's an idiot, man.'
'So he's not a mate, so there's no loyalty.'
'That's not it. Fuckin' hell. You know what he did?'
'He stole money,' I say.
'He saw the chance for a big score and he went for it. And, y'know, I told him not to do it. I told him not to fuck himself over for her. Can't trust her as far as you can shit her.'
'This would be Alison.'
'Who else would it be? Aye, Alison.'
'And what's her big secret, eh?'
'It's not a secret, man. She's a fuckin' little cooze. A proper bitch and snide with it'
'She call you a name behind your back?'
George blinks slowly, his eyes rolled to the whites. The lad'll pass out given half a chance. I slam the bat against the side of the Micra and the noise shakes him awake.
'Keep alert, George.'
'It was all her, man,' he says.
'It was Alison's idea.'
'Aye.'
'Not Rob.'
'Rob didn't have the balls to do it.'
'She robbed her own fuckin' father is what you're telling me,' I say. The vodka's kicked in, crackling the blood and throwing my brain around the inside of my skull. 'You're out of your mind.'
'And you're fuckin' blinkered, man.'
I stamp hard on his ankle. As I twist, something gives way underfoot. George throws himself forward, scrabbling at my leg. I knock his hand away with the bat. As I step off, he tries to roll out of the way, ends up face-down in a puddle. 'How about you tell me the truth, George? How about that? Else I take this bat to your fuckin' skull.'
He breathes muddy bubbles in the puddle water, his face screwed up. When he talks, he sprays. 'I'm telling you the truth. I swear to God I'm telling you the fuckin' truth.'
Bringing God into it again. I test the weight of the cricket bat in my hand, aim my swing at his other ankle. It connects with a sharp crack. George buries his scream in the mud and when he tries to speak, it comes out with a throbbing staccato underscore: 'Whuh-huh-the fuck…'
'I don't like you, George. I thought I made that patently fuckin' obvious, mate. I don't like you because you were all set to top me and leave me in a bloody ditch, and I don't like you because you're lying to me.'
George shakes his head, pulls his body up with all the weight firmly on his forehead. A vein in his neck looks fit to burst. It's like watching a tape of myself from the other night. When he gets to his knees, he spits a mixture of blood and mud at me. 'And I told you the fuckin' truth, you cunt. You wanna do me in, go for it, fuckin' do it.'
I raise the bat quickly, ready, to swing. Adjust my grip, make sure it's good and firm, take a second to wipe the sweat from my left palm. Draw a bead on the back of George's head — the fucker's cowering now — and narrow my eyes until he's a blur. Just the way it has to be. Holding up the Maxi, my fingers twitching against the rubber grip.
Go on. Do it. Swing the fucker. Knock some sense into him. Lying cunt, lying cunt, lying fuckin' bastard cunt.
Headlight flash behind me, grab George's shadow and throw it from left to right, headlights behind them punching
the shadow into three. Time lapse. I open my eyes, feel the bile scratch at the back of my throat.
I can't do this.
Wimp. Pussy. Do it.
I can't fucking do it.
This is why you're constantly being fucked over, Cal. It comes to the crunch and you shit it, pal. The bat trembles in my hands. I can't control it. COWARD. No.
'Fuck's sake.' The words come out in a rush. I lower the bat, massage the blood back into my hands. My leg hurts. My arms ache. My spine pinches at me. My heart is beating too fast, and I've broken out in a cold sweat. 'Fuck's sake.'
George's back heaves in the dim light. It's the only move- ment he makes.
I have to lean against the car. I put the bat by my leg and light up.
I'd go for the vodka, but I can't move.
Sitting on the tarmac, the arse of my jeans getting soaked right through to the skin, and I'd feel sorry for myself if it wasn't for George whimpering in the dark. Kind of puts my wet buttocks into perspective.
'If Alison set it up, then why did she agree to come back with me?' I say.
A loud, long breath escapes from George. I look up, and make him out lying on his back. A stiff breeze blows the smell of urine my way. 'She told us you'd be there. She wanted you taken care of,' he says.
'She does that, and someone else'll just come after her.'
'You think they're after her?'
I wipe the nose with the back of my hand. 'They're after Stokes. Fuck it, nah, I don't know who they're after anymore.’
‘You had to find Rob,' he says. 'Yeah.'
'She set him up.'
'She had no reason to set him up,' I say. 'She doesn't give a shit.’
‘Rob would beat her to death.' I need to go to the hospital.'
'Rob would hit her, mate. She's scared of him. I've seen her. She's taken a beating.'
'Mr Innes, Cal, I need to go to a hospital.'
I look up at George, find him staring at me. Pleading. I get
to my feet, grab the cricket bat and throw it onto the back seat. 'I can't do that, George.'
'C'mon, it's the least you can do — you broke my fuckin' legs.'
'And you don't know how close I came to killing you, you ungrateful bastard. I wish I'd broken your mouth.’
‘You've got to take me to the hospital.’
‘I'm not taking you anywhere.’
‘I told you everything.’
‘You didn't tell me where he is.’
‘I told you everything.’
‘You think he's gone back to his flat?’
‘I don't know.'
'What'd he say to you after you left me the other night?'
George's head twists like he's been through this and through this and he still can't get a handle on it. 'He said that it was over. He said that there'd be no more trouble from you, and Alison would be happy with that.'
'So he went back to his flat,' I say.
'I told you, I dunno.'
I move towards George and he flinches, tries to pull himself away. I grip his shirt collar and pull hard, drag him screaming to the back seat of the car. I throw the seat back and get behind the wheel, adjusting the rear view so I can get a better look at him. 'Tell you what, George — as soon as I find Stokes, I'll drop you off at A & E.'
He summons up a mouthful of spit and aims it at me. When it connects with my face, I feel fire in my cheeks. I lean over the seat and slap him open-handed. George recoils, his face growing red.
'Don't play gangster with me, son. Else I will finish you off.'
Driving back to Benton is a chore. My arms feel like lead weights, my vision blurred. Sick of the same streets, the same battered faces on the corner. I take a swig of the vodka to keep my blood going and have to tell George to shut up. He's moaning in the back seat that he's not comfortable. I tell him he's just going to have to make do. Life stinks, so hold your nose. At least I've had the decency to promise him a hospital. More than he ever did for me.
George says, 'Why me, man?'
'Why you what?'
'Why'd you come for me?' He stops himself. 'I know, for last night — '
'That's a good enough reason.'
'But it's not the only one, right? You're not just out to do me over.'
'You were the only one I knew I could find in a hurry.'
'Huh,' he says. 'You didn't have to bring the bat with you.'
I look at George in the rear view. 'What the hell else was I supposed to do? You deserved it.'
He falls silent. Tries to move, but falls back against the seat. Now he's propped up against the windows, staring up at the roof of the car. Mud on his face, blood hardening his top lip. He mops at his mouth with the back of his hand, then looks to see if he's still bleeding. Every now and then, he'll glance at something on the floor of the car.
I watch him. I know what he's thinking. If he could only get to the bat, he'd let loose with it on the back of my head. I catch his eye. I wouldn't bother, George. Think about it this way: you use that bat on me, I'll probably black out, right? I black out, I lose control of the car.' I press my foot on the accelerator; the engine roars, momentum pushing me back in my seat. 'I lose control of the car, we're just a twisted heap of metal and bone.'
'I wasn't — '
'Course you were. If I was in your position, I'd be thinking the same thing. Now picture this: I crash the car and, through some miracle, you haven't gone through the windscreen. Maybe you're so limp back there that you come out of it unmarked. We're in the middle of nowhere. How fast d'you think you can run on two broken legs?'
'Mr Innes — '
'Nah, hold up, let me speak. And don't go offering excuses, because you've got priors for making daft mistakes. So listen to me. You even look at that bat again, and I'll fishtail this car all over the sodding road, make things proper uncomfortable for you back there.'
George sighs. It sounds painful. He keeps his eyes on the passing scenery.
'We're going back to Rob's and you're going to sit quiet until I see him. Then when the cavalry's arrived, I'll take you to the fuckin' hospital, alright?'
'I don't even know if he's still there,' says George.
'Why wouldn't he be?'
George shakes his head, sucks his teeth. His eyes are shining. The guy's crying again.
'Look, I'm sorry to do this to you, but you brought it on yourself. You're a bloody idiot.'
'Don't I fuckin' know it,' he says.
I reach across and pull open the glove compartment. My head's throbbing, but I toss the Nurofen into the back seat. 'Here,' I say. 'Get them down you. Should dull the pain for a bit.'
He opens the pack. 'There's only two left.'
'I had a toothache.' I drain the vodka bottle and sling it into the open glove compartment, slam it closed. In the back, George dry-swallows the two pills as I pull the car into Manor Road.
The prescription pills rattle in my pocket, and part of me thinks about tossing a few his way. But then, they're mine. I could have given him something to wash the Nurofen down, but there's no way I'd let him get between me and my booze. I might be feeling slightly sorry for him, but there are limits.
I've already tested a few of my own tonight.
Early morning silence gives you space to think, even if you don't want to. The vodka's slipping away fast, and I have the radio on. John Lee Hooker with a slow, mournful tune that I can't name or make out the lyrics to, reminding me of Donna. I switch the radio station. Another dishrag morning, another half-hearted shower of rain against the windscreen.
Reminds me of the last time I saw Kumar. We were out in the prison allotment, turning over manure which stank worse with the rain and the damp. I was keeping my head down and getting on with it, but Kumar had issues with it all. He should have known better than to act up. The screw watching us looked just like Gary Busey. That should have been a sign.
So Kumar said he wanted a cigarette. The screw said he wasn't allowed, that Kumar'd had his smoke break. Busey also said that if Kumar fancied himself a hard arse about it, he'd end up with that there spade in his spine.
Kumar didn't listen. Kumar ended up in the infirmary. When he got out, he mouthed off that he was going to file a complaint. It was inhumane, he said. He had a shit hot brief who'd make toast of Busey and the whole prison.
We stayed away from him. It was one thing to be a crusader; it was another to be a grass. Yeah, Busey was a guard, but he taught a valuable lesson.
You've got to know who's in charge. And sometimes it takes GBH to make a bloke learn.
I'm not proud of what I did to George. Now that the fuzz has disappeared from my brain, I'm getting snapshots of last night in every hangover-heightened detail. I could have killed him. And if I could have killed him in that state, it makes me wonder what else I've done when I'm drunk. Part of me wishes I could just be an arsehole when I'm pissed like everyone else. Why I get the fear is beyond me. But fuck it; I'll go to confession.
'What'll happen to Rob?' asks George.
He's been quiet since we parked. Now his voice seems back to normal. The Nurofen must have kicked in and he's had the chance to swallow enough spit to kill the rawness in his throat. He's been cadging cigarettes off me. He's got one in his gob right now, smoke waiting out through the front window.
I don't care what happens to Rob,' I say. 'It's not his fault.' I don't care.'
George lets the smoke hiss out through his teeth. 'Fuck are you, anyway? I thought you was a private detective.’
‘Investigator,' I say.
'Yeah, shit. Big fuckin' difference, eh? Private investigators beat the shit out of people with cricket bats?’
‘They do if they're pissed off.'
George snorts. Coughs and spits something in the back of my car. 'Aye, you're a private investigator. You work for Morris Tiernan, you're not a PI. You're a bloody hatchet man.'
That's the third time I've been described like that. I didn't like it much the first time. Now it's starting to boil my piss. 'You done bird?' he says. 'I've been in prison.’
‘So you're an ex-con.'
'You ought to be in the police, you're that fuckin' smart. What's your point?’
‘You got a licence?’
‘They don't license.'
'So you're just playing the part,' he says.
I don't like where this is going. I glare at him in the rear view.
'You're not a PI,' he says. And he laughs. Loud. 'Fuckin' hell, you're no more a private investigator than I'm James Bond, man.'
'Shut your mouth, George.'
'You honestly think you're doing good here?'
'I don't have to do good. I just have to do a job.'
'You talked to Alison, man. No, wait, I got it. You got chivalrous because she was sporting a shiner, right?'
'Your mate Rob's a piece of shit,' I say.
'Oh, come on, man. You saw him the other night. She gave as good as she got. And if I know her like I think I know her, she was the one that threw the first punch, and I bet it was nowhere near being over the fuckin' belt, either.'
'That's not true. I was there.'
'And what did you see?'
'I saw a fight.'
'Who started it?'
'I know what I saw.'
'Fuck that, you saw what you wanted to see. And how pissed were you then?'
I twist around in my seat. 'You going to shut up, George?'
He takes another drag on the cadged Embassy and smiles with a swollen lip. It's an ugly sight. 'I'm trying to tell you what's going on here, man. You see what you want to see, you don't realise that you're playing for the wrong team. C'mon, the Tiernans are the good guys? Give your fuckin' head a shake, man.'
I didn't have a choice.'
'Way I see it, you're responsible for what happens to Rob.’
‘Am I fuck.'
'You've as good as set him up. You tell the Tiernans where he is, you're as good as killing him yourself. How's that sit on your conscience?'
'It's none of my business.'
'Course it is,' he says. 'You're as bad as the rest of them. A charva fuckin' gangster playing PI because you're too scared to stand up for yourself.'
My elbow finds his teeth before I know what I've done. George flies back in his seat, hand up over his mouth, swearing in blood bubbles. I turn back around in my seat and stare through the windscreen, my skin itching. Behind me, George is mumbling through broken teeth.
I didn't have a choice,' I say.
And I'm out of the car before George can say anything else.
George. Dickhead. Fucking dickhead. Where does he get off playing the morality card with me? Where the hell does a guy who wanted to kill me and leave me by the side of the road in a ditch find the balls to put his boot in the stirrup and get up on that high horse? Fucking hypocrite.
And there he goes, muddying my thoughts with this bullshit conspiracy theory. Alison Tiernan behind it all, which makes Rob Stokes a scapegoat and dead man walking. She's unhappy with her life and her bastard kid, so she decides to steal from her dad and go on the run. It fits with what she said, but it's the guilt I'm having trouble with.
I've seen battered wives and girlfriends before. I know what they look like and there was something defiant about Alison that didn't fit. Like she was willing me to start in on her. At the time, I thought it was just her way of coping. And thinking of Stokes now, I'm not sure if he was sporting any new wounds. I thought I saw something, but the state I was in, it could have been a trick of the light.
But if Alison's behind it, then I've been fucking up since day one. And Rob Stokes is going to pay for it. Maybe he's just like the rest of us, caught up and in too deep to swim.
I light a cigarette even though I don't want one. The sky's the same colour as the smoke that drifts from my mouth. Some- where I can hear birds chirping and when I check my watch, it's five in the morning. I wonder where the night went, can't remember the last time I had a good night's sleep. My back's all knotted up and jabbing at me. A yawn builds until my ears pop.
Too much to think about right now. I check my mobile for messages. There's a half-dozen from Mo. He's staying at the airport Travelodge, wants me to call him as soon as, or else. A message from Morris, basically the same thing. Where the fuck am I?
I'm right here, boys. No need to get shitty with me.
So what now? Time's running out. Soon it won't be just Rob Stokes Mo's after, it'll be me. And why would that be? Because he wants to hand over some personal justice for the guy nicking his girl and me, I'm the guy his dad said would be able to find Stokes. Even though Mo probably wanted the job himself, which would explain a lot.
I look in the car and George seems to have fallen asleep. A loud, rattling snore fills the Micra with noise, drowns out the radio. I prod his leg hard. He snaps awake, yelling.
'Stokes has a mobile,' I say.
'Fuck're you talking about?' George blinks rapidly, his eyes narrowed against daylight.
'Stokes has a mobile, right? Give me the number.’
‘He doesn't have a mobile.'
'I don't have time to fuck about, George. Stokes has a mobile, you have a mobile, we've all got fuckin' mobiles. You want the truth, I'm going to help him out.'
'Fuck off.'
'Fuck off? That's nice, but if I don't call him, he's dead.' George looks at me, wipes some crust from his eye. He's still not convinced.
'I'm not lying to you, George.'
His jaw pulses, then he shuffles in the seat so he can reach inside his jacket. 'If you're fucking about — '
'Then I already know you can contact him, don't I? And if that's the case, I can use the bat if you don't fork out the number.'
He pales. 'You're kidding.'
'Give me the number and we'll see.'
George pauses, then pulls out his mobile phone. I snatch it off him and slam the car door shut. I lean against the window so he can't see what I'm doing. Scrolling though his contact list, I notice there's only one ROB.
This idea taking root, it's probably daft. But the way I see it, I haven't got many cards left to play, and this might just get me out of feeling guilty. It might go some way to making a bad situation better, or it could make it a hell of a lot worse. But it's about the only thing I can do right now that makes sense.
I call Stokes. He's kept his mobile switched on, because it hasn't gone straight through to voicemail. Which means he's either too lazy to switch it off, or he's waiting on a call. When he picks up, he speaks with a voice full of early morning phlegm.
'Rob, it's Cal Innes.'
'How'd you get this number?' Sounding more awake by the second. Fear, otherwise known as the body's own caffeine. I want to make you a deal,' I say. 'Who'd you get this number off?’
‘Doesn't matter. Is Alison there?'
There's a pause, as if he's thinking. Then: 'No, she's not.’
‘Then we can talk.'
'Fuck do I want to talk to you about?'
I have a proposition for you.'
'Fuck your proposition.'
'I'm outside, Rob.'
'The fuck you are,' he says.
'You're a grumpy bastard in the mornings, aren't you? Look, my deal is you keep the money you stole — ’
‘I didn't steal — '
'Listen to me. You keep the money you took, you keep the lot. But you get out of Newcastle right now. Go somewhere nobody knows you. Change your name, do whatever it takes. Don't fuck it up like you did the last time. Stay out of the casinos, stay out of the bookies, curb that particular enthusiasm, you get me?'
Stokes grunts. If he was here, I'd slap some sense into him. Anger management might as well bite me. It went out the window the day I started this job, and I've been growing angrier by the second. Funny how easy it is to fall into the old ways given half a chance.
'Don't piss about, Rob. I'm offering you a way out here. All you need to do is keep your trap shut and get out of town. And you need to tell me where Alison is.'
'Alison?'
'That's right. She's going home. That's all they wanted. And if it wasn't, then it's what they're going to have make do with.'
Stokes starts to stammer. 'Wait a second.'
'No waiting. The offer stands for the next ten seconds. After that, I collar your man George here and I go to work on his fuckin' arms. Then I'll call Mo and tell him where to find you.'
'Hold on, George is there?'
'Kind of. And you're running out of time.'
'Look, can we meet up and talk about this?'
'I already fell for that one.'
Stokes sighs into the phone; it rasps in my ear.
'Use your brain, mate,' I say.
Another sigh. Then he starts talking. He gives me an address, rattles it out and it's not far from here. I disconnect, open the car door and chuck George's mobile back at him as I get in. He catches the phone. 'What's going on?'
'You're going to the hospital, George.'
'What about Rob?'
'He's not as stupid as he looks.'
'If we'd stayed at the airport, we'd be fuckin' comfortable at least,' said Baz.
'Shut up,' I said. Me mobile started ringing. I didn't know the number. It weren't Innes, and I'd been trying to call the fuck all night. But nah, he had it on voicemail. Which meant he were up to no bloody good.
'He's right, Mo. Let's just call it a fuckin' day, alright?'
'What'd I tell you?' I answered me mobile. 'Fuck's this?'
'Mo,' she said.
Well, look who it weren't.
Baz started saying summat again, but I knocked him in the mouth so he kept quiet. Instead, he sat there holding his gob and glaring at us.
'Y'alright, Sis?' I said.
'No. No, I'm not.' She started on with the heavy breathing. Crying, but trying to keep it quiet, like. 'I can't do this, Mo. I can't do this anymore.'
'Tell us where you are,' I said.
'He's sneaking about. I think he's gonna grass me up.’
‘We'll sort that out.’
‘Mo, I'm scared.'
You fuckin' should be, I wanted to say. But I said, 'Tell us where you are.'
'No,' she said. I can't. You — '
'We'll find you anyway, Alison. You might as well make this easier on yourself.'
'I don't want you to hurt Rob.' I promise, I won't hurt him.' I can't go back, Mo.'
'You'll come back with me. It'll be alright, Sis. I promise.' There were silence at the other end. Then she said, 'There's still some money.’
‘Good.'
'We could maybe use it.'
'Maybe.' Like fuck. Think I'd mess around with you again, Sis? You're out your fuckin' gourd, love. Give us your address and we'll come round.'
'We?'
'I got Rossie and Baz with us. We been looking for you.'
'He already called you, then,' she said. 'I knew he would. He's a fuckin' liar. Rob's been talking to him. I'm sure it's him. Rob hasn't been talking to you, has he?'
'Nah. I don't know the lad.'
'What about Dad?' she said.
'He misses you. He wants you to come home.'
'I'll give him a ring.'
'Nah, that's alright. You just hang tight and tell us where you are, and we'll come over and you can ring Dad from the road, okay?'
She didn't say nowt for a bit. Then she whispered the address to us over the phone. And I felt like I'd just cleared me bowels after a year of constipation.
'Stay where you are, Sis. We'll be right round.'
I hung up, lit a ciggie and fuckin' savoured that first drag.
'What's up?' said Rossie.
'We're going home,' I said. 'But we got to go round and pick up Alison first.'
'Well, thank fuck for that,' said Baz.
Newcastle General, Accident & Emergency. I help George out of the car and walk him wincing towards the entrance. The ramp leading up to the automatic doors is a struggle, but he makes it into the reception area without being dropped. I ease him into a chair and he stretches his legs as far as the pain allows. I crouch by George and slip two hundred and fifty notes into his jacket pocket. 'Came through in the end. Thanks, George.'
His face cracks into a sarcastic grin. 'Don't mention it, mate.'
'You going to be okay?’
‘I'll be fine.'
Then I'm out of the building, bump into a wheezy old guy with hair as white as his face, dragging down the last of a filterless cigarette. He tries to swear at me, but he can't find the breath. I get behind the wheel of the Micra and spark a cigarette of my own. The car smells like stale sweat and urine. I make a mental note to get it cleaned when this is over.
The address Stokes gave me, it's in Heaton. I have to consult the A-Z, and when I finally roll into the right street, the place is deserted, just a white van down the road. This is student country, could be anywhere in Britain. Lots of terraced houses with overgrown gardens and tapestries for curtains. I park up the street, keep an eye on the front door. He's been given a last-minute reprieve. I just hope he has the sense to grab it with both hands. When I spoke to him, there
was that tremble to his voice that meant I'd put the fear of God into him. Putting the fear of Mo would have been good enough. But the bottom line is that Alison's in there, prob- ably asleep, and she's got no idea that she's been rumbled.
I close my eyes for a moment. The seat seems to sink and I feel myself slipping away, so I have to snap awake.
Let's get this over with. I grab my mobile, call Mo. Takes him a few rings to pick up. He sounds like he's having a whale of a time, like he's actually smiling down the phone at me. 'Innes! The fuck are you?'
'Morning,' I say.
'Where are you?'
'I'm in Heaton.'
'What's the address?'
I take a moment to flick ash from the end of the Embassy. I hear you got your sister pregnant, Mo.'
Silence at the other end. Then, for a moment, I hear what sounds like a man's voice in the background. He's not at the Travelodge anymore, that's for sure. Mo makes a sucking sound then says, 'You talked to Alison.'
'Is it true?'
'When'd you talk to Alison?'
'I'll take that as a yes, then. So what happens when your dad finds out you've been rolling your own?’
‘She's me half-sister.'
'Semantics, mate. She's sixteen, barely fuckin' legal.'
'What's the matter with you? You have a run-in with the law or something?'
I had a run-in with the hairy side of someone's hand, repeatedly. Then some boots. All this after a nasty wee meeting with the front of a speeding car. And you know what? It makes a bloke think different, gives life a new spin. Because this was never about me finding Rob Stokes, was it?
This was about bringing Alison back home, and some lanky streak of paedo piss bricking it in case I tell his father.'
'Where are you?' he says quietly. 'Tell me where you are.'
I give him the address. Then: 'I lost Stokes. I lost the money. Alison's here. You might catch her. See, the thing is with me, I'm so knocked up I can't think straight. I've been lied to that fuckin' much, I don't even know if I'm at the right house, know what I mean?' A laugh breaks out of me; it sounds like someone else. 'Tell me something, Mo. Did your dad hold you back from this? Is that why you had to have me followed?'
'Fuck are you talking about?'
'Your man in the black leather jacket. Didn't occur to me until now, really. The guy who took a knife to the tyres of my car, updated the paint job with a spray can. The fucker who replaced that scally who tried to tail me in Manchester.'
Mo hangs up. Something I said? And it's the only con- firmation I need. There was a moment there when I thought I was going nuts, but it's all falling into place now. Morris tells Mo he can't take care of this — either because the lad's a psycho or a fuck-up or because deep down Morris knows that Mo's been keeping it in the family — and Mo, being the tenacious cunt he is, he decides to have me followed. When it looks like I'm straying from the job, looking for Alison, he gets his thug to slice up my car.
And perhaps that would have scared me off before. But the past couple of days have made me stupid, hard. I look at myself in the rear view. Well, not that hard — my face is still black and blue. I stretch out in my seat, pull it back a few notches and stick Johnny Cash in the tape deck. One of the later songs, when it sounded like he'd been gargling with gravel. A man going round, taking names.
My muscles start to relax, my back isn't pinching me like it has been. A couple of clicks in the knee, and my tongue roams the empty socket where my tooth used to be. Thanks for that, Rob. I owe you one.
I'll stay here until Mo turns up. It's that last loose end I need to tie up. I need to see Alison taken home. I don't want to leave and have to come back up here again. This city's given me enough gyp the past couple of days and I don't want any reason to come back here. I'm a Manchester lad through and through. There's something about Newcastle that stinks of failure and mental deficiency. Case in point, the last good band to come out of Newcastle was The Animals, and that was over forty fucking years ago. It didn't get any better than that.
Donna's still up here, though. And she's been in the back of my head since I met her. Part of me wants to call her now, but it's too early. That same part wants to make amends for the way we left things. But then, that part of me is too romantic for its own good. I'm told she looked at me in a different way, like she didn't care I was an ex-con, like she actually cared about what happened to me, like I was actually one of the good guys.
But that's all speculation. It's all reading between the lines, two and two making five.
I might call her, I might not. We'll see how it goes. There are things about me I haven't told her, and those things aren't the easiest to bring up in polite conversation. I don't even know if I can talk about them yet. When I got out, word had already spread. Declan looked at me differently, like I was the type to give up his dignity. Like I was the type to take anything as long as it led to an easy life. This coming from a junkie grass. You know you've hit rock bottom when they start looking at you like you're something they stepped in.
But Declan knew that if it hadn't been me, it would've been him. And he wouldn't have lasted five seconds. Dec was a bigger coward than me back then, which is saying something.
When my dad took his hand to the pair of us, Declan was the first to bolt from the house. When he moved to Manchester, he left me to fend for myself and didn't think twice about it.
He once said to me, 'Cal, I couldn't take it, man. One more day and I would've topped myself.'
My dad's voice was full of thick spit. He sounded like he had a cold when he drank and he drank most of the time. Once the strike of'84 was over with, he refused to work. The unions were gone, he said, and there was no such thing as an honest wage anymore. Everything was poisoned, but it didn't stop him sending me and my brother out to work. He'd pour that cash down his neck and take the back of a hairbrush to our faces if we brought it up. Mam knew, but she didn't show it. She couldn't do anything to stop my dad, so what was the point of dwelling on something she couldn't change? She just pretended it never happened.
Then Dad got stupid. His vision blurred one too many times. He didn't realise I was bigger than him.
'Innes.'
So I knocked the fucker out. My first punch thrown in anger. Hit him hard with my left, broke two fingers doing it. And that pain, that burning, grinding pain of shattered bone on bone, it was fucking worth it. 'Innes.'
I watched him hit the floor. Watched the blood spill out from his mouth. Watched his eyes roll up into the back of head and thought, Oh fuck, I just killed my dad.
A smack on the window jars me awake. My eyes snap open, a whole world of light going through me like electricity. The tape's stopped. I don't know where I am.
Another smack on the window. 'Innes!'
It's Mo.
And through the haze, I think I can make out Alison Tiernan screaming.
So this were how it panned out, right?
We got there, street were fuckin' deserted. I got out the van and left Baz in there to keep the engine ticking over in case Alison'd fuckin' done us over and sent us to the wrong place. I wouldn't put it past her. She were a sneaky fuckin' bitch. So me and Rossie, we went up to the front door like we was normal lads, just out to pay an early morning visit on a mate of ours and we pressed the doorbell and waited.
There were all this thumping from inside. Someone com- ing down the stairs. I gave Rossie a look what said, you get your fuckin' blade out now, big boy.
The door opened and I grinned at me sister. She were standing there in her nightie, looking all sexy-like, even if she did have a black eye. I jerked me head at Rossie and said to Alison, 'Where is he?'
'Upstairs,' she said. She had red eyes like she'd been crying.
'Cool.' I grabbed her arm and pulled her in the house with us. Rossie were already up the stairs. I closed the door behind us and followed him up. 'Rob, mate? You wanna come out?'
Silence. Rossie were looking at us to do summat and I looked at Alison. 'Fuck is he?'
I dunno,' she said.
'He done a bunk?'
I dunno.'
'You keep an eye on him?'
'He didn't know you were coming,' said me sister. 'Fuck that. Where is he?'
We went in the bedroom and there were the cash in a bag on the bed. Rossie said, 'Fuckin' hell.'
'Yeah,' I said, then to Alison, 'Where is he?'
She were almost in hysterics now — started crying again and her breathing were all over the fuckin' shop. I dunno. He was here. I swear, Mo, he was here.'
I let go of her and zipped up the bag just in case Rossie got any funny ideas.
'We got the money, Mo. You got Alison. Let's go,' said Rossie.
'You fuckin' what? Yeah, we got the money and the girl, but where's the cunt what nicked both?'
'Mo — ' she said. And I wanted to belt her right then, but she caught it and shut the fuck up.
I went round the bedroom like the proper predator, sniffing about. Looked under the bed, but he weren't there. 'He never left this room is what you're telling us,' I said to Alison.
I dunno, Mo. I really don't. He was here the last time I checked.'
'You don't know much, do you? So he didn't leave the room. So the fuck's in here somewhere.' I stopped in front of the wardrobe and looked at Rossie. Rossie shook his head. But what Rossie didn't know were that when fuckers are frightened, they do pretty stupid shit.
When I opened the wardrobe doors, two things happened.
First were that I came face to fuckin' face with Rob Stokes.
Second were that me mobile went off.
'Y'alright, you daft cunt?' I said to Stokes. He were standing there in his boxers and a T-shirt with 'Kiss Her Goodbye' written on it in all swirly writing. Aye, mate. Kiss Her The Fuck Goodbye, because Mo owns your arse now.
I answered me mobile. It were Innes. I grinned. 'Innes! The fuck are you?'
'Morning,' he said. The cunt sounded pleased with himself. 'Where are you?’
‘I'm in Heaton.'
'What's the address?' Like the fucker knew where we was. Rossie looked at us, his arms out.
'I hear you got your sister pregnant, Mo,' said Innes.
'What the fuck are we gonna do with him, MO?' said Rossie.
I waved me hand at Rossie, looked at me sister. I sucked me teeth and watched her eyes start to overflow again. 'You talked to Alison.'
'Is it true?'
'When'd you talk to Alison?'
'I'll take that as a yes, then. So what happens when your dad finds out you've been rolling your own?’
‘She's me half-sister.'
'Semantics, mate. She's sixteen, barely fuckin' legal.'
'What's the matter with you? You have a run-in with the law or something?'
And he started whinging on about how some daft fuck knocked him down or summat. I weren't really listening. It all sounded like: Blah blah fuckin' blah.
'Where are you? Tell me where you are.'
Rossie beckoned me over to the window. I followed, pulled back the nets and looked down at the road. There he fuckin' were. In that scabby Micra with me paint job all over it. I felt like waving at him. He were leaned back in his seat, staring out the windscreen and gabbing away in me ear.
I was gonna do the cunt, first chance I got. But there were another cunt what needed doing first. Innes laughed in me ear. Lad were going nuts.
'Fuck are you talking about?' I said.
And he went on about how he had it all figured out, like he knew it were Rossie following him an' all that. Oh aye, he were the big fuckin' private dick. Sorry cunt, more like. And I'd had enough of his fuckin' rambling, so I cut him off, turned round and Stokes were gone from the wardrobe.
I ran downstairs, caught the fucker in the hall messing with the door. Punched him in the back of the head and bent me finger-splint doing it. Pain roared through me hand as Rossie came down and pulled Stokes up the hall. His feet went all over the place and I kicked him in the bollocks on the way to the kitchen. Alison at the top of the stairs, crying again. I went up and grabbed her, pulled her down and into the kitchen. Rossie had grabbed a chair, sat Stokes up in it and leathered the cunt hard in the face. Stokes made a noise like a fuckin' pig and I pulled Alison right in so's she could get a better look.
'See that?' I said. 'That's your boyfriend right there.'
She closed her eyes and shook her head. Looked like it were gonna come flying off her fuckin' shoulders. I grabbed her face and pulled it about until she opened them eyes. 'You look, Alison. That's your fuckin' boyfriend. He did a runner. And you're gonna find out what happens to people who try to fuckin' run from me.'
'You said you wouldn't hurt him,' she said. 'You said you wouldn't do owt to him.'
'I lied.' Said to Rossie, 'Give us your butterfly'
'Mo — '
'Give us your fuckin' knife.'
Rossie handed it over. I flipped the blade out and held it up to Alison. 'You keep them eyes open, Sis, or I'll cut your fuckin' eyelids off.'
Can't focus, but my hand finds the door and I force it open, stand on trembling legs and Mo's right in my face. He doesn't back off, just looks at me with dull eyes. As my vision comes back, I can see his nostrils flared, the colour in his sunken cheeks.
Then he butts me sharply just above the nose.
A white flash and someone pulls the ground from under me. I go down hard on my arse, my forehead crackling with pain, my mouth hanging open like the stupid bastard I am. I fumble for the side of the car, try to pull myself up, but my head spins too fast. Dizzy as fuck, I can't quite make it. Mo plants a boot in my stomach and I keel forward onto my hands and knees. Before I know it, my gut clenches hard and I spew on the road. Talk about deja vu.
'I owe you that one, Innes,' he says.
I try to blink through the tears, contain the throbbing in my gut long enough to make out what's going on. Across the street, a fat guy has Alison Tiernan by the wrist. She's in her nightie, barefoot and stumbling, screaming with the cracked voice of someone who's been dragged from her sleep. The fat guy hauls open the passenger door of a white Bedford and pushes her in. She kicks and swears, but once that door slams shut, she contents herself with spitting at the window.
'She had a bag packed,' says Mo.
I cough; it hurts. I spit the bad taste in my mouth at the tarmac.
'Stokes is inside,' he says.
It's difficult to focus, but Mo seems relaxed now he got the head butt out of his system. I pull myself to my feet and slump against the Micra, hold my head back to stem the blood from my nose. 'You found him,' I say.
'He were in there,' he says. 'They're dealing with him right now.'
My mouth doesn't work. It's like I'm drunk again, and it's not a good buzz. Rob can't have been that bloody daft to go over to Alison's and warn her Mo was coming. He's not that thick, surely. For all his faults, I never took the guy to be suicidal.
'He got away. I lost him. He's not in there. You're fuckin' lying.'
Mo draws closer, smiling. His hand snakes up to the back of my neck, grips hard and before I know it, I'm being frogmarched across the road. And this bloke, I've taken him before, I could do it again. But the thing with a head butt is that it messes with your motor functions, throws your balance and perspective out of the window. He lets go as we near the front door, standing to one side. I sway, trying to centre; I look at the ground and focus on his twitching feet.
'Well?' he says.
The house smells damp. The odour's enough to make my gut twitch. 'Well, what?'
The left side of Mo's face ticks into a half-smile. For a moment, I see Morris Tiernan there. 'Go on, Innes. You know you want to.' He places a hand on my shoulder. I want to shake it off, but my head's spinning and I need the support.
'I'll leave you to it,' I say.
'Don't be daft. The party's just started.'
'I think I lost my invitation.'
'You're on the guest list, mate.'
Mo pushes the front door, guides me into the hallway. Too gloomy to see anything, like a house long deserted. I want to turn back, but I don't have the energy. Somewhere out of sight, I can hear the sound of muffled sobs. As I get to the end of the hall, I make out a door, closed. The sobbing gets louder as Mo pushes it open. Then the sound cuts short.
And in the dim morning light, I see Rob Stokes. Tied to a wooden kitchen chair that was white before someone started beating him, his pants round his ankles, his face a battered mess. He's been sick down the front of his T-shirt which is ripped open at the navel. His head is down; it looks like he's staring at the reddish brown stain between his legs. A stiff breeze blows through the open window, billowing nets and wafting the stench of shit and vomit my way. I cover my nose with one hand.
'Reeks, don't he?' says the fat guy. He walks over to Stokes and pats him on the head. Stokes jerks to one side, a low painful sound escaping his lips. 'Not surprising, like. He had an accident.'
'More than one,' says another guy from the shadows. I can see the shine of black leather. He's holding a butterfly knife in his right hand, absently working the blade in and out of the twin handles.
'Cal, this is Baz and that's Rossie.'
'Kind of a name's Rossie?' I say. Trying to be hard as. Trying to make aggro conversation when there's ice in my veins.
The guy in the black leather jacket says, 'Kind of a name's Cal?'
Stokes raises his head at the sound of my voice. I catch a glint where I think there's an eye, but the rest is obscured by shadow and blood.
'He was here when you arrived,' I say.
'Yeah, we found him upstairs,' says Mo. 'He were hiding in the fuckin' wardrobe.'
The stupid things you do when you're scared. Acting like Robin Askwith in a Confessions film. Running to your girlfriend when you know she's the reason you're getting fucked in the first place. Taking a job you know is going to end in tears because you're afraid of what'll happen if you don't. Acting the prick with a woman who cares about you, because it's easier than contemplating an honest relationship. Spinning yourself a cunt's yarn to hide the truth.
'Way Sis tells it, he were here all the time,' says Mo. I look across at him. Yeah, he knows. He takes a step towards me. 'The way Sis tells it, he got a phone call and woke her up, started acting all weird.'
Stokes mumbles something. Saliva drips onto his chest, glistening red.
'He went for the cash.' Then Mo turns and shares a giggle with Rossie and Baz. 'And it were sitting there on the fuckin' bed, can you believe it?'
'Priceless,' says Rossie, letting out this laugh that sounds like a horny pig. Baz joins in, laughing through his teeth like someone throttling a snake. It's a proper zoo in here.
I try to smile but my face hurts too much.
'But what I don't get is, who called Rob?'
'Fucked if I know,' I say, but I blurt it out.
Mo pauses, then looks at Stokes. 'Yeah, well, we'll find out, won't we, Rob?'
Stokes doesn't answer but his legs tremble. He shifts position in the chair, sniffs hard.
'I think you better get back to Manchester,' says Mo.
'You think so.'
'Yeah.' His lips are thin. 'Yeah, I think you should go home. You look like you need a good night's sleep, mate.'
Mo slaps me hard on the back and a bolt of pain runs up to the nape of my neck. I flinch, but other than that, I'm rock steady. Too busy staring at Stokes, wondering why he would stick around so long, wondering why he didn't tell me that Alison was in bed next to him and trying not to look too hard at the answers because it would hurt too much.
Yeah. Stokes was there with Alison. And they were getting ready to go when Mo came knocking. Which meant Stokes was delayed somehow. Alison, maybe, digging her heels in, stalling him until Mo came round.
I want to speak to Alison,' I say. 'I've still got some questions for her.'
'Nah, y'alright, Cal. You're done up here. You're finished. Well done. Nowt more to do.'
'Rien a faire,' says Baz.
'Bazza's part French,' says Rossie.
'Yeah, the part that don't wash,' says Mo.
I turn and walk out of the room as the laughter hits its peak, Stokes left half-dead in the middle of it all. Through the hallway, out onto the street. I light an Embassy and draw the smoke deep into my lungs as the speed freak pushes his way into the house. In the passenger seat of the van, Alison watches me with lazy eyes. I watch her straight back.
If she had any sense, she'd be running down the street right now, but she stays put. But then, why should she run? It's worked out exactly the way she planned it.
Alison realised it didn't matter what she did, she was going to get caught. And when Stokes got my phone call, made for the money, that was the kicker. She couldn't trust him to be a willing patsy anymore, so she decided on damage limitation. Mo was coming, she might as well be here when he does, crying rape and making Stokes out to be the bad guy. Any chance I had of saving the dealer was scuppered the moment he went for the money.
Always the gambler.
I stand in the middle of the street and blow smoke at the van. She turns her head, looks at herself in the wing mirror. I walk back to my Micra, glance at the cricket bat, dotted with dried blood.
What the fuck.
I reach in for the Maxi and limp across to the van as fast as my aching legs allow. Build up speed, breeze against my face, and swing that bat straight into the windscreen, Alison screams in fright; I find a roar tear its way out of me. The windscreen spider- webs, then the bat breaks through, glances off the dashboard. I pull the Maxi free, aim at the left wing mirror and take it off with one swing. It bounces off the tarmac. Then the right mirror. Then I change hands and stab out the headlights. Once, twice, glass spilling onto the road. Pain burning my limbs as I batter the front of the van with all my strength. I knock the rest of the windscreen into the cab, Alison screeching behind her hands.
I can't touch her. If I lay this Maxi across her, I won't stop until she's dead.
Somewhere above the thumping in my ears, I can hear the sound of a car. Out the corner of my eye, I can see it too. A police car. Fucking sneaked up on me. One uniform already getting out now.
Good.
I'm about to open my mouth to say something when the copper speaks. 'You put down the bat, alright, pal?'
'I'm alright, I'm okay. You've got to go in there.' I point at the house with the bat. And I can't talk properly, feels like my lungs are on fire. Too much exertion, too little time to recuperate. 'You go in that house, man. You go in there now.'
'You just put the bat down, son.'
Behind him, the other uniform is trying to calm Alison down with a voice like anal sex. He's a squat bastard, loving every moment of it. I flare. 'Don't fuckin' talk to her, mate. She's a liar.'
'It's okay,' says the uniform. 'It's alright. You just put that bat down and we'll sort this out.'
'You want to sort it out, you go in that fuckin' house and you see what they did.'
I will,' he says. Drawing closer now, his hands out. 'Just drop the bat.'
'Fuck's sake, man.' I toss the bat to one side. It clatters onto the tarmac.
Then he's on me, faster than my brain can work. My hands slapped behind my back, the cold bite of metal on wrist. I catch a whiff of cheap deodorant. It makes me jerk in his grip, shout, 'You want to find out what's going on, you go in that fuckin' house, you go in there right the fuck now, you bunch of daft fuckin' cunts.'
The copper's elbow knocks me in the side of the head, throws me off. And he did it on purpose.
I got him, Chris. Get the girl.'
'You're making a mistake, man.'
'We'll see.' His hand on my shoulder, one on my wrists, guiding me towards the car. 'You been drinking?'
I can't speak. My tongue feels thick in the back of my throat.
'I'm going to ask you to take a breathalyser. Do you understand what I'm saying?'
'I understand what you're fuckin' saying, but you've got no idea what's going on here.'
He presses my head down as I slip into the back of the police car. My wrists feel bloodless, every muscle in my back raging tense and painful. All the injuries from the last couple of days — every knock, crack, punch and kick — come rushing through my system like a bad trip. The breath rips out of me, and it tastes like smoke.
I gaze heavy-lidded at the dashboard of the police car.
Then I see Alison being interviewed by the two uniforms. She's shaking her head, looking at the ground. Her cheeks are streaked with tears and dirt. Mo emerges from the house in the middle of a stride. When he sees the two coppers, he looks my way and a smile makes his mouth jump for a second. Then he slips an arm around Alison's shoulders and looks concerned as the diplomatic uniform asks him questions. Some nodding and Alison looks up at Mo. I feel like throwing up; she's playing this to the hilt.
Rossie comes out of the house, quickly pocketing the butterfly knife when he sees the police. Then his face cracks open when he sees the van. The thing must be his pride and joy; it looks like someone punched him in the throat. I savour that face he's pulling. I got some revenge there, I think. Teach him to mess with my car.
The squat copper gets in the driver's side and watches me in the rear view.
'What you smiling at?'
'Nowt.'
'Cause you got nowt to smile about, man. You want to pray he doesn't press charges.'
The diplomatic copper approaches the car, gets in. 'Do- mestic'
'Christ, how old is she? You want to watch you don't get sent down for kiddie-fiddling,' the squat copper says to me. 'What about him?' I say. 'None of my business.'
'Well, if you were after ruining the guy's van, you got the wrong one,' says the diplomat.
The squat copper brays out a laugh. 'Not your day, is it?'
'Nah,' I say. I got the right van. I definitely got the right fuckin' van.'
It's about the only thing I've done right so far.
'Here, officer, I want to thank you an' that. This were a bad lot, all this, 'specially this early in the morning. Lad must've had a few too many.'
There were me, like, showing plenty teeth and playing the good citizen. Hey, it were fun to be the good guy for once. And Christ knew, I'd been put out by that fucker Innes from the get-go. Time he got-gone.
'Don't mention it,' said this busy behind the desk. 'I take it you're not pressing charges?'
'Nah, I told the lads before. Let's face it, a bloke has too much to drink, he gets to feeling lonely and aching down- stairs, he wants his old lass back. But then, she ain't exactly old, know what I mean?'
'Well, we'd like to ask her a few questions, if that's alright.'
'Nah, don't worry about it.'
'There's the statutory rape charge — '
'Mate, she's sixteen, she's legal.'
'Yes, but we've got to follow up.'
'Here, listen, button it a sec and listen to us. I don't know what this lad Innes and her got up to when they was going out together, and it's really none of my business, you get me? But the point is she's safe now. We'll sort it out when we get back to Manchester.'
'You're going to Manchester?'
'It's where we live, innit, Sis?'
Alison nodded like a good girl.
'We'll need an address,' said the copper.
'Not a problem.' I gave him an address. It were a wank shack off Lime Street. Let 'em come looking. Like they didn't have enough crime up here, they'd come after me and Alison for nowt. 'Listen, we got to be going and everything. Thanks again, mate. Nice to see you're keeping Newcasde's streets clean an' that.'
The copper looked at us like I were being funny. And I weren't, not really. I were glad his lot were about. Else I probably would've murdered Innes with me bare hands, splint or no fuckin' splint.
Me and Alison left the station. Rossie were standing by the van, his face all screwed up. 'How'm I gonna explain this to Jimmy?' he said.
'Tell him the truth.'
'He'll kill us.'
'Then get it fixed.'
'With what, man? I was skint when I came up here. I didn't make no money in the meantime, did I?'
'Course you did,' I said. 'There's a bag of it in the van.'
Got Alison in the van, and with me and Baz and Rossie in there, it were a bit of a squeeze. I told Baz to get driving, we was going back to the house for Alison's clothes. When we was on the road, I fished around for me mobile, called The Wheatsheaf. 'Brian, put Dad on.'
'Who's this?' said Brian.
'I called him Dad, who the fuck else would it be? Now get running, fat lad. I need to talk to him now.'
Took a couple minutes. Then me dad came on the phone. 'Where are you?'
'On our way back, Dad. I got the girl'
'You get the money?'
'Some of it. Stokes spent a couple stacks.'
'Where's Innes?'
Always asking after that cunt. 'He's with the busies.’
‘You what?'
'He went nuts, smashed up Rossie's van. Got nicked.’
‘Right. Which station?'
I gave him the address. 'Why d'you want to know?’
‘I'll get Clayton up there.’
‘For fuck's — '
'Where's Stokes?' said Dad. 'He's out of the picture.’
‘You kill him?’
‘Nah.'
'Don't kill him. Leave him. Just bring Alison back and we'll have a talk.’
‘Dad — '
'Leave Stokes alone. And get your arse back to Manchester.'
Dad hung up. I put me mobile back in me pocket. Aye, he were losing it. Time were, he'd have a fucker like Stokes buried in five seconds flat. He'd have me cut him to ribbons and scatter what were left to the fuckin' wind. What I'd said to Rossie and Baz in the pub, I meant it. One day, some- body'd come up to us and ask us was I interested in going into business with a professional outfit? And I'd say yeah, but then they'd say, you wanna join up, you gotta do your dad.
And I'd wait in The Wheatsheaf, watch me dad drink his black and smoke his Rothmans, keep meself pumped with whizz and wait until he went to the bogs and then I'd sneak up on the cunt with a claw hammer and batter him until his brains made it hard to swing. And then I'd go out in the bar, hammer at me side and I'd yell at the crowd to come and have a fuckin' go, the king were dead, and I were large and in charge.
But that'd have to wait.
First I had to clean up me sister's fuckin' mess.
A holding cell and a mattress that cuts you if you don't lay on it right. The smell of antiseptic and whatever they use to kill the fleas the late night drunks bring in. Someone's written shitfuckcunt on the wall, and I can't help but notice they've taken time to chisel it into the brickwork. You'd have thought they'd come up with something profound.
The police arrived thanks to a conscientious Neighbour- hood Watcher, drawn to the nets by the commotion in the street so early in the morning. Apparently a guy going apeshit with a cricket bat isn't a normal occurrence in Heaton, and this grass thought the police should sort it out.
I've gone through it enough since they left me in here. The breathalyser didn't help matters; it showed me way over the limit. Which I probably am. I can't remember the last time I drank something that wasn't alcoholic. So the police get this idea in their heads, here's a guy with a cricket bat demolishing a van with a girl inside, they think it's a domestic. It's probably the way it was reported and I doubt Alison and Mo did anything to dissuade them from that, especially considering there was a bloke choking his last in the house.
If they'd just checked it out. If they'd just seen beyond what was in front of them. If they'd just fucking believed me instead of being the bull-headed pricks they were…
My Nan said, 'If «ifs» and «buts» were berries and nuts, then squirrels would never go hungry.'
And she'd know all about nuts.
Ach, it's probably for the best. If I'd stayed there, I don't know what would have happened. From the look on Baz's face, I'd be cut up and bleeding to death right about now. So there's something to be thankful for. It's his face that's kept me smiling all the time I've been in here. I'd know exactly, but they took my watch.
I wonder how long they're going to keep me in here. I've had no contact for a while now, and fear's started to prick at the back of my mind. They keep me in here much longer, then they think they have something on me. Something's cropped up.
Christ, I hope George hasn't spilled his guts.
I get off the bunk and stop in the middle of the cell. No idea what to do, where to go. Being back in a cage is sending my memory into overdrive. I can't go back to prison. I gave George a bundle to keep his mouth shut.
But then, he's a rat and he's got a survival instinct. And how do I know he didn't lie to me last night?
Because you were beating the shit out of him with a cricket bat, Cal.
Ah, Jesus. That Maxi. Still got blood on it. If George was doped up, or if he was just plain sick of the pain, he'd talk. He talked to me. And I get picked up for a domestic with a cricket bat in the same twenty-four hours; it doesn't take a genius to put it together.
You'd think I'd know better by now.
I haven't been charged, though. They're probably letting me sweat it out in here, get myself worked up so I'll tell them anything rather than go back inside. Once they find out I've got form, they'll throw that in my face. They'll make me feel guilty, they'll bring up Paulo, how I disappointed him. They'll go easy on me if I just cooperate.
'We know you're not to blame here, Cal. You just tell us how you got into this and we'll see what we can do.'
See what we can do. Working for Morris Tiernan, it's like the mark of Cain. Invisible to everyone but the police and fellow criminals. The criminals keep the respect coming, the fear flashing behind their eyes. The police look at it as a beautiful opportunity, a way to make their names. This is one of Tiernan's, this is the one that might roll over. The fucking busies pray for people like me, the ones so scared they'll say anything to keep out of prison, the ones that have that wee snippet of information that'll put the big bosses behind bars. They look at me the way Ness looked at Capone's accountant.
I can't keep thinking about this. It's what they want me to do. I'm innocent until proven otherwise. Everything I did, it was because I had to. I didn't have any other choice. I sit back on the bunk and stare at the cell door.
Donna doesn't want to see me hurt. As if self-preservation wasn't important enough, there's a part of me that doesn't want to disappoint her. Even though I'll probably never see her again.
If the probation services find out about this, I'm recalled. Back inside. And it doesn't matter if I'm guilty or not. Just the appearance of an illegal act is enough to get their knee to jerk.
Hanging out with known criminals, those that put me inside in the first place.
Not cooperating with the Manchester Met on a man- slaughter case in which I'm the prime suspect.
GBH with a GM Maxi cricket bat.
Criminal damage to a van and attempted kidnap.
And all this with a bloodstream that's a hundred per cent proof.
They won't prove half of it, but I deserve my old cell back. I haven't been able to call anyone yet, and I don't know
who I'd call if I got the chance. I don't have a lawyer anymore, and I doubt Paulo would help. Not now. I'm left alone here with no idea what's going on.
Someone's coming up the corridor. The kind of boots a copper wears, the steady, officious sound of someone who knows those footsteps put the shits up people. They stop in front of my cell door. The clatter of the hatch coming down, then keys in the lock.
'Your briefs here,' says a uniform who's built like a cathedral and has the face of a priest.
I don't have a brief.'
The uniform looks startled for a moment. Then he says, 'Well, he's here.'
'You got the wrong cell, officer.'
'You're Innes.'
'Uh-huh.'
'Then your brief's here.'
I get to my feet, brush myself down and follow the copper to a waiting interview room.
Stokes were out of it when we got back to the house. I told Baz to go and grab Alison's things from upstairs and I went into the kitchen, stood in front of Stokes and lit a ciggie. Smoked it halfway down and watched the bastard squirm in his seat. His head came back and he tried to look at us with his one good eye.
'You're a lucky cunt, Rob,' I said.
His neck couldn't keep his head up. It dropped down. His shoulders started heaving, like he were crying. Poof.
'I'm gonna let you live. You remember that. Anyone asks, you tell 'em Mo Tiernan let you live. I'm fair.'
Stokes said nowt, opened his mouth. Closed it again. I went up to him, untied his hands and gave him me ciggie. He coughed it out onto the floor. I didn't pick it up. Had all this spittle and shite on it. Fuck it, let it burn the place down.
'Get yourself cleaned up, Rob. Else you won't be able to pull any more fuckin' teenyboppers, know what I mean?'
Went out into the hall, and there were Baz with an Asda bag overflowing with Alison's stuff.
'Anything she wanted in particular?' said Baz.
'Give your head a shake, Baz.'
When I got back in the van, Alison were staring at us. I chucked the bag at her. 'There you go.’
‘Did you kill him?' she said. 'Nah, I spared him.'
'Spared him. Fuck's sake, Mo, you think you're a proper hard arse, don't you?'
'I can go in and finish the job, you want me to.’
‘He'd done nowt to you.'
'He'd done plenty to us. He'd fucked me sister, stole me money.'
'It wasn't your money. You think this is about that? You could've left him alone, Mo. But nah, you have to go proving you're the hard arse.'
'Dad knows what I am.'
'Dad reckons you're a fuck-up,' she said. Her eyes was blazing now. 'Dad said to me that he reckons you're a fuck- up.'
'When'd you talk to Dad?'
'After I called you, you daft bastard. When I told him you were up here. Told him what you said an' all. Told him everything. Told him it was you what got me pregnant in the first place, told him the whole fuckin' story.'
I scratched me cheek. Sat in silence for a bit. Then I said, 'What'd he say?'
'He said that you were a fuck-up and he'd deal with you when you got back.'
'He said that?'
'Yeah.'
'He said that.'
'You fuckin' deaf? Yeah, he said that.'
I grabbed her by the hair and bounced her fuckin' head off the dashboard. When I pulled her back up, her face were all bloody. She breathed red bubbles. She gabbed on. I twatted her against the dash again, harder this time. Wanted to keep going, but when I pulled her back, she'd shut her fuckin' yap. Let go of her hair and smoothed it down, looked out the windscreen.
'You show me some fuckin' respect,' I said.
She were weeping. I looked at Rossie. He were staring at me like I'd just broke her neck right in front of him.
'She's me sister, Rossie. Call it sibling rivalry. Now stick her in the back of the van before she fucks us off even more.'
I know this guy. I've seen him before. He's a shitheel with all morals of a sewer rat, but with the bonus of personal hygiene thrown in. He's an old-school gang lawyer, the kind of local lad who had his tuition paid and his accent softened in order to represent the best interests of his criminal clientele. I know him, because I was offered him once before when I was looking at a stretch inside. The stretch I ended up doing because I turned him down flat.
Derek Clayton, LLB and wannabe QC. If it wasn't for Morris Tiernan, Clayton would be practising personal injury and advertising on Living TV in a battered ill-fitting suit. As it turns out, he's wearing something tailored and expensive, the kind of suit that doesn't wear its label on its sleeve. The kind of suit I'll never be able to afford. He cries out for the legit gig, but working for Morris Tiernan has aborted that baby, so he contents himself with the cash.
Clayton extends a hand to me as I enter the interview room and I take it. A handshake means nothing to a lawyer and his hands are too dry. We're alone in here, a pre-interview briefing. Which doesn't bode well.
It doesn't mean I'm happy to see him, though.
'Sorry it took me so long to get up here,' he says.
'I didn't expect to see you.'
'Mr Tiernan asked me to come up and see what I could do.’
‘Good, then you can leave right now.'
'You're in serious trouble, Cal.'
'A domestic isn't serious trouble.'
'I'm not talking about that.'
'Then what the fuck are you talking about?'
Clayton pushes his specs up to his eyes and raises his eyebrows all at the same time. It's like a stiff breeze blew his face up. 'The hospital has a duty to report incidents involving young men being dumped in A & E with broken legs. You're lucky the police here haven't added it up. You using the same cricket bat on Baz's van hasn't done much to help you out, though.'
'Ah, fuck off. You're making this up.' All bluster and bullshit.
'If I'm making this up, I'm doing a bloody good job,' he says.
'So what've they got me on? GBH? Vandalism?'
'Nothing at the moment. But if George wants to press charges, yes, you could end up back inside.'
'What about Rossie? He want to press charges? What about Alison?'
'Alison's back home now.'
'Yeah, I thought as much. And I bet she didn't say a fuckin' word about her boyfriend in the kitchen, did she?’
‘The question is, what are you going to say?’
‘You don't want to know.' I do.'
'Then the answer's fuck off. How's that?'
He taps the end of his pen against the notepad in front of him. Looks down at the paper, then up at me. 'You shouldn't talk to me like that, Cal. I'm here to help.'
'You're here to make sure I keep my mouth shut.'
'It's not just Newcastle, you know. There's a copper in Manchester baying for your blood.'
'Let him fuckin' bay. I didn't do it. And it's got nothing to do with what's happened up here. I don't need you, Mr Clayton. I don't need Morris Tiernan checking up on me, either. I'll tell the police whatever the fuck I want to. Because someone's got to pay for this.'
'And you're willing to go back inside for nothing?'
'I'll end up back inside anyway, Mr Clayton. Donkey's sure I did Dennis Lang.'
'Dennis Lang was stabbed, Cal. From what I know, it was a short blade. I'm sure DS Donkin could be pointed in the right direction.'
My junkie client. 'He came back?'
'A man like that, he wouldn't like leaving his weapon behind.'
I sit down, try to get my head round this. Because if Dennis Lang was killed by that smackhead, then I could have saved myself a load of grief. I could have gotten Donkey off my back no bother whatsoever, I could have solved a case instead of making the situation ten times worse. It wouldn't have saved a life, but it would have made me feel better. And at the end of the day, right now, that's all I care about. Surviving as the good guy. Which Derek Clayton is insisting won't happen without his help.
'You know Donkin's been making your mate's life hell down in Salford,' says Clayton.
'He's just stirring shit.' I lean forward, my elbows on the table.
'Sometimes that's all the council needs. Just a scent. You know that.'
'You threatening me?'
'I'm telling you what the situation is, Callum. As your lawyer, I'd suggest you listen to me.'
'As my lawyer? I didn't ask you to come here.'
'Mr Tiernan did.'
'Would that be big Morris or his screw-up son?'
Clayton sighs and drops the pen on the pile of paper in front of him. He leans back in his chair and regards me. 'If you've got much more of this, I suggest you let it all out now, Cal. As much as I don't like being your therapist, if it gets you to a point where you understand that there is no way out without my help and the help of Morris Tiernan, it's worth it.'
I have plenty of clever things to say, but none of them come out of my mouth: 'Fuck off.'
He sucks his teeth, runs the spit around the inside of his mouth and picks up his pen, slots it into an inside pocket. 'You don't want my help, that's fine. I'll say you've changed your mind. But if these lads decide to dig beyond the topsoil, Cal, you're in the shit. And if you decide to spill your guts about what's been going on, I can't vouch for your safety. You're still on probation, aren't you?'
Again, zingers all over the place, but the one that sticks is the one I say. 'Fuck off.'
'You're liable to recall, you know that. They don't have to give you a reason,' he says. Clayton stands, grabs the papers on the table and tucks them under one arm. 'You're the tough guy. We'll see how tough you are after a second stretch.'
Clayton looks at me like he looks at every case he gets from Tiernan. I'm judged before I get a chance to plead not guilty. He sees me as Tiernan's hatchet man. Just like everyone else. The way I treated Donna, so fucking selfish when I want. The way George cried out and I gave him more of a beating. Christ, that wasn't the way I was supposed to be. That wasn't the way I thought I'd act.
And yeah, if my PO gets wind of this, he could recommend a recall, and I'd be even further up shit creek. I could be hard
about it, demand prison as a right and a respite, turn over the
Tiernans.
But what could I tell the police? There's nothing to tie Rob Stokes to Morris Tiernan, just Mo. And that wouldn't be enough to buy me safety. Mo would end up getting off because he'd have Wonderboy Clayton here representing him. Morris would have an airtight alibi all worked out for his son, no matter how sick the lanky bastard was. The family that lays together stays together.
So then what? I would end up back on the spur with a price on my head. I wouldn't last day one. Someone would carve me up like Dennis Lang, and I'd end up with a pauper's grave, hired mourners at the service.
Clayton's about to knock on the door to leave when I stand up.
Because a deal with the devil is better than no deal at all.