by Ray Banks
I watch him leave the room, wait until he’s out of my flat before I put the cigarette in the ashtray, feel around in my jacket pocket for my pills.
And come up short.
I take my jacket off, empty the pockets. Nothing.
The bastards must’ve taken the pills off me for some reason. And there’s that twinge in my back already. I know it’ll spread given half a chance. What the fuck am I supposed to do, subsist on beer and cigarettes?
Then I remember Paulo carrying my jacket for me as he wheeled me out of the hospital.
Jesus fucking Christ. I pull myself up on the arm of the sofa, grab my stick and struggle to stand. When I get onto both feet, I hobble over to the phone.
Pick it up and start dialling Paulo’s number.
Full of hell, reckon I’m going to ask the cunt right out why he stole from me. Thinks it’s a fucking joke, nicking a man’s medication. And it’s not like I’m up and about, walking around all healthy. I need those pills to get me through the day.
My back spikes. I suck in breath at the pain. Lean over the phone table and mutter about Paulo as I exhale. That fucking bastard, he’s stranded me in the flat. He knows I can’t go out. Even if I could, I couldn’t go back to Greg again.
No, maybe I could. Maybe I could persuade him, tell him what happened. Fuck’s sake, I was concussed. He’d understand.
I grab my stick, start for the door, but the pain doesn’t let me get further than the couch. I ease down onto it, take a breath. This isn’t good.
The pain’s only just started. I grab my mobile from the coffee table and speed-dial Paulo.
“The pills,” I say.
He’s calm. “What about them?”
“Fuck you done?”
“It’s for your own good, Callum.”
“Doesn’t fuckin’ … feel like it.”
“You in pain?”
“Yes.”
“You sure?”
I scream it: “Fuck-in’ yes.”
“I left you some cocodemol, Callum. Take those.”
There are pills on the table in front of me, alright. A box of them, prescription. A bottle of water next to them. There’s a ball of pain in my throat. I try to swallow it back.
So much I want to say to him. Want to fucking beg him to bring my pills back, because I’ve tried cocodemol and they’re nothing, they’re useless. Sticking plaster on a fucking bullet wound. He doesn’t have the right to take away my medication like this. He’s not qualified to make those decisions. If the doctor didn’t say anything about it …
“You can’t do this.” Take a deep breath, concentrate. “Got a … medical … condition.”
“No,” says Paulo. “No more excuses, son.”
Breathing hard through my nose now. Can’t make my fucking mouth work. Can’t tell him that these aren’t excuses, these are reasons. Thinking he’s a cunt for taking advantage. Trying to get a sentence out. Trying to get anything out.
“Take the cocodemol, son,” he says. “Get some sleep.”
“Fuck—”
“I mean it. We’ll talk later, okay?”
He disconnects.
I hold onto my mobile, stare at the pills on the coffee table. Might as well be fucking Anadin, the good they’ll do. There’s this tremendous pressure in my chest, like a scream trying to get out, and whatever burns in my throat can’t be swallowed. Water in my vision now, I can’t see properly. I press the heel of my hand to my eye and think.
There’s got to be someone I can call. Someone who’ll either sort me out or run an errand for me. Not Paulo, obviously. Can’t trust Frank to do it, either. And there’s no one else I can trust. Then I realise there’s no one else in my life.
Stare at the carpet, rub away the tears. Then I look at my mobile, search through the contacts for Greg. It’ll be okay. I’ll just call him. We’ll sort it out.
His name is missing from my phone. Someone’s been in, erased it. And I’m guessing, but that someone’s probably Paulo.
Fuck it. I don’t need to speed-dial. I’ve got the number committed to memory.
I dial the 0161, then the first three digits of Greg’s phone number. A brief moment where I think I’ve got it, then the rest of the number skips out of my head.
Shit.
I concentrate, try to remember, but it’s no use. Meanwhile, the pain in my back gets worse. I leave it much longer, I won’t be able to move.
No more excuses. Fuck him. Who the fuck does he think he is? Sounds like my bastard brother.
I lean forward, exhale slowly to kill some of the pain, then snatch the cocodemol from the coffee table. Tear into the box, uncap the water and take four pills.
Then I sit there, staring at the blank television. And hope the pain goes away.
###
Beast Of Burden by Ray Banks
Book #4 in the Cal Innes series see Cal looking into the disappearance of his erstwhile nemesis, Mo Tiernan, while DS Donkin looks to settle old scores.
Available Nov 2012!
Also by Ray Banks
Novels
Dead Money
Wolf Tickets
Matador
The Cal Innes Quartet
Saturday’s Child
Donkey Punch
No More Heroes
Beast of Burden
Novellas
Gun
California
Short stories
Dirty Work: The Collected Cal Innes Stories
Wrong ’Em, Boyo
Don’t Miss Out
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Table of Contents
THIS TRAIN IS BOUND FOR GLORY
1
2
3
4
5
6
7
8
9
10
11
12
13
14
15
16
17
18
19
20
21
THIS LAND IS YOUR LAND
22
23
24
25
26
27
28
29
30
31
ALL YOU FASCISTS ARE BOUND TO LOSE
32
33
34
35
36
37
38
39
40
41
42
43
Beast Of Burden by Ray Banks
Also by Ray Banks
Don’t Miss Out
