Saturday's child ci-1

by Ray Banks

  Little Frank were crooning out summat about a daft tart called Kathleen. The fuckin’ Irish, man, get ‘em drunk enough and they’ll sing any old shite. Dad liked the bloke, but I knew for a fact Frank liked to cut off cats’ heads and leave ‘em in people’s cars as a joke. Yeah, he were sick in the fuckin’ head, you ask me. Lad should’ve been banged up a long time ago.

  But that weren’t what I’d come for. I went right up to me dad and stood in front of his table and said, “I thought you said we was keeping this in the family.’

  Dad looked up at us like I were shite. ‘I’m not talking about this.’

  ‘You said we was keeping this schtum.’

  ‘We are.’

  ‘So what’s this about me going to see Innes?’

  ‘You’re going to see him.’ Dad screwed his Rothmans into the ashtray and lit another one, sucked half of it down with one draw.

  ‘How’s that keeping it in the fuckin’ family?’ I said.

  He pointed at me with his ciggie. ‘Watch your fuckin’ mouth, Mo. Sit down and show a bit of respect.’

  I looked around. People was staring. I wanted to knock a hole in their fuckin’ heads. But I didn’t. I sat down, said: “I thought I were taking care of this.’

  ‘I never said that. That’s not going to happen.’

  ‘You promised.’

  “I promised nowt. You go sniffing about with your scally mates in tow, you’ll fuck it up.’

  ‘Dad ‘

  ‘Don’t “Dad” me, you little prick. Do as you’re told. You go round there tomorrow and you tell Innes I want a word.

  That’s all you do. You don’t tell him nowt about this, you don’t say a fuckin’ word, else I’ll knock you sideways, you hear me?’

  Wanted to tell him to show a bit of respect. Felt my left eye twitch and sting. Shook it out. ‘Dad, he’s a fuckin’ pisshead. You want someone you can trust, know what I mean?’

  ‘Yeah,’ he said. ‘I want someone I can trust. So do as you’re fuckin’ told.’

  I had plenty I wanted to say; it were boiled up in my head.

  But I had to swallow it back. I stood up, left the lounge bar and slammed the door as Little Frank went into another song about Galway Bay.

  Baz saw us and went, ‘Y’alright?’

  ‘Nah, mate,’ I said. ‘I’m pretty fuckin’ far from alright, know what I mean?’

  ‘Uh,’ he said.

  ‘Get us a Kronie.’

  Baz got the landlord over – a fat lad called Brian – and told him what I wanted.

  ‘Get us a brandy, too,’ I said. And walked away from the bar. Slumped behind a table and stuck me hand in me pocket, felt for a couple vallies. Head spinning, and it’d take too long for the beer and brandy to kick in. I needed a helping hand. I popped the vallies and chased them down with the brandy Baz brought over.

  Dad were Dad, like. I weren’t about to argue with him, even though I wanted to. He said jump, you fuckin’ jumped even if you was family. Used to be, he’d brought me up like I was his only, even after me mam fucked off. But these days, there were summat worn, summat frayed at the edges. Like he were itching to knock me on me arse. And there were nowt worse than getting floored by your own father.

  Dad might’ve been a soft touch with everyone else, but he had a fuckin’ blue-veiner for making my life shite.

  FOUR

  My head rattles like Stomp in stereo and the Greggs sausage roll I’m trying to eat is burning the roof of my mouth off. I huff and puff, finally spit the pastry onto the road and let the rest of it follow suit out of the window. Watch it jump and splatter under the wheels of the car behind me. Tell myself it was rank anyway.

  Round Salford, the morning sun is a disc of yellow in a sky of smoke. Some of last night’s bonfires have yet to be extinguished. Now the place looks like a riot’s just finished.

  Footage of Bosnia, Belfast, Baghdad and now North Manchester.

  The streets are dead; all that’s left is the vibe of something exciting.

  I drank at home after I left The Denton. It took the best part of a bottle of Vladivar to kill the pain in my cheek. A quick examination in the mirror told me that the smackhead had almost knocked the tooth out of my head. I wish he had.

  Right now it’s hanging by a nerve, throbbing like a bastard.

  I’d go to the dentist, but I don’t have the cash. And it’s been that long since I had a check-up, my old dentist is probably pushing up the daisies. Fuck it, I’ll soldier on.

  I’m on my way to a morning spar with Paulo, so he’ll probably do me a favour and knock the tooth out for me.

  He’s good like that. The guy might be pushing fifty, but he’s still got a nasty right hook and an uppercut that could floor an elephant.

  At this time of the morning, it’s a quick drive. But when I pull up outside the club, Paulo’s waiting for me with a face like a smacked arse. I check my watch: I’m still half an hour early. I slow the car; wind down the window as he approaches.

  This can’t be good.

  ‘What’s up?’ I say.

  Paulo leans in. ‘You’ve got company.’

  ‘A client?’

  “I fuckin’ hope not, Cal. And you want to get him out of there before I get back from the paper shop, else you’re both on the street, you understand me?’

  ‘Hang on a sec ‘

  “I want him out. No buts about it.’

  Paulo pulls away from the car, points at me, then starts walking towards Regent Road. I park up and get out of the car, chew the inside of my cheek. Company means one of two things. Either a client’s in there, or Detective Sergeant Donkin’s decided to pop by to fuck me over. Neither of which have made Paulo this edgy before. In fact, not a lot makes Paulo edgy. He’s famous round here for being cool as.

  Which makes me jittery as fuck.

  I push open the double doors to the club, feel a wave of heat across my face. My back starts to sweat. This place was a second home when I got out of Strangeways. Paulo was the guy who got me my parole, stood by me. He saw something in me I couldn’t see in myself. Took me to one side, threw me in the club with the rest of the prison-fresh lads and watched us beat the shit out of each other until we’d had enough. I was twenty-two then, it’s a couple years on now, and I’ve worked out plenty of aggression in that time. I might be too old to keep coming back, but Paulo’s got plenty of work for me. It’s part of my probation that I still attend this place. Two years down and six months to go, then I’m a free man. Until then, I have to pop in and see my PO every couple of weeks. It’s hellish. That tiny wee office, sitting there while the skinny prick patronises the hell out of me. He doesn’t give a shit, to be honest. The moment he saw me, he saw the crime. And he didn’t want to see any further. Which was fair enough.

  Because when I first saw him, I saw a prick. And I didn’t want to see any further.

  Me and Paulo talked about setting up the agency, one horse operation that it is, and it was a joke until people started coming to see me. I don’t advertise, but word spreads round here, and most of my clients aren’t the type who have the money for a professional outfit. Either that, or they just don’t trust the pros. It’s got to the point where Paulo’s charging me rent on the office.

  He’s got a cheek. It’s really nothing more than a broom cupboard with a desk and two chairs in it. Oh yeah, and a window with a fine view of the bins.

  The door’s open. I can make out movement in there.

  Someone gangly, moving about at random.

  My stomach turns.

  No wonder Paulo didn’t want to stay around. It’s not the kind of company any ex-con would want to keep, especially one who’s straight as a die and intends to stay that way. I blame Brenda for mentioning the name last night. Morris Tiernan’s ears must have been burning.

  So he’s sent his son round to have a word.

  Morris Junior, called Mo to avoid confusion. He’s a sixfoot-four beanpole with all the charm of a liquid cough. Bad skin, worse a
ttitude, shaved head, a natural born scally. When Manchester was mad for it, Mo had his plooky hands full dealing out of a pub opposite the Hacienda. He was minting it then, but had his dad’s knack for staying out of any serious trouble. When a couple of kids on mountain bikes let loose with a converted air pistol at the club’s bouncers, people knew it was Mo fucking about. One dead, three wounded, and not a single charge the Tiernans’ way.

  Then Tony Wilson called it a night. Some say he was pushed into it. Too many drugs, too many bad influences, and Madchester was fading fast. The last night the Hacienda was open, when Wilson spread his arms and told the clubbers to loot the place, Mo was first in line. Back then Mo was pilled up and hip. These days he just gets pilled up and fashion can get to fuck.

  I make my way across the club floor. Mo doesn’t pay social visits. I look around the club for anyone I don’t know. It’s unlike him to turn up on his own; he’s normally got a couple of shellsuits hanging about the place with car aerials in their trackie bottoms. But I don’t see anyone. It looks like an average morning.

  Step into my office, and he turns at the squeak of the door.

  His pupils are pinpricks in a sea of blood vessels. This isn’t an early morning for him; it’s a late night. He holds a bottle of Yop in one hand. When he sees me, he takes a swig, leaves froth on his top lip. It makes him look like a rabid dog.

  ‘Y’alright, Mo?’

  He studies me, then points one long finger at my face.

  ‘Pastry,’ he says.

  ‘You what?’

  The tip of his finger wiggles. ‘You got pastry on your face.’

  I wipe my cheek with the back of my hand and try to smile.

  Normally I’d close the door, but I decide to leave it open. If Mo flies in here, I’ll need witnesses and an escape route all planned. ‘What can I do for you?’

  ‘How you doing, man?’ He perches himself on the edge of my desk. His foot taps the floor.

  ‘I’m okay. Hanging in there.’

  ‘It’s tough coming out, innit? Even what – two years, wunnit?’

  ‘Two and a half.’

  ‘A lot changes in that time.’ He takes another swig from the bottle. He has a long, trimmed fingernail on his pinkie. The bastard wants to be a coke-snorting pimp. His tongue licks away the yellow foam, then he sucks his teeth. “I hear you’re all straight an’ that now.’

  ‘Straight as I can be.’

  ‘You working for Paulo?’

  ‘This and that, yeah.’

  ‘Cause I heard you was like a private eye.’

  “I wouldn’t go that far,’ I say.

  ‘How far would you go?’

  ‘I’ve done some work like that, yeah. Word gets around, I’ll do some again.’

  Mo nods, but it’s not an affirmative. More like the DJ in his skull just mixed in a buzzing song. ‘Fuckin’ hell, I wouldn’t have took you for a gumshoe, eh? Things change. Been a while since I seen you. Here, what happened to your brother?’

  ‘Declan’s in Edinburgh.’

  ‘How is he?’

  ‘He’s clean.’

  ‘That’s good. Fuckin’ gear, fucks you up. Kudos to the kicker.’

  ‘I’ll tell him you said hello.’

  ‘No need. I’ll probably see him soon enough.’ Mo’s lips part into a yellowish grin. ‘Once a Mane, always a Mane’

  A Leith lad in Manchester is a Mane now. That’ll make me Liam Gallagher. I’m not about to correct him, though. My accent was beaten down by the scally tongue a long time ago.

  I suppose it helps me blend in.

  I light a cigarette. Mo’s not here for a reunion. The last time we spoke, I called him a daft cunt and butted him sharply just above the nose. I had my reasons. I was younger, stupider and I knew I would have been too scared to do it at a later date. But the way he’s sitting there, dancing along to whatever rhythm his head’s picked up this time, he’s not here to do me over. This is a business call and, from the looks of him, he’s not happy about it.

  ‘What’s up, Mo?’

  His eyes narrow for a split-second, as if he’s trying to remember why he’s here. Then he licks his bottom lip and says, The dad wants a word.’

  ‘Anything in particular?’

  ‘He just wants a word. Here, don’t give us that face, either.

  He knows you’re on the level now.’

  Uncle Morris wants a word. That means he’ll get a word, whether you want one or not. No questions asked. You’re summoned, you go. Else he’ll find you.

  ‘Where’s he doing business these days?’

  ‘Usual place, mate.’

  ‘Okay,’ I say.

  Mo gets up off the desk, smiles at me as he walks out of the office. I watch him as he lopes across the club. One of the lads recognises him, looks at me. I close the door and take a seat.

  Feels like I’ve just done six rounds; my legs are shaking. I stare at the floor, light an Embassy. Breathe smoke from my nostrils, watch it billow and disappear.

  So what now?

  A knock at the door. Paulo comes in and looks around the office before he speaks. ‘Well?’

  I don’t look at him. ‘It was nothing.’

  ‘You sure? Fucker looked bloody happy with himself ‘He’s Mo Tiernan. He always looks happy with himself.

  Pills’ll do that to you.’

  ‘You about ready?’

  I shake my head. ‘Can’t do it today, Paulo. Got other things to do.’

  ‘Like?’

  ‘Business, mate.’

  Paulo watches me leave; I can feel him staring.

  FIVE

  The Wheatsheaf is a corn-fed pub just out of town. Too close to the motorway to be anyone’s local, but it gets the family day-trippers every Sunday. The kind of pub with mock antiques and a woodchip play area for the kids. A beer garden, horse brasses and a landlord called Brian West, whose name’s on the lease but that’s as far as it goes. To those of us in the know, it’s The Uncle’s office. And if you know that, you’re already ears-deep in the shit.

  I pop two Nurofen and wash them down with a bottle of warm water. As I pull into the carpark, I see a fat child screaming her way down a slide shaped like an elephant. Her dad, a Pringle sweater with the look of a fortnight father about him, sups a pint of real ale and watches her out the corner of his eye. Sunday drinking. Warm and relaxed, even though the skies are streaked grey and black. Outward respectability when a storm is brewing.

  The way the story goes, Morris Tiernan once had a bad debt slit from arsehole to appetite. It happened at The Wheatsheaf. In the men’s toilets, right by the novelty condom machine. Someone took a sharpened screwdriver, gutted him. While the guy was bubbling his last bloody breath face down in a urinal, Morris Tiernan bought a round of drinks for a wedding party he didn’t know.

  And now he wants a word.

  I get out of the Micra, dump my final cigarette of the journey and crush it into the gravel until the smoke stops.

  Take a deep breath, check my watch. It’s noon. I spent a while in my car, unable to turn the key in the ignition. My hand shook too much. Thinking that they could call me back to the ‘Ways just for talking to this guy.

  It’s taken me all my time to get here and now I am, I’m set to turn on my heels and hit the road. Morris knows I’m straight, but he still wants a word. That doesn’t make sense and my stomach knots. The guy hasn’t done a legal thing in his life, so what does he want with me?

  There’s only one way to find out.

  I walk to the pub doors, pull them open. Inside, the place is dead. As I head to the bar, the doors close behind me like a gunshot. I flinch. Brian gives me a matey smile from behind the bar. A fat, balding guy with a moon face. He’s nice enough, but he’s one of the defeated. He’d let the world and his dog walk all over him if it meant avoiding trouble. Which is why he’s in this hole. And he won’t stop digging until he’s six feet under.

  Brian nods to me. ‘Y’alright?’

  ‘Be
en better,’ I say.

  ‘Drink?’

  ‘Nah, I’m not staying long. He here?’

  ‘He’s in the lounge. He’s expecting you.’

  I push open the door to the lounge. It glides across the carpet with a whisper. Morris Tiernan sits in the corner, dressed in a dark blue Adidas tracksuit. Light from the frosted window next to him catches a large scar above his left eye.

  He’s reading The Racing Post, a pint of Guinness on the table next to the paper. One hand rocks a pushchair. A toddler with a face like a bag of marbles is fast asleep.

  The lounge door clicks shut. Part of me thinks it just locked. The same part of me starts panicking.

  Morris looks up from the paper. ‘Callum.’

  I smile. My cheeks hurt. ‘You wanted to see me, Mr Tiernan.’

  ‘Yeah, take a seat.’

  I look around for a chair. Nothing but leather-cushioned stools, built for midgets. I pick one up, buckle a little under its weight, and drag it over to Morris’ table. Then I plant myself on it as casually as I can. My knees press into my chest. I look like I’m in pain.

  ‘Who d’you reckon in the three-thirty Chepstow?’

  ‘I’m not much for the horses. I wouldn’t know where to begin.’

  He scans the paper, bright blue eyes twinkling under a heavy brow. He takes a drag off a Rothmans and rubs it out in a large ashtray. Then he raises his head, stares at me. Sizing me up. I’ve changed since he saw me last, and he’s noting each and every difference.

  ‘You look better,’ he says. ‘Strangeways ironed you out.’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘That’s good. Glad it had that effect on you. Don’t want to end up like your brother.’

  ‘He’s fine.’

  ‘Is he?’

  ‘He’s clean now.’

  Morris raises his eyebrows. One of them doesn’t move very far thanks to the scar tissue. ‘Good for him. So what you doing these days?’

  ‘This and that. I’m still on licence.’

  ‘That’s a shitter. Your PO a prick?’

  ‘They all are.’