by Ray Banks
Trouble was, Paulo Gray had something in his brain that wasn’t quite right. He’d zone out at times, and that left him open. He’d sit in his dressing room and stare at the wall. One night, they say, it took two guys to drag him out of there. He wasn’t scared, just depressed.
After that, he couldn’t get the fights. He drank. And he ended up doing a bloke in a pub in Cheetham Hill with his bare hands. Paulo says he doesn’t remember it and I don’t push him. He’s got other stuff to worry about. Sorting out the young offenders that come through his door in droves is part of it. Taking his medication is the other part.
Normally, I’d be out of here, but he’s paying.
We return to my table and it’s a while before he drinks.
Even then, it’s a sip. He savours the taste and looks at me.
‘Got a new lad started this morning,’ he says. ‘Reminds me of you.’
‘Good-looking, is he?’
‘He’s fuckin’ angry is what he is. Tried to pick fights outside the ring. I had to batter him, teach him some manners.’
‘Spare the rod, eh?’
‘You know the way I work.’
Yeah, I do. Paulo’s hard but fair. Once you have him as a mate, you’re sorted. Stand by you thick and thin. And Christ knows there’s been a famine recently.
‘What did Mo want?’ he asks.
‘He wanted me to see Tiernan.’
‘And?’
‘And I went.’
‘And?’
‘Fuck’s sake, Paulo. He wanted a chat. Asked me to do something for him.’ And my heart skips, tooth pricking. ‘I told him no.’
Paulo stares at me with clear blue eyes. Doesn’t blink.
‘What was it?’
‘Does it matter?’
‘You’re right. I don’t want to know. And you told him no,’ he says.
‘Yeah.’
‘Good lad.’ Paulo finally lets himself blink, returns his attention to his pint. Takes a large gulp. “I shouldn’t be drinking,’ he says. ‘Doctor said I shouldn’t. One pint is all it takes, he says.’
‘You’re doing alright, though.’
‘Yeah, because I know when enough is enough.’ Paulo looks up at me. ‘Self-discipline, it’s tough. But it’s worth it.’
I don’t say anything. I just nod like I understand. But I’m already too busy thinking about Stokes.
EIGHT
I talked to Rossie in the rear view. He were all stretched out in the back of Baz’s Nova, head against the window. It fucked Baz off summat rotten, but what were he going to do ‘cept whine: ‘Get yer feet off me seats, dickhead.’
Rossie shuffled his hand at Baz, then made sure he wiped his trainers all over the back seat. Baz glared at him.
‘You know Innes?’ I said to Rossie.
‘I know the name,’ he said.
‘You know his brother.’
‘Smackhead?’
‘That’s the fucker.’
‘He were on that job with us,’ said Baz.
‘I ain’t seen him about,’ said Rossie.
‘The smackhead’s up in Edinburgh. Innes says he’s on the programme,’ I said.
Baz laughed.
‘What’s so fuckin’ funny?’
‘A smackhead goes to Edinburgh to clean up? Fuck’s sake, that’s comical, man.’
‘Huh.’ I didn’t get it. They was both Jocks, it were where they came from. Why the fuck shouldn’t the smackhead go back home?
Baz pulled the car round into Columbo’s street. Columbo were old-school Moss Side Massive. Didn’t matter how rich he got, he’d never move out. Like me dad, except Columbo had nowt. And I didn’t like going round to see the cunt, but he were cheap and he knew not to tread on the merchandise too much else I’d have his balls.
I went up to Columbo’s front door and pushed the bell. It were a musical one and it went on for ages. When he came to the door, Columbo hunkered up around the peephole.
Which were a waste of fuckin’ time because his front door had this pane of frosted glass in it. I slapped the glass and Columbo flinched. Jumpy fuck.
He opened up. I smiled. ‘Y’alright, Columbo?’
He didn’t look alright. He looked like he were passing a kidney stone.
Me and Baz slumped on Columbo’s shit-brown couch. It smelled like someone pissed themselves on there and nobody’d bothered to clean it up. Baz were in the middle of rolling one that’d kill the smell just as soon as he sparked it.
Rossie were outside. He were making a call for us. I had to get him to do it. Them lads, they hear it from me, they might shit it ‘cause I’m such a hard cunt. That, or they feel their balls getting bigger and start giving it with the jaw that they’re working for Mo Tiernan. That couldn’t get out. I weren’t that fuckin’ stupid – this had to stay under Dad’s radar. So I got Rossie to make the call and I were laughing, man.
Baz sparked and I got on that bastard like it were mother’s milk. Columbo were doing nowt in the way of trade right now. Too busy giving it some gum flappage about this red hot dog-fuck porno he borrowed off this lad he did stir with. I didn’t want to hear it. We was here to score, not listen to some daft cunt getting hot under the collar ‘cause he saw some skank take it up the shitter from an Alsatian. He were talking about this bird licking the dog’s balls when I said, ‘Here, Columbo, you selling or what?’
Columbo were a fuckin’ dwarf, or as good as. Looked like the old bloke on the telly, had a glass eye the same as him. He were the only person I knew who had a glass eye, like. And it used to fascinate us, trying to work out which one were the fake. But now I just got fucked off with him ‘cause I knew it were the right eye and Columbo were a cunt about bending your ear about nowt.
I handed Baz the spliff. Columbo pushed out his bottom lip with his tongue. A second there, and I thought the fucker were calling us a spaz. All ready to spring up and cut the cunt’s tongue out his head until I realised he were just getting a bit corn out his teeth. His knees cracked when he got up, went to the sideboard. Columbo said, ‘How much you want?’
‘Eighty notes,’ I said.
‘Hundred,’ said Baz, coughing through the tack smoke.
‘You got the extra score?’ I asked him.
‘Yeah.’
‘A hundred, then.’
Columbo mumbled summat under his breath. I didn’t catch it, said, ‘You what?’
‘Nowt,’ he said. Columbo slid the sideboard door across, pulled out a big bag of pills and wiped his nose. Made this noise like a slow-draining sink. ‘All Bruce, eh?’
‘Yeah,’ I said. ‘Chuck in a couple tammies an’ all.’
‘You want some Ritalin?’
‘Fuck would I do with Ritalin, Columbo?’
‘Swallow it,’ said Baz, so I taxed the spliff off of him.
“I ain’t got ADD, fuckhead,’ I said to Baz.
‘Nah, Ritalin’s like whizz if you ain’t got ADD. Give us a couple Ritalin, Columbo.’
Columbo measured out the pills. He kept wiping his nose.
Wouldn’t surprise us if he’d done a few lines before we came over. And it didn’t surprise me that he didn’t fuckin’ offer it about, either, the tight cunt. I dug the cash out me back pocket, held it out to Baz for him to slap a twenty on there, then I tossed it onto Columbo’s coffee table. Columbo looked at the cash and his tongue started roaming his mouth again.
He dropped the bag of pills on the table. I went for it before Baz got a chance. ‘Fuck’s this?’
‘Hundred notes,’ said Columbo.
‘Fack orf, mate. Where’s the rest?’
Columbo sighed. ‘Mo, you do this ‘
‘Looking at a pound a pill, ain’t we? That don’t look like a hundred.’
‘You do this every fuckin’ time, Mo.’ Columbo closed his good eye and shook his head. ‘If it weren’t a hundred notes’ worth, you’d know it, son.’
‘Fuck you think you’re talking to?’
‘I’m talking to Morris Tiern
an’s son,’ he said. ‘And I wouldn’t fuck you over because of that.’
I gave him a glare, then smiling teeth. ‘I’m just messing.
You’re a good lad, Columbo.’
Rossie came into the room. He were putting his mobile in his pocket.
‘We sorted?’ I said to him.
Rossie nodded. He were ice cold, even if he did look a twat in that jacket.
‘Then we’re sorted.’ I got off the couch and tucked the baggie of merch in my jacket, kicked Baz’s leg until he got up.
Took a couple of sharp ones, the fuck was feeling The Warm too much. When we was about to go, I turned around. ‘Just one more thing, Columbo.’
‘Aye?’ He looked sick of my shit.
You don’t fuck me over because I’m Mo Tiernan, not ‘cause I’m Morris Tiernan’s son. You don’t fuck me over ‘cause I’ll fuckin’ cut you up if you even think about it, you hear what I’m saying?’
Columbo just looked at me. I couldn’t read him. Didn’t matter as long as he got the message.
‘Yeah, Mo,’ he said. ‘I hear what you’re saying.’
‘Make sure you fuckin’ do,’ I said.
And I took the lads and left, went back to Rossie’s gaff to prepare for the night’s business.
NINE
It’s not easy driving in Manchester city centre. In fact, it’s a pain in the arse. Minicab drivers without fear, bus drivers with more road rage than sense.
So I leave the Micra in the shadow of Victoria Station and pay for an overnighter. I shouldn’t be gone that long, but I can’t take the chance of the car being towed. That happens, and I might as well be in a wheelchair, the amount of work I could do. Hanover Street’s not far from here and the walk’ll do me good.
The wind picks up around my waist; I pull my jacket tight.
Rain is in the air. And the cold is making my head throb. As I turn the corner, I see the tattoo parlour, a place called Roscoe’s. A blue neon sign advertises ‘peircings. The windows are plastered with posters, mostly bands and DJs I’ve never heard of. One of them has a drawing of a mean-looking Goth holding up a dripping heart. I look for the handle to the front door. It doesn’t have one, so I push. A small bell rings somewhere.
An antiseptic smell in the air, the trace of lemon. The floor is covered with linoleum that makes a tacking sound as I walk across it. A couch, coffee table and dirty-looking chair dot the room. A girl sits behind a counter with more band posters stuck to it. Probably the only thing holding it together. The girl looks like she covered her face in glue and headbutted a bag of ball bearings. She’s reading a well-thumbed magazine with a bored expression. When she finally looks up, I notice her eyes are purple. It’s a little startling.
‘Can I help you?’ She shows teeth, one of them streaked with a calcium deposit. Something shines in the back of her mouth.
‘My name’s Callum Innes.’
She blinks. ‘You expected?’
‘I think so. There should have been a call.’
‘Uh-huh. Well, straight up the stairs, second door on your right. You can’t miss it.’ The girl points to a beaded curtain to my right. I nod, rifle through my jacket for my cigarettes.
When I pull the pack, she taps a sign with one purple fingernail. ‘Health regulations,’ she says.
‘Oh, right. Sorry.’
‘No biggie.’
I part the curtain, feel the strands flick against my head as I pass through. Look to my left, and there’s a small room with what looks like doctor’s table. In a chair next to it is a guy with a full-on Rod Steiger, stripped to the waist, a roll of fat hanging over his belt. He’s leafing through a thick book of tattoo designs, more of which hang on the walls. Celtic bands, swirling multicoloured dragons, flaming Bowie knives. He looks up at me and for a moment, my arse goes into spasm. I blink and see he’s wearing opaque contacts. What is it with these people and their fucking eyes?
‘You my three-thirty?’ he says.
‘Nah,’ I say. ‘I’m here to do some money.’
He runs his tongue over his top teeth. ‘Kay. Well, she’ll have told you where to go.’
‘Yeah. Up the stairs, second door on the right ‘
‘And straight on till morning,’ he says. He smiles, but only for a second. Then he goes back to his book. Yeah, thanks, Peter.
I head up a narrow stairwell. No need for a banister, the walls are that tight on me. When the space opens up into a landing, I’m confronted by a mountain masquerading as a bouncer. He’s stuffed into a tuxedo two sizes too small. His shirt cuffs ride up on his wrists, prison ink spilling out from under. I need to take a step back to look up at his face, then wish I hadn’t. He’s done time, this one, and it wasn’t easy.
‘Yeah?’ he says.
‘Callum Innes,’ I say.
He digs into his jacket pocket, pulls out a wrinkled sheet of A4, lined. Studies it as if he needs glasses but he’s too vain to get them. With a boat like that, vanity should be the last thing on his mind. I don’t tell him that. I value my scrotum too much.
‘You got ID?’ he says.
I show him my driver’s licence. He takes it, compares the picture to what’s standing in front of him.
‘Morris sent me,’ I say.
‘Big whoop. Morris sends everyone.’ He hands me my licence, jerks his head. ‘Go on.’
I try to give him a friendly smile, but it doesn’t feel right and he doesn’t offer anything in return, so I move past him into the club. A cloud of cigar smoke hits me in the eyes as soon as I step through the door. The sound of chips being click-shuffled, the muted rattle of a roulette wheel somewhere and the throbbing undercurrent of cards hitting felt.
As the smoke clears, I blink through the tears and get a better look at the room. It’s crowded with gamblers, most of them too dangerous to hit the legit casinos. The bad vibe of barely-concealed aggression. Low ceilings smother us from above, thick carpet threatens to do the same from the opposite direction. A small bar on my right, blackjack tables in front of me, the roulettes behind them. And right at the back, huge red curtains tied back to reveal private rooms.
I recognise a couple of scallies with temper problems drinking at the bar, but they don’t recognise me, thank fuck.
Tiernan’s lads. The last thing I want is to get into conversation with them. I’m sick of telling people Declan’s clean, sick of seeing their eyes glaze over.
Oh, right, yeah. Your brother’s clean, he’s off the junk.
Good on him. No more gabbing to the busies for a baggie of black. No more living in his own filth. He’s fine, that’s a good thing.
Have a drink on me.
I head to the nearest blackjack table, find a spot and get seated. Hand over a tonne to the dealer and get twenty reds back. I sit and fiddle with the chips, try to look like a proper punter. When I see the dealer staring at me, waiting, I smile and slip a tenner onto the table. He clicks onto autopilot, starts dishing out the cards.
Five minutes later and I’m down to half my stack. The other players aren’t the best conversationalists. In fact, they haven’t said a thing. They came to play.
‘Been a while since I been in here,’ I say.
A grunt from two seats down. The dealer doesn’t acknowledge me.
‘Yeah, used to be a dealer here, a guy called Rob. He still about?’
‘Card?’ says the dealer. He stares at me intently. Something in his eyes, but I can’t make out if I’ve hit a nerve or not. He might just hate all the punters in here. I look down at my cards. Sixteen. I take another. The dealer flips a four. I stay.
‘So I don’t see him about,’ I say. ‘What happened? He get the sack or something?’
No answer. The dealer continues as if I’m not there.
‘Fine, fuckin’ hell. Just trying to make a little conversation.’
The Chinese guy next to me turns his head, looks me up and down. ‘No here for talking,’ he says. ‘You play, you no play.’ He points at me with his righ
t hand. I notice two fingers cut off at the knuckle. A tattoo on his neck, a bluebird peeking out from under the collar. He’s an old-time wannabe Triad, maybe a real one. I don’t want to find out which.
‘Okay,’ I say. ‘That’s fine with me.’
‘Card?’ says the dealer. This time, there’s a twinkle in his eye. If I didn’t know better, I’m sure he’s laughing at me. My heart starts to beat faster.
I have seventeen in front of me. ‘What do you think?’ I ask him.
His lips twitch as he moves to the Chinese guy.
‘Oi,’ I say. “I didn’t say I was staying. Gimme a card.’
The dealer’s eyes narrow for a second. Then he slaps a queen in front of me, rakes in the cards and my cash in one fluid motion. The Chinese guy is sitting there with nine, and he looks fit to cut my throat.
‘What a pity. Never mind.’ I get up from my seat, taking the rest of my chips with me.
Fuck the dealer. I should have known he’d keep his mouth shut. And I was hardly subtle about it, but then I’m not used to being in places like this. Word spread, obviously. Employees banding together against a common enemy. In this case, it’s Morris Tiernan. And me, I stand for Morris. It’s okay, though. I’ll find someone with a mouth on them. I always do.
I just have to bide my time.
TEN
A couple of bottled beers later and I feel loose in my skin. I’m leaning against the bar, sipping a Becks. The scallies I know have gone, so I’m more relaxed. I’d be even more relaxed if these drinks weren’t costing me so much.
The barman is a gangly lad with a perpetual stoop. Like every other employee in here, he’s wearing a dress shirt and dicky bow. But the dark sweat patches under his arms and the luggage under his eyes give him away.
‘You work here long?’ I say.
He doesn’t say anything, busies himself with the optics. I watch him. He’s trying to avoid me. I slap two red chips onto the bar. ‘Oi,’ I say. ‘I’m talking to you.’
