Saturday's child ci-1

by Ray Banks

  The barman turns, clocks the chips. ‘You want another drink?’

  ‘You know a guy called Rob Stokes?’

  ‘Nah,’ he says.

  I light an Embassy. ‘He was a dealer here.’

  The barman shakes his head.

  ‘You don’t know the dealers?’

  ‘Nah.’

  ‘You don’t take breaks together?’

  He doesn’t answer. He’s watching something over my shoulder. Feels like the floor just listed to one side, so I’m guessing the bruiser on the door just walked in.

  ‘What are you, a fuckin’ mute?’ I say.

  ‘Nah,’ he says.

  For fuck’s sake. ‘Fine, don’t talk to me.’

  I turn away from the bar, take a swig from the bottle. Sure enough, the doorman’s looking at me, even though he’s pretending not to. Got that shifty-eyed glance going on, as if he’s not sure what he should be doing. I stare right at him.

  This place is tight. No wonder Morris couldn’t get anything out of the staff.

  ‘You don’t have to talk to me, mate. But you will have to talk to someone sooner or later. This Rob Stokes isn’t going to get away scot-free.’

  I let that hang in the air. The barman’s stopped moving.

  ‘Tell you what I’m going to do. I’ll leave you my number.

  You get over your lockjaw, you give me a bell and we’ll talk about it.’

  “I don’t talk to the police, mate,’ he says.

  ‘I’m not the police. And I’m not your fuckin’ mate.’ I turn back to the bar, see he’s still looking at the bouncer.

  I write down my mobile number on a napkin, push it towards him. ‘My name’s Callum Innes. I’m a private investigator. And whatever you say to me is just that: private.

  You’ve got nothing to be afraid of.’

  The barman gives me a look like who do I think I’m fooling?

  He’s right. It’s all shite. But sometimes it works.

  ‘Everything alright here, Kev?’

  It’s the bouncer. And I didn’t hear him coming. He’s almost right on top of me when I turn. ‘Everything’s fine,’ I tell him. The and Kev were just shooting the breeze.’

  He doesn’t look at me. The mountain and the barman, exchanging glances like a couple of star-crossed lovers. It’s enough to make me sick. ‘Here, Kev, I’ll have another Becks, mate,’ I say.

  Kev doesn’t move.

  “I think you’ve had enough,’ says the bouncer.

  ‘You what?’

  His hand opens, gestures towards the door. ‘You’re not welcome here. C’mon.’

  ‘C’mon where? I’ve had three fuckin’ beers.’

  ‘No need to get lippy with me, son.’

  ‘I’m not getting lippy with you. I’m stating a fact. I’ve had three beers. I’m a member.’

  Look at the bouncer’s eyes. They disappear into his skull.

  His piss is pure boiled about something, but his voice doesn’t show it. ‘I think you’ve had enough,’ he says again, and puts one huge hand on my shoulder.

  Two ways to go with this. I can kick off and get battered, or play possum. The rising heat in my face makes me want to take this empty Becks bottle to the mountain’s head. His hand on my shoulder tells me to think again. He’s got power in those fingers, so God knows what the whole limb’s capable of.

  That’s what makes me bottle it. This place is far too dangerous for someone with my disposition. Fuck knows I’ve tried not to panic since I got out, but times like this, the fear takes over.

  Keep calm, Callum.

  Smile. Be nice.

  I smile, but I can’t be nice. ‘You want to take your hand off me, pal?’

  ‘I think it’s time you left.’

  ‘And I think you do too much fuckin’ thinking.’

  “I think ‘

  Watch it. Your noggin might overheat. But you know what? I think you’re right.’

  I neck the rest of my beer and slip out from under the bouncer’s grip, head to the door. Behind me, I can hear conversation, but can’t make out the words.

  Yeah, I think. Who was that masked man?

  ELEVEN

  Someone told me that the difference between a pub and a bar is that a bar has more mirrors to show you how fucked up you are.

  I need a drink after my brush with the bouncer. Something to settle my heart rate. Somewhere to lie low and take stock.

  I’d head up to Oxford Road, bury myself in an old man pub vibe, but it’s too much of a walk. So I scout around and find a place in Withy Grove that looks like Austin Powers’ worst nightmare.

  Beggars and choosers spring to mind.

  Lines of purple and white swirl across the ceiling. I go down the stairs into a club that’s already starting to fill up.

  Air-conditioned, dark red and pink. I feel like I’ve walked into a lung. A quick scan of the place then I walk over to the bar, hoping to get a drink down me before the music kicks in properly. At the moment, I can hear a low funk-jazz thing going on, the kind of music that makes me think I should be wearing a pimp suit and shoes with goldfish in the heels.

  I pay for a bottle of Holsten Pils and try to look cool by leaning against the bar. From the glances I get, I’m not doing a great job. They know I’m not one of them and they’re vaguely annoyed.

  Yeah, these people, they’re a completely different class.

  Seems to bother them more than it bothers me, though. I look around, not afraid to make eye contact.

  A working-class hero is something to be. But then, six bullets, point blank, and not one of them hit Yoko. Think on.

  The young and the restless, the upwardly mobile and sexually aware new professionals. Formal coats, suits and ties. Mobile phones that come with cameras, games and wireless broadband internet capabilities. Glasses that didn’t come from Specsavers, more likely to have Red Or Dead on them.

  I could have been this, I reckon. Minded my schoolwork, stayed clear of the wrong crowd. Remained in Leith, kept my head down, grown a fucking goatee and ended up doing data entry for enough money to get hammered on the weekend.

  Yeah, right. Like there were data entry jobs in Leith. And I didn’t have the brains to work in HMV.

  I lied to myself about the chances I’d wasted. That’s the way the song goes, even if the tune doesn’t stick.

  Rob Stokes took the chance. The only thing he lied to himself about was thinking he could get away with it. He’s done a pretty good job so far, but it won’t last. He got out of there, and the staff at the club won’t talk. It comes back to me, that lifer look in their eyes. They don’t talk about Stokes because it isn’t true, can the, true. This phantom dealer with the balls to grab ten grand and bolt, he’s a myth. Those dealers, the last thing they want to believe is that it’s possible to get out of the business. And so they keep quiet and keep the cards coming.

  I drain the bottle, stifle wind. Call the girl behind the bar and get her to set me up with another and, what the hell, a double Jamesons to break the gas.

  A couple of blondes, one obviously more attractive than the other, are settling into a booth. Giggling, gesticulating.

  Career girls through and through. The attractive one has the burnt sienna skin of a sun-worshipper; her friend the Tango hue of a stand-and-tan, pale flab peeking out from under a crop top. The sad thing is, they’re both out of my league.

  There was a girl at school, but that was too long ago to mean anything. Some more along the line, but nothing you’d call love. Certainly nothing I’d call serious.

  Sex hasn’t been an issue.

  They told me inside, that’s all I’d want when I got out.

  Some lads, they became obsessed, nearly went blind with wanking. Which was a tough thing to manage, considering you didn’t get a lick of privacy. But that’s what they talked about, who they’d fuck their first night out. Jo Guest, Cameron Diaz, could’ve been Anne Widdecombe – it didn’t matter who, any hole’s a goal and all that. It didn�
��t happen for me. I had other things on my mind.

  Something always gets in the way.

  I down the Jamesons – balls to savouring it – and finish off the burn with a swallow of beer. And Christ, I wish this place had tables. Somewhere to sit. My knees are starting to feel loose. I pull myself upright and wander about, bottle in hand.

  Totally self-conscious as Bobby Womack launches into ‘Across 110th Street’, the volume rising, bass shaking. It’s official. I’m Shaft in photo negative.

  Up a flight of steps, and there’s a seating area overlooking the dance floor. I take the steps two at a time, feel a creak in my knees. Halfway up, I have to take a breather. I lean against the railing and survey the dance floor.

  A couple of hours, and I get my exercise going to and from the bar. My own fault – I broke the seal with that first Jamesons. When I check my watch, I have to concentrate on the numbers. Fuck. I should go home, but my legs feel like they want to stay here. Counting the drinks since this morning and it all adds up to too many.

  A scally lad just walked in. He’s at the bar now, counting the change in the palm of his hand. I freeze. He sticks out like a sausage in a synagogue, and paranoia tells me it’s me he’s after. It doesn’t make sense. But then, that’s the thing about paranoia. It doesn’t have to. I keep an eye on him as I climb the rest of the stairs, stick to whatever shadows I can find.

  The scally turns and leans against the bar, a pint in his hand. He hasn’t touched it, surveying the dance floor with all the intensity of a tail. He’s long-bodied, pale in the light. And he doesn’t look like he’s bothered about being out of place in here. He’s too busy thinking about something else. His steel face gives it away. Reading his watch would give him that same concentrated look, though.

  I sit on the edge of a backless couch with a cow-print pattern as the lights in the place start to move, dappled, across the dance floor.

  He looks around the place, his head bobbing as someone moves into his line of sight. He doesn’t think to lift his head.

  He sips from his pint. I’m trapped up here.

  Nah, nobody’s trapping this bloke. I’m a bigger man than that.

  I get up, finish my beer and put the empty bottle on the table next to me. Go straight for the stairs and down onto the dance floor, keep my head down but the scally in my peripheral vision. There’s only one way to get round this, I reckon. And that’s to call the bugger’s bluff.

  The scally rolls his shoulders back when he sees me. He’s definitely a tail. I turn on my heel and make straight for the bar. His face tightens. As I reach him, he moves to one side, his trainers squeaking on the floor.

  ‘You want a drink, mate?’ I say.

  “I know you?’

  “I was about to ask you the same thing.’

  ‘Dunno what you’re talking about,’ he says. His left eyebrow twitches; a terrible fucking liar.

  ‘Tell Morris I’m handling it.’

  ‘Fuck you talking about?’

  I look at him, make sure I’ve got his full attention. ‘You tell Morris I’m fine by myself. I don’t need help on this.’

  He shakes his head. ‘Who the fuck’s Morris?’ His face all screwed up, not meeting my eye.

  “I see you again, I’ll knock you on your arse,’ I say.

  Whoa, what’s up with you, man? I’m just having a drink.’

  ‘You’re a fuckin’ scally.’

  ‘Who you calling a scally?’

  “I don’t like being tailed.’

  ‘Tailed?’ He laughs. It makes him sound like a twat.

  I grab him by his tracksuit and his hand opens around his pint. The glass drops to the floor, smashes. And suddenly he’s all indignant, puffed up and ready to fight. I push him hard in the chest and he slams off the bar. The scally gets his balance the same time he gets his breath and makes for me.

  Someone shouts for security. But I’m already out the door.

  I pull my jacket tight, shivering from the cold and maybe just a little fear, start walking back to Victoria Station. I look over my shoulder, waiting for the tail to come running after me. He doesn’t. The pit of my stomach feels like it’s twitching, trying to digest something that isn’t there. I let loose with a loud belch, then light a cigarette to stave off the cold.

  My head’s whirling. Maybe I’m going nuts.

  Get it together.

  I find my Micra, slip behind the wheel and chew the inside of my cheek. I could go home, but I wouldn’t sleep. Check my watch, and it’s probably about time the dealers at Morris’ club knock off. I could stop by, see if I can’t have a word with that barman again, maybe chip some information out of him.

  I turn the key in the ignition and Billy Bragg starts playing, a busker voice and a one-amp guitar. Twenty-one years when he wrote this song. Doesn’t want to change the world. Who does? Too much work, too little respect. I’d settle for beer money and a roof over my head.

  A short drive to Hanover Street, and I park behind a Ford Escort with a bad paint job. I’m guessing that the staff go in the same way as the punters, so I watch the front door, Bragg turned down.

  This is how I spend most of my time these days. Sitting.

  Waiting. Watching. Listening to music at an inconspicuous volume and hoping to Christ I don’t get spotted. When I started this job, I was prison-hard. I wasn’t afraid to walk down them mean streets with a rude wit and clenched fists. I had ideas. But the streets take their toll, and I soon found out it was safer to sit in a car than be out in the open. I don’t run as fast as I’d like, not as fit as I need to be. So the Micra it is.

  I turn off Bragg, stick in The Smiths. I should invest in a CD player for the car. Spend some money on it. But then the kit would be worth more than the car, and I’d come out the flat one day, find a gaping hole where a Blaupunkt used to be, the rest of my motor in flames. Kids’ll torch anything round our way.

  So I’m sticking with tapes.

  Eject Morrissey and Marr, stick in The Animals. I listen to the opening bars of ‘We Gotta Get Out Of This Place’ then stop it before Eric Burdon kicks in with the vocals.

  Fuck’s the matter with me?

  You’re being followed, Cal.

  That’s not the case, though. I know that. That bloke in the bar, he could’ve wandered in just like me. He could’ve been checking out the meagre talent on display. There are some blokes who don’t realise that there are boundaries when it comes to scoring. I’ve seen enough pissed-up tracksuits trying it on with office totty. He might have been one of them.

  It’s this job. I’m not sure of anything. Doubt’s a pisser.

  Sitting in silence now, wishing I was home, but knowing I can’t go back yet. My skin crawls with the cold. I’d turn the heater on, but it’d be like kicking this car in the bollocks.

  Besides, the amount of drink in me might knock me out if I get too comfortable. I crack open a window, light a cigarette and inhale.

  My mouth feels dirty. I open the glove compartment; see if I can’t find a mint or gum or something. A tidal wave of mix tapes spills out onto the passenger seat. Tom Waits, Joy Division, more Smiths, Warren Zevon, The Stranglers, Elvis Costello, Ian Dury and some crappy tape I got free from a magazine that promised New Wave, but gave me New Romantic. And, at the back, an opened pack of Extra. I struggle with the wrapper, take the last piece. Pop the gum in my mouth even though the coating’s cracked and it tastes like an inner tube.

  I start shovelling the tapes back into the glove compartment, manage to pile them all in there and close it with a dull click.

  ‘Fuck are you doing here?’

  I jump across the car. It takes me a moment to place where the voice is coming from, and when I do, all the alcohol drains from my system.

  The doorman. That big bastard bouncer who chucked me out this afternoon. He’s wearing a black puffer jacket. Light catches the massive sovereign rings on his fingers and a dirty twinkle in his black eyes. ‘What’d I tell you?’

  I tr
y to get my cool back. ‘What did you tell me? My memory’s shot.’

  ‘You’re not welcome at the club.’

  ‘I’m not at the club.’

  ‘You’re near enough. What you waiting on?’

  ‘A bloke can’t sit in his car?’

  ‘Get out.’

  ‘You know I’m working for Morris.’

  “I don’t give a shit who you’re working for. Get out the car or I fuckin’ drag you out.’

  ‘Listen to me,’ I say, but my voice cracks into a whine.

  ‘Morris Tiernan hired me to find a dealer who used to work for him. His name’s Rob Stokes, right? And he’s fucked off with Morris’ money. Now Tiernan wants ‘

  One hand on my mouth, the other wrapping fingers around my throat. I choke out. The bouncer removes one hand, pulls his fist back and cracks me hard with those sovereigns. I black out for a second, come back to the here and now with his fingernails digging into my neck. Blood all over my jacket and one nostril feels like it’s been ripped open.

  I scrabble against the door, black flies instead of vision.

  He gazes at me, eyes half-closed, and squeezes my throat.

  I try to tell him to wait up, hold on, let me explain, but it comes out like Donald Duck with a voice box.

  ‘Get out the car,’ he says. Low, soft.

  I get out the car, I’m as good as dead. I don’t get out of the car, I’m as good as dead. Rock, meet hard place. My hands flap, telling him to calm down. Ease off so’s I can open the door. If I get out, I might have a chance to take off running, even though my lungs feel like they’re fit to burst.

  I know I wouldn’t get far, but when the devil shits in your pillow, sometimes you’ve just got to pretend it’s extra stuffing.

  The bouncer’s fingers loosen. I try to smile at him. He doesn’t smile back.

  I glance at the tape deck. It’s still on. Which means a swift twist of the ignition, and I’m out of here. That’s if I can manage it without him crushing my windpipe.

  Reach across and unlock my door. The doorman removes his hand and cracks the knuckles. I rub my bruised neck, cough my voice back into action. ‘I wish you’d let me explain.’