by Ray Banks
‘I’m just hired to find them.’
‘You’re a fuckin’ hatchet man. You’re setting them up.’
‘Go home. Get some sleep.’
He pulls himself out of his slump. ‘You’re a fuckin’ hatchet man!” he shouts.
I walk away from the table, resist the urge to reach across and smack him hard in the nose. He repeats himself, then deflates like someone stuck a pin in him.
Hatchet man. Fuck’s sake. I can’t get anyone on my side.
EIGHTEEN
I were watching Predator 2 when the doorbell went. Put me spliff in the ashtray and downed me Courvoisier and got out me beanbag, went to the door to give the cunt some grief.
Dad stabbed his Rothmans out on the doorway. ‘Mo.’
‘Y’alright, Dad. I were just watching a film, like.’
‘Uh-huh,’ he said and he went into the lounge. Danny Glover were investigating a crime scene done by the Predator.
Drug dealers dead all over the shop. I didn’t give a shit, like.
Already seen the good bit when the Predator fucked ‘em all up, Rastas getting proper splattered all over the shop and this bird with her tits hanging out giving it with the vocals.
Weren’t as good as the first one, mind.
Dad looked down at the telly, grabbed the remote and knocked off the volume. ‘You been working, Mo?’
‘This and that,’ I said.
‘Pills is what I heard.’
‘Aye, I do some pills. Some shrooms, some resin.’
‘It paying alright?’ he said. “I didn’t know people were still doing pills.’
‘The old school still like ‘em. Sometimes I do ‘em powder, like.’
‘Coke?’
‘Nah, the E.’
‘Uh-huh.’ He looked around. ‘What’s your mark-up?’
‘On the powder?’
‘On the pills.’
‘Couple quid.’
Dad nodded. He looked like he were thinking about summat. ‘You do the Bruce Lees, but you don’t do coke.’
‘Nah. Too hard to get hold of. You want some speed, I can get you some speed, Dad.’
‘I’m not looking to buy, son. You be interested in the bigger deal?’
I looked at me dad. Then at the spliff and the brandy. Man, I wanted a drink and a draw right then, but it weren’t right.
Would’ve made us look like a junkie, unprofessional. ‘What d’you mean?’
He were still thinking. “I mean what I said. You interested in the bigger deal?’
‘What, like smack or what?’
‘Like volume, Mo.’
I didn’t know what to say. So I said, ‘Aye, course I would.’
Dad looked at the floor. ‘Glad you said that, ‘cause the way you’re going, boy, you’ll be lucky to keep peddling pills.’
‘Eh?’
“I came over here because I wanted to offer you something.
I wanted to get you involved.’
‘Cheers, Dad.’
‘But I get word that you don’t take leave it as an answer.
You stood in front of me and you promised that you’d wait on the fuckin’ call from Innes; you promised that. And I said leave well enough alone, let Innes sort it out. That’s what I said to you, wasn’t it?’ Dad lit a Rothmans. ‘That’s what I told you.’
‘What’s this got to do with?’
“I told you to do nowt, didn’t I? I said Innes was handling this.’
‘Aye, and he is.’
‘Then what’s the score with Walker, eh?’
I shook me head. “I don’t know nowt about it, Dad.’
Me head jerked back like whiplash. Me cheek caught on fire. When I brushed the water away, I saw me dad with his hand returning to his side. ‘Thought I’d raised you to be a better liar, Mo.’ He walked over to me beanbag and picked up the brandy bottle. “I told you, you took care of this, you’d fuck it up. You got Darren Walker to tail Innes, you got made.’
I gritted me teeth. Me cheek were flared, man. Fuckin’ hurt like a bastard. ‘Swear to God, Dad, I don’t know nowt about it.’
Dad took a swig from the bottle. ‘You lie to me again, son, I’ll break this bottle over your skull’
‘You wanted to keep this in the family,’ I said. ‘You got no right to get Innes on this.’
‘I had every right.’
‘Alison’s my fuckin’ sister.’
‘And you haven’t got the nous to deal with it. You’re your mother’s kid, Mo. And I kept you on from the goodness of my heart. But you’re old enough to get your arse kicked. So don’t go pissing me off. Because I don’t owe you nowt.’
‘You’re me dad.’
‘I’m your dad, but I wouldn’t trust you as far as I could shit you, son. You’re a fuck-up. You’re no good to me and you’re no good to yourself. You want to get yourself a proper fuckin’ job and stop playing the gangster, because you haven’t got the bollocks for the real thing. You carry on playing and you’re gonna get hurt. And I’m not gonna be there to kiss it better, you understand me?’
‘I can handle this,’ I said.
‘You can handle the rough stuff if you want. You get to deal with Stokes but only when Innes finds him, alright? Don’t go beaking it, Mo. You’re nowt but a pair of fists and flick knife.
Sooner you get that in your skull, the better.’
I didn’t say nowt. I stared at him. Fuck him. I wanted to deck the fucker. Cunt. Me eyes hurt. My throat hurt. Fuck him.
“I wanted to get you involved, Mo. I really did. I thought if you could handle keeping your fuckin’ nose out of this thing with Alison, you were mature enough to do some good work.
But you couldn’t even do that. So you’re locked down, son.
And if you get yourself in trouble with the law, I’ll leave you to the spurs.’
‘Dad ‘
‘You’re lucky I don’t call this whole thing off right now.
But the deal stands because I’m a soft bastard. In the meantime, you stay well away. You get me?’
I shook me head. There were no talking to the cunt.
“I ask you a question, you answer it,’ he said.
‘Aye, I get you,’ I said.
‘Good. Make sure it sinks in this time.’
And when Dad left, he took me bottle with him. I sat on the edge of the sofa and rubbed me cheek. Fuckin’ bastard, talking to me like that.
Don’t touch Innes, Mo. He’s far too fuckin’ important to piss about with. He’s fuckin’ golden balls, isn’t he? Moral fuckin’ fibre an’ all that. And a brain in his head.
He weren’t the only one with a brain.
Dad didn’t say nowt about Rossie and Baz. I could stay locked down, but them lads were free as fuckin’ birds.
Which meant that Innes were fucked big style.
NINETEEN
Stokes is with Morris’ little girl. And Alison’s in Newcastle.
It explains a lot. Why Morris was so keen to use me instead of one of his scallies. He wants to keep this hushed and he knows I can keep my mouth shut. Word gets out that Tiernan’s got Lolita for a daughter, well, anything could happen. It’s a weakness. And Morris has got any number of enemies who’d play on that something rotten. So he’s nipping the bugger in the bud before it becomes public. Keep it close, which is why I have to phone Mo when I find them. It makes sense, but something about it makes me feel sick.
So I’m going to Newcastle. I don’t know anything about the place, other than it’s chock full of angry Geordies and bad football. Girls with scrunchies so tight in their hair, they look permanently surprised. The same as Manchester, only colder, more hostile and all delivered in an accent that makes Glaswegian sound like Received Pronounciation. Wish you were here.
Check my mobile. More from Brenda.
‘Mr Innes, it’s Brenda Lang. I can understand why you don’t want to talk to me, but I need to talk to you. Please call me.’
‘Please, Mr Innes. I’d like you to
call me at this number.’
More pleases. More Mister Innes. Then the messages become slurred.
‘Call me, Callum. I need your help.’
‘You promised you’d help me. You remember? You promised.’
And then finally, the heavy, throaty voice of a depressed and angry drunk: ‘Fuck you.’
She’s a charmer. I can see how a guy would be smitten enough to marry her.
I grab a pile of clothes that smell cleanish, chuck an extra pair of pants into my holdall. Nan always said, you got to wear clean skids in case you’re ever in an accident. What she didn’t mention was that it didn’t matter. At the moment of impact, you shit yourself thin. But Nan’s advice is hard to shift, even if she was a bampot. Clear my bathroom out and dump the essentials into the bag. I pocket some Nurofen. I get the feeling I’ll need them on a regular basis. Maybe I’ll see if I can get something stronger up there. Until then, I know I’ll be popping these fuckers like Smarties.
I check my nose, realise it’s not healed yet, and replace the plaster. Check my throat and it looks worse than it feels. Give it a few more days and I shouldn’t look like I’ve had a fight with a hoover.
Look at my watch. It’s early yet. But what the hell, I call Brenda Lang. I promised myself I wouldn’t, but this is the end of the line for her. Put a full stop on the end of that sentence.
‘Mrs Lang, it’s Callum Innes.’
‘Innes?’ She sounds groggy. I must have woken her up.
Sounds like she has a thumping hangover. Good. ‘I’ve been calling you.’
‘I know you have, Mrs Lang. And it’s got to stop.’
‘Wait, I wanted to apologise.’
‘For what? Grassing me up for something I didn’t do? Or leaving obscene messages on my mobile?’
‘My husband’s in critical condition.’
‘So I hear. But if you think I’m going to head round to ICU and hold a pillow on his face, you’ve got another think coming.’
She launches into a coughing fit. It sounds painful. When she’s finished, she says, ‘I know you didn’t do it, Mr Innes.’
‘That makes two of us. How’s about you tell the busies that so I don’t have walk around with an extra shadow, eh?’
“I have told them. I’m sorry. I just got scared. Is there somewhere we can meet?’
You what? ‘I’m leaving town today, Mrs Lang. And we’ve got nowt to talk about.’
“I need to find out who did this,’ she says, her voice rising into a whine.
‘Then you need to trust the police.’
‘If it’s a question of money ‘
‘It’s a question of being fucked over once already, Mrs Lang. Look, I’m sorry you don’t have the perfect marriage, and I’m sorry that your husband got done over. But you’ve got to understand, you put me in a position where I can’t play the PI for you. Get someone else.’
‘You were the only person I talked to, you know.’
“I don’t care. It was none of my business then, and it’s certainly none of my business now.’
“I thought you were a professional,’ she says.
‘A professional what?’
And I hang up before she answers. I suck my teeth. A bad taste in my mouth. I try to swill it out with coffee, but my brew’s gone cold. I spit back into the mug, go to the kitchen, drink a glass of water and stick the kettle on. As I wait for it to boil, I lean against the counter and stare at a brown stain on the lino.
That could have gone better. But fuck it; it’s over with now.
Hopefully. I pour the dregs from my mug into the sink and make myself another coffee. Light a cigarette as I walk back through to the living room.
Christ, what did she think I was going to do? The woman got me nicked. She think I was just going to roll over and forget it? Probably. Most people do. Brenda, Donkey, Morris fuckin’ Tiernan.
But this Innes has balls.
I shouldn’t be working for Morris; I know that. But it’s something I have to do. I’ll try to keep Paulo out of it as much as I can. Let him know that he’s not involved, and this is something that I’ll finish, no harm done. It won’t take more than a couple of days of visiting casinos before I find Rob Stokes. The way Kev went on, the dealer has a gambling problem. And with all that cash at his disposal, the first itch he’s going to get is to punt it.
It’s not much of a plan, but it’s something. It’s a lead. And a lead’s better than sitting here.
I grab cash and keys, head out of the flat. As I tuck some of Morris’ money into my wallet, I notice a brown fleck on one of the notes. I pick at it with my nail and it comes away. Dirty money, blood money, it bubbles to the surface of my mind.
And then I tell myself to shut up.
Yeah, keep telling yourself this is going to work out peachy, Gal.
Down the stairs, out into the carpark. My Micra looks like it’s fit for the scrap yard. I only hope she can make it up to Newcastle and back. But what the hell, I’m living dangerously.
The caffeine’s slipped into my blood stream, got me a little hyper. As I slip behind the wheel, I slam in Hamell On Trial.
‘I’m good to go, I’m good to go, y’know…’
The lads’ club still has the smell of church about it, that musty odour of enforced worship hanging in the air. At first glance, you’d think Paulo was running an under-age fight club. The lads in here have scars; they fight like they mean it. All Paulo tries to do is control it, mould that rage into something that might end up in a career. That, or they tire themselves straight. Hard knocks, but it seems to work.
I walk through the middle of it, strip lighting above giving everyone jaundice, casting their eyes way back in the sockets.
A couple of lads I know are in the corner, slapping gloves. As I pass, one of them turns and gives me a nod that passes for a greeting. I nod back.
Paulo’s in the ring, a ginger kid’s forehead against his. He’s talking low and intense. Looks like they’re praying together, but I know he’s prepping the kid, jazzing the little fucker up. I notice that Paulo’s holding up a pair of focus pads. As the kid steps back, Paulo brings up the pads and hunkers down behind them. The kid’s eyebrows knot in the centre of his forehead, his eyes crinkled at the edges.
Then the kid lets fly, windmilling three wild punches into the air. His fourth connects without force. His fifth catches the edge of the pad and throws him off-balance. He stops, wheezing. As I get closer, I watch the kid wipe a mixture of tears and snot from his red cheeks. Paulo slaps him on the back, sees me, and tells the kid to get changed.
‘Y’alright, Cal?’ he says.
‘I’m okay.’
‘Just, I ain’t seen you about, son. Thought you might be avoiding the place.’
‘Nah, I’ve just been busy.’
Paulo leans against the ropes. ‘You up for a spar, then?’
I check my watch. ‘Nah, mate. Can’t do it. I’ve got business.’
‘Going somewhere?’
‘Newcastle.’
‘You’ll need a warm-up, then. Them lads up there, they’re not the Queensbury Rules type.’
“I don’t know if I’ve got the time.’ Check my watch again to make the point. I’d thought about telling Paulo exactly what’s going on, but all that just flew right out the window. I’ve bottled it and, yeah, I’m a fucking coward, but what about it?
I want out of here. And once this job’s all over and done with, maybe I’ll find the nerve to come back.
This is Paulo, this is the guy who got me out on the community visits, basically got me out of prison. And I bring the Tiernans into his club. Talk about gratitude.
‘C’mon,’ he says. ‘We’ll get you loose before you hit the road.’
As I get changed, my stomach growls. I don’t feel right this is a bad idea – but there’s fuck all I can do about it. My tooth tweaks and I suck the blood from my mouth, wonder how much I can swallow before I get sick. Feels like I’ve already reached that stage. I lo
ok around for a gum-shield, but can’t find one, so I walk out into the club hoping that Paulo’s going to go easy on me.
He’s already up in the ring. As I swing through the ropes, he turns and smiles at me. He’s not wearing a gum-shield either. Which means he wants to talk.
As soon as he notices the bruises on my neck, Paulo says, ‘What’s up with that?’
‘Nothing,’ I say.
‘Them love bites?’
‘No, they’re not love bites.’
He bounces on the balls of his feet, slaps his gloves together. ‘Then what’s up with your neck, Cal?’
“I told you.’
‘What’s it called? That auto-erotic stuff? You’re not into that, are you? Never struck me as the kinky type.’
I throw a weak punch. ‘Fuck off.’
He knocks my glove away with his right. ‘I’m just asking.’
‘I’m not kinky, Paulo. You know me better than that.’
‘What about your nose?’
‘Cut myself shaving.’
‘Uh-huh.’
We circle each other. I try to concentrate on what I’m going to tell him about Morris, but he breaks it with a swing to the left. I catch the side of it with my cheek. My tooth screams. Give my head a shake and I move that little bit faster. Paulo’s a big lad and he lumbers, but he can take a shitload of damage before he breaks step. Comes from taking beating on a regular basis for the last forty years, lines and scars marking his face like a roadmap of bad moves.
‘Pity you weren’t in yesterday,’ he says. ‘You had a visitor.’
‘Yeah?’
‘Old mate of yours.’ He shakes his head, working out the kinks in his neck. ‘A copper.’
He bounces to my left, and I jump too far, miss what should have been an easy blow. He punches me lightly on the shoulder. Playing with me. Testing the water.
‘Donkin?’ I say.
‘Aye, that was his name. Fat lad, looked like he could use a spar himself. Except he had scar tissue on his knuckles.’
‘What’d he want?’
‘He wanted you,’ says Paulo, faking a right, throwing a left.
I miss it, but only just. ‘And what’d you say?’
“I told him I wasn’t your fuckin’ secretary and he should find you his fuckin’ self.’
