by Ray Banks
I smile, but it gets knocked off my face with another quick left. It connects, hard. I grab a few steps and back away. Paulo meant that one.
‘Why d’you think he was sniffing about?’ he says.
‘You know what the fuckin’ busies are like, especially the likes of Donkey. Once a con, always a con. You must’ve had your fair share.’
‘Yeah, but not without reason. What you been doing, Cal?’
‘I’ve been busy.’ Another duck, bob, smack in the head with Paulo’s right. That one makes me dizzy; I have to shake it out. Takes me a second.
‘Then it’s to do with Morris,’ he says, punctuating it with another blow to the side of my face.
I back off again. Shake my head clear. Fuck’s sake.
‘I’m not working for Morris.’
‘What was Mo doing in here the other morning, then?’
‘I didn’t take that job.’
‘So there was a job.’
‘Yeah, but I didn’t take it.’ I get my vision back, hold up my gloves.
‘Good lad,’ says Paulo. He one-twos, batters some air.
Telegraphs his right and I sneak in with mine. My glove connects with his ribs, a decent shot, but he absorbs it. ‘You wouldn’t bottle it and not tell me, would you?’ he says.
I hunker, dodge. He doesn’t even try. I feel like a ponce.
‘What you getting at, mate?’
He lunges once my gloves part, lands two heavy blows in quick succession to my midriff, follows up with a corker to my mouth. The tooth goes into overdrive.
‘Fuckin’ hell,’ I say, putting one glove to my cheek. ‘Hang fire, Paulo.’
He doesn’t. Paulo dips to my left and winds me with a deep blow to the gut. I crease, feel bile burning in my throat. Down to my knees with a thump and water in my eyes. I wheeze like a dying dog.
Can’t catch my breath. I look up at him and my head’s gone light. He’s swirling in a mist. I blink a few times and hot water leaks down the sides of my face. My mouth hangs open.
The tooth doesn’t hurt so much if there’s air running around it.
Paulo has stopped moving. Standing there, staring at me.
‘You know what I did after I got out of the ring, Cal?’ he says. “I bounced. I worked the doors. Sometimes I worked the doors up Cheetham Hill and nearly got fuckin’ shot doing it.
So I tried the city, right?’
I nod, because I can’t find the breath to say anything.
“I worked seven nights a week, doubles on the weekend.
Got so’s I couldn’t look at a fuckin’ beer, ‘cause I knew what it did. It made lads bolshy. And I was doing the only thing I know how to do. Fight. Or break up fights by knocking heads.
Most of the time it was pretty much the same thing.’
I whistle out a slow breath through my nose. Stare at the canvas. I can see drops of blood and wonder where it’s coming from. Probably my nose. I’m a captive audience, just the way he wants it.
‘The money was shit and the work was shittier. Then one night, Morris Tiernan comes up to me and he says do I want to work for him. Nothing harsh, like, but he needs a bloke who can handle himself. And I’m like, nah, that’s alright, don’t worry about it, I’m fine, right? You listening?’
My tongue goes to the tooth. It waggles in the gum. A copper taste. I pull myself to my feet and wipe a trail of bloody snot across the back of my glove. Paulo’s staring at me like he’s waiting on an answer, so I give him one: ‘Yeah, I’m listening.’
He smacks his gloves. ‘C’mon then.’
“I think I’m about done for the day, mate. My tooth’s killing me.’
Paulo launches a quick left at my shoulder. I’m thrown off balance, one foot back to steady myself.
‘We’re not finished yet, Cal,’ he says.
“I mean it, Paulo. I’ve had enough.’
‘Not yet,’ he says. There’s a weird glint in his eye. I’ve seen it before, normally when he’s bawling out one of the kids for throwing a dirty punch or giving him shit about why they haven’t attended the club. ‘I’m telling a story here, Cal. And we’re finished when I say we’re finished.’
‘Paulo, I’ve heard this story.’
“I know you have. But somewhere along the line you missed the point of it’
He wants to play hard, fine. Fuck him. I sidestep as he lunges. One of his punches hits my chest. I land a strong glove on the side of his head. Paulo shakes it off. I try another. He punches my wrist.
‘So I tell Morris Tiernan where to go, right?’ he says. “I tell him I’m not interested. And that should’ve been it, am I right?’ He holds out one glove to me. I try to hit it, but he whips his hand away in time. ‘You’d think he’d get the message. But no, he sends a lad round to keep asking.
And this lad, he won’t take no for an answer either. So he starts on with the lip, starts on with the “stupid fuckin’ cunt” bit.’
I try to back up, but Paulo bears down. ‘What’s your point, Paulo?’
‘The point, Callum, is that Morris Tiernan doesn’t stop at one visit. Which means when Mo doesn’t turn up here the next day and neither do you, I get to thinking. And I don’t like what I come up with.’
‘Paulo ‘
‘You took the fuckin’ job,’ he says. Straight out with it, deadpan.
I stand still, arms by my sides. He winds down. I can’t look at him. I stare at his feet.
Well?’ he says.
‘Yeah,’ I say.
‘Yeah, what?’
I look up at him, feeling like one of those lads of his. ‘Yeah, I took the job.’
His jaw clenches, but he tries to look calm. He nods slowly, then breathes out. Says, ‘That’s what I thought.’
I shrug. “I had to, mate.’
‘Nah, you’re alright,’ he says. His eyes have glazed over.
When he speaks, it’s like he’s reading it off a cue card: ‘You think you should do this, you think you should risk another five-stretch, you go ahead and do it. You were good to keep it out of here. But you finish this off quick. This is the last time.
I hear you’re working full-time for the man, I’ll cut you off.
You play favourites and you’ll find yourself out in the cold.’
‘I get it.’
He looks at me, frowns. There’s a brief flare, then back to glass. ‘Nah, mate. I don’t think you get it at all. That’s the fuckin’ problem.’
Your prison number is given to keep track of your property, files and paperwork. It remains the same even if you move to another prison. It should be written on any letters addressed to you.
I didn’t get any post, didn’t want any. Who was going to write to me? Declan? Nah, he was busy getting himself fucked up. Word going round was that Dec had developed a taste for downers. Besides, I told him not to visit. Told my mam the same thing. My uncle Kenny told me I’d brought shame on the family. I told him to go fuck himself.
You have a weekly allowance of 2 pounds 50 pence 10 pounds or 15 pounds based on your privilege level. Smoking is not allowed in visits areas.
Exercise is thirty minutes to an hour, depending on weather and category.
Rules and regulations, the twenty-three bang-up when a knife went from the kitchen or a tool from the workshop.
Locked in and pacing the cell, wanting to look like a jungle cat, but ending up like a stray dog. Afterwards, the spurs shook with aggression. Some lads didn’t take to being banged up. Which was fucking unfortunate.
Some lads thrived on the aggro.
A lifer called James Figgis had taken a liking to me. The bloke was an ex-hooligan with a London Intercity firm, said he had links to the severe right-wing extremists, the real bad blood-oath bastards. He followed me about the yard, gobbing in my ear when he talked. The world, run by Jews, the New World Order dedicated to keeping the Anglo-Saxon down, how the Pakis and wogs and chinks and the rest of those faceless, bloodless East Europeans with their hollow eyes and sticky
fingers were ripping the jobs from the common white man. White was right and there weren’t no black in the Union Jack.
He said he’d pegged a guy in Birmingham, a Rasta. Took a double barrel and the guy’s kneecaps point blank.
‘He screamed like a fuckin’ coon,’ he said.
That kind of attitude, it’s not long before someone takes offence. The someone in question was an Asian guy Figgis took to be a terrorist. His name was Kumar, he was a Muslim, and he worked in the kitchens. One morning in the breakfast line, Figgis went to grab a bowl of Rice Krispies and Kumar threw a pan of boiling water in his face. The Asian watched me, two cons back, as Figgis dropped to the floor, screeching, steam rising off his face like piss on a cold day.
I couldn’t take my eyes off Figgis. His hands up around his face, but not touching. Too afraid, his skin scalded, his eyes screwed shut and stinging red. Screaming like a bairn. Like ‘a coon’.
A screw grabbed Figgis under the arms and pulled him out of the kitchen while we all looked on. Figgis’ legs kicked out, his feet squeaked against the lino. Kumar returned to the back of the kitchen, but he never took his eyes off me. They had a matte finish, just completely black.
I didn’t say nowt. Kept my mouth firm.
‘Yeah, you better,’ Kumar said to me on the spur. ‘You better keep it locked, mate.’
His voice was too deep for his frame. It felt like God was speaking to me, some really nasty Old Testament cunt.
There was a bang-up after that. I would have been glad of it if Kumar hadn’t spoken to me. But his voice boomed in my skull.
You will be eligible for community visits after you serve at least three-quarters of your sentence, depending on your Parole Eligibility Date (PED) and your Sentence Expiry Date (SED).
It couldn’t come fast enough.
20.
‘You can fuck yourself,’ said Baz. ‘That’s what you can do.’
‘That’s nice talk, Baz,’ I said.
‘You chucked a mug of fuckin’ tea at us. I were just messing.’
‘And so were I.’
‘I know when you’re messing, Mo. And you wasn’t messing then.’
‘Fuck off and get round here.’
‘Get the bus, nobhead.’
“I told you once, Baz.’
‘Get Rossie.’
‘Get fucked. And get round here.’
I bleeped him off. Fuckin’ Baz with a pet lip on ‘cause I chucked a mug of tea at him. Fuck’s sake, what were the world coming to when a mate couldn’t chuck a mug at another mate without all this whiney bitch nonsense. Not like I burned him bad or owt. Fuck’s sake, even if I did it’d be an improvement to that face. And the fucker had no right messing with us like that.
He weren’t the one worried about his fuckin’ sister took up with a lad twice her age. It were embarrassing, man. Humiliating. What kind of family was we that’d let that happen?
So there were more to be done than pissing with Baz, know what I mean? I sat on me couch and smoked a ciggie, drank a bottle of Vittel. Did a wrap of speed to break me into the day.
Me cheek were back to normal. Nothing scarred this cat.
When Baz rang the buzzer, I went downstairs, got in the passenger seat of his Nova. I laughed at Baz’s face: it were bright fuckin’ red and blotchy. ‘Fuckin’ hell, Baz,’ I said. ‘You want to stay out the sun, mate.’
‘Where we going?’ he said. He didn’t look at us.
‘We’re going to see Innes.’
“I thought you was done with that.’
‘What made you think that, Baz? I weren’t finished with that.’
‘But the lad ‘
‘The lad were a fuckin’ scally. Bout time someone with some sense took this thing over.’
‘Mo’
‘You gonna shut the fuck up and drive, mate? I know what I’m doing.’
Baz stuck his bottom lip out some more and started the engine. We drove and he didn’t say nowt until we was near Salford. Then he said, ‘You sure about this?’
‘What’s not to be sure about, man?’
‘Your dad’ll find out.’
The dad won’t find nowt out. You think Innes is gonna go crying to him?’
‘He might.’
‘Nah, I’ll make sure he don’t. So how’s about you fuckin’ button it and keep your eyes on the road.’
I pull away from the club, and I don’t feel anything. I drive in silence, head for the motorway on autopilot. Paulo’s right.
But it’s not my decision to make.
Part of me wants to be back inside.
The lockdown was safe. I had books and a Walkman that was so battered nobody bothered to nick it. I could close my eyes in there and pretend I was somewhere else until the lights went out. It was comforting, in a way. Yeah, there was the fear of what could happen on the landings, in the yard.
But if I kept my head down and my mind off it, nothing would happen. That’s what I believed, anyway.
There’s a hold up, traffic backed up all along the M62 outside Hull. If I’d bothered to turn the radio on, I probably would have heard about it. As it stands, I’m stuck behind Corsa with a Baby On Board sign in the back, but no sign of a kid. I stare at the woman driving. Catch her face in her rear view. She doesn’t have a kid. Not unless they’ve found a way to stop the menopause.
Part of me wants to rear end that Corsa. My foot hovers over the accelerator until my ankle cramps.
Paulo nearly beat the shit out of me. He had no right to do that, even if he is a mate. I stood up for him enough times in the past. People giving me shit because I was working for a homosexual. Oh right, like the only way I got out of prison was because he fancied me. Get a grip. Sly innuendo and finger pointing. But the trouble with finger pointing is that someone’s bound to snap it off at the knuckle.
And Christ, when did I get so angry?
The Corsa turns off at the next service area, and so do I.
The air smells like exhaust fumes. I step into a cafe, order a fried breakfast. When it comes, it looks like someone’s thrown up on my plate and put toast by the side of it. I drink a bad cup of tea (their fault) loaded with sugar (my fault) and wish I could smoke.
My jaw aches where Paulo took a right against it. My tooth still smarts. At least the bruises on my neck feel like they’re disappearing.
The knife and fork squeak against the plate like nails on a blackboard, so I don’t finish my breakfast. I grab a piece of toast. Halfway through it, I realise I need a piss. When I throw the toast back, there’s blood in the butter.
In the gents, I splash water on my face and try to blink back the fatigue. I’m not that far from Newcastle now, I can feel it.
My stomach clenches.
Fuckin’ coward.
And Tiernan knows it. That’s why he’s using me. And that’s why Paulo let me carry on. The same reason he lets a new kid take their frustrations out on him. Sometimes you can’t be told. Sometimes you have to learn it the hard way.
That was never going to happen with me on my arse waiting for work.
I had work, and I blew it out. Then again, what was that work? Trawling back alleys for someone daft enough to put Dennis Lang in hospital. And whoever did that had more balls than sense.
Which rules me right out. Thanks for thinking of me though, Donkey.
I walk back out into the cafe, hand over cash to a woman with a face that looks like it’s been put together by a fouryear-old.
Then I’m out in the Grim Up North. I shield my lighter with the inside of my jacket, light an Embassy. This place is Yorkshire Ripper territory. Hindley and Brady. Salesmen, truck drivers and cheapskate families barrelling up and down these motorways every day. It’s depressing the fuck out of me.
I never thought I’d say this, but the sooner I’m in Newcastle, the better.
We pulled up and Baz were still sulking like a kid. I nabbed one of his ciggies before I got out the car and lit it with me Clipper, hand cupped round the flam
e. Took a couple lights, but I got the bastard smoking in a bit. Walked to the club doors, checked I had me Stanley in me trackie bottoms.
Wouldn’t need to use it, most likely, but a gunslinger don’t leave the house without his shooting iron. Got a bad taste in me mouth and spat at the wall as I clocked a couple lads standing by the doors. They was lads I used to know from the estate. Used to be sound an’ all, but gone the way of most of ‘em round here. Fuckin’ soft as. When the skinny one didn’t move out me way, I gave him a dig. He looked like he wanted to make summat of it, so I gave him a couple seconds. ‘You want summat, son?’
His shoulders dropped. ‘Nah, mate.’
Mate. Fuck off. I pushed open the doors, got a whiff of the place. Christ, it stank in there. Sweat. Damp. I didn’t notice it last time I was here, so they must’ve had a bunch of people stink the place out in the meantime. They looked like they was still working hard at it an’ all. Couple kids in boxing garb in the ring, knocking the shit out of each other. Couple more on a bench. Got the Rocky theme in me head. Did a couple steps from me own repertoire.
And then there were Paulo Gray, come out the back office and headed straight for us. And fuckin’ hell, he were ugly. I put me hand in me trackie bottoms, double checked the Stanley. Aye, I were ready to cut this fuck up if need be.
‘Help you, Mo?’
‘Where’s Innes?’ I said.
‘He’s not here,’ said Paulo.
‘Fuck d’you mean he’s not here? Fuck is he?’
‘What d’you want Callum for?’
‘Who gives a fuck what I want him for? Where is he?’
‘You want to step in the back office, Mo?’
‘Is he back there?’
‘Aye, son,’ said Paulo like I were a fuckin’ spaz. ‘He’s back there. I want a word.’
I followed him. But when we went in the office, I kept the door open. Just in case he tried any of that poof shite on me. I wanted to have witnesses just in case. Paulo leaned against the desk and stared at me. ‘What’s going on, Mo?’
I jerked me head. ‘Nowt to do with you.’
‘Then why you round?’
“I were after Innes. This is his place.’
