by Ray Banks
‘Nah, this is my place.’
‘Fuck off,’ I said.
‘Tell you what I think. I think you should leave and I think you should stay far far away from here.’
‘Fuck do you get off talking to me like that?’
‘I mean it, Mo. I’m giving you fair warning, son.’
‘Fuck off. Where’s Innes? You tell us where he is and I won’t come round no more.’
‘How about I don’t tell you where he is and you don’t come round no more?’
‘You taking the piss, son?’
“I ain’t your son, son. You keep talking to me like that, I might have to persuade you to fuck off,’ he said.
‘I don’t swing like that.’
Paulo smiled and he got away from the desk. Then I felt the fuckin’ world choke out with a bang. Next thing I knew, the door were slammed shut and he had me up against the fuckin’ wall. Hand on me fuckin’ neck, thumb in me Adam’s apple, like. I started on at him, but I couldn’t get the breath to say owt.
‘If I wanted you as my fuck-puppet, Mo, you’d be toothless right now.’
I jerked at that. Nah, mate. No fuckin’ way.
He held me tight and me heart started battering at me ribs.
‘Don’t worry yourself, Mo. You’re not my type.’
I screwed me face up. Bout the only thing I could do to tell him to fuck right off. Struggled with me right hand, tried to get it into me pocket where I knew the Stanley waited.
‘Cal’s a good lad,’ said Paulo. ‘And you got the talent of everything you touch, it turns to shite. He’s doing this thing right now because he thinks he has to. Don’t get it into your head that he wants to do it, because I know for a fact he fuckin’ doesn’t.’
I shifted under his hand, felt me teeth grind together. If I could’ve got gob in me mouth, I would’ve spat at the cunt.
Me fingers near the Stanley now. He caught summat in me face, though. I’d grabbed the Stanley when I heard this muffled crack and then this fuckin’ agony in me hand. Paulo let us go and I dropped to the floor.
Looked up and there he were with me Stanley in his hand, staring at it like he’d found it up his arse. And he’d broke me fuckin’ finger an’ all, I were sure of it. I looked down and saw me first finger lean to one side. It weren’t supposed to do that.
Plenty of water in me eyes, but a throat that were dry as fuck.
Paulo chucked the Stanley at me. I got out the way. It clattered on the floor.
‘Go on then,’ he said. ‘Pick it up. Billy fuckin’ Big Bollocks.’
I looked at the Stanley. It shone. Looked back at Paulo. He were a big fucker for his age, like. And faster than I reckoned him.
‘C’mon,’ he said. ‘You want to be the big man, you try coming at me.’
And if it’d been me, man, I would’ve told it loud and proud. But him, he were just standing there and talking dead quiet. Relaxed on the outside, but he had proper mental eyes, summat I’d never seen in him before. I cradled me hand and got up off me knees. ‘You’re fuckin’ dead.’
‘Aye, son? That right? C’mon, then.’
I shook me head. ‘Nah, not now.’
‘Why not now? Fuck’s the matter with you? You can’t take a sprained finger? Who’s the fuckin’ poof now?’ He took a step forward; I took one towards the door.
‘You’re dead.’
‘Keep saying it, son. One day it’ll come true.’
‘You’re fuckin’ dead.’
And I left the Stanley on the floor, pelted it out the club and made it back to Baz.
‘What happened to you?’ he said as I got in the Nova.
‘Nowt,’ I said. ‘Just start the fuckin’ car.’
When I hit the edge of the city, concrete blocks looming across a sickly-looking sky, I turn off The Chemical Brothers.
Down by the Quayside, I find a parking space and book myself into a Travel Inn. The place is right in the middle of development. On one side, new office buildings, all glinting glass and virgin sandstone. On the other, council flats.
Somewhere it feels like a line’s been drawn, and neither party is going to cross it without a damned good reason.
‘Would that be a smoking room?’ says the receptionist.
I take a drag on an Embassy. ‘Take a wild guess, love.’
The casinos don’t open for another hour so I spend my time staring at the ceiling of my room. A quick scan of the Yellow Pages, and I only find two casinos in Newcastle. The city is behind the times. Manchester’s got at least six legit clubs. But I’m glad. Two casinos are easier to canvass. That’s if Rob Stokes is even up here.
I open the desk drawer, find a Gideon Bible and slam it closed again. Pull myself off the bed and wander through to the bathroom. I’ve nothing better to do, so I have my second shower of the day. It feels like I’m being beaten up, but after a while I can feel the knots in my shoulder melt. Towel off and have to use both sachets of coffee to get a decent cup. Then I reach for my mobile and check for messages. Declan’s is still on there, so I give him a ring. ‘How you doing, bruv?’
‘I’m good,’ he says.
‘Where are you?’
‘I’m in the pub. I just got out of a meeting.’
Oh, that’s just fantastic. A guy goes to an Outreach programme, then nips to the pub afterwards. Mind you, I can’t blame him. Anything that good for you has got to give you a thirst. ‘You’re doing okay, then.’
‘Yeah, I’m doing fine,’ he says.
‘How’s Mam?’
‘She says for you to call her.’
“I will when I can.’
‘You said that last time.’
‘I’ve got nothing to talk to her about, man.’
‘Doesn’t matter. She’s your mam. She deserves a call every now and then. You still working for Paulo?’
‘You still clean?’ I say, then pause. ‘Yeah, I’m still working for Paulo.’
‘Can you throw a punch yet?’
‘I’m trying, bruv. But I’m a lover, not a fighter.’
‘Huh. When you coming up?’
‘As soon as I can, mate. I’m stuck in Newcastle right now, but I’ll try to get up for Christmas or New Year or something, okay?’
‘What you doing in Newcastle?’
‘Working,’ I say. ‘Look, I’ve got to go. Stuff to do. I’ll give you a call at the end of the month, we’ll sort out a session, okay?’
‘Aye, alright,’ he says.
‘Take care.’
‘You too.’
I ring off and stare at the mobile. It’s hard talking to my brother. In fact, it’s a fucking chore at times. My whole family’s like that. We’d rather skirt around the issue than have it out head-to-head. It took me a stretch inside to face up to Dec. After all, he was my older brother. I remember him beating the crap out of me on a regular basis and even when I did floor him, he had the ability to make me feel guilty as fuck about it.
We’ll see what Christmas brings. A good bevvy and maybe we’ll be okay.
Right now, though, I’ve got more important things to do.
Newcastle’s casinos are open for business.
TWENTY-ONE
‘I’m sorry, sir, but I can’t give out that information.’
‘Okay, well, I was just asking. He’s a mate of mine.’
“I understand that, but I’m afraid I still can’t help you.’
‘That’s fine,’ I say. ‘Two o’clock tomorrow, then?’
‘We’ll see you then,’ says a smiley female voice. A blonde voice.
I hang up.
Gaming regulations are gaming regulations, and they mean the casino staff can’t tell me if Rob or Robin or Robert Stokes is a member. They also can’t let me just swing by, not until after the twenty-four hour cooling off period. Christ, it’s not as if I’m trying to buy a gun. But I joined up over the phone anyway. Both places. All they ask is that I bring identification when I come in tomorrow.
Which I told them
was fine. I root through my wallet for my driving licence and dump the rest of my accrued crap into the bin, slot the driving licence back into a prime place. My wallet’s still plump with cash, but otherwise it looks sparse. If I was found dead, they wouldn’t get much information.
Twenty-four hours. I look around the room. Bland. The travelling man’s lot: dull furniture, a portable telly and a plastic kettle. Porn on pay-per-view and five channels with bad reception, sachets of coffee and tea, hot chocolate if you’re lucky.
I need to get out of here. And I need a drink.
At reception, I ask a girl with braids in her hair if there’s a pub nearby. She looks at me with a smile in her eyes. ‘You’re on the Quayside, Mr Innes. It’s all pubs down here.’
Huh. Maybe Newcastle’s not the shithole I was led to believe. She gives me directions and I follow them to the letter.
You can tell a lot about a place by its pubs. Judging from the stretch along the Quayside, Newcastle’s desperate to please. It’s just like Withy Grove, but pulled taut and facing onto a rolling brown river. Looks like I’m coming out on the tail end of the lunch hour. I pass suits and skirts; a couple of young guys in the similar colour tie-shirt combo are talking loudly about how crap their jobs are.
Tell me about it, fellas. At least I don’t have to dress up.
The first place I come to, The Pitcher amp; Piano, looks too expensive. I give it a glance, but when I realise the piano isn’t real and the clientele look like twats, I move on. That’s the trouble with this place. The bars are like those that have cropped up in Manchester. Ball-less, soul-less, all glass coffee tables, animal print sofas and bottled beers. Jukeboxes playing Joss Stone and cocktails with ‘ironic’ names. Wine bars for the noughties.
Fifteen minutes of walking, and I finally find a pub. Inside, the place is decorated with black-and-white pictures of famous Geordies. I only recognise some of them, and that’s mostly because they look like stills from Get Carter and The Likely Lads. At the bar, they’ve got a few lagers on tap, which is a good start. I order a Stella and it comes without fuss. The price isn’t too bad, either. I settle at a table and watch the pub.
A guy in a suit is eating a burger and managing to get most of it on his tie. When he catches me staring, I turn away and light up. There’s nothing like flicking ash into a pristine ashtray.
My stomach growls, but I’m not about to chance pub grub.
I don’t think I’ve got the constitution for it.
But I’m calmer now. This place isn’t exactly heaven, but it’s better than Manchester. For the moment, at least.
‘Anyone sitting here?’
I look up. She’s a brunette, looks a little rough around the edges. Like that drunk bird from Will and Grace. And from the way she’s handling the chair, it looks like she’s already had a few today. She’s smiling and that’s about all I can see. That, and a stunner with a good few years on me.
Course, it could be the drink talking.
‘Nah, y’alright,’ I say. Thinking she’ll just pull the chair away somewhere else.
She sits down and places her drink on the table. ‘You okay?’
‘Yeah, fine,’ I say. ‘Couldn’t be better.’
‘Funny that.’
‘Yeah?’
‘Because you look like someone pissed on your chips.’
A mouth on this one. I smile, say, “I don’t have any chips to ruin.
‘Aw,’ she says. ‘Tell you what, I’ll buy you a drink.’
‘Why?’
‘You don’t look like the kind of guy who’d ask that.’
Known me five seconds and she’s already got me pegged.
‘I’m getting drunk,’ she announces after she comes back with the drinks, a couple of chasers lined up.
‘Looks like you already are.’
‘Are what?’
‘Drunk.’
‘Are you?’
‘Not me. You.’
‘You got drunk fast,’ she says.
‘I’m not. Why’re you getting drunk?’
‘Because I hate my job.’ She crosses her legs and pulls her skirt over her knees.
‘Everyone hates their job. That’s why it’s called a job.’
‘Oh, you’re funny,’ she says, deadpan. She drinks, then: ‘I’ve decided. I’m going to take a half-day.’
‘It’s already three.’
‘A quarter-day. Whatever. I didn’t go back after lunch. You up for getting sloshed?’
‘You don’t know me,’ I say. “I could be anyone.’
‘Yeah, you could be a murderer. What’s your sign?’
‘Leo.’
She breaks into a beaming smile, shows fantastic teeth.
‘You actually know your sign. Jesus, I was joking. What’s your name?’
‘Cal.’
‘Like the Helen Mirren movie.’
‘Can’t say I saw it.’
‘You didn’t miss much. Love story set in Ireland. She’s the widow of a murdered Proddy copper, he’s skirting about with the IRA. I’m Donna.’
‘Pleased to meet you. So what’s so bad about your job?’
She sighs dramatically. ‘I’m a PA for a director of a PR company. It’s all initials to make a job sound more important.
What do you do?’
‘I’m a PL’
Donna laughs. ‘So we’re in the same boat. What does PI stand for, anyway?’
‘Private investigator.’
‘That kind of PI? Fuckin’ hell, I thought you meant personal injury. I was about to say, you don’t look like a lawyer, like. Wow.’ She seems genuinely impressed. But then, she’s slurring. ‘So you’re like a two-fisted kinda guy, right?
You do the cheating spouses, fraud claims? You solve the murders?’
‘The first two sometimes. The police solve murders.’
‘Sometimes. I heard there was this gadgie, they slit his throat and dumped him on the beach at Tynemouth. They never solved that one. But a PI, wow. How’d you get into that racket? That’s the right lingo, isn’t it? Racket?’
“I sort of fell into it. Did favours for a few people, they paid me for it. I discovered I had a knack for it. Not something I can explain. And yeah, your lingo’s spot on.’
‘Cool. You don’t look like a private dick.’
‘What am I supposed to look like?’
She thinks, then opens her hands and says, ‘Mickey Spillane.’
‘You know what Mickey Spillane looks like?’
‘Alright, Humphrey Bogart.’
‘Well, I’m sorry to disappoint you.’
“I didn’t say I was disappointed. So what you working on, Shamus?’
I shake my head. Too much for polite conversation, no matter how much the drink seems to be flowing. ‘Nothing,’ I say.
‘Unemployed, eh? Looks like I’ll be getting the drinks in, then.’
‘You don’t have to do that,’ I say.
‘I’m a modern woman, Cal. I can do whatever the fuck I want.’
And as we tan those chasers, I don’t doubt it.
TWENTY-TWO
Came out Accident amp; Emergency with a splint on me finger.
Doctor said it weren’t broke, like, but what did that cunt know? It felt broke. And I were boiling over with things I’d do to Paulo given half the chance. The look on me face were enough to get the doctor rushing me through. And the bastard didn’t prescribe any painkillers, either. Fucker.
Baz were outside in his Nova. He didn’t want to come in; the lad had issues with hospitals. Said his mam died in one.
When I got in the car, he said, ‘Y’alright?’
I held up me splint. ‘Do I look alright?’
Baz nodded to himself, started the engine. ‘Where you want to go?’
‘Pub,’ I said. ‘We got business to discuss.’
‘What business?’ said Baz.
‘Alison.’
Baz sighed. ‘Why you always got to go on about that, man?
&nbs
p; Christ, look at you: your finger’s broke.’
‘It’s sprained.’
‘You got X-rays. It’s broke.’
‘It’s sprained. And I’m gonna fuckin’ kill that Paulo.’
‘Leave it, Mo. He’s not worth it.’
‘What do you know who’s worth it? I’ll do the cunt.’
I knew I were a daft bastard for going round the club, but what else could I do? Summat had to be done. Summat had to be said. I had to tell me dad that I weren’t fuckin’ happy with this situation, not one fuckin’ bit. And going round the club were the best way of doing it. You tell us not to interfere, Dad, here’s what I think of that. Fuck yourself.
Course, the whizz helped matters, gave us that extra touch of rock’n’roll. Trouble was it got snapped out of us when Paulo did his fuckin’ finger trick.
I stared out the window. Fuck it. Reached in me trackie bottoms and pulled out me mobile. Realised I couldn’t dial worth shit so I chucked it at Baz. He nearly lost control of the car.
‘What’s this?’ he said.
‘Call Rossie. We got to get a plan B.’
‘You call him.’
I held up me finger. ‘You been in a fuckin’ coma, Baz?
How’m I supposed to press buttons with this?’
‘Aye, alright,’ he said. ‘Jesus.’ He searched for Rossie’s number on me mobile, one eye on the road.
And I started working on that Plan B.
TWENTY-THREE
At seven, Donna gets the bright idea to call a cab and pick up a bottle on the way back to her place. I try to put up a gentlemanly fight, but the booze has taken hold. She wants company, and if I get to thinking about it, so do I. So we keep each other upright and take the taxi. It’s already dark by the time we get through the front door. The place smells like lavender. I feel my eyelids getting heavy.
I trip over a cat in her living room, end up on the couch. I think it’s a cat, anyway. Could be a child or a midget.
Whatever it is, it barrels out into the hall with a screech.
Donna starts laughing. It’s a great sound, and infectious.
‘Stella doesn’t like you,’ she says.
‘Stella?’
‘The cat.’
So it was a cat. ‘Why’d you call your cat Stella?’
