Saturday's child ci-1

by Ray Banks

  She comes into the living room, screws up her face and puts on a bloke’s voice. ‘Stelllllllllla… Hey, StellllllllUaaaaaa…’

  ‘RockyV

  ‘ Streetcar Named Desire, you prole,’ she says and returns to the kitchen. ‘Or Seinfeld, whatever you prefer.’

  “I think I’m pissed,’ I say.

  There’s a clatter from the kitchen. ‘Yeah, well, Mr Innes. I believe I’m in a similar state.’ The sound of ice in glasses, and she emerges with a bottle of Glenfiddich and two tumblers.

  She sets one of them on the coffee table in front of me and sways as she makes her way over to a chair. I gaze at the glass, watching her splash the single malt.

  ‘The good stuff,’ I say.

  “I save the crap for special occasions.’

  ‘You know how to make a guy feel wanted.’

  ‘Chin chin,’ she says, and sips from her glass.

  ‘Cheers.’

  We drink in silence. I look around her flat. Lots of books.

  Lots of CDs. Church candles skewered in wrought iron candlesticks. The place looks like an Ikea showroom. When I look at her, I notice she’s staring at me. ‘What?’ I say.

  ‘You look lonely,’ she says.

  “I always look lonely,’ I say. ‘The wind changed.’

  ‘And you stayed like that.’

  ‘Exactly.’

  “I think I jacked in my job today,’ she says.

  ‘Really?’

  ‘I should have gone back to work after lunch. If I’d had any sense, I would have gone back to work.’

  ‘Tell them you were sick.’

  ‘I’ve been sick a lot recently.’ She picks out an ice cube and sucks on it, then drops it back in her glass. “I hate my job.’

  ‘Get another one.’

  “I might have to. You need a secretary?’

  “I can’t pay you.’

  ‘Cheap bastard.’ She smiles. She has really great teeth.

  American teeth. She stretches in the chair and then shifts position, throwing her legs up over the arm and tugs at the hem of her skirt. I try not to look. “I don’t think I could be a secretary, anyway,’ she says. ‘Too close to being a PA. Besides, my shorthand stinks.’

  ‘So what do you want to do with your life?’ I say.

  “I don’t know. I suppose I could be a lady of leisure.’

  ‘That’s not a career.’

  ‘It’s a vocation.’ She knocks back the rest of her Glenfiddich and pours another. ‘See?’

  ‘Yeah, I see. Very leisurely.’

  Donna pulls herself up in the chair, narrows her eyes at me.

  ‘You don’t like me, do you?’

  ‘Don’t know what you mean.’

  “I mean, you haven’t tried anything.’

  ‘You what?’

  She gets up with some effort, walks over to me and sits on the couch. “I mean, you haven’t tried chatting me up.’

  ‘You want me to chat you up?’

  ‘Ach, you’re right. We’re probably past that stage now.’

  “I think you’re probably right,’ I say, shifting in my seat. “I should go back to my hotel, really.’

  ‘Hotel? You’re staying in a hotel?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘You’re not from Newcastle. I knew that, but I thought you lived up here. Why’re you staying in a hotel?’

  ‘I’m up here on business,’ I say.

  ‘So you are working. You owe me drinks, pal’

  ‘Kind of. It’s too complicated to explain.’

  ‘I’ve got all night.’

  We sit in silence. She pours me another drink. It glugs into the glass, a heavy measure. Too heavy for me, but I give it my best shot. After a few drinks, I’m sitting back in the couch and we’re both listening to John Lee Hooker.

  My eyes start closing. Then I say, “I can’t stay, y’know.

  Things to do tomorrow.’

  ‘You don’t have to,’ she says. She’s leaning against me, has her hand on the inside of my thigh. It hasn’t moved for three songs and I haven’t had the heart to remove it. In a way, it’s comforting. In another, it ties my stomach into a half-hitch.

  “I should call a cab,’ I say as the song finishes.

  ‘Be my guest,’ she says.

  Donna follows me downstairs when the taxi arrives. I turn to talk to her, and she snakes her arms around my waist. The alcohol on her breath makes me lazy.

  ‘You’ve got my number,’ she says. ‘You call me, okay?’

  ‘I’ll call you.’

  ‘Course you will. You love me.’

  I blink. If there’s a reply to that statement that doesn’t make me look like a soppy get or a complete shithead, I don’t know what it is. So I keep my mouth shut. She reaches up, plants a smacker on my cheek, another on my bottom lip.

  ‘Don’t think so much, Cal.’

  She has the clearest blue eyes I’ve ever seen. Maybe it’s the booze, but I’m transfixed. She shakes me gently. ‘Taxi’s waiting. And from the look of him, he’s already flipped the meter.’

  ‘Course. Sorry. Look, I will call you, okay?’

  “I know. And look, I’m glad you’re a gentleman. I think I have a yeast infection.’

  Who says romance is dead?

  I get in the cab and she watches from her door as the car pulls away. Then the whole weight of the night’s drinking comes crashing down on me. I give my head a shake and wipe my nose.

  How’s that, Cal?

  Things could have been different back there. She wanted me to stay the night, and not in a slumber party sense. It wasn’t as if I’m not attracted to her.

  No, that’s not it. I was being a gentleman. Let’s face it, she was drunk. I’m drunk. And brewer’s droop is a real mood-killer.

  And telling her I was a PI, for fuck’s sake, what brought that on? Who the hell was I trying to impress? Private investigators have steel in their pocket and iron in their spit.

  Me, I’ve got shit in my pants and blood in my mouth. Maybe if I’d met her a couple of months down the line, when I was more settled. It could have worked then.

  ‘Don’t think so much, Cal’

  When I get back to the hotel, I head straight for my room.

  As straight as I can, anyway – my legs are intent on following separate paths. I lock the door behind me, turn on the television. The volume makes my head hurt, so I tap the remote until all I hear is a murmur. Then I grab my mobile out of my inside pocket and sling my jacket onto the bed.

  I need to harden up.

  ‘Who’s this?’ says Mo.

  ‘It’s Cal,’ I say.

  ‘Cal?’ He’s shouting into the phone. From the noise in the background, I’d swear he was in a pub.

  ‘Callum Innes, Mo. You know me.’

  ‘Right. Where are you?’

  ‘Newcastle.’

  ‘Fuck you doing in Newcastle?’

  ‘Stokes is here.’

  ‘Fuckin’ hell, you are a detective, ain’t you? Wait, I’ll get summat to write this down.’

  ‘I don’t have an address yet.’

  ‘Then why you calling me?’

  “I need to negotiate a fee.’

  Mo laughs, a high-pitched cackle. ‘You’re taking the piss, mate. You already negotiated your fee with me dad.’

  ‘The case has changed.’

  ‘The easel Fuck are you on, Innes? The caseisn’t a fuckin’ case.

  You’re up there to find the cunt. There’s no fuckin’ mysteryto it.

  You’re not out to nail Colonel Mustard because he topped some daft bastard in the conservatory with the fuckin’ candlestick.

  You’re up there to scout, you’re up there to find a fuckin’ thief, so don’t go getting ideas above your station, mate.’

  Okay, so this was a bad idea, but I plough on. ‘You seem to forget, Mo. I’m straight. And when I find this guy, give you the address, you’ll come up here and fuck him over. That makes me an accessory. He’ll be ab
le to identify me. And while you might be able to get out of a fuckin’ sentence because some weak cunt keeps his mouth shut, I don’t have that much sway, do I?’

  ‘What d’you want me to tell you? You knew what this were about.’

  ‘I want more money.’

  There’s a pause at the other end. ‘You’re drunk.’

  ‘Expenses, Mo.’

  ‘You’re fuckin’ drunk. I knew it. I told Dad, don’t hire a pisshead. Christ.’

  ‘I give it up here, Mo.’

  ‘Don’t think you’re threatening us, Innes. Get bolshy with me and I’ll nail you to the fuckin’ floor. Tell you what, I’ll be the gentleman and think you’re just pissed out of your tiny little mind. I’ll put it down to the booze and I won’t bear a grudge. Now get back under your rock and don’t call us until you got an address.’

  Click, and he’s gone.

  I sit on the edge of the bed. Look across at the telly. It’s Bogart and Lorre in fuzzy black-and-white.

  Bogie says, ‘When you’re slapped, you’ll take it and like it.’

  Never a truer word, but it doesn’t stop that slap from hurting.

  TWENTY-FOUR

  I grabbed Rossie round the back of his baldy ginger head and shouted in his ear: ‘We’s in business, muckaaaa.’

  Rossie struggled, said, ‘Fuck off.’

  I slapped his bald spot. ‘Language, Timothy. Get us a brandy, muh man. I’m celebrating.’

  Rossie went off to the bar and I slumped into me seat, grinned at Baz. He were rolling a fat stick. Had to hand it to him, he were a fuckin’ craftsman when it came to rolling. He smoothed the edges and lit it with his Clipper. The big lad puffed hard, the smell of singed eyebrows and fine Northern Lights high in the air. When Rossie came back from the bar, he looked at Baz like the big lad had just farted loud and smelly.

  I downed me brandy and banged me glass on the table. “I call this meeting to order. Who’s up for a fuckin’ trip?’

  ‘Nah, me head’s halfway to the shed already, Mo.’

  “Innes. He’s gone to Newcastle.’ cYa gan doon toon,’ said Baz. Then he laughed. He sounded like a proper cunt when he laughed; looked like one too.

  ‘You want to go to Newcastle,’ said Rossie. He were squinting at us.

  “I can’t go anywhere. Me dad’s got us locked down. And I can’t trust Darren fuckin’ Walker, can I? Nah, youse two are going to Newcastle. You’re gonna keep an eye on the cunt.’

  “I don’t wanna gan tee Nyow-cassil,’ said Baz.

  ‘You got the accent down, Baz,’ I said.

  ‘Aye, but ‘

  ‘You’re going to Newcastle.’ I didn’t want to hear a fuckin’ argument.

  ‘How comes your dad’s got you locked down, Mo?’ said Rossie. ‘You’re a grown bloke. You can do owt you want.’

  ‘Aye, but not about this. I need to keep the old man sweet as, else he’ll put the kibosh on it.’

  ‘Fuck off the kibosh,’ said Baz. His eyes had gone webbed and dark. Fucker was mashed already. ‘You want to go to Newcastle, you go your fuckin’ self, know what I mean?’

  Rossie looked down at the table. Looked right through it.

  I stared at Baz until he stopped drawing on the stick. The fucker knew he was in the shite, like. I were going to say summat, but this bloke in a Pringle jumper came over before I got the chance. ‘Sorry, lads. Can’t do that in here.’

  I turned the stare on the Pringle. He had a gold chain around his neck. Hair poked through the links.

  ‘You what?’ I said.

  ‘Your mate there. I can’t have him smoking that in here.’

  I frowned. ‘You tooting rocks in there, Baz?’

  ‘Nah, man. Just resin.’

  ‘It’s just fuckin’ resin,’ I said to the Pringle. He weren’t happy about this. He were red in the throat, like he’d got burnt.

  ‘It’s still illegal,’ he said. And if he were sure of anything, it were that little fuckin’ nugget of information.

  ‘Give it time.’

  ‘It’s illegal now,’ he said.

  Baz looked at his spliff like he were shocked to learn that. I had to keep me blood cold to stop from smiling. So I pretended like I were thinking it over, what the Pringle had said. But what I were really thinking about were that five seconds ago I were ready to put me boot in Baz’s ringpiece, and now this twat in the sweater were giving us reason to leather the fuck out of him. Choices, fuckin’ choices. And just like a pair of cunts to spoil what were turning into a good night. When I’d made up me mind, I said to the Pringle: ‘Where’s your respect, man?’

  ‘You what?’ he said.

  ‘I said, where’s your respect? You come over here, I’m in the middle of a conversation with a couple mates of mine, you don’t give a fuck, where’s your fuckin’ respect?’

  The Pringle got balls then. I saw him glance at me finger.

  Reckoned I weren’t much of a threat, obviously. ‘He puts that out, or I put you out.’

  ‘Ah, you’re threatening now,’ I said. ‘You’re fuckin’ threatening us.’ I kicked me chair back and it crashed to the floor. I were on me feet, in the cunt’s face. ‘What’s your fuckin’ problem, you have to come round here starting shit?’

  ‘Put it out,’ the Pringle said to Baz. But his voice were wavering.

  ‘You put us out, nobhead,’ I said.

  ‘You want to get nicked?’

  ‘You want to get fuckin’ cut?’

  I reached for me Stanley, then remembered where I’d left it. Felt me heart skip. But it didn’t show in me face. Rossie were getting up slow and quiet.

  ‘Maureen, call the police.’

  Baz grinned through the sweet smoke, set his spliff down in the ashtray. He reached into his jacket like he were reaching for his wallet, ticked out the blade of his Stanley and slapped the knife hard on the table. ‘Fuck off out of it,’ he said.

  ‘Maureen ‘

  Rossie took his pint and broke it over the Pringle’s head before he could shout double-knit. The Pringle swayed, but I went at the cunt’s gut before he got his feet. And there weren’t a bastard in the place ready to jump for his love. The Pringle hit the floor, brought the table down with him. Rossie lashed at him with his butterfly. The blade cut slight, but the Pringle rolled like he’d been shot. Baz sucked his gut and made it round in time for the Pringle to sway up to his knees. When the Pringle opened his eyes, he had to blink from the light bouncing off Baz’s Stanley blade.

  I dusted meself down, wiped me nose. ‘Cut his fuckin’ eyeballs open.’

  ‘Wait a sec,’ said the Pringle. And his bladder emptied out onto the carpet. I loved that smell of piss in the air. Smelled like… victory.

  ‘You know me,’ I said. ‘You know me now.’

  Blood ran down the Pringle’s face. Glass in his head shone like stars.

  ‘Aye you know me, son.’ I pointed at him with me finger splint. ‘I’m Mo Tiernan. And I’ll have you buried in less time it takes to have a dump.’

  It were fuckin’ good to be me sometimes.

  TWENTY-FIVE

  There’s nothing as bright and painful as the morning after sunlight.

  The walk to Central Station, and the casino near it, is a long one. My legs aren’t happy about it, and neither’s my stomach.

  But I pop into a cafe on the way, sit down with a cup of coffee and a bacon buttie. Smoke a few cigarettes. The owner, a camp guy with a Greek accent, welcomes me with a smile, but as soon as he smells the drink on me, he buttons up.

  I don’t want small talk. Just food.

  The bacon is almost burnt, but I like it that way. The coffee is black and sugared. I drink it slowly and rub my eyes. I shouldn’t drink so much. Or I should stay away from the spirits.

  The drink-shakes private dick, a walking, talking cliche. I should be shot for crimes against reality. But instead I’m stuck looking for a dealer who may be somewhere in this city.

  Or I may be chasing up a lead from a Ji
lted John who’d tell me anything to stop Morris Tiernan coming after him.

  I dump my Embassy, push away from the table. Stop your whining and get to work, Cal.

  The place on St James Boulevard is new by the looks of it, purpose-built. It looks like a tombstone in a sea of concrete. I arrive at reception, all plate glass and plastic ferns. If they’re going for the classy look, they’ve failed. Mostly because the girl behind the counter has yellow teeth and dead eyes. She smiles at me with her mouth only and it’s an ugly sight.

  ‘My name’s Callum Innes. I called yesterday.’

  She asks for ID and I hand it over. After a quick scan, she gets me to fill out a membership form. I lie about everything apart from my name. She gives me a card which I tuck in my back pocket, and I catch the smile slip from her face as she reaches under the desk. Probably caught the whiff of drink on my breath. Or vomit. Maybe just the stench of failure. You would have thought she’d be used to it by now. Besides, it’s better than whatever Avon shite she bathed in this morning.

  A low buzz as the double doors unlock, and I push through into the casino.

  The place is a space-age warehouse. Tables stretch back as far as I can see, most of them unmanned. The room is airy to the point of goose pimples. Looks like only three tables are open: one roulette, one blackjack, one poker. At the card tables, the blackjack dealer stares off into space, the poker dealer has something in his nose. An inspector stands between them.

  If Rob Stokes comes in here, it’s not during the day.

  I head to the bar, order a pint and take a seat on a stool that threatens to examine my prostate. Looking over at the roulette table, I can make out an elderly couple playing the outside bets. Red or black, even money, but it means the dealer has to spin up for the sake of a fiver. He clears it; they’ll get it back on the next spin. It’s dull to watch. I can’t imagine how dull it must be to play.

  Sip my pint, light a cigarette. The hangover’s gone into a slight remission; the beer takes effect but the Embassy turns my stomach if I inhale too deeply. The guy behind the bar wears a blue shirt with forced pleats down the front and a cock-eyed name badge that reads ‘George’.

  ‘How you doing, George?’

  He bristles at his name. One of the many people who hate the informality of the service industry. ‘Fine,’ he says.