by Ray Banks
‘How long you been working here?’
‘A while. Couple of years.’
‘Huh. You know many of the punters?’
George’s left eye closes halfway. He’s either trying to work me out, or it’s a nervous thing. ‘Some of them,’ he says.
‘How well?’
‘We’re not allowed to fraternise.’
“I know the dealers aren’t.’
‘Nobody is. It’s a security risk.’
‘Right.’ I drink from my pint. ‘No, I get it. You have friends who aren’t in the business, you’re a criminal, am I right?’
‘Something like that.’
‘Yeah, I know all about that,’ I say. Shake my head and watch the old couple at the roulette table. ‘Listen, you know your punters by name?’
‘Some of them.’
‘Rob Stokes ring a bell?’
‘What’s he look like?’
‘A bloke. Salt and pepper hair. Tall. Bad attitude. A chip chaser.’
‘Mate, you just described ninety percent of the blokes we get in here.’
I finish my pint, order another. ‘Take one for yourself.’
‘So how much does this Stokes guy owe you?’ says George.
‘Owe me? Nowt. He’s a mate. I heard he came in here. Why?’
‘You’re not police,’ he says.
‘Nah, I’m not police ‘
‘And you’re not a mate of his. Otherwise you wouldn’t be asking questions.’
‘Maybe I just lost his number. You have it?’
‘I don’t know who you’re talking about,’ he says. Smiling like he’s really enjoying this. And he knows the guy, I can feel it. I dig out a business card – one of those I got done at my local Shell – and bang my mobile number on the back with a wee bookie pen.
‘Tell you what,’ I say. ‘If anything springs to mind, or your memory comes back, you give me a ring, okay?’
He looks at the card and the smile turns upside down.
‘You’re a private detective.’
‘Investigator,’ I say.
‘What’s the difference?’
‘A private detective solves the case. A private investigator just looks into it. I’m not the type to gather suspects in the drawing room. I’m the poor bastard who follows cheating husbands, wives, runaways. I’m the one sitting in the car with fuck all else to do. And I’m the one who’ll slip you a wad if you can point the finger, George.’
He blinks. ‘You practise that speech in the mirror?’
‘Twice a day. But the deal stands.’ I down half the pint and leave the glass on the bar. ‘You see him, let me know. I’ll make it worth your while.’
‘I’m not daft, Mr Innes.’
‘Good lad,’ I say. ‘Make sure you stay that way.’
And I leave. Glad I got something out of him, even though I’m not sure what it is. A feeling, but sometimes that’s all it takes. Most of all, though, I’m glad I could leave that pint unfinished. No self-respecting alkie would let that happen.
Which makes me one step on the road to normal.
TWENTY-SIX
So I had to go with them. No skin off my cock. They wouldn’t go up without us, the born fuckin’ leader that I were. So I said alright, what the fuck. I could keep Dad off me back for as long as it took. And I knew I wouldn’t be able to keep meself from going mental if I’d stayed down here.
Call me a control freak.
Standing outside this garage in Moss Side, and Baz were with us. Rossie were inside talking to this lad with a swallow tattoo on his neck. He looked like a proper hard cunt, like. I wished I had him with us instead of Baz, who were griping again.
‘Why we got to be here, man? What’s the matter with my car?’
‘Your car’s a fuckin’ shitheap, Baz. Couldn’t make it to Chester in your car. Besides, it’s too suspicious. It looks like a gangster’s vehicle.’
Baz looked a bit happier at that. Like he were the real deal.
Like fuck he were.
Rossie came out the garage. ‘Jimmy says he’s got a Bedford we can use.’
‘How much?’ I said.
‘Nowt. Just a favour for a mate.’
‘You’re kidding.’
‘Nah, I help him out sometimes.’
We went through into the garage. Jimmy were waiting for us, didn’t look like he wanted owt to do with us. Clocked me once and reckoned me a soft cunt. I wanted to prove him different. As we went to the back of the place, I heard all these dogs barking somewhere. ‘Fuck’s that?’ I said.
‘Them’s Jimmy’s dogs,’ said Rossie.
‘Animal lover.’
‘Nah,’ said Jimmy. He had a growl of a voice, sounded like them dogs. You know what they say about pets and their owners, like.
He had a rollie in the corner of his mouth that didn’t smoke, but it moved when he talked. ‘Them’s me fighting dogs. I fight ‘em.’
‘Fuckin’ hell, Jimmy. That’s not much of a match, is it?’
‘They fight each other, Mo,’ said Rossie.
‘Your mate simple?’
“I ain’t simple, Jimmy-son. Where’s this fuckin’ wreck you want us to drive?’
‘I don’t know if I like his tone,’ Jimmy said to Rossie.
Rossie looked at us to shut up. At the back of the garage, there were this dirty-looking heap. Jimmy kicked one of the tyres. ‘This is it. How long you need it?’
‘Couple days,’ said Rossie.
I kept me mouth shut. Didn’t like the way Rossie were handling all this, like. I were the one in charge. I looked at Baz, but he were already looking around for a way out, the bottling bastard. Went up to the Bedford and pulled open the back door. In the back of the van, there were a mattress that stank of dog and a cage between that and the cab.
“I keep me bitches in there,’ said Jimmy.
‘Good,’ I said. ‘Cause that’s what we’re gonna be using it for an’ all’
“I want it back in good nick.’
We all looked at him then. Like we could trash this fuckin’ heap any more than it already was. Rossie said, ‘Yeah, no problem, Jimmy.’
And as we was driving away, the engine coughing, I said to Rossie, ‘And the cunt called me simple.’
TWENTY-SEVEN
The receptionist at the Grey Street casino has black make-up clogged in the corner of her eye. She looks at me with resigned recognition and it’s strangely comforting. A uniform that’s been washed too much, a spare tyre around her waist and the gnarly hands of the serial drinker.
If I was a gambler, I’d be in here all the time. It’s all faded glamour. Like the receptionist, the furnishings used to be lush, but now they’re a little threadbare. A group of Chinese guys are crowded round a blackjack table. Every so often one of them yells. Then there’s laughter, the kind that follows excitement. All over a steady rhythm of Mah Jong tiles being shuffled by some Chinese ladies in the far corner. It’s difficult to see through the cigarette smoke. I add to it with another Embassy. My lungs are starting to scratch, but the nicotine helps keep that down.
I can hear ‘Spanish Eyes’ being sung by a guy with a whisky-soaked voice.
The bar’s at the back of the room, so I start walking. With the music, I feel like I should be carrying a six-shooter. I hope nobody notices that I’m walking to a rhythm.
There’s a girl behind the bar, cleaning something out of sight. She doesn’t look up as I come over. I lean against the bar and try to look nonchalant. She carries on cleaning. I don’t see her face, just the expanse of her arse and a visible panty line. But I try not to stare too hard at that. When she straightens up, she starts. Colour rises in her puppy-fat cheeks. I can’t place her age. She could be anywhere from sixteen to thirty. According to her name tag, she’s called Pauline.
‘Y’alright?’ I say.
‘Aye,’ she says. ‘Sorry, you gave me a fright.’
I smile my charming smile. It doesn’t sit right, obviously, because she looks
a little intimidated. I tone it down. ‘Sorry.
You open?’
‘What you after?’
‘Bottle of Becks.’
She smiles. There’s no need for it, and her smile is like a bonny baby in a morgue. It makes me wonder why she works here. She fetches my beer and sets it on the bar. I pay, take a long swallow. ‘It’s dead in here,’ I say.
‘Always is this time of day.’
Another yell from the Chinese guys. Yeah, it’s dead. Nice one, Innes.
“I just joined. Thought it might be a laugh.’
‘Don’t get too attached to the place,’ she says.
‘They knocking it down or something?’
‘Nah. Just don’t get too attached to the place.’
‘Right. I get you.’ I take a swig. ‘You just work in the afternoons?’
She blushes again. Probably thinks I’m flirting. And maybe I am. The beer’s got me lazy.
‘Why d’you ask?’
‘I’m looking for a guy. I heard he might come in here.’
‘What’s his name?’
‘You know names?’
“I know some names.’
‘Rob Stokes. He’ll be a new punter. Probably started coming in a week or so ago. Mane accent.’
Pauline pours herself a Coke from the draught. Sips it, thinking. Then: ‘What’s he look like?’
I give her the description I was given. ‘Apparently, he’s got a temper on him.’
‘They’ve all got tempers on them if they lose.’
‘Fair enough.’
‘What’d he do?’ she says.
‘He owes a friend of mine money.’
Her eyes sparkle. ‘You’re going to break his legs, is that it?’
I smile. ‘Nothing like that. Do I look like a legbreaker?’
‘You don’t look like much of anything,’ she says.
‘Cheers.’
“I didn’t mean it like that. I just meant you don’t look like a legbreaker. I should think before I say stuff.’ She drinks her Coke and leans against the bar. ‘My boyfriend says that.’
‘Your boyfriend sounds like a wanker,’ I say.
‘He is.’ She looks out at the pit and yawns. ‘He’s a lazy bastard, right enough. Supposed to be at home right now looking after the bairn, right? Bet you he’s out drinking.’
‘You want to call him?’
‘And get disappointed? Nah. I’ll wait till I get home.’
‘He doesn’t work?’
‘Does he fuck. He’s on disability. Reckons he’s depressed.’
‘Aren’t we all?’
‘Aye. That’s why he’s down the pub or smoking tack in the house. Depression. Fuck’s sake, he wants to get himself a job.’ Her voice hardens, and for a moment, she looks a lot older. ‘What do you do, though? He’s a free babysitter.’
‘A babysitter who smokes tack in the house.’
‘Better than nothing. Christ, look at me. You want another drink?’
I drain the bottle. ‘Why not, eh?’
She cracks the top off another bottle, says, ‘So you just joined. What d’you think of the place?’
‘I think it’s a shithole.’
‘Aye, that’s about right. So why are you really looking for this guy?’
I smile. ‘He dropped his wallet. I have to give it back to him.’
‘Uh-huh. And another.’
‘He’s my estranged brother. I just want to make up with him for Mam’s sake.’
She laughs. ‘That’s sweet.’
‘That’s the kind of guy I am.’
‘You’re fuckin’ nuts,’ she says.
‘Are they showing?’
‘Give me your number, then.’
‘Your bloke might have something to say about that.’
‘For when this Rob gadgie comes in,’ she says.
I hand her a card. She cocks an eyebrow. ‘You’re a PI?’
‘That’s right, sweetheart,’ I say in my best Bogart. I do a full-on Mike Yarwood bad impersonation, the quivering top lip, the whole bit.
‘You alright?’ she says.
I stop the lip thing. ‘Yeah.’
“I thought you were having a turn.’
‘Look, you see anything, hear anything, you drop a dime, okay?’
Maybe it’s just the beer buzz, but I feel pretty good about myself, despite the fact the Bogie didn’t go down well. She laughs again. It sounds too natural for a place like this. I leave the bar, cross the casino. On the way out, the receptionist heaves her way through a nasty coughing fit.
Now I just have to wait.
TWENTY-EIGHT
Three hours in a van with Rossie and Baz, man. Not my idea of a sharp time. I banged back a couple moggies on the way up ‘cause Baz stuck in this tape of shite tunes and I wanted to sleep through it. So I went to kip in the middle, heard Rossie and Baz bitch at each other about the tape. Then Rossie got all pissy and chucked the tape out the window onto the road and Baz started bleating.
‘Oi, Fatboy Fat, fuck up, will you?’
When we got to Newcastle, there weren’t no vacancies. I said, ‘What the fuck’s this, like?’
‘Westlife are playing at the Arena,’ said the bloke on reception. He smiled and it were like his baby teeth never fell out.
‘Westlife, fuckin’ Westlife.’
‘Fuckin’ shithole this is, like,’ said Rossie. ‘Who’s playing next week? Fuckin’ Girls Aloud?’
“I like that Geordie one,’ said Baz. ‘She looks well fuckin’ dirty.’
‘I think there are some rooms at the airport,’ said the bloke. Helpful cunt, this one.
‘The airport? How far away’s the airport?’ I said.
‘About forty-five minutes.’
Rossie kicked the reception desk. The bloke jumped.
‘Aye, fine,’ I said. ‘We’ll go up the airport.’
‘You’re kidding,’ said Baz.
I punched him in the arm. ‘C’mon.’
We went out the hotel and I clocked a bunch of girls with backpacks. Looked like proper tourists. ‘Alright, girls?’ said Rossie.
They didn’t say nowt, just walked past.
‘Fuckin’ lezzes.’
‘So what now?’ said Baz. “I ain’t sleeping in the back of the van, I tell you that right now.’
‘We go up the airport,’ I said. ‘Before that, I want a pint.’
Left the van in an NCP and wandered about in the town.
Fat fuckin’ Geordies everywhere I looked, man. Some proper ugly in this town. Saw this place called Dobsons and we went inside ‘cause it had cheap pints an’ that. Got settled at a table by the window and I rubbed some whizz on me gums ‘cause the moggies were still in me system, slowing us right down. I supped me pint and wiped me mouth. Looked around at me posse, but they was looking down, bags under the eyes.
‘Cheer up,’ I said. ‘Might never happen.’
Rossie said, ‘What we doing up here, Mo?’
“I told you.’
“I thought your dad had you locked down.’
‘And I thought you said I were a grown fuckin’ man.’
“I said that?’
‘Aye, Rossie. You said that. No more fuckin’ doves for you, man. Your short-term’s fucked. Summat you got to learn, mate. I am a grown fuckin’ man. I do what I want to do because I can. I don’t give a shit what me dad says because you know what? He’s not gonna be around forever. One day some cunt’s gonna bury a hatchet in his fuckin’ head and they’re gonna need someone to help ‘em do it.’
Baz stared at us. ‘You’d do your dad?’
‘If I got the right offer.’
‘That’s fucked up.’
‘You’d do Morris Tiernan,’ said Rossie. His mouth were twitching into a grin.
‘What’s Morris Tiernan, man? It’s a name. It’s a bloke with a rep. But a rep only goes so far, know what I mean?’
‘You’refucked up,’ said Rossie. He shook his head and took a sup.
/>
‘You don’t think I’d do it?’
“I think you better stop with the pills, Mo. You sound mashed.’
‘You don’t think I’d do it.’
‘Nah, mate. I don’t think you’d do your own dad. Don’t make sense.’
I gulped me pint, wiped me mouth. Me throat were still all dry. ‘Don’t make sense. Lot of things don’t make sense. You don’t know what he’s like. And I’m not saying any day soon, but you mark mine, Rossie, one day I’ll get an offer and I’m saying that when that day comes, I might just fuckin’ take it with a smile on me face.’
‘You’re full of shit,’ said Rossie.
The speed kicked in with a twitch and I wanted to go drink-chucking again, but I kept it down. I wouldn’t have got a decent throw in, not with me finger in a splint. Proper fucked me up that one. Go round Paulo’s in the middle of the night with a couple cans of petrol, torch that fuckin’ place to the ground, watch it burn from across the street with five doses in me blood. Paulo lived there, even better. I wondered what a fuckin’ cock jockey smelled like when he burned. Probably fuckin’ lilacs or some shite.
Or give the outside of the club a new coat of paint. Me and Baz, we went to Homebase and I picked up an armful of spray cans. I had it all planned out in me mind, paedopaulo, sprayed ten feet fuckin’ tall in red paint, aids scum right next to it. I had visions of mobs with flaming torches ‘cause of that one.
They’d come storming down on his club like it was Frankenstein’s castle, smoke the fuckin’ monster out into the street and crucify him. Just the thought of that made me balls jump.
But I kept it buzzing under the skin. That were for later. I couldn’t be a fuckin’ kid about it. A lad what gets knocked and knocks straight back, he’s a fuckin’ chump, know what I mean? It takes time for payback. Time makes it sit better.
Until I could pay Paulo back for me fuckin’ finger I had Innes on me mind.
And I weren’t the only one. I beamed back to the pub, saw Rossie staring out the window. ‘What?’
‘Is that Innes?’ he said.
I got out me seat, knocked me pint over. Lucky it only had a couple thumbs of beer in it. Nudged Rossie out the way and looked out at the street.
