by Ray Banks
Well, fuck me. ‘Rossie, get out there and follow the cunt.’
‘You what?’
I gave him bug eyes. ‘Get. Out. There.’
TWENTY-NINE
More time to kill, and the beer is wearing off. I think about another drink, maybe something stronger, but I don’t want to chance it after last night. It’s a short step from that first shot to becoming a bloodstain on a bed sheet.
Instead, I wander into town, looking for something free to pass the time. Pass a pub that looks too dingy for me and check my watch. Just after four. I find myself outside a gallery, then inside. Not my usual cup of tea, but it’ll while away a couple of hours. A sign says I have to turn my mobile off. I ignore it.
An exhibition of portraits, or so the posters say. I follow the signs, stop in front of a huge painting. Proper Old Testament stuff, it looks like. When I read the plaque, it tells me it’s the destruction of Sodom. From the looks of it, a Catholic put that bastard on canvas, probably Scottish. Fear and sadism. I remember it from my childhood. Sometimes I thought about telling my dad I was gay, just to see him hit the roof. But cowardice kept the thought at bay.
I move away from the painting, scan a couple of countryside landscapes that don’t do anything for me. Usual sheep and lakes. An England that never existed except in the imaginations of those rich enough to buy this shite.
A guy in a black leather jacket shows the same distaste. I don’t blame him. Then I head upstairs for the portraits.
The door to the exhibition has a blackout curtain over the glass panes. Looks like it’s closed, but I try the handle anyway.
When I step inside, it’s dark apart from a circle of upturned televisions in the centre of the floor. And this white noise of voices, sounds like screaming, and they’re all out of sync.
Movement catches my eye, and there’s a young guy bent almost double, walking around the circle.
For some reason, I can’t breathe.
I stare at the young guy, wary of him. It sounds like a killing floor in here and the way he moves – slow, deliberate steps backwards, thrown into relief by the flickering tellies he looks like something out of Twin Peaks. Jerky, but purposeful. I can’t quite make out his face, not sure if he has one.
He looks straight at me and I nearly shit myself.
Not as much as he does, though. He twitches with fright, then straightens up, makes for the door.
Christ. The guy was just like me. And we scared the hell out of each other. I stay in the room for a while longer, crane to see what’s showing on the televisions. A choir, different shots, looks like old footage from the Proms.
No wonder he got a fright. This is some creepy stuff.
The door squeals open again, and the guy in the black leather jacket steps into the room. He doesn’t flinch, doesn’t look at the televisions.
He just watches me.
I watch him right back.
I stay where I am. Don’t want to confront the bloke. In the light, he looks bigger than he should be, flickering large like a nightmare. Besides, I’ve got a bad track record when it comes to dealing with people who might be following me. But he doesn’t look like a scally. This bloke looks like a professional.
We stand there. The voices mesh into one strangled shriek.
He doesn’t even glance at the televisions.
Something catches the light in his right hand. Then it flips out of sight.
I make my way towards the door, my ears ringing. This got bad really fast. And I know for a fact that this guy is a tail.
Who he’s working for, what he wants, I’m not about to stick around to find out. I push open the door and the hinges screech. A plaque on the wall tells me that those tellies were Mark Wallinger’s idea of hell.
Close, but no cigar, Mark.
I head for the stairs as the door squeaks open again. Taking them two at a time, I’m down in the gift shop before I get a chance to catch my breath. I pretend to look through some postcards, but keep an eye on the staircase. If the guy’s following me, he’ll be down in a minute or two.
He appears just as I head into the landscape section again. I keep my head down, but I can hear his footsteps against the floor. He’s wearing boots.
I return to the gift shop, and he comes with me. He looks like he might be a copper. If that’s the case, then Donkey’s determined to bring me in. And if Donkey’s determined to bring me in, then things in Manchester have taken a turn for the worse.
A crowd has developed outside a club down the street. I head straight for it. The reek of bad aftershave and flowery perfume battles with the smell of beer and bad Italian meals for air space. I keep my head down, light a cigarette. A Bruce Banner lookalike bears down on me, crisp Fred Perry shirt on his back. I swerve out of the way before I accidentally get a Regal in the eye.
I take a quick look over my shoulder, and the black leather jacket is nowhere to be seen. I take a moment to breathe.
Friday nights, the same everywhere. Hordes of chequered shirts and women with love handles and bad halter tops. I can hear the chorus of a group of Welsh lads pissed off their faces.
The women are all white, shivering legs and high-pitched curses. I can’t make out what they’re saying, but it’s probably bad.
This is hell, Wallinger. Look around you.
Up the spiral steps, across the bridges that criss-cross the motorway, cars roaring by on the edge of the city. It’s a clear night. I stop by the barrier and watch the traffic for a moment. After a while, the headlights stream into long red lines. I find enough phlegm to gob a fat one onto the motorway from the bridge. It doesn’t have the same sense of satisfaction it did when I was ten. I try it again, but it’s a poor effort. I have to wipe the spittle from my chin.
Me and Declan used to do it when we were kids. Spent hours gobbing at cars, people, whatever passed under our bridge. It didn’t make much difference. Now the kids lob concrete blocks from these places, kill guys my age. Times change.
I lean against the barrier and ditch my cigarette. I should get back to the hotel, but I don’t want to. The heaviness in my legs might spread to the rest of me. And I need to stay awake, just in case. Knowing my luck, I’d stretch out for a second and wake up nine hours later with nothing to show for it.
My mobile rings. I answer it.
‘Mr Innes, it’s George.’
‘George,’ I say.
“I work at the casino. You gave me your card. I think Rob Stokes is here.’
‘You’re sure,’ I say. But I know he’s sure. He knows who Rob Stokes is. I knew that when I talked to him.
‘As sure as I can be. He matches your description.’
‘Uh-huh. He just walk in?’
‘He’s been in a while. I had to wait until I got my break.’
‘Right, I’ll be there in a bit. Try to keep an eye on him for me. Let me know if he leaves, okay?’
I disconnect, start back towards town. My legs ache and my bad tooth starts to throb. So Rob Stokes is at the casino, that’s great. But something doesn’t add up. Things are happening too quickly for me to get my head round them. I’ve been in town two days and found the bugger, so why couldn’t Morris?
Because he never got this far. Gave up at the first hurdle, maybe.
I shouldn’t think about it. Just go with the flow, see where the current takes me. If George says Stokes is there, he’s probably there. If it’s a mistake, then we’re back to square one.
I check my wallet. If it’s the right guy, I should pay George.
Yeah, I’ve got enough. A couple of hundred should do it. And then all I need to do is keep an eye on Stokes and follow him home.
Then I call Mo and I’m out of here.
And then what happens to Stokes? I can’t afford to care. At least if I’m out of Newcastle, I won’t have to hear about it.
Not unless Mo feels like bragging. But then, I’ll be off the hook with Tiernan. There’ll be no reason to see any of that lot again.
Keep telling your
self that, Cal.
I take the long way round, skirt the drunks and avoid eye contact. Outside a fun pub two lads in Hilfiger shirts shower each other with spit when they talk. One of them wears more jewellery than my mam. It throws light off his arms when he flaps his hands.
I press on. Hit Central Station, and the line for black cabs is already growing. People have started to walk up to the casino now, either beered-up and looking to blow the rest of their money, or out to impress whoever they have on their arm. I fall back from the herd, take my time. There’s no need to rush. From what I know about Rob Stokes, he’ll be there all night. It’s not like he doesn’t have enough money to lose.
‘So I says to him, get the fuck out my way, like. Then I stots him right in the fuckin’ face
This from a couple of bruisers in suits walking behind me.
‘And he’s like all bleeding an’ that, fuckin’ bubbling like a bairn. So I gives him a kick in the knackers for good measure.’
‘Might as well put the cunt to the floor, like.’
I don’t turn around. They speak like a certain copper I know, but they’ve got the greasy sadism of a couple of bouncers. If I didn’t get the point before, it’s soon hammered home.
‘I told him, I said to him, nae fuckin’ students.’
‘Cunts think they’re special.’
‘Not too special to avoid a slap.’
We get to the casino, and I hang back as the bouncers head straight for the guys on the door. It’s all backslaps and missing-tooth grins. I slip past, unnoticed. Into the reception and I get caught up in a gang of young guys and girls who think this place is a proper hoot. One guy with spiky hair and oily skin is trying to sign them all in. Another guy sorts out the memberships while the girls giggle to themselves. The musk of aftershave is overpowering; before I know it, my eyes are watering.
I hand over my membership card. The receptionist gives it a quick once-over and buzzes me in. When I step into the casino, it’s like the place has been transformed. Blue-and white lights fill the place. The Friday night crowd are out in force. The hum of conversation, the clatter of balls hitting roulette wheels, excitement in the air. The brand new, hip and happening gambling experience. It’s a far cry from Tiernan’s club, but then that’s probably the point. This is the new school.
George is still behind the bar. I catch his eye and walk over.
He nods towards a guy, tall and reedy, playing roulette. I can only see him from the back, but his hair is speckled grey.
I stop, find a seat at the edge of the pit. A valet crosses in front of me, asks if I want a drink. I order a coffee. When it comes back, it tastes like someone shat in it. And judging from the look I get when I don’t tip the valet, they probably wished they had.
The guy at the roulette table, he’s hunched over the layout, his hands a blur. He has a dealer’s reflexes, and a punter’s mixture of bad luck and worse temper. When the dealer calls out a number, he falls back from the table like someone punched him in the face. When he’s watching for the spin to stop, he plays with his chips, clipping them over each other.
It’s a nervous action, and one that gives him away as an ex croup.
He turns his head and I get a look at his face. Too many wrinkles, a sign of stressful living. I’m starting to see the same lines on my face these days.
I finish the coffee and make my way up to the bar. George needs to be paid. And I need a good place to watch Rob Stokes in action.
THIRTY
‘You got a room?’ I said to the receptionist at the Premier Inn.
I tried to be nice and cool about it, but me heart were skipping all over the shop. Tracked the fucker down. Once Rossie managed to work out that he had to stay out of sight, he got the whole tailing thing sorted. Saw Innes come back across the bridge. And we had a wander about. And there were Innes’ Micra in the Premier Inn carpark.
‘Sorry, sir. We’re full.’
She were lying. And that weren’t nice. But then I looked at Baz and took her side. Baz were standing by the door looking like he were after summat to nick.
‘Westlife,’ I said.
‘Sorry?’
‘Westlife’re playing, am I right?’
‘At the Arena, yeah,’ she said.
‘You like Westlife?’
She smiled. ‘Not really.’
‘Nah, you’re too old for them.’
She just kept smiling.
‘And she’s too old for you,’ said Baz.
‘Leave it,’ I said. Then, to the receptionist: ‘Ta for your time, love.’
Breath of fresh air outside. I nudged Baz for a ciggie and he handed one over. I lit it and stood looking at the hotel.
“I told you, Mo,’ said Baz. “I ain’t sleeping in the back of that van. It stinks.’
‘You fuckin’ stink,’ I said. ‘And nah, we ain’t kipping down in the back of the van. We ain’t kipping down anywhere.
We’re going to wait until Innes shows his face and then we’re going to scare the fucker off’
‘What’s the point in that?’ said Rossie.
‘It’ll make me feel better,’ I said. ‘What the fuck d’you think the point is? We scare him off, we can go looking for Stokes ourselves.’
‘You think we can scare him off?’ said Baz.
‘If there’s one thing I know about Innes it’s that he’s a fuckin’ bottler. And he don’t want to be doing this anyway. So all we’re gonna do is give him an excuse to get the fuck out of Dodge, know what I mean?’
I grabbed the pair of them and pushed ‘em back towards the van.
THIRTY-ONE
I stay away from the hard stuff, maintain a buzz with the watered-down Kronenburg the place has on tap. George busies himself with other punters. A guy at the end of the bar has his flies open, but nobody seems to have told him. He watches a plasma screen above the bar. Sky Sports is on, a wealth of stats and breaking news sailing across the bottom of the screen. He’s transfixed, until something breaks the mood and he scribbles on a napkin.
At about nine, the music kicks up in volume. What was Dionne Warwick and Kenny Rogers slips into The Who and David Bowie. Right now, Bowie’s singing ‘Heroes’. It’s an odd choice, considering the clientele. They’re young and stupid enough to think the song’s from a mobile phone advert.
Stokes is at the same table as before, but the dealer’s changed twice since I came in. I’ve watched him rake in a couple of decent wins, but it means nothing in the long run.
Any winnings go right back onto the layout. He’s tapping his knuckles against the edge of table. The woman next to him resembles a tanned skeleton. She looks down at the sound, her face creasing up like a cat’s arse. Then she realises she has to get some chips down before the balls stops and panics, shoves a couple of reds onto a column.
The dealer rakes them in. She looks fit to spit.
I order another pint, a Coke to go with it, just to keep me alert. ‘How long are your shifts, George?’
‘What d’you mean?’
‘It just struck me, you were in this afternoon. How many hours do you work?’
‘I’m on a double,’ he says. ‘I’m stuck here till the bar closes.’
‘When’s that?’
“Two.
‘Right. That’s harsh.’
‘Tell me about it. It’s the only way to make decent money, though.’
‘How long does Stokes usually stay?’
‘Until he’s pissed away his cash, Mr Innes.’
It doesn’t look like I’ll have too long to wait. A quick glance at the roulette table, and I can see Stokes is short-stacked already. His back is all knotted up, giving him a stoop and a concentrated look. One more spin, and that look becomes desperate. He sticks the last of his stack on an outside bet.
True to form, it doesn’t come in.
‘Fuckin’ bastard,’ he says. Loud enough for everyone to hear.
I take a drink from my pint. He’ll be popular with the dealers in h
ere, no doubt about it. That kind of showboating marks him out, especially on a night where most of the punters aren’t taking the games too seriously. And for a guy on the run with someone else’s money, he’s suspiciously high profile.
But then, he’s a gambler. And from what I know about Stokes already, he’s stupid and arrogant enough to think he’s invincible. Suddenly the idea of letting Mo off his leash doesn’t sound too bad at all.
I stifle a belch as Stokes pulls himself away from the table, and storms out of the pit.
Straight for me.
I turn away, try to be cool about it. He looks too wound-up to pay me any attention, but I pretend to fade into the cigarette smoke anyway. He pulls out his wallet and I get a glimpse of enough cash to make my tongue feel thick in my mouth. I take a sip of my pint and watch the plasma screen.
Stokes sucks his teeth and slaps a fiver on the bar. ‘Georgie, I’m having a shitty night.’
‘Sorry to hear that, Mr Stokes.’
I catch a twitch in George’s face, see him glance at me.
‘I’ll have the usual,’ says Stokes.
George shifts his weight from one foot to the other as he’s pouring a John Smith’s for Stokes. Sets the pint down and cranks a double Johnny Walker from an optic. He takes the fiver and dumps silver on the bar. Stokes takes a long pull on the bitter.
‘You lot in here, you might as well fuckin’ mugme. If dbe faster.’
‘But less fun,’ says George. He has a fake smile plastered on his face, like someone put vinegar on the roof of his mouth.
This is banter to go with the drinks. About as friendly as he wants to get with me watching.
‘You’re right,’ says Stokes. ‘You’re always right, man. The house has the advantage. I should know fuckin’ better. It’s not like you don’t tell me that.’
George doesn’t hear him. Or if he does, he doesn’t show it.
He moves to the other end of the bar. Out of the way. And I know why.
I don’t know who you’re talking about, mate.
Georgie doesn’t know Rob Stokes. The lying bastard. The question now is how well does he know him. I make a mental note not to pay the barman. Fuck him. And his glance at me when Stokes arrived at the bar bothers me. I didn’t get a look at Stokes’ face, but I’m sure it was for his benefit. Like, here’s the guy who’s looking for you, Rob. Gets me thinking that George set the pair of us up.
