Saturday's child ci-1

by Ray Banks

  Stokes drinks his bitter, then knocks back the whisky. He turns to me, says, “I know you?’

  I’m shaken out of it. ‘Don’t think so, mate.’

  ‘You’re a Mane,’ he says.

  ‘Salford.’

  ‘Fuckin’ hell, small world. I used to live down Manchester.’

  ‘Whereabouts?’ I ask.

  He takes a moment. ‘All over.’

  If there’s any fear in Stokes, he’s not giving it up. As far as he’s concerned, I’m just another transplanted Mane. How he knows that from my accent, I don’t know. The more I drink, the more I sound like a Leith lad. Which means he’s probably been briefed.

  ‘Why’re you up here?’ I say.

  His eyes flash, then he drinks. ‘Girlfriend wanted to move up here. I fancied a change of scenery.’

  ‘And what do you think of the place?’

  ‘Newcastle? It’s a shit pit.’ Stokes leans against the bar, regards me with red-rimmed eyes. ‘But it’s better for me right now.’

  ‘Why’s that?’

  ‘Just because.’ He finishes his pint, sucks his teeth again.

  ‘What’s with the Coke?’

  ‘Stops me getting drunk.’

  ‘Expensive, though.’

  ‘It does the job.’

  ‘Why you scared of getting drunk?’ he says.

  Because I’ll end up twatting people like you, I think. “I just hate hangovers.’

  ‘Uh,’ he says. He opens his wallet again, sorts out his cash.

  He removes a wad and nods to me. ‘Nice talking to you.’

  ‘And you,’ I say.

  I finish my pint as he strides back down to the pit and heads for a blackjack table. I order another drink, sip at my Coke while I wait for George to get his arse in gear.

  When he finally hands over the pint, I look at him. He’s gone white.

  ‘You feeling alright, George?’ I say.

  ‘I’m okay.’

  ‘Good.’ I reach into my pocket. ‘You want me to pay you now?’

  He shakes his head. ‘No good here. There’s cameras all over the place. Just meet me outside after work.’

  ‘Right,’ I say. ‘Wouldn’t want you to get into trouble.’

  ‘Thanks. Is it the right guy?’

  “I think you know fine well it’s the right guy, Georgie.’

  He looks at the floor. I notice his hairline is receding. Older than I thought. Not that it matters much. He has to serve another customer, so I let him go.

  I call for a cab when it looks like Stokes is hitting rock bottom. It’s outside waiting for me at ten-thirty when he calls it a night. As I get in, a Ford Escort’s headlights go up full blaze and Stokes tears out of the carpark.

  ‘That’s my mate there. I got to follow him home,’ I say to the driver.

  The cab driver looks at me in the rear view.

  ‘I mean it.’

  ‘Uh-huh,’ he says and breaks into a smug grin, pulls the cab out of the carpark and makes sure he keeps two cars behind all the way.

  As Stokes turns off towards Benton, I check the clock on the cab dashboard. It’s getting towards eleven. I can picture George hanging around outside the casino after his shift ends at two. Waiting for me to turn up and hand over the cash. He can go fuck himself.

  I wonder how long he’ll wait there before he realises he’s been stood up.

  And I can’t help smiling to myself.

  THIRTY-TWO

  Stokes turns off Benton Road before he hits the Metro station into a residential area. Mostly bungalows and semi-detached.

  Nice gardens, well-kept. Obviously owned, no council.

  But as soon as I see the block of flats, I know that’s where he lives. This is definitely rented accommodation, but the council tax is probably a bigger expense. He turns left into the block carpark.

  ‘Right here’s fine, mate,’ I say to the driver.

  The cabbie lets me out. I tip him well and make a note of the firm’s number. I’m going to need a ride back. As he pulls away from the kerb, I sink into the shadows on a patch of wasteground, squint through the gloom.

  Stokes appears, goes into the door nearest the end of the building.

  So he lives in one of six flats. It’s a start. When I’m sure he’s inside, I cross the grass towards the block of flats. I check the windows for any sign of life. The one at the far end has the door to the balcony open and a flickering blue light behind curtains, probably a television. The one below has a lit window, too. I scan the rest of the flats for any signs of someone coming home.

  Nothing.

  I keep watching.

  I wait. Watch. Listen. The television keeps blaring out.

  Sounds like the theme tune to Sex and the City.

  Georgie, I’m having a shitty night.

  That bothers me. Something I’ve missed. Yeah, I know George knows Stokes. That’s a given. But does it go any further than that? Something’s niggling at me, something about the way George’s face tightened when Stokes came over. Something about the way he kept his distance when Stokes was at the bar, like he didn’t want to be associated with him.

  They’d know each other. Obviously. If Stokes is a regular, and a regular loser at that, of course he’d know George. And the barman’s a shift junkie, so he’d be in most nights. But something about that glance, that twitch of the face. It wasn’t just the knowledge that I’d caught him out.

  It was like he was scared of Stokes.

  Fuck it, forget it. It’s nothing. The barrage of an approaching hangover, the twinge in my tooth, the idea I’m doing something wrong, that’s what it is. It adds up to paranoia.

  Nobody’s setting me up.

  A shadow crosses in front of the curtains, thrown into strobed distortion. From the flat I can hear voices, but I can’t make out what they’re saying. I try to get closer. The grass squelches underfoot and I hope to hell I didn’t step in dog shit.

  The voices aren’t American. Male and female. When the male voice starts shouting, I know it’s Stokes. The female voice hits the same volume, but I still can’t make out what’s being said. The television almost drowns them out.

  Almost. When he hits her, the smack is enough to make the breath catch in my throat.

  It goes silent apart from the girls in New York.

  A low male voice, saying something that tries to be soothing.

  The soft sound of someone crying. Probably Alison.

  A temper like his, I shouldn’t have thought he’d save it for the tables. Nah, he’s a guy who likes to bring it home with him. And Alison’s on the other end of it. Money’s a bitch for bringing the worst out of people, especially when they’ve got an addiction to feed.

  I should call Mo right now, tell him to get his arse in gear and up to Newcastle. I’ve got an idea where Stokes lives. I can wait for Mo to arrive, then point him in the right direction.

  Something stops me, though. I don’t know if it’s fear, duty or the idea that, fuck it, I might have the wrong place. I should double-check that before I even think about calling Mo. Then when I’m sure that this is the place, I’ll give him the address and go home. If I’m not sure, I’ll have to hang around. And if Mo finds out what Stokes has been doing to his little sister, he’ll make it messier than usual.

  And as much as Stokes is doing nothing to get off my shitlist, I don’t want to be responsible for that. It’s not in my job description.

  Yeah right, Cal. That is your job description.

  I walk away from the flat, pull my jacket tight, head out to the sounds of a main road just up the way. I think I’ve got enough information. Anything more than that, Mo can sort it out.

  But the white knight in me won’t give it up. I’ve got to do something to help Alison. I should sort this out so nobody else gets hurt.

  Hurt any more than necessary, that is.

  There’s a moral decision to make here, and I’m not sure I’m the right man to make it. Too many things don’t add up the
way I need them to. The more I think about it, the more I think George knows Stokes of old. I mean, Christ, the guy’s only been in town a week or so. And a man like him doesn’t strike me as the type to make friends easily, no matter how loose that friendship is.

  No, George has got to be one of those friends that Kev mentioned to me. One of Alison’s mates. And the only reason he would have for grassing Stokes to me is that he knows what’s going on in that flat. Maybe he’s playing the white knight himself. Or maybe he’s just like Kev, besotted with Alison Tiernan and hoping I’ll get Stokes out of the way. Grab himself a handful of the Tiernan family and end up being next on Mo’s list.

  Jesus, I really hope that’s not the case.

  I pull out my mobile and ring for a cab. Light an Embassy and take a long drag on it.

  No, I won’t be calling Mo just yet. I have too many questions.

  And Alison Tiernan’s the only person who can answer them.

  THIRTY-THREE

  Rossie were sparked out in the middle seat of the van, Baz all cloudy-eyed at the wheel. I’d just done another wrap and it kept me night vision proper enabled. Glared at Innes’ Micra like it were sitting there teasing us. We knew Innes weren’t there. We knew he were out and about, but he’d have to come back for his car. I checked me mobile to see if there were any messages, but a big fat zero blinked at us.

  He knew the deal. He found Stokes, he had to call us. I felt like calling me dad and telling him what the fuck were transpiring. But then what did I know? Nowt. Far as I knew, Innes were holed up in a pub somewhere fucked out his brains.

  But nah, he came to Newcastle for a reason.

  I seen the cab coming down the hill and I fuckin’ knew.

  ‘That’s him,’ I said. ‘He’s got summat.’

  Baz snorted. Fucker were half-asleep. I gave him a nudge.

  ‘Baz. Wake up, man.’

  He opened his mouth, then turned away. Bastard.

  The cab pulled in the carpark and I got close to the window, squinted right up so’s I could see what were happening. I watched Innes fuck about in the car, then he got out and started walking to the hotel. Felt like tearing across the street and leathering the cunt in the back of the head, but I stayed put. Mature, that were me. Fuckin’ mature.

  Mature enough to handle ten times this job.

  ‘There y’are, you cunt,’ I said. I watched for a new light in one of the windows, but nowt came. Muttered to meself and gave up after a couple minutes. Fuck it. We didn’t need to go in his room and work him over. I nicked one of Baz’s Regals and got out the van, lit up and watched the hotel through the smoke.

  I could’ve burned the whole place down. I wanted to.

  Summat in us wanted to see the sky lit up like that, knowing that Innes was in the middle of it all. Proper hellfire damnation.

  Try that on for size, you Catholic fuck.

  But nah, that were the kind of thing the old Mo would do.

  He’d go in there like guns blazing, kick arse all over the shop and leave no man standing. But this now, this were the New Mo. This were Mature Mo. I went in there and burned, there’d be consequences, and I heard me dad in the back of me head telling us that he weren’t gonna stand by us no more.

  He’d leave us to the spurs.

  I stayed out the ‘Ways this long. I didn’t fancy a trip now.

  I opened up the van door and gave Baz a knuckle knock on his head.

  ‘Ow, ya bastard. Fuck was that for?’

  “I thought you was asleep.’

  “I was asleep.’

  ‘And now you’re awake.’

  Baz yawned, then his face went all fat and rumpled again.

  ‘What’d you wake us up for, Mo?’

  ‘You still got them spray cans?’

  ‘What fuckin’ spray cans?’ said Baz.

  ‘The ones we was going to do Paulo’s place with.’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘C’mon then.’

  ‘They’re in the back of me car,’ said Baz.

  ‘You’re fuckin’ kidding.’

  “I didn’t know we was supposed to bring ‘em with us.’

  I kicked the side of the van. The bang echoed in the street.

  ‘Here, Mo, if you’d let us bring me car, we’d be sound right now.’

  ‘Oh, you just figured that out, did you? I knew I kept you round for a reason. Get the engine going. We’re gonna buy some spray paint.’

  ‘Where the fuck are we gonna get spray paint this time of night?’

  ‘I don’t give a shit. We keep driving until we find a fuckin’ garage, alright?’ I got in the van. Rossie made a noise like he were waking up. ‘Now let’s get going, Baz.’

  Baz shook his head, tried to get awake as he twisted the ignition. When the engine caught, Rossie woke right up.

  ‘What’s going on?’

  ‘We’re going to a garage,’ said Baz.

  ‘Sweet. I’ll have a pasty if they got ‘em.’

  This were what I had to fuckin’ deal with. No wonder I were so pissed off.

  THIRTY-FOUR

  I don’t get much sleep. It’s too warm, the air too heavy. I open the windows in my hotel room and slump back onto the bed. Stare at the ceiling. Lights pass across it as cars go by outside. I reach for my mobile and sit with Donna’s number in my hand. I don’t know if I should call her. She might not remember me. She might put me down as a bad mistake. And it’s late.

  Press in her number, but I don’t follow through.

  Come on, Cal. Grow some fucking balls.

  Then I connect.

  It rings. And then rings some more. My throat goes dry. I take a drink from the glass of water next to me, but it doesn’t seem to make it better. When she picks up, my mouth is full, and I realise I don’t know what I’m supposed to say. I swallow.

  ‘It’s Callum.’ Which is better than nothing, I suppose.

  ‘Callum?’ she says.

  ‘Yeah, Callum. Cal. Sorry, it’s Cal. Like the Helen Mirren movie. We met the other night, remember?’

  ‘Course I remember. You were supposed to call me. Did you forget, or is it a bloke thing?’

  “I… Well, I thought I was calling you.’

  “I expected a next-day service,’ says Donna.

  ‘Sorry. I’ve been busy.’

  ‘Stop apologising. I’m joking.’ She laughs. It should hurt, that sound. ‘So what are you doing tonight?’

  I check my watch. It’s a scratch past midnight. ‘What, you mean now?’

  ‘No, I mean tonight.’

  “I don’t know. I have to work.’

  ‘And then?’

  ‘Then I’m going back to Manchester.’

  ‘Right.’

  ‘But we can meet up before I go,’ I say.

  She doesn’t say anything.

  ‘You still there?’

  ‘Yeah,’ she says. ‘Well. You have my number. Call me if you want. I’ll understand if you don’t.’

  ‘I’ll give you a ring.’

  ‘Okay.’ She doesn’t believe me. Before I get a chance to say anything else, she rings off and I’m left holding a dead line.

  Forget it.

  I do. For the moment, anyway. And the rest of the night falls into blackness.

  I wake up at noon, pull myself from the bed and stumble into the bathroom. Brush my teeth. The brush catches my bad tooth and I grunt, chuck the toothbrush into the sink as blood mingles with minty freshness. Look up at myself in the mirror and realise that a good night’s sleep has still left me looking like death.

  I grab my mobile and call Paulo. Something about that tail yesterday put me on edge. When he picks up, I ask him if Donkey’s been round the club.

  ‘Yeah, he’s been round, Cal. Every fuckin’ morning he’s been round. The bloke’s got a doctorate in mithering.’

  ‘What’d you tell him?’

  ‘What d’you think I told him? I told him you were out of town.’

  ‘How’d he take it?’
/>
  ‘He told me to let him know the second I got off the phone to you. Said you were in deep shit. What’d you do?’

  ‘Hey, what makes you think I did something?’

  ‘Because you’re asking more questions than you’re answering.

  What’d you do?’

  “I didn’t do anything. Donkey’s got a fuckin’ stiffy for me because I’m an ex-con. I told you about that.’

  ‘He’s leaning on me, Cal.’

  ‘So lean back. You’re a big boy.’

  There’s a silence on the other end. Then Paulo clears his throat. ‘Who the fuck do you think you’re talking to?’

  ‘I’m sorry, mate. I just… I’ve got enough on my plate at the moment. I need your help on this, Paulo. Just fob him off or something, okay? I’ll be back in a couple of days.’

  “I got my club to think about. I’m not doing you any more fuckin’ favours, Cal. Mo’s one thing, but the police? That’s a whole other story.’

  ‘He thinks I did over this bloke, alright? He hasn’t got a stitch of evidence, but he’s after my blood.’

  ‘You leaving town’s not helped matters.’

  ‘I know that. Look, tell you what. He left you a number, right? Give me the number and I’ll call him myself.’

  As Paulo grumbles to himself, it sounds like he’s shifting furniture. I need to talk to Donkey, just to get the bastard off my back. I’ve got a throbbing pain in the back of my neck.

  The guy in the black leather jacket, he must have been a copper. Donkey’s watching me, just like he said he would.

  And this is the worst possible time for it. But me losing him in the crowd has tweaked Donkey where it hurts, so he’s making things tough for Paulo. Typical Donkey.

  ‘Got it,’ says Paulo. And he gives me the number.

  ‘Cheers, mate. I’m sorry. I’ll sort this out.’

  ‘Be sure you do.’

  I hang up. As I’m pressing in Donkey’s number, there’s a light knock at my door. My arse clenches. He couldn’t have found me already. Part of me wants to bolt for the window, but that’s a stupid move. I’m not dressed enough for a getaway, and if it’s the police, I wouldn’t get far after hitting the concrete. They’d be on me like flies on shit and I’d be in even more trouble than I already am. So I cancel the call, stuff my mobile into my jacket and open the door.