Saturday's child ci-1

by Ray Banks

  The lad with George is a mealy little bugger, skinny as a wicker man and twice as fragile. He sees me coming, but he can’t get his brain around it. So he stares. He starts gold fishing. As I get closer, I can hear tiny noises in the back of his throat, wee grunts and clicks. The fucker sounds like Flipper.

  ‘They’ll come running back,’ says George. ‘That Debbie loves me, Trev. I can smell it on her ‘

  I cut him short with a chop to his right knee.

  ‘Howzat, you cunt.’

  The bat makes a dull thump, not the ear-splitting crack I was hoping for, but George buckles, knocks his head off the roof of the car and crumples to the ground. His mate looks at me, wide-eyed and visibly shaking. There’s a moment before George realises how much pain he’s in. When he does, he starts screaming like someone poured acid in his eyes.

  ‘Back off,’ I say to Trev. ‘Turn around and walk the other fuckin’ way.’

  George loses the breath to scream, falls into heavy sobbing.

  I want to take the bat to his head, but Trev’s still here.

  ‘Don’t make me tell you twice, son. This is none of yours.’

  I raise the bat. It’s the picture he needed painting. Trev bolts straight for the casino and the bouncers. I need to hurry this thing along. I grab George by the shirt collar and drag him across the tarmac. He starts screaming again; no words, just noise. A quick glance at him and tears are streaking the blood on his face. He must have broken his nose on the way down.

  Bonus.

  For someone so bloody thin, he’s a dead weight. I manage to get him to the Micra just as I look across at Trev. He’s telling the bouncers what happened, pointing at me. I pull the driver’s seat forward and say to George, ‘After you, mate.’

  He looks up at me. ‘You broke my fuckin’ legsl’

  ‘Bollocks. I didn’t break nowt.’ I lift him under the arms and heave him into the back seat. One of the bouncers shouts.

  I look up and see one of the bruisers in full pelt towards me.

  The other one’s disappeared. He must be calling the police. I slam the seat against George’s fucked up leg and he yelps.

  Then I slide behind the wheel.

  I start the engine and it catches no problem. There’s a first time for everything. I gun it out of the carpark, light an Embassy as we pull onto the main road and away from the city centre.

  George babbles in the back seat. ‘Listen man, I’m sorry, alright? I got carried away, it happens. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to ‘

  ‘Save it, George.’

  ‘Nah, I mean it. C’mon, you can’t think I was really gonna kill you, do you? I’m all talk, you ask anyone. I’m a fuckin’ coward, man. I’m a fuckin’ wreck. Look, you just let us out here, I’ll be fine, right?’ He tries to move his leg and chokes.

  ‘I’m gonna be sick.’

  ‘Go ahead.’

  ‘What d’you want, man? I’m not Rob, am I? You want cash, I got some on us, but if you want serious cash then you’ll have to drop us off at a bank ‘

  I look at him in the rear view. ‘What d’you think I want?’

  He looks blank. The pain’s made him slow. He’ll get it soon enough, though.

  Even if I have to break his other leg.

  FORTY-EIGHT

  Another night, another motorway.

  I pull in, flick on the hazard lights and get out of the car. Cold out here, my breath misting up in front of my face. The drive here gave me a bastard behind the eyes. I didn’t take anything for it, either. Let the pain dull the senses, stop me from thinking about what I’m about to do. The headache subsides for a second once I get some fresh air into my lungs, then I pull open the driver’s door and flip the seat forward. George is still in the same position.

  He’s frightened out of his mind, his eyes shining in the dark.

  Good.

  ‘Get out the car, George,’ I say quietly.

  ‘Howeh, you’re not thinking straight.’

  I grab his bad leg and pull hard. George splutters a shout as he tries to fight me off, but I give a good hard yank and he comes spilling onto the road, landing on his back with a thump. I give him a dig in the ribs. George tries to double up, winded. I drag him like the sack of shite he is over the lay-by and send him rolling down into a ditch. Then I reach into the car, heft the Maxi to my shoulder and stare at him until he manages to turn himself over.

  ‘Fuck’s the matter with you?’ he says. His voice is strained, hoarse. Too much screaming, his fear boiled into anger now.

  I know that feeling all too well. Let him get wrapped up in darkness until it clamps around his lungs like two damp fists.

  Let him suffer those sudden jabs of light from passing cars.

  Give him a taste of his own fucking medicine.

  ‘Where is he, George?’

  George shakes his head. ‘Where’s who?’

  ‘Stokes.’

  “I dunno where Rob is, man. He fucked off. He’s gone.’

  “I don’t believe you.’

  “I don’t give a fuck. I’ll have you locked up.’

  Better give him something to grass up, then. I bring the sharp end of the Maxi down on his right shin, a swift hard stamp. He spasms on the ground, yelps like a scalded puppy. Bring the bat down again and twist the bastard against the bone. George tries to move his leg, but he hasn’t got the strength. He keeps calling out for God. And I keep the pressure on.

  ‘Where is he, George?’ ‘I fuckin’ told you where he is.’

  I twist the bat, feel bone stretch and crack under my weight. Then the bat’s back up at my shoulder and over his yelling, I tell him, ‘You told me nowt, mate.’

  George curls up as best he can, snot all down his chin. He chokes on whatever he’s trying to say because his whole body is racked with sobs. I toy with the idea of battering his teeth out, but then that would defeat the purpose. It’s hard enough to understand what he’s saying, thanks to a swollen top lip and a collapsed nose.

  I grab the bottle of vodka from the car and take a swig until my lips feel dry and stinging. Then I screw the cap back onto the bottle and let the bat touch my leg. ‘What’s the matter with you, George? Stokes did fuck all for you, mate, except get you here.’

  ‘He didn’t tell me nowt.’ It comes out as a scream, the indignant wail of a kid. A flash from passing headlights shows his red eyes, his bleeding mouth, the colour rising high in his cheeks. Like someone held a scarlet filter up to his face.

  ‘He’s a mate, though,’ I say. ‘You two are close. He must’ve told you something. I can’t believe he didn’t give you an inkling at least.’

  ‘Rob’s not a mate,’ says George. ‘He ain’t fuckin’…’ He shakes his head, gobs thick spittle from his burst mouth.

  ‘Rob’s an idiot, man.’

  ‘So he’s not a mate, so there’s no loyalty.’

  ‘That’s not it. Fuckin’ hell. You know what he did?’

  ‘He stole money,’ I say.

  ‘He saw the chance for a big score and he went for it. And, y’know, I told him not to do it. I told him not to fuck himself over for her. Can’t trust her as far as you can shit her.’

  ‘This would be Alison.’

  ‘Who else would it be? Aye, Alison.’

  ‘And what’s her big secret, eh?’

  ‘It’s not a secret, man. She’s a fuckin’ little cooze. A proper bitch and snide with it.’

  ‘She call you a name behind your back?’

  George blinks slowly, his eyes rolled to the whites. The lad’ll pass out given half a chance. I slam the bat against the side of the Micra and the noise shakes him awake.

  ‘Keep alert, George.’

  ‘It was all her, man,’ he says.

  ‘It was Alison’s idea.’

  ‘Aye.’

  ‘Not Rob.’

  ‘Rob didn’t have the balls to do it.’

  ‘She robbed her own fuckin’ father is what you’re telling me,’ I say. The vodka’s kicked in
, crackling the blood and throwing my brain around the inside of my skull. ‘You’re out of your mind.’

  ‘And you’re fuckin’ blinkered, man.’

  I stamp hard on his ankle. As I twist, something gives way underfoot. George throws himself forward, scrabbling at my leg. I knock his hand away with the bat. As I step off, he tries to roll out of the way, ends up face-down in a puddle. ‘How about you tell me the truth, George? How about that? Else I take this bat to your fuckin’ skull’

  He breathes muddy bubbles in the puddle water, his face screwed up. When he talks, he sprays. ‘I’m telling you the truth. I swear to God I’m telling you the fuckin’ truth.’

  Bringing God into it again. I test the weight of the cricket bat in my hand, aim my swing at his other ankle. It connects with a sharp crack. George buries his scream in the mud and when he tries to speak, it comes out with a throbbing staccato underscore: ‘Whuh-huh-the fuck

  …’

  “I don’t like you, George. I thought I made that patently fuckin’ obvious, mate. I don’t like you because you were all set to top me and leave me in a bloody ditch, and I don’t like you because you’re lying to me.’

  George shakes his head, pulls his body up with all the weight firmly on his forehead. A vein in his neck looks fit to burst. It’s like watching a tape of myself from the other night.

  When he gets to his knees, he spits a mixture of blood and mud at me. ‘And I told you the fuckin’ truth, you cunt. You wanna do me in, go for it, fuckin’ do it’

  I raise the bat quickly, ready to swing. Adjust my grip, make sure it’s good and firm, take a second to wipe the sweat from my left palm. Draw a bead on the back of George’s head – the fucker’s cowering now – and narrow my eyes until he’s a blur. Just the way it has to be. Holding up the Maxi, my fingers twitching against the rubber grip.

  Go on. Do it. Swing the fucker. Knock some sense into him.

  Lying cunt, lying cunt, lying fuckin bastard cunt.

  Headlight flash behind me, grab George’s shadow and throw it from left to right, headlights behind them punching the shadow into three. Time lapse. I open my eyes, feel the bile scratch at the back of my throat.

  I can’t do this.

  Wimp. Pussy. Do it.

  I can’t fucking do it.

  This is why you’re constantly being fucked over, Cal. It comes to the crunch and you shit it, pal.

  The bat trembles in my hands. I can’t control it.

  COWARD.

  No.

  ‘Fuck’s sake.’ The words come out in a rush. I lower the bat, massage the blood back into my hands. My leg hurts. My arms ache. My spine pinches at me. My heart is beating too fast, and I’ve broken out in a cold sweat. ‘Fuck’s sake.’

  George’s back heaves in the dim light. It’s the only movement he makes.

  I have to lean against the car. I put the bat by my leg and light up.

  I’d go for the vodka, but I can’t move.

  FORTY-NINE

  Sitting on the tarmac, the arse of my jeans getting soaked right through to the skin, and I’d feel sorry for myself if it wasn’t for George whimpering in the dark. Kind of puts my wet buttocks into perspective.

  ‘If Alison set it up, then why did she agree to come back with me?’ I say.

  A loud, long breath escapes from George. I look up, and make him out lying on his back. A stiff breeze blows the smell of urine my way. ‘She told us you’d be there. She wanted you taken care of,’ he says.

  ‘She does that, and someone else’U just come after her.’

  ‘You think they’re after her?’

  I wipe the nose with the back of my hand. ‘They’re after Stokes. Fuck it, nah, I don’t know who they’re after anymore.’

  ‘You had to find Rob,’ he says.

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘She set him up.’

  ‘She had no reason to set him up,’ I say.

  ‘She doesn’t give a shit.’

  ‘Rob would beat her to death.’

  ‘I need to go to the hospital.’

  ‘Rob would hit her, mate. She’s scared of him. I’ve seen her. She’s taken a beating.’

  ‘Mr Innes, Cal, I need to go to a hospital.’

  I look up at George, find him staring at me. Pleading. I get to my feet, grab the cricket bat and throw it onto the back seat. “I can’t do that, George.’

  ‘C’mon, it’s the least you can do – you broke my fuckin’ legs.’

  ‘And you don’t know how close I came to killing you, you ungrateful bastard. I wish I’d broken your mouth.’

  ‘You’ve got to take me to the hospital.’

  ‘I’m not taking you anywhere.’

  “I told you everything.’

  ‘You didn’t tell me where he is.’

  “I told you everything.’

  ‘You think he’s gone back to his flat?’

  “I don’t know.’

  ‘What’d he say to you after you left me the other night?’

  George’s head twists like he’s been through this and through this and he still can’t get a handle on it. ‘He said that it was over. He said that there’d be no more trouble from you, and Alison would be happy with that.’

  ‘So he went back to his flat,’ I say.

  “I told you, I dunno.’

  I move towards George and he flinches, tries to pull himself away. I grip his shirt collar and pull hard, drag him screaming to the back seat of the car. I throw the seat back and get behind the wheel, adjusting the rear view so I can get a better look at him. ‘Tell you what, George – as soon as I find Stokes, I’ll drop you off at A amp; E.’

  He summons up a mouthful of spit and aims it at me.

  When it connects with my face, I feel fire in my cheeks. I lean over the seat and slap him open-handed. George recoils, his face growing red.

  ‘Don’t play gangster with me, son. Else I will finish you off.’

  Driving back to Benton is a chore. My arms feel like lead weights, my vision blurred. Sick of the same streets, the same battered faces on the corner. I take a swig of the vodka to keep my blood going and have to tell George to shut up. He’s moaning in the back seat that he’s not comfortable. I tell him he’s just going to have to make do. Life stinks, so hold your nose. At least I’ve had the decency to promise him a hospital.

  More than he ever did for me.

  George says, ‘Why me, man?’

  ‘Why you what?’

  ‘Why’d you come for me?’ He stops himself. “I know, for last night ‘

  ‘That’s a good enough reason.’

  ‘But it’s not the only one, right? You’re not just out to do me over.’

  ‘You were the only one I knew I could find in a hurry.’

  ‘Huh,’ he says. ‘You didn’t have to bring the bat with you.’

  I look at George in the rear view. ‘What the hell else was I supposed to do? You deserved it.’

  He falls silent. Tries to move, but falls back against the seat.

  Now he’s propped up against the windows, staring up at the roof of the car. Mud on his face, blood hardening his top lip.

  He mops at his mouth with the back of his hand, then looks to see if he’s still bleeding. Every now and then, he’ll glance at something on the floor of the car.

  I watch him. I know what he’s thinking. If he could only get to the bat, he’d let loose with it on the back of my head. I catch his eye. “I wouldn’t bother, George. Think about it this way: you use that bat on me, I’ll probably black out, right? I black out, I lose control of the car.’ I press my foot on the accelerator; the engine roars, momentum pushing me back in my seat. “I lose control of the car, we’re just a twisted heap of metal and bone.’

  “I wasn’t ‘

  ‘Course you were. If I was in your position, I’d be thinking the same thing. Now picture this: I crash the car and, through some miracle, you haven’t gone through the windscreen.

  Maybe you’re so limp back there
that you come out of it unmarked. We’re in the middle of nowhere. How fast d’you think you can run on two broken legs?’

  ‘Mr Innes ‘

  ‘Nah, hold up, let me speak. And don’t go offering excuses, because you’ve got priors for making daft mistakes. So listen to me. You even look at that bat again, and I’ll fishtail this car all over the sodding road, make things proper uncomfortable for you back there.’

  George sighs. It sounds painful. He keeps his eyes on the passing scenery.

  ‘We’re going back to Rob’s and you’re going to sit quiet until I see him. Then when the cavalry’s arrived, I’ll take you to the fuckin’ hospital, alright?’

  “I don’t even know if he’s still there,’ says George.

  ‘Why wouldn’t he be?’

  George shakes his head, sucks his teeth. His eyes are shining. The guy’s crying again.

  ‘Look, I’m sorry to do this to you, but you brought it on yourself. You’re a bloody idiot.’

  ‘Don’t I fuckin’ know it,’ he says.

  I reach across and pull open the glove compartment. My head’s throbbing, but I toss the Nurofen into the back seat.

  ‘Here,’ I say. ‘Get them down you. Should dull the pain for a bit.’

  He opens the pack. ‘There’s only two left.’

  “I had a toothache.’ I drain the vodka bottle and sling it into the open glove compartment, slam it closed. In the back, George dry-swallows the two pills as I pull the car into Manor Road.

  The prescription pills rattle in my pocket, and part of me thinks about tossing a few his way. But then, they’re mine. I could have given him something to wash the Nurofen down, but there’s no way I’d let him get between me and my booze. I might be feeling slightly sorry for him, but there are limits.

  I’ve already tested a few of my own tonight.

  FIFTY

  Early morning silence gives you space to think, even if you don’t want to. The vodka’s slipping away fast, and I have the radio on. John Lee Hooker with a slow, mournful tune that I can’t name or. make out the lyrics to, reminding me of Donna. I switch the radio station. Another dishrag morning, another half-hearted shower of rain against the windscreen.