by Ray Banks
Reminds me of the last time I saw Kumar. We were out in the prison allotment, turning over manure which stank worse with the rain and the damp. I was keeping my head down and getting on with it, but Kumar had issues with it all. He should have known better than to act up. The screw watching us looked just like Gary Busey. That should have been a sign.
So Kumar said he wanted a cigarette. The screw said he wasn’t allowed, that Kumar’d had his smoke break. Busey also said that if Kumar fancied himself a hard arse about it, he’d end up with that there spade in his spine.
Kumar didn’t listen. Kumar ended up in the infirmary.
When he got out, he mouthed off that he was going to file a complaint. It was inhumane, he said. He had a shit hot brief who’d make toast of Busey and the whole prison.
We stayed away from him. It was one thing to be a crusader; it was another to be a grass. Yeah, Busey was a guard, but he taught a valuable lesson.
You’ve got to know who’s in charge. And sometimes it takes GBH to make a bloke learn.
I’m not proud of what I did to George. Now that the fuzz has disappeared from my brain, I’m getting snapshots of last night in every hangover-heightened detail. I could have killed him. And if I could have killed him in that state, it makes me wonder what else I’ve done when I’m drunk. Part of me wishes I could just be an arsehole when I’m pissed like everyone else. Why I get the fear is beyond me. But fuck it; I’ll go to confession.
‘What’ll happen to Rob?’ asks George.
He’s been quiet since we parked. Now his voice seems back to normal. The Nurofen must have kicked in and he’s had the chance to swallow enough spit to kill the rawness in his throat. He’s been cadging cigarettes off me. He’s got one in his gob right now, smoke wafting out through the front window.
“I don’t care what happens to Rob,’ I say.
‘It’s not his fault.’
“I don’t care.’
George lets the smoke hiss out through his teeth. ‘Fuck are you, anyway? I thought you was a private detective.’
‘Investigator,’ I say.
‘Yeah, shit. Big fuckin’ difference, eh? Private investigators beat the shit out of people with cricket bats?’
‘They do if they’re pissed off.’
George snorts. Coughs and spits something in the back of my car. ‘Aye, you’re a private investigator. You work for Morris Tiernan, you’re not a PI. You’re a bloody hatchet man.’
That’s the third time I’ve been described like that. I didn’t like it much the first time. Now it’s starting to boil my piss.
‘You done bird?’ he says.
‘I’ve been in prison.’
‘So you’re an ex-con.’
‘You ought to be in the police, you’re that fuckin’ smart.
What’s your point?’
‘You got a licence?’
‘They don’t license.’
‘So you’re just playing the part,’ he says.
I don’t like where this is going. I glare at him in the rear view.
‘You’re not a PI,’ he says. And he laughs. Loud. ‘Fuckin’ hell, you’re no more a private investigator than I’m James Bond, man.’
‘Shut your mouth, George.’
‘You honestly think you’re doing good here?’
“I don’t have to do good. I just have to do a job.’
‘You talked to Alison, man. No, wait, I got it. You got chivalrous because she was sporting a shiner, right?’
‘Your mate Rob’s a piece of shit,’ I say.
‘Oh, come on, man. You saw him the other night. She gave as good as she got. And if I know her like I think I know her, she was the one that threw the first punch, and I bet it was nowhere near being over the fuckin’ belt, either.’
‘That’s not true. I was there.’
‘And what did you see?’
“I saw a fight.’
‘Who started it?’
“I know what I saw.’
‘Fuck that, you saw what you wanted to see. And how pissed were you then?’
I twist around in my seat. ‘You going to shut up, George?’
He takes another drag on the cadged Embassy and smiles with a swollen lip. It’s an ugly sight. ‘I’m trying to tell you what’s going on here, man. You see what you want to see, you don’t realise that you’re playing for the wrong team. C’mon, the Tiernans are the good guys? Give your fuckin’ head a shake, man.’
“I didn’t have a choice.’
‘Way I see it, you’re responsible for what happens to Rob.’
‘Am I fuck.’
‘You’ve as good as set him up. You tell the Tiernans where he is, you’re as good as killing him yourself. How’s that sit on your conscience?’
‘It’s none of my business.’
‘Course it is,’ he says. ‘You’re as bad as the rest of them. A charva fuckin’ gangster playing PI because you’re too scared to stand up for yourself.’
My elbow finds his teeth before I know what I’ve done. George flies back in his seat, hand up over his mouth, swearing in blood bubbles. I turn back around in my seat and stare through the windscreen, my skin itching. Behind me, George is mumbling through broken teeth.
“I didn’t have a choice,’ I say.
And I’m out of the car before George can say anything else.
FIFTY-ONE
George. Dickhead. Fucking dickhead. Where does he get off playing the morality card with me? Where the hell does a guy who wanted to kill me and leave me by the side of the road in a ditch find the balls to put his boot in the stirrup and get up on that high horse? Fucking hypocrite.
And there he goes, muddying my thoughts with this bullshit conspiracy theory. Alison Tiernan behind it all, which makes Rob Stokes a scapegoat and dead man walking.
She’s unhappy with her life and her bastard kid, so she decides to steal from her dad and go on the run. It fits with what she said, but it’s the guilt I’m having trouble with.
I’ve seen battered wives and girlfriends before. I know what they look like and there was something defiant about Alison that didn’t fit. Like she was willing me to start in on her. At the time, I thought it was just her way of coping. And thinking of Stokes now, I’m not sure if he was sporting any new wounds. I thought I saw something, but the state I was in, it could have been a trick of the light.
But if Alison’s behind it, then I’ve been fucking up since day one. And Rob Stokes is going to pay for it. Maybe he’s just like the rest of us, caught up and in too deep to swim.
I light a cigarette even though I don’t want one. The sky’s the same colour as the smoke that drifts from my mouth. Somewhere I can hear birds chirping and when I check my watch, it’s five in the morning. I wonder where the night went, can’t remember the last time I had a good night’s sleep. My back’s all knotted up and jabbing at me. A yawn builds until my ears pop.
Too much to think about right now. I check my mobile for messages. There’s a half-dozen from Mo. He’s staying at the airport Travelodge, wants me to call him as soon as, or else. A message from Morris, basically the same thing. Where the fuck am I?
I’m right here, boys. No need to get shitty with me.
So what now? Time’s running out. Soon it won’t be just Rob Stokes Mo’s after, it’ll be me. And why would that be?
Because he wants to hand over some personal justice for the guy nicking his girl and me, I’m the guy his dad said would be able to find Stokes. Even though Mo probably wanted the job himself, which would explain a lot.
I look in the car and George seems to have fallen asleep. A loud, rattling snore fills the Micra with noise, drowns out the radio. I prod his leg hard. He snaps awake, yelling.
‘Stokes has a mobile,’ I say.
‘Fuck’re you talking about?’ George blinks rapidly, his eyes narrowed against daylight.
‘Stokes has a mobile, right? Give me the number.’
‘He doesn’t have a mobile.’
&nbs
p; “I don’t have time to fuck about, George. Stokes has a mobile, you have a mobile, we’ve all got fuckin’ mobiles. You want the truth, I’m going to help him out.’
‘Fuck off.’
‘Fuck off? That’s nice, but if I don’t call him, he’s dead.’
George looks at me, wipes some crust from his eye. He’s still not convinced.
‘I’m not lying to you, George.’
His jaw pulses, then he shuffles in the seat so he can reach inside his jacket. ‘If you’re fucking about ‘
Then I already know you can contact him, don’t I? And if that’s the case, I can use the bat if you don’t fork out the number.’
He pales. ‘You’re kidding.’
‘Give me the number and we’ll see.’
George pauses, then pulls out his mobile phone. I snatch it off him and slam the car door shut. I lean against the window so he can’t see what I’m doing. Scrolling through his contact list, I notice there’s only one ROB.
This idea taking root, it’s probably daft. But the way I see it, I haven’t got many cards left to play, and this might just get me out of feeling guilty. It might go some way to making a bad situation better, or it could make it a hell of a lot worse. But it’s about the only thing I can do right now that makes sense.
I call Stokes. He’s kept his mobile switched on, because it hasn’t gone straight through to voicemail. Which means he’s either too lazy to switch it off, or he’s waiting on a call. When he picks up, he speaks with a voice full of early morning phlegm.
‘Rob, it’s Cal Innes.’
‘How’d you get this number?’ Sounding more awake by the second. Fear, otherwise known as the body’s own caffeine.
“I want to make you a deal,’ I say.
Who’d you get this number off?’
‘Doesn’t matter. Is Alison there?’
There’s a pause, as if he’s thinking. Then: ‘No, she’s not.’
‘Then we can talk.’
‘Fuck do I want to talk to you about?’
“I have a proposition for you.’
‘Fuck your proposition.’
‘I’m outside, Rob.’
‘The fuck you are,’ he says.
‘You’re a grumpy bastard in the mornings, aren’t you?
Look, my deal is you keep the money you stole ‘
“I didn’t steal ‘
‘Listen to me. You keep the money you took, you keep the lot.
But you get out of Newcastle right now. Go somewhere nobody knows you. Change your name, do whatever it takes. Don’t fuck it up like you did the last time. Stay out of the casinos, stay out of the bookies, curb that particular enthusiasm, you get me?’
Stokes grunts. If he was here, I’d slap some sense into him.
Anger management might as well bite me. It went out the window the day I started this job, and I’ve been growing angrier by the second. Funny how easy it is to fall into the old ways given half a chance.
‘Don’t piss about, Rob. I’m offering you a way out here. All you need to do is keep your trap shut and get out of town.
And you need to tell me where Alison is.’
‘Alison?’
‘That’s right. She’s going home. That’s all they wanted. And if it wasn’t, then it’s what they’re going to have make do with.’
Stokes starts to stammer. ‘Wait a second.’
‘No waiting. The offer stands for the next ten seconds. After that, I collar your man George here and I go to work on his fuckin’ arms. Then I’ll call Mo and tell him where to find you.’
‘Hold on, George is there?’
‘Kind of. And you’re running out of time.’
‘Look, can we meet up and talk about this?’
“I already fell for that one.’
Stokes sighs into the phone; it rasps in my ear.
‘Use your brain, mate,’ I say.
Another sigh. Then he starts talking. He gives me an address, rattles it out and it’s not far from here. I disconnect, open the car door and chuck George’s mobile back at him as I get in. He catches the phone. ‘What’s going on?’
‘You’re going to the hospital, George.’
‘What about Rob?’
‘He’s not as stupid as he looks.’
FIFTY-TWO
‘If we’d stayed at the airport, we’d be fuckin’ comfortable at least,’ said Baz.
‘Shut up,’ I said. Me mobile started ringing. I didn’t know the number. It weren’t Innes, and I’d been trying to call the fuck all night. But nah, he had it on voicemail. Which meant he were up to no bloody good.
‘He’s right, Mo. Let’s just call it a fuckin’ day, alright?’
‘What’d I tell you?’ I answered me mobile. ‘Fuck’s this?’
‘Mo,’ she said.
Well, look who it weren’t.
Baz started saying summat again, but I knocked him in the mouth so he kept quiet. Instead, he sat there holding his gob and glaring at us.
‘Y’alright, Sis?’ I said.
‘No. No, I’m not.’ She started on with the heavy breathing.
Crying, but trying to keep it quiet, like. “I can’t do this, Mo. I can’t do this anymore.’
‘Tell us where you are,’ I said.
‘He’s sneaking about. I think he’s gonna grass me up.’
‘We’ll sort that out.’
‘Mo, I’m scared.’
You fuckin’ should be, I wanted to say. But I said, ‘Tell us where you are.’
‘No,’ she said. “I can’t. You ‘
We’ll find you anyway, Alison. You might as well make this easier on yourself.’
“I don’t want you to hurt Rob.’
“I promise, I won’t hurt him.’
‘I can’t go back, Mo.’
‘You’ll come back with me. It’ll be alright, Sis. I promise.’
There were silence at the other end. Then she said, ‘There’s still some money.’
‘Good.’
‘We could maybe use it.’
‘Maybe.’ Like fuck. Think I’d mess around with you again, Sis? You’re out your fuckin’ gourd, love. Give us your address and we’ll come round.’
‘We?’
“I got Rossie and Baz with us. We been looking for you.’
‘He already called you, then,’ she said. “I knew he would.
He’s a fuckin’ liar. Rob’s been talking to him. I’m sure it’s him. Rob hasn’t been talking to you, has he?’
‘Nah. I don’t know the lad.’
‘What about Dad?’ she said.
‘He misses you. He wants you to come home.’
‘I’ll give him a ring.’
‘Nah, that’s alright. You just hang tight and tell us where you are, and we’ll come over and you can ring Dad from the road, okay?’
She didn’t say nowt for a bit. Then she whispered the address to us over the phone. And I felt like I’d just cleared me bowels after a year of constipation.
‘Stay where you are, Sis. We’ll be right round.’
I hung up, lit a ciggie and fuckin’ savoured that first drag.
‘What’s up?’ said Rossie.
‘We’re going home,’ I said. ‘But we got to go round and pick up Alison first.’
‘Well, thank fuck for that,’ said Baz.
FIFTY-THREE
Newcastle General, Accident amp; Emergency. I help George out of the car and walk him wincing towards the entrance. The ramp leading up to the automatic doors is a struggle, but he makes it into the reception area without being dropped. I ease him into a chair and he stretches his legs as far as the pain allows. I crouch by George and slip two hundred and fifty notes into his jacket pocket. ‘Came through in the end. Thanks, George.’
His face cracks into a sarcastic grin. ‘Don’t mention it, mate.’
‘You going to be okay?’
‘I’ll be fine.’
Then I’m out of the building, bump into a wheezy old guy with hair
as white as his face, dragging down the last of a filterless cigarette. He tries to swear at me, but he can’t find the breath. I get behind the wheel of the Micra and spark a cigarette of my own. The car smells like stale sweat and urine.
I make a mental note to get it cleaned when this is over.
The address Stokes gave me, it’s in Heaton. I have to consult the A-Z, and when I finally roll into the right street, the place is deserted, just a white van down the road. This is student country, could be anywhere in Britain. Lots of terraced houses with overgrown gardens and tapestries for curtains. I park up the street, keep an eye on the front door.
He’s been given a last-minute reprieve. I just hope he has the sense to grab it with both hands. When I spoke to him, there was that tremble to his voice that meant I’d put the fear of God into him. Putting the fear of Mo would have been good enough. But the bottom line is that Alison’s in there, probably asleep, and she’s got no idea that she’s been rumbled.
I close my eyes for a moment. The seat seems to sink and I feel myself slipping away, so I have to snap awake.
Let’s get this over with. I grab my mobile, call Mo. Takes him a few rings to pick up. He sounds like he’s having a whale of a time, like he’s actually smiling down the phone at me.
“Innes! The fuck are you?’
‘Morning,’ I say.
‘Where are you?’
‘I’m in Heaton.’
‘What’s the address?’
I take a moment to flick ash from the end of the Embassy.
“I hear you got your sister pregnant, Mo.’
Silence at the other end. Then, for a moment, I hear what sounds like a man’s voice in the background. He’s not at the Travelodge anymore, that’s for sure. Mo makes a sucking sound then says, ‘You talked to Alison.’
‘Is it true?’
‘When’d you talk to Alison?’
‘I’ll take that as a yes, then. So what happens when your dad finds out you’ve been rolling your own?’
‘She’s me half-sister.’
‘Semantics, mate. She’s sixteen, barely fuckin’ legal.’
‘What’s the matter with you? You have a run-in with the law or something?’
