by Ray Banks
I try to smile but my face hurts too much.
‘But what I don’t get is, who called Rob?’
‘Fucked if I know,’ I say, but I blurt it out.
Mo pauses, then looks at Stokes. ‘Yeah, well, we’ll find out, won’t we, Rob?’
Stokes doesn’t answer but his legs tremble. He shifts position in the chair, sniffs hard.
“I think you better get back to Manchester,’ says Mo.
‘You think so.’
‘Yeah.’ His lips are thin. ‘Yeah, I think you should go home. You look like you need a good night’s sleep, mate.’
Mo slaps me hard on the back and a bolt of pain runs up to the nape of my neck. I flinch, but other than that, I’m rock steady. Too busy staring at Stokes, wondering why he would stick around so long, wondering why he didn’t tell me that Alison was in bed next to him and trying not to look too hard at the answers because it would hurt too much.
Yeah. Stokes was there with Alison. And they were getting ready to go when Mo came knocking. Which meant Stokes was delayed somehow. Alison, maybe, digging her heels in, stalling him until Mo came round.
“I want to speak to Alison,’ I say. ‘I’ve still got some questions for her.’
‘Nah, y’alright, Cal. You’re done up here. You’re finished.
Well done. Nowt more to do.’
‘Rien a faire,’ says Baz.
‘Bazza’s part French,’ says Rossie.
‘Yeah, the part that don’t wash,’ says Mo.
I turn and walk out of the room as the laughter hits its peak, Stokes left half-dead in the middle of it all. Through the hallway, out onto the street. I light an Embassy and draw the smoke deep into my lungs as the speed freak pushes his way into the house. In the passenger seat of the van, Alison watches me with lazy eyes. I watch her straight back.
If she had any sense, she’d be running down the street right now, but she stays put. But then, why should she run? It’s worked out exactly the way she planned it.
Alison realised it didn’t matter what she did, she was going to get caught. And when Stokes got my phone call, made for the money, that was the kicker. She couldn’t trust him to be a willing patsy anymore, so she decided on damage limitation.
Mo was coming, she might as well be here when he does, crying rape and making Stokes out to be the bad guy. Any chance I had of saving the dealer was scuppered the moment he went for the money.
Always the gambler.
I stand in the middle of the street and blow smoke at the van.
She turns her head, looks at herself in the wing mirror. I walkback to my Micra, glance at the cricket bat, dotted with dried blood.
What the fuck.
I reach in for the Maxi and limp across to the van as fast as my aching legs allow. Build up speed, breeze against my face, and swing that bat straight into the windscreen, Alison screams in fright; I find a roar tear its way out of me. The windscreen spider webs, then the bat breaks through, glances off the dashboard. I pull the Maxi free, aim at the left wing mirror and take it off with one swing. It bounces off the tarmac. Then the right mirror.
Then I change hands and stab out the headlights. Once, twice, glass spilling onto the road. Pain burning my limbs as I batter the front of the van with all my strength. I knock the rest of the windscreen into the cab, Alison screeching behind her hands.
I can’t touch her. If I lay this Maxi across her, I won’t stop until she’s dead.
Somewhere above the thumping in my ears, I can hear the sound of a car. Out the corner of my eye, I can see it too. A police car. Fucking sneaked up on me. One uniform already getting out now.
Good.
I’m about to open my mouth to say something when the copper speaks. ‘You put down the bat, alright, pal?’
‘I’m alright, I’m okay. You’ve got to go in there.’ I point at the house with the bat. And I can’t talk properly, feels like my lungs are on fire. Too much exertion, too little time to recuperate. ‘You go in that house, man. You go in there now.’
‘You just put the bat down, son.’
Behind him, the other uniform is trying to calm Alison down with a voice like anal sex. He’s a squat bastard, loving every moment of it. I flare. ‘Don’t fuckin’ talk to her, mate.
She’s a liar.’
‘It’s okay,’ says the uniform. ‘It’s alright. You just put that bat down and we’ll sort this out.’
‘You want to sort it out, you go in that fuckin’ house and you see what they did.’
“I will,’ he says. Drawing closer now, his hands out. ‘Just drop the bat.’
‘Fuck’s sake, man.’ I toss the bat to one side. It clatters onto the tarmac.
Then he’s on me, faster than my brain can work. My hands slapped behind my back, the cold bite of metal on wrist. I catch a whiff of cheap deodorant. It makes me jerk in his grip, shout, ‘You want to find out what’s going on, you go in that fuckin’ house, you go in there right the fuck now, you bunch of daft fuckin’ cunts.’
The copper’s elbow knocks me in the side of the head, throws me off. And he did it on purpose.
‘I got him, Chris. Get the girl.’
‘You’re making a mistake, man.’
We’ll see.’ His hand on my shoulder, one on my wrists, guiding me towards the car. ‘You been drinking?’
I can’t speak. My tongue feels thick in the back of my throat.
‘I’m going to ask you to take a breathalyser. Do you understand what I’m saying?’
“I understand what you’re fuckin’ saying, but you’ve got no idea what’s going on here.’
He presses my head down as I slip into the back of the police car. My wrists feel bloodless, every muscle in my back raging tense and painful. All the injuries from the last couple of days – every knock, crack, punch and kick – come rushing through my system like a bad trip. The breath rips out of me, and it tastes like smoke.
I gaze heavy-lidded at the dashboard of the police car.
Then I see Alison being interviewed by the two uniforms.
She’s shaking her head, looking at the ground. Her cheeks are streaked with tears and dirt. Mo emerges from the house in the middle of a stride. When he sees the two coppers, he looks my way and a smile makes his mouth jump for a second.
Then he slips an arm around Alison’s shoulders and looks concerned as the diplomatic uniform asks him questions.
Some nodding and Alison looks up at Mo. I feel like throwing up; she’s playing this to the hilt.
Rossie comes out of the house, quickly pocketing the butterfly knife when he sees the police. Then his face cracks open when he sees the van. The thing must be his pride and joy; it looks like someone punched him in the throat. I savour that face he’s pulling. I got some revenge there, I think. Teach him to mess with my car.
The squat copper gets in the driver’s side and watches me in the rear view.
‘What you smiling at?’
‘Nowt.’
‘Cause you got nowt to smile about, man. You want to pray he doesn’t press charges.’
The diplomatic copper approaches the car, gets in. ‘Domestic’
‘Christ, how old is she? You want to watch you don’t get sent down for kiddie-fiddling,’ the squat copper says to me.
‘What about him?’ I say.
‘None of my business.’
‘Well, if you were after ruining the guy’s van, you got the wrong one,’ says the diplomat.
The squat copper brays out a laugh. ‘Not your day, is it?’
‘Nah,’ I say. “I got the right van. I definitely got the right fuckin’ van.’
It’s about the only thing I’ve done right so far.
FIFTY-SIX
‘Here, officer, I want to thank you an’ that. This were a bad lot, all this, ‘specially this early in the morning. Lad must’ve had a few too many.’
There were me, like, showing plenty teeth and playing the good citizen. Hey, it were fun to be the good guy for once.<
br />
And Christ knew, I’d been put out by that fucker Innes from the get-go. Time he got-gone.
‘Don’t mention it,’ said this busy behind the desk. “I take it you’re not pressing charges?’
‘Nah, I told the lads before. Let’s face it, a bloke has too much to drink, he gets to feeling lonely and aching downstairs, he wants his old lass back. But then, she ain’t exactly old, know what I mean?’
‘Well, we’d like to ask her a few questions, if that’s alright.’
‘Nah, don’t worry about it.’
‘There’s the statutory rape charge ‘
‘Mate, she’s sixteen, she’s legal’
‘Yes, but we’ve got to follow up.’
‘Here, listen, button it a sec and listen to us. I don’t know what this lad Innes and her got up to when they was going out together, and it’s really none of my business, you get me? But the point is she’s safe now. We’ll sort it out when we get back to Manchester.’
‘You’re going to Manchester?’
‘It’s where we live, innit, Sis?’
Alison nodded like a good girl.
We’ll need an address,’ said the copper.
‘Not a problem.’ I gave him an address. It were a wank shack off Lime Street. Let ‘em come looking. Like they didn’t have enough crime up here, they’d come after me and Alison for nowt. ‘Listen, we got to be going and everything. Thanks again, mate. Nice to see you’re keeping Newcastle’s streets clean an’ that.’
The copper looked at us like I were being funny. And I weren’t, not really. I were glad his lot were about. Else I probably would’ve murdered Innes with me bare hands, splint or no fuckin’ splint.
Me and Alison left the station. Rossie were standing by the van, his face all screwed up. ‘How’m I gonna explain this to Jimmy?’ he said.
‘Tell him the truth.’
‘He’ll kill us.’
‘Then get it fixed.’
‘With what, man? I was skint when I came up here. I didn’t make no money in the meantime, did I?’
‘Course you did,’ I said. ‘There’s a bag of it in the van.’
Got Alison in the van, and with me and Baz and Rossie in there, it were a bit of a squeeze. I told Baz to get driving, we was going back to the house for Alison’s clothes. When we was on the road, I fished around for me mobile, called The Wheatsheaf. ‘Brian, put Dad on.’
‘Who’s this?’ said Brian.
“I called him Dad, who the fuck else would it be? Now get running, fat lad. I need to talk to him now.’
Took a couple minutes. Then me dad came on the phone.
‘Where are you?’
‘On our way back, Dad. I got the girl.’
‘You get the money?’
‘Some of it. Stokes spent a couple stacks.’
‘Where’s Innes?’
Always asking after that cunt. ‘He’s with the busies.’
‘You what?’
‘He went nuts, smashed up Rossie’s van. Got nicked.’
‘Right. Which station?’
I gave him the address. ‘Why d’you want to know?’
“I’ll get Clayton up there.’
‘For fuck’s ‘
‘Where’s Stokes?’ said Dad.
‘He’s out of the picture.’
‘You kill him?’
‘Nah.’
‘Don’t kill him. Leave him. Just bring Alison back and we’ll have a talk.’
‘Dad ‘
‘Leave Stokes alone. And get your arse back to Manchester.’
Dad hung up. I put me mobile back in me pocket. Aye, he were losing it. Time were, he’d have a fucker like Stokes buried in five seconds flat. He’d have me cut him to ribbons and scatter what were left to the fuckin’ wind. What I’d said to Rossie and Baz in the pub, I meant it. One day, somebody’d come up to us and ask us was I interested in going into business with a professional outfit? And I’d say yeah, but then they’d say, you wanna join up, you gotta do your dad.
And I’d wait in The Wheatsheaf, watch me dad drink his black and smoke his Rothmans, keep meself pumped with whizz and wait until he went to the bogs and then I’d sneak up on the cunt with a claw hammer and batter him until his brains made it hard to swing. And then I’d go out in the bar, hammer at me side and I’d yell at the crowd to come and have a fuckin’ go, the king were dead, and I were large and in charge.
But that’d have to wait.
First I had to clean up me sister’s fuckin’ mess.
FIFTY-SEVEN
A holding cell and a mattress that cuts you if you don’t lay on it right. The smell of antiseptic and whatever they use to kill the fleas the late night drunks bring in. Someone’s written shit fuck cunt on the wall, and I can’t help but notice they’ve taken time to chisel it into the brickwork. You’d have thought they’d come up with something profound.
The police arrived thanks to a conscientious Neighbourhood Watcher, drawn to the nets by the commotion in the street so early in the morning. Apparently a guy going apeshit with a cricket bat isn’t a normal occurrence in Heaton, and this grass thought the police should sort it out.
I’ve gone through it enough since they left me in here. The breathalyser didn’t help matters; it showed me way over the limit. Which I probably am. I can’t remember the last time I drank something that wasn’t alcoholic. So the police get this idea in their heads, here’s a guy with a cricket bat demolishing a van with a girl inside, they think it’s a domestic. It’s probably the way it was reported and I doubt Alison and Mo did anything to dissuade them from that, especially considering there was a bloke choking his last in the house.
If they’d just checked it out. If they’d just seen beyond what was in front of them. If they’d just fucking believed me instead of being the bull-headed pricks they were…
My Nan said, ‘If “ifs” and “buts” were berries and nuts, then squirrels would never go hungry.’
And she’d know all about nuts.
Ach, it’s probably for the best. If I’d stayed there, I don’t know what would have happened. From the look on Baz’s face, I’d be cut up and bleeding to death right about now. So there’s something to be thankful for. It’s his face that’s kept me smiling all the time I’ve been in here. I’d know exactly, but they took my watch.
I wonder how long they’re going to keep me in here. I’ve had no contact for a while now, and fear’s started to prick at the back of my mind. They keep me in here much longer, then they think they have something on me. Something’s cropped up.
Christ, I hope George hasn’t spilled his guts.
I get off the bunk and stop in the middle of the cell. No idea what to do, where to go. Being back in a cage is sending my memory into overdrive. I can’t go back to prison. I gave George a bundle to keep his mouth shut.
But then, he’s a rat and he’s got a survival instinct. And how do I know he didn’t lie to me last night?
Because you were beating the shit out of him with a cricket bat, Cal.
Ah, Jesus. That Maxi. Still got blood on it. If George was doped up, or if he was just plain sick of the pain, he’d talk. He talked to me. And I get picked up for a domestic with a cricket bat in the same twenty-four hours; it doesn’t take a genius to put it together.
You’d think I’d know better by now.
I haven’t been charged, though. They’re probably letting me sweat it out in here, get myself worked up so I’ll tell them anything rather than go back inside. Once they find out I’ve got form, they’ll throw that in my face. They’ll make me feel guilty, they’ll bring up Paulo, how I disappointed him. They’ll go easy on me if I just cooperate.
We know you’re not to blame here, Cal. You just tell us how you got into this and we’ll see what we can do.’
See what we can do. Working for Morris Tiernan, it’s like the mark of Cain. Invisible to everyone but the police and fellow criminals. The criminals keep the respect coming, the fear flashing behind their e
yes. The police look at it as a beautiful opportunity, a way to make their names. This is one of Tiernan’s, this is the one that might roll over. The fucking busies pray for people like me, the ones so scared they’ll say anything to keep out of prison, the ones that have that wee snippet of information that’ll put the big bosses behind bars.
They look at me the way Ness looked at Capone’s accountant.
I can’t keep thinking about this. It’s what they want me to do. I’m innocent until proven otherwise. Everything I did, it was because I had to. I didn’t have any other choice. I sit back on the bunk and stare at the cell door.
Donna doesn’t want to see me hurt. As if self-preservation wasn’t important enough, there’s a part of me that doesn’t want to disappoint her. Even though I’ll probably never see her again.
If the probation services find out about this, I’m recalled.
Back inside. And it doesn’t matter if I’m guilty or not. Just the appearance of an illegal act is enough to get their knee to jerk.
Hanging out with known criminals, those that put me inside in the first place.
Not cooperating with the Manchester Met on a manslaughter case in which I’m the prime suspect.
GBH with a GM Maxi cricket bat.
Criminal damage to a van and attempted kidnap.
And all this with a bloodstream that’s a hundred per cent proof.
They won’t prove half of it, but I deserve my old cell back.
I haven’t been able to call anyone yet, and I don’t know who I’d call if I got the chance. I don’t have a lawyer anymore, and I doubt Paulo would help. Not now. I’m left alone here with no idea what’s going on.
Someone’s coming up the corridor. The kind of boots a copper wears, the steady, officious sound of someone who knows those footsteps put the shits up people. They stop in front of my cell door. The clatter of the hatch coming down, then keys in the lock.
‘Your briefs here,’ says a uniform who’s built like a cathedral and has the face of a priest.
“I don’t have a brief.’
The uniform looks startled for a moment. Then he says, Well, he’s here.’
