by Ray Banks
‘You got the wrong cell, officer.’
‘You’re Innes.’
‘Uh-huh.’
‘Then your briefs here.’
I get to my feet, brush myself down and follow the copper to a waiting interview room.
FIFTY-EIGHT
Stokes were out of it when we got back to the house. I told Baz to go and grab Alison’s things from upstairs and I went into the kitchen, stood in front of Stokes and lit a ciggie.
Smoked it halfway down and watched the bastard squirm in his seat. His head came back and he tried to look at us with his one good eye.
‘You’re a lucky cunt, Rob,’ I said.
His neck couldn’t keep his head up. It dropped down. His shoulders started heaving, like he were crying. Poof.
‘I’m gonna let you live. You remember that. Anyone asks, you tell ‘em Mo Tiernan let you live. I’m fair.’
Stokes said nowt, opened his mouth. Closed it again. I went up to him, untied his hands and gave him me ciggie. He coughed it out onto the floor. I didn’t pick it up. Had all this spittle and shite on it. Fuck it, let it burn the place down.
‘Get yourself cleaned up, Rob. Else you won’t be able to pull any more fuckin’ teenyboppers, know what I mean?’
Went out into the hall, and there were Baz with an Asda bag overflowing with Alison’s stuff.
‘Anything she wanted in particular?’ said Baz.
‘Give your head a shake, Baz.’
When I got back in the van, Alison were staring at us. I chucked the bag at her. ‘There you go.’
‘Did you kill him?’ she said.
‘Nah, I spared him.’
‘Spared him. Fuck’s sake, Mo, you think you’re a proper hard arse, don’t you?’
“I can go in and finish the job, you want me to.’
‘He’d done nowt to you.’
‘He’d done plenty to us. He’d fucked me sister, stole me money.’
‘It wasn’t your money. You think this is about that? You could’ve left him alone, Mo. But nah, you have to go proving you’re the hard arse.’
‘Dad knows what I am.’
‘Dad reckons you’re a fuck-up,’ she said. Her eyes was blazing now. ‘Dad said to me that he reckons you’re a fuck up.’
‘When’d you talk to Dad?’
‘After I called you, you daft bastard. When I told him you were up here. Told him what you said an’ all. Told him everything. Told him it was you what got me pregnant in the first place, told him the whole fuckin’ story.’
I scratched me cheek. Sat in silence for a bit. Then I said, ‘What’d he say?’
‘He said that you were a fuck-up and he’d deal with you when you got back.’
‘He said that?’
‘Yeah.’
‘He said that.’
‘You fuckin’ deaf? Yeah, he said that.’
I grabbed her by the hair and bounced her fuckin’ head off the dashboard. When I pulled her back up, her face were all bloody. She breathed red bubbles. She gabbed on. I twatted her against the dash again, harder this time. Wanted to keep going, but when I pulled her back, she’d shut her fuckin’ yap.
Let go of her hair and smoothed it down, looked out the windscreen.
‘You show me some fuckin’ respect,’ I said.
She were weeping. I looked at Rossie. He were staring at me like I’d just broke her neck right in front of him.
‘She’s me sister, Rossie. Call it sibling rivalry. Now stick her in the back of the van before she fucks us off even more.’
FIFTY-NINE
I know this guy. I’ve seen him before. He’s a shitheel with all morals of a sewer rat, but with the bonus of personal hygiene thrown in. He’s an old-school gang lawyer, the kind of local lad who had his tuition paid and his accent softened in order to represent the best interests of his criminal clientele. I know him, because I was offered him once before when I was looking at a stretch inside. The stretch I ended up doing because I turned him down flat.
Derek Clayton, LLB and wannabe QC. If it wasn’t for Morris Tiernan, Clayton would be practising personal injury and advertising on Living TV in a battered ill-fitting suit. As it turns out, he’s wearing something tailored and expensive, the kind of suit that doesn’t wear its label on its sleeve. The kind of suit I’ll never be able to afford. He cries out for the legit gig, but working for Morris Tiernan has aborted that baby, so he contents himself with the cash.
Clayton extends a hand to me as I enter the interview room and I take it. A handshake means nothing to a lawyer and his hands are too dry. We’re alone in here, a pre-interview briefing. Which doesn’t bode well.
It doesn’t mean I’m happy to see him, though.
‘Sorry it took me so long to get up here,’ he says.
“I didn’t expect to see you.’
‘Mr Tiernan asked me to come up and see what I could do.’
‘Good, then you can leave right now.’
‘You’re in serious trouble, Cal.’
‘A domestic isn’t serious trouble.’
“I’m not talking about that.’
‘Then what the fuck are you talking about?’
Clayton pushes his specs up to his eyes and raises his eyebrows all at the same time. It’s like a stiff breeze blew his face up. ‘The hospital has a duty to report incidents involving young men being dumped in A amp; E with broken legs. You’re lucky the police here haven’t added it up. You using the same cricket bat on Baz’s van hasn’t done much to help you out, though.’
‘Ah, fuck off. You’re making this up.’ All bluster and bullshit.
‘If I’m making this up, I’m doing a bloody good job,’ he says.
‘So what’ve they got me on? GBH? Vandalism?’
‘Nothing at the moment. But if George wants to press charges, yes, you could end up back inside.’
‘What about Rossie? He want to press charges? What about Alison?’
‘Alison’s back home now.’
‘Yeah, I thought as much. And I bet she didn’t say a fuckin’ word about her boyfriend in the kitchen, did she?’
‘The question is, what are you going to say?’
‘You don’t want to know.’
“I do.’
‘Then the answer’s fuck off. How’s that?’
He taps the end of his pen against the notepad in front of him. Looks down at the paper, then up at me. ‘You shouldn’t talk to me like that, Cal. I’m here to help.’
‘You’re here to make sure I keep my mouth shut.’
‘It’s not just Newcastle, you know. There’s a copper in Manchester baying for your blood.’
‘Let him fuckin’ bay. I didn’t do it. And it’s got nothing to do with what’s happened up here. I don’t need you, Mr Clayton. I don’t need Morris Tiernan checking up on me, either. I’ll tell the police whatever the fuck I want to. Because someone’s got to pay for this.’
‘And you’re willing to go back inside for nothing?’
“I’ll end up back inside anyway, Mr Clayton. Donkey’s sure I did Dennis Lang.’
‘Dennis Lang was stabbed, Cal. From what I know, it was a short blade. I’m sure DS Donkin could be pointed in the right direction.’
My junkie client. ‘He came back?’
‘A man like that, he wouldn’t like leaving his weapon behind.’
I sit down, try to get my head round this. Because if Dennis Lang was killed by that smackhead, then I could have saved myself a load of grief. I could have gotten Donkey off my back no bother whatsoever, I could have solved a case instead of making the situation ten times worse. It wouldn’t have saved a life, but it would have made me feel better. And at the end of the day, right now, that’s all I care about. Surviving as the good guy. Which Derek Clayton is insisting won’t happen without his help.
‘You know Donkin’s been making your mate’s life hell down in Salford,’ says Clayton.
‘He’s just stirring shit.’ I lean forward, my elbows on the
table.
‘Sometimes that’s all the council needs. Just a scent. You know that’
‘You threatening me?’
“I’m telling you what the situation is, Callum. As your lawyer, I’d suggest you listen to me.’
‘As my lawyer? I didn’t ask you to come here.’
‘Mr Tiernan did.’
‘Would that be big Morris or his screw-up son?’
Clayton sighs and drops the pen on the pile of paper in front of him. He leans back in his chair and regards me. ‘If you’ve got much more of this, I suggest you let it all out now, Cal. As much as I don’t like being your therapist, if it gets you to a point where you understand that there is no way out without my help and the help of Morris Tiernan, it’s worth it.’
I have plenty of clever things to say, but none of them come out of my mouth: ‘Fuck off’
He sucks his teeth, runs the spit around the inside of his mouth and picks up his pen, slots it into an inside pocket.
‘You don’t want my help, that’s fine. I’ll say you’ve changed your mind. But if these lads decide to dig beyond the topsoil, Cal, you’re in the shit. And if you decide to spill your guts about what’s been going on, I can’t vouch for your safety.
You’re still on probation, aren’t you?’
Again, zingers all over the place, but the one that sticks is the one I say. ‘Fuck off’
‘You’re liable to recall, you know that. They don’t have to give you a reason,’ he says. Clayton stands, grabs the papers on the table and tucks them under one arm. ‘You’re the tough guy. We’ll see how tough you are after a second stretch.’
Clayton looks at me like he looks at every case he gets from Tiernan. I’m judged before I get a chance to plead not guilty.
He sees me as Tiernan’s hatchet man. Just like everyone else.
The way I treated Donna, so fucking selfish when I want. The way George cried out and I gave him more of a beating.
Christ, that wasn’t the way I was supposed to be. That wasn’t the way I thought I’d act.
And yeah, if my PO gets wind of this, he could recommend a recall, and I’d be even further up shit creek. I could be hard about it, demand prison as a right and a respite, turn over the Tiernans.
But what could I tell the police? There’s nothing to tie Rob Stokes to Morris Tiernan, just Mo. And that wouldn’t be enough to buy me safety. Mo would end up getting off because he’d have Wonderboy Clayton here representing him. Morris would have an airtight alibi all worked out for his son, no matter how sick the lanky bastard was.
The family that lays together stays together.
So then what? I would end up back on the spur with a price on my head. I wouldn’t last day one. Someone would carve me up like Dennis Lang, and I’d end up with a pauper’s grave, hired mourners at the service.
Clayton’s about to knock on the door to leave when I stand up.
Because a deal with the devil is better than no deal at all.
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