Beast of Burden

by Ray Banks

  Hugged himself so hard, I thought he was going to snap his own spine.

  “Wasn't your brother put the guard down. Wasn't you, neither.”

  He took a deep, ragged breath in.

  “You hear a guard coming, you'd fucking leg it, wouldn't you? He catches you, you want to put up a fight, see if you can get away, but it's not like you go looking for trouble, is it?” I pointed at him again. “You don't lamp a cunt just because he's there.”

  He let out the breath with a small noise like a sob.

  “So tell us.”

  “I don't know what you're talking about.”

  I was on him before he could react. Grabbed his hair tight in one fist and pulled him out of the chair. The chair hit the floor, and he kicked at it, yelping. I dragged the fucker to the corner of the room, threw him into the wall, one hand against the back of his neck as I jabbed him hard and low in the kidney. He cried out again, and I stepped back to watch the pain shudder through him.

  He leaned into the corner of the room, his mouth open but no sound coming out.

  There was a knock at the interview room door. A voice outside, asking if everything was okay. I told them to fuck off.

  They fucked off. Back then I still commanded enough respect to make that happen. Back then, I could even be in here with a suspect on my own. Didn't need a uniform watching over us every step of the interview.

  Declan started to curl as he went to the floor.

  “We got your brother,” I said. “You know that.”

  He nodded, hearing us through the pain. His lips disappeared — he looked like a fucking muppet.

  “You go on tape, tell us what happened, I can do things for you. Do things for your little brother an' all. Bring in Mo, keep him here.”

  Declan sobbed, then he said, “No.”

  “No?”

  He shook his head. Pitched a painful sigh.

  “No,” I said. “Even though if we get Mo, he'll be gone for a while. We get Mo and your brother's given a slap sentence, a six month trip, out in three.”

  “I can't—”

  “We don't get Mo, your brother's looking at a maximum of five. You fuckin' know that.”

  He shut up. Put a fist to his mouth and coughed hard. His head was lowered, his shoulders up. I caught I glimpse of his face — it was all screwed up, past the point of tears and anticipating a punch that I wasn't going to throw.

  “You're the one sending him to prison,” I said. “You fuckin' well remember that.”

  There was another knock at the door, but I didn't tell this one to fuck off. Instead, I left the room and told the constable on the other side of the door to clean up the mess.

  That was the only time he never spilled. And I took it upon myself to punish the bastard while his brother was in prison. I felt justified.

  I always reckoned that Callum Innes would come out of the 'Ways a rangy cunt, and I wasn't far off the mark. You do a couple of years in that place, you're liable to pick up a thing or two. Mostly hepatitis if you let them get you on your belly, but you're also liable to change deep inside. That definitely happened with Innes, now I came to think of it. Wasn't just the edges sharpened. Something snapped in that lad, something that would probably make him an easy collar one of these days, but he'd been slippery so far.

  Which made us positive it was him behind the rumours. I wouldn't put it past him to spread shit about us, not only for turning his brother into a grass, but because I was determined to get him working for us, too. There was no one else I knew with the connections or the motive.

  That was why I was headed out to his place now. Smoking another shitty roll-up, because I needed to clear my head. Didn't want to be dopey when I got round there. If I was lucky, it being late, I'd catch him in his kip. Drag him out, just like the old days. I had no doubt he was up to his neck in shit; he always was. The only question that remained was could I use it to my advantage?

  And the answer would be the same: absolutely I fucking could.

  12

  INNES

  Baz might as well have talked about Mo in the past tense, for all he cares. As far as he's concerned, Mo's dead to him and good fucking riddance. Haven't talked to Rossie yet, but I can guess that his reaction's going to be similar. The only person who actually seems to care about Mo's fate is his dad, the very same guy Mo would've been happy to watch bleed out. Makes you wonder who's actually going to miss you when you're gone.

  Your estranged father.

  Your sister.

  As far as I can see, Alison Tiernan hasn't changed much since she did a runner to Newcastle with ten grand in stolen cash and a boyfriend old enough to be her dad. She was a dirty version of an old song, sixteen going on seventeen, but she wasn't timid, shy or scared about it. Hardly jailbait in the popular sense, being plain as a brick, but there's blokes out there who'd happily fuck a piranha if it was young enough.

  One of those blokes is leaving her house right now. He's tall, greyish hair, obviously older than Alison, which makes him a dead ringer for Rob Stokes, so probably her new boyfriend. I watch him walk across the rain-drenched street to his car. Looks like a Mazda, which means this guy's a prize prick. Alison stands in the lit doorway of the brand new semi-detached. No prizes for guessing who put the money down for the place, especially considering it's out here in Oldham, away from danger and any temptations that might lead to it.

  The boyfriend starts his engine. I watch Alison wave at him, then the Mazda peels away from the kerb. I don't take my eyes off the house as the car passes by my Micra. As soon as I see the brake lights disappear, I push open the driver's door.

  “Alison,” I say.

  She's about to close the door when she looks my way. It takes her a moment to recognise me. I'd like to think it's the gloom that made her hesitant, but I know different.

  “Shit,” she says.

  I was hoping for a hello, but that's closer to what I expected, and it'll have to do. “Alison.”

  “What d'you want?” She looks up and down the street, checking to see if anyone's watching. Then she leans against the door jamb, jerks her chin at me. I'm not a threat to her, at least.

  “Your brother.”

  “What're you talking about? Mo's not here.”

  “Where is he?”

  She blinks at me, totally incredulous. “How the fuck am I supposed to know?”

  I nod at the hall and she pulls the door closed so I can't see into the house.

  “No way,” she says. “You're not coming in.”

  “I need to talk.”

  “About what? Mo? No. I'm not going to talk about him.” She does another quick recce of the street. “Not here. Not now.”

  “Your dad sent me.”

  “I don't give a fuck.” She sighs, catches her temper, and her voice drops when she says, “You know what he did to us, right?”

  “Yes.”

  “So why would I want to see him?”

  “Might not be … about want.”

  “If he's gone, fuckin' great. My dad knows that. He wouldn't send you round here. He could ask us right out if he's interested, and I'd tell him the same thing.”

  “Which is?”

  “Which is I haven't fuckin' seen him, I wouldn't want to fuckin' see him, and if I ever did fuckin' see him, I'd slam the door in his face, you get me?”

  “Okay,” I say.

  Silence. I stare at her, unmoving. Her hair's tied back, and that combined with the attitude makes her look almost like an adult. There's a long strand of hair on her top. I reach forward; she flinches back as I pluck the hair from her shoulder, hold it up to the light. She reacts badly, as if I've intruded on her personal space. My presence makes her uncomfortable.

  Good.

  I step back onto the path, smile with half my face so she gets the full effect. “I should've thought. About your past.” I shake my head, try to look vaguely remorseful. “Daft of me to come. Thought you could help.”

  “Well, I don't know w
here he is,” she says. “I haven't seen him.”

  “I know. You told me.”

  She steps back a little into the hall, opening the door wider. For a second, I think I'm about to be invited in, but her hand's still on the door, and that door looks as if it's going to be closing soon enough. As she starts to push, my mobile rings.

  “There's nothing else, is there?” she says.

  I want to tell her that I've plenty more, but nothing springs to mind. Before I know it, the door's half-closed and I pick my mobile out of my pocket, still trying to think of something to stop Alison from shutting me out.

  A soft click, and she's gone. I connect the call in the dark.

  “Callum, it's Frank.”

  I watch the front door. Had my chance, blew it. I start back to my car. “What's up?”

  “You still got that digital camera at your place?”

  I turn as I catch movement behind the curtains in the ground floor window. She's watching me leave. “Yeah.”

  “Don't suppose you could bring it over to us, could you?”

  “Now?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Seriously? Tonight? You can't wait?”

  His voice takes on a pompous tone I don't like much. “I'm in the middle of the Sadler case here, Callum.”

  “Where?”

  He gives me an address. It's not that far away from where I live.

  “Her house?” I say.

  “Yeah.”

  I take one last look at the light in the ground floor window of Alison's house, then trudge back to the Micra. “Fuckin' freebies.”

  “It's a favour. Helping someone out, Cal. You're not against a bit of charity, are you?”

  “I've done favours before.”

  ****

  Frank's set up shop in a light blue Ford Fiesta, barely visible in the darkness opposite Mrs Sadler's house. I park behind him, limp over to the side of the car and pass him the camera through the open window. I had to go by my flat to pick it up, which was a pain in the arse. But I promised, and if there was one thing you didn't do to Frank, it was break a promise. You'd hear about it for days.

  “There you go.”

  “Is it charged?”

  “Aw, fuck, no. I forgot. Probably doesn't work.”

  There's a momentary look of panic on Frank's face as he contemplates all the problems he's going to have if this camera doesn't work. Then he turns it on, sees the full battery bar and breathes out.

  “Funny,” he says.

  “You watching out … for bad guys?”

  He shoots me a look. “Thanks for the camera.”

  “You're welcome.”

  “Sorry to get you out of bed.”

  “I wasn't in bed.”

  “Out of the pub, then.”

  I turn to look at him. He's sulky about something. Busy staring out of the windscreen at the house opposite, not a light in the whole place. From what I can make out, it's a nice enough Victorian semi with two of the panes in the living room bay put out and replaced with cardboard from a Walkers box. I check my watch — it's already way past my bedtime now, but I've got one more thing to do before I call it a night.

  “You need anything else?” I say.

  “You got somewhere to be?”

  “As it happens.”

  He nods, chewing his lip. Then he moves his face into the shadow. “Okay.”

  “You alright, Frank?”

  I get the feeling he's looking at me, but I can't see him. “Yeah, I'm fine.”

  “Good.”

  “Thought you might want to help out,” he says.

  “Right. I can't.”

  “You don't want to, that's fine. I know you think this is a waste of time.”

  “It's not that. I just can't.”

  “Okay,” he says. “See you later, then.”

  I knock him on the shoulder. “Try not to doze off, eh?”

  “I won't.”

  I head back to the Micra, look over my shoulder at Frank, but he's winding up the window, apparently still intent on the house across the road. I should hang about, offer to take a shift off him so he can get some sleep if he needs it, but this is a bullshit freebie job he's taken on against my wishes, so let him stick it out all by himself. Might teach the bugger a lesson. Also, I don't fancy being cooped up in a Fiesta with him for too long. I remember long nights, just him and me in my Micra, waiting to evict people. I could live the rest of my life quite happily never doing that again.

  But I've got other things to do. Number one is check out the address that Baz gave me. After all, some thing are more important than a terrorised teacher.

  I get back in the Micra, slip behind the wheel. By rights, I shouldn't be driving, not when I'm prone to sudden spasms or seizures that could freeze up my right-hand side. It's not as if I haven't already had a few shots across the bough. There was an incident last week, I couldn't move, thought I was going to go off the road and became suddenly thankful for the paralysis because it would mean less pain on impact. But then the feeling came back, and I wrestled the car back into a straight line.

  I haven't mentioned it to anyone. Knowing Paulo, he'd take my car keys.

  But the way I see it, as I turn the key in the ignition, so what if every drive might be my last? At least I'll be killed on my own fucking terms. Which is the least anyone can ask for.

  13

  INNES

  I know Miles Platting reasonably well, been out here more times than I'd like to admit. It's mostly cheap rentals, except the only landlord is Manchester City Council, and the houses are stacked one on top of the other. Like all the grimy areas of Manchester, they're trying to tart it up and sell it on to the professional classes. Up the road, a large sign proclaims that Lovell are down to build one thousand new homes and luxury apartments right here.

  It won't matter. They can put in as much Warmsafe as they want, it'll be like smearing lipstick on a pig.

  And as pigs go, there's none more ugly or angry than Sutpen Court.

  I leave the Micra in a spot I hope proves safe enough. Head across chipped concrete, past broken glass and takeaway papers which shift along the ground like urban tumbleweed. Look up: Sutpen Court looms overhead, a crumbling monolith. When they finally pull the plug on this place, I'm guessing this block'll be one of the first to fall.

  The communal entrance doors are propped open with an overturned Kwiksave trolley. The smell of antiseptic and cheap wine catches my nose as I step into the hallway. I don't bother with the lift, even if there wasn't a sign taped to the doors saying it was “fucked”. Another look at the address Baz gave me, and it looks like I'm going to have to drag myself up to the sixth floor, which turns out to be a long, slow business. By the time I hit the right landing, my lungs feel as though they've pressed themselves tight to the inside of my chest. There's a spin in my head, and I grip the railing tighter to stop from hitting the deck.

  They're not all squats up here, judging from the sounds coming from behind some of the doors. The number Baz gave me looks to be at the end of the hall to my right. As I get closer, I can see the metal brace across the door, a large Yale padlock hanging open. There's a notice of eviction in a plastic sheet pinned to the door.

  I nudge open the door with my stick and as the air inside circulates, a rotten smell kicks me in the throat. I put my arm to my nose and mouth, try to swallow the nausea. The light from the hallway shows an edge of a mattress way inside the flat. I can't see anything else, but I've suddenly got a fair idea of what I can expect.

  I don't want to go any further. But if I'm going to do this, I need to go all the way.

  Normally these places creak with activity. Not much, but enough to move from mattress to pipe, from chair to works.

  But there's nothing here. No sound. No presence. I fumble about in my pocket for keys, fiddle with the tiny torch keyring I got out of a cracker.

  People have been here, but I'd be lying if I said it was recent. Pizza boxes, polystyrene cartons and
newspapers litter the floor. I can see that the carpet's been scorched in a couple of places, or else stained dark. I swing the thin beam around, but I know I'm just killing time, working up the nerve to turn the torch on the mattress in the corner of the room.

  Because that's where the smell's coming from.

  Mo.

  Or what used to be Mo. A reasonable, but rotting, facsimile.

  He's laid out on the mattress, one leg cocked at the knee, one sleeve rolled up to expose tracks: some are old, some more recent and already festering. No needle in sight, but I could just be missing it. His favourite Berghaus is on the floor next to the mattress, splattered with blood. As I shift round, I can also see a stain behind his head and a larger one around his crotch and arse from his final evacuation, his trackie bottoms stuck tight to the body. Break the seal on that and there'd be complaints from up the hall.

  I stare at him until the shock wears off. Lean on my stick, my nose and mouth still buried in the crook of my elbow. Should've guessed it would turn out like this. Mo never could take no for an answer, never could see beyond himself and what he wanted. Just like my brother, got himself into a pattern of behaviour that he couldn't escape in the end.

  And what's that they say about hell? Something about making the same mistakes over and over again.

  I prod open Mo's jacket with the end of my walking stick. As I lean over to reach into his inside pocket, I catch movement in the torch beam. I shake a long hair from my hand, watch it drift for a moment before I realise where it's from.

  Alison's hair finally settles across one of Mo's open palms.

  There's a part of me that feels kind of sorry for him, especially considering what's happened. Kicked out of his family, unequipped to do anything but deal, and even that at a low level. Throw in the speed, amphetamine and heroin cocktails he'd obviously been taking, and you've got a brain corroded until one crystal thought remained — the reminder that he was Morris Tiernan's son, and he was a failure at that.