by Ray Banks
Fuck.
Fucking stupid. Fucking idiotic fucking thing to do.
Hindsight kicked in, my blood settled to a low simmer, and the only thing I could think of was how fucking daft I'd been. I needed to watch that. Christ, I'd been told enough times. It was like calling your mother a cunt — soon as you said it, you wished you could take it back.
Anyway. My point was, I never got any warning when I lost it. The counsellor, that jumped-up, pot-bellied little prick with a degree and that expensive-looking ballpoint he kept clicking when I talked, that little fuck said that I'd see something, I'd hear something, I'd feel something when I was about to lose control.
“When you hit your wife …” he'd start.
And that was usually the moment I got up and left the room.
Because if I'd just been able to talk to Annie after it happened, if she hadn't up and disappeared for a month after, took the kid with her, then we might've been able to sort stuff out. The problem was, she was jittery about shite like that, and I knew it. Bad history, worse boyfriends, and back in the day, I was a bloke like a knight in shining armour, took care of a couple of them ex-boyfriends for her. She didn't know when she met me that I was a copper on account of my nose was burning with some seriously nasty coke a wog dealer'd try to palm off on us. Winston never found out I was blue until much later on, never suspected a thing until I caught him on the back end of a steep coke slide, nudging into OD territory, and then I turned him into a prize grass. But when Annie found us with frosted nostrils and then clocked that I was a copper, well, that was her wet as a Manc summer.
According to her, she'd always had a thing for the bad boy.
But apparently the bad boy shite wore thin fast as you liked. People got older, and it became too much of an effort to keep up the drama when you spent most of your working day arse-deep in the filth of the city. She got bored and we had a kid, thought that would sort it. It didn't, just bolstered her side of the fucking argument, because it turned out to be a girl who grew to hate us just as much as Annie did. Shannon didn't get the whole copper thing, didn't realise that I wasn't oppressing her and her middle-class Goth mates.
No, wait, I remembered. They weren't Goths. They were something else: emo. Like Goths but without the commitment.
Anyway, my home life wasn't great. That should've been a sign. But when you're in it, you don't see it. I mean, it was only in fucking hindsight that I saw the cables fray, but it was all I could do to keep my work head on.
Then I hit her.
Once, but that was all it took, and as soon as I did it, I saw all those bad memories dredged up in a second. And she looked at us like she was shocked to see us turn into a mixture of every single bad-beat boyfriend she ever had.
She went round her sister's that night, took Shannon with her. I sat and decided to drink myself comatose with whatever we had left in the kitchen cupboard, which turned out to be half a bottle of Gordons and some Pimms.
And that was the fucking start of it all.
She only came back once, and she cleaned the place out — anything she could lift and carry was gone. Got off shift one night, come home to find the place gutted. Only the big items of furniture left, but they were still her taste, so it looked like someone'd burgled us, ripped the heart out of my home.
I got angry. Yeah, that was bound to happen. Called her sister's, called her mam's, didn't talk to her at either place. She'd moved out, gone on and got herself a new flat with Shannon. Hadn't took her that long, either.
So I got angrier, and then that subsided into “good riddance to bad rubbish”. Because then I got to do all the shite that married men couldn't do. I could eat kebabs in the front room, drink as much as I fucking wanted without the eye-rolls and the tuts. I got to smoke big fat cigars in the house, instead of shivering my balls off in the back yard, and I got a whole big bed to myself at nights, instead of creeping upstairs to find out she'd gone all diagonal on us.
Then it turned into me sitting at home and staring at a dead telly. A habit of watching the screen even when the thing wasn't turned on. After a while, I heard noises in the house that I'd never heard before. At first, I thought it just the telly next door: the bloke who lived next to us was old and deaf as. But I didn't do anything about it, thinking if I had the energy to turn on my telly I wouldn't hear him.
The truth was, I liked hearing the noise from next door. It was something I couldn't control. Made us feel like there was someone else in the house, almost. And it made the drinking I was doing seem less desperate. Otherwise it was us pissed in the front room with the big light on because the bulbs'd gone in the lamps and I couldn't be arsed remembering to replace them.
I was wrong to hit Annie. I knew that. I wasn't fucking daft. But the problem was, I didn't know I was doing it until it was over.
I knew what people called us down the nick, knew what they thought about us. It never really bothered us before, because I always knew that however I did the job, it got results. Brass didn't bother with us because of that, and fuck the rest of them — they never had any fucking imagination.
It was easy enough to figure out — if you had enough grasses working the streets for you, you didn't need to do much to keep your collars up. It was the same mentality behind those big time dealers, the ones clever enough to keep their hands off the product. You had enough people out there doing your grunt work for you, then all you needed to do was tour once or twice a week. And right enough, all I had to do was bring 'em in and sweat 'em down, maybe put a slight beating on them to stop the lip, remind 'em who the gaffer was. It was dirty every now and then, didn't involve all the doorstepping that some of the others did, but it meant I could sit back and watch the top cops head straight for the cardiac ward.
But then — too many looks. Too many background sniggers, words pointed at us that I didn't always hear, but caught the fucking gist. It wasn't the usual shite anymore — “Donkin, yeah, you wanna keep an eye on him, he spends too much time with his grasses, you know how dodgy that looks, eh?”
No, it was that my collars didn't mean anything. Because, according to the desk sergeants, I was bringing in the same people time and again. Didn't matter that they were criminals, fucking stone-cold recidivists who went on a crime spree the second they were left unsupervised. It was like I needed to what, keep it fucking fresh for the sake of appearances?
Bollocks.
In the end, though, you hear something enough, you start to believe it. And it got so's that was all I could think about. That I wasn't a real copper. That I was just a chauffeur, ferrying in the usual suspects every week or so.
So I took some of the leave I'd built up, spent it drinking away the insecurities.
And now, maybe I got to thinking that I hadn't done the right thing. It was entirely possible I was wrong. I mean, I was wrong about Annie. Mind you, that hadn't exactly been a rational fucking thought.
I looked at the road. It was raining again. The sky looked like it was going to open at any moment. A rumble in the distance woke us up properly.
Annie wouldn't come back to us, not the way I was. She was best off out of my life at the moment. Because it was obvious I wasn't a bloke to be around, couldn't be trusted to hold my fucking temper. And if I wanted her back, it couldn't be like I just told her I was better. There had to be a real change, a hard change. It had to be visible, actions louder than words, all that. I'd have to clean the house out, bring in new furniture, show myself capable of being domestic if I was going to promise her a stable home life. And I'd have to go to that counsellor, share my fucking feelings, get well, get shot of whatever the fuck it was that had made us throw that punch in the first place.
Before I did any of that, though, I had to sort this case out. Because there was no way she'd take us back if I didn't have a job, especially if I lost that job because I beat someone up. I had to make it up to the fucking job before I ever made it up to her, which meant I couldn't go around half-cocked.
So
even though I knew Innes had killed Mo Tiernan, I couldn't just go back there and beat a confession out of him. That was the old Donkey.
No, what I had to do was gather evidence. And when I had enough evidence, I'd find some way of arresting the bastard properly.
That was it, like. Thinking. Because I needed to be clever about this.
I pulled my baccy tin, rolled a nice fat one and licked the paper. Sparked it and eased my seat back a notch.
I couldn't afford to give up, not now. And certainly not over Callum fucking Innes. There was no way I would allow that little bastard to be involved in my final days on the force. I especially wouldn't let the fucker walk on murder, not when he'd dangled it in my face like—
That wasn't the way to play it. Getting angry again, getting emotional.
I breathed smoke.
Had to be calm about this, think it out rationally. It was all about being clever, all about thinking shit through. For once in my life, I reckoned I'd have to investigate without going to my usual sources. There was something about that I didn't particularly like, but I reckoned I'd have to get over it. After all, justice had to be served, didn't it?
Another rumble, getting closer. Rain spotting the windscreen.
There was a fucking storm coming.
30
INNES
When I get to the Northside, I'm buzzing from a couple of painkiller beers and running late. Tiernan's nowhere to be seen which isn't unusual, considering the place is packed.
A couple of local lads dominate the bill and, from what I can make out, both are rising stars, so this exhibition's brought in pretty much everyone who's interested in the Manchester boxing scene. Won't find many fair-weather Hattonites in this place, but you might bump shoulders with some of his close mates. It's a watch-what-you-say crowd, so I keep my mouth shut and head down. As I push through, I get growled at, pushed back, and a full compliment of dirty looks and idle threats. The guys in here are built like bears, but shaved to the skin on the top. The women are either made up and stinging people's eyes with their perfume, or else bat-faced bean bags chain-smoking their way to an aching left arm.
I see Tiernan through the wall of his lads. I have to push further and harder just to reach the first bodyguard, who takes one look at the bruises on my face and decides I shouldn't be anywhere near his gaffer. One large hand comes out and braces my chest. He's about to tell me to fuck off when I catch Tiernan's eye.
“The fuck have you been?” he says.
“Got caught up.”
“Drinking,” says the bodyguard.
Both Tiernan and I look at this bloke, wondering where the fuck he got the idea he was part of the conversation. He's young, looks aggro enough to be new blood.
“Watch the fight,” says Tiernan. “We'll talk later in the van.”
The fight doesn't have long. Heading into the eighth with five to go, but I'll be surprised if we get all of them. One of the lads, a white kid with swollen eyes and a fierce cut on his temple that doesn't want to close, is already lurching about as if he's about to jack it in. His guard is up, but wavering, looks like a supreme effort just to keep his hands up at his chest. The Asian lad he's fighting doesn't look that much better off, but there's an urgency in his step that means he's set on winning this. That's if the ref doesn't call it first.
I try to get comfortable standing, but there's too much jostling, too much noise for me to watch the fight properly. I'm too hot, my brain already going from buzzed to swimming, and it suddenly strikes me as odd that Morris Tiernan would come out in public if he thought someone was gunning for him. And he might have blokes around him, but the one that put his hand on me looks to be the most experienced. Got to wonder what the fuck Tiernan thinks he's playing at.
The Asian lad throws a weak punch that still puts the white kid to one knee, and the ref starts counting it, the white lad trying to wave him off with one glove. Kid's got heart, I'll give him that, but all the heart in the world can't stop a ten-count.
And that's the bell.
Tiernan moves on the second ring, his boys moving with him as a unit. I see it, follow it, hobble in the slipstream of the entourage.
Then I'm out in the real world. Fresh, cold air slaps some of the alcohol out of my system and aggravates the bruises on my face. Behind me, people are filing out of the club, and their presence is making Tiernan tense. I follow him as he moves off to one side, turning his collar up and his back to the crowd.
“The fuck is it?” he says.
Something new in his expression. Could be something like fear, but I don't know for sure. It's not something I've ever seen before, especially when it comes to Tiernan.
“Darren,” he says. “You called the lad, didn't you?”
One of the bodyguards, fattish, starts nodding slowly. “Yeah, no problems on that score, Mr Tiernan.”
“The fuck does that mean?”
Darren's mouth hangs open for a moment. “Uh, that it's all being sorted.”
“No, there are problems, Darren. If the lad was here, there wouldn't be any fuckin' problems, but he's not fuckin' here, is he? And neither's the fuckin' van.”
Darren, still nodding, says, “Yeah.”
“You called him again?”
“Right.”
“Not right. Fuckin' do it. Now. We had this timed for a fuckin' reason, you daft cunt.”
Darren pulls a mobile from his puffer pocket. Tiernan turns away from him, looks as if he's about to grab my arm, then drops his hand. I watch Darren poking at his mobile while Tiernan stands next to me, breathing through his mouth and shifting his weight from one leg to the other. He reaches under his jacket, tugs at something I can't see, then zips up again.
He looks back at the entrance to the Northside. I follow his gaze: there are still people coming out of the building.
A car door slams loud up the street. Engines, talking, some loud laughter, a mess of noise that appears to tense Tiernan right up.
And Darren's still on the phone.
“Darren, get the cunt here right now.”
“It's ringing.”
“It's ringing, you want to go fuckin' look for him.”
Darren moves the phone from his ear. “What, now?”
“Fuckin' keep ringing him, get your arse moving while you do it.”
A fat bloke in a T-shirt shuffles past Tiernan, jostles him. Doesn't realise who he's nudged and how fucking dead he's about to be until Tiernan's almost on him.
“Sorry. Jesus, sorry,” he says.
Tiernan backs up, watches the guy head on. His mouth hangs open. “Fuck it. Can't get the fuckin' …” His eyes wide, he points at me. “You wanted to talk.”
“Yes.”
“Let's do it now before I fuckin' kill someone.” He gestures to the aggro lad. “Glen, you tell Darren to keep phoning, right? We're going to take a walk around the block and when we get back, that cunt better be sitting here with the fuckin' van, you understand me?”
“You want me to come with?” Glen eyes me up like I'm about to hold a knife to his boss's throat.
“No, fuck's sake.” Tiernan grabs me by the arm, hurries me along, away from the crowd that's developing in front of the Northside. Glen jogs over to where Darren is ambling up the road. Tiernan breathes out, shaking his head. He attempts a kind of rueful smile and says, “No fuckin' point in me leaving early if I'm going to be stuck in all that, is there?”
I make a negative noise. Having trouble keeping pace with him. We hit a corner and Tiernan slows down.
“That cunt out there, he's got one job to do and that's have the fuckin' van outside when I need it.”
“You had threats?” I say.
He glances at me, then stares down the street. “More importantly, what happened to you?”
“Got a problem.”
“Thought you might.” He jerks his head for me to follow. I do as I'm told.
“Police,” I say.
“Right.” Tiernan fishes in his poc
ket, brings out his cigarettes. “You told me that wasn't going to be an issue. Told me you had that sorted, Callum.”
“They're not a problem. As a group.”
“So,” Tiernan lights a Rothmans as he walks, “it's an individual gave you that. What's his name?”
“Donkin.”
“Why's that name familiar?”
“Donkey. He's a sergeant. CID.”
“Right,” he says. “Got you now. Heard about him. He's a right piece of work, isn't he?”
“Yeah.”
“Should be kicked out by now, eh? I mean, the stuff I heard he got up to.”
“Still does.” I shake my head. “The only people he hurts … they're grasses. Nobody really cares.”
“And you.” Tiernan stops and looks at me. “What does that make you? You got worked over—”
“I'm not a grass.”
“This copper your police contact?”
“Was.”
Tiernan sniffs loudly, and we've arrived round the back of the Northside. He pulls out his cigarettes, offers the pack to me. I decline — smoking and walking is tough on me. He blows smoke straight up at the sky, showing me his throat.
“So what do you want?” he says.
“Help.”
“With the copper?”
“Yes.”
“What kind of help?”
“You know.”
“I don't like dealing with police,” he says, working his mouth as if he's desperately trying to stifle a smile. “There's rules in place.”
Obviously Tiernan's gone fucking soft on me. Should've seen it coming — the bloke's been popping at the seams the past couple of days.
I nod. “It's okay.”
“No, leave it with us. Let me look into it. I'll let you know if it's doable.” He leans against the back wall of the club. “In the meantime, you got anything?”
So that's what it comes down to. You scratch my back, I'll get the copper off yours. Fair play, he's been working on trust for a while now.
“Been working the hair,” I say.
He tenses up a little. “Okay.”
“Kevin Ross … doesn't know. Baz: again, nothing.”