by Ray Banks
“There was a point?” I glance out at the club floor. Jason Kelly comes out of the changing rooms, all ready for his workout. Paulo slaps the lad on the shoulder, points to the heavy bag, then heads for the cupboard. He brings out a pair of focus pads and watches as Kelly goes to work on the heavy bag. When I look back at Frank, he's polished off the cake, set the plate to one side.
“See, Mrs Sadler's a teacher, isn't she?” he says.
“I didn't know that.”
“She mentioned it, Cal.”
I glance back out the window and Jason Kelly's going hard into the bag. “I've been … it's been a long week.”
“So she thought it was someone in her class. Someone who happened to know where she lived.”
“Right. And you saw 'em.”
He nods, grinning. “Got 'em on camera. Two of them, both pupils in her class, they're both thirteen.”
“That's young for here.”
“They're not from here. Not ex-offenders. Paulo's never seen them before.”
“But you passed it on?”
“Better than that.” He smacks his lips, runs his tongue into one of his back teeth. “Soon as Mrs Sadler put an ID on the pair of them, we went round to see the parents.”
“You didn't inform … the police?” I frown at him.
“Didn't need to.”
“Didn't Mrs Sadler—”
“No, she didn't want the police involved. She wanted it sorted amicably.”
I stare at Frank. He keeps using that big old vocabulary of his, he's going to lose the Daft Frank nickname quick enough. “So what happened?”
“Showed the parents the photos I took, let them identify their own boys. And then we talked.”
“About what?”
“About how much it would cost to repair the damage. We split the cost down the middle. I mean, we didn't want to make this official, get these lads in serious trouble. You know how that ends up, you can't shake it off.”
I nod. I want a cigarette, look out at the club again. “Well done, Frank.”
“Sad, though.”
“Come again?”
“That she did what she did,” he says, nodding at the gym. “I asked her about it. She said she was positive she'd seen one of the boys come here. When she found out it was an ex-young offenders place, that was all she needed.”
“They weren't offenders.”
“Didn't matter to her. She wanted revenge, she lashed out. Didn't matter that it was wrong. Somebody had to get hurt.”
“She was angry, Frank.”
“Yeah, but anyone would do? Any young lad?”
I look at him. “People get emotional.”
“But, y'know, it was the wrong person,” he says. “I mean, where d'you get the revenge in that?”
I shake a cigarette out of the pack, move towards the door. “Doesn't always matter.”
“You going out for a smoke?” he says.
“Yeah. Listen, well done, mate.” I nod at him. “You did well. Reckon you could run … this place.”
“It's a partnership,” he says.
I make an agreeing noise so I don't have to lie. Then I leave the office and limp across the gym. Haven't needed a cigarette like this in ages.
****
I shouldn't be here. Smoked two already, leaning against the wall of the Lads Club, staring at the street. There's a part of me that's willing Donkey to come roaring around the corner. At least that would put an end to it, and it'd be no more than I deserve. But after the second cigarette, I know he's not coming. Probably off somewhere licking his wounds, wondering how the fuck a mong like me managed to put one over on him.
Let him wonder.
I light another cigarette, promise myself the third's my last for the moment. After this I should head back home, see if he's turned up there. Or else I could get the ball rolling. I glance back at the Lads Club, see Paulo heading for the double doors, and shift my arse so he doesn't hit me when he comes out.
“I was looking for you,” he says.
“Yeah?”
“Yeah, and I wasn't the only one.” He lowers his voice. “Sorry about before.”
“No problem.”
“What did he want?”
“To mess. Same as usual. He's like that. It's okay.”
“You sure?”
I nod, blow smoke. There's a chill in the air that Paulo appears to have brought with him out of the club. He has his arms folded. Partly because it's a natural position for him, partly because he's trying to warm himself up.
“You're worried,” I say.
He doesn't answer for a few seconds. Then he says, “You blame us, Cal?”
“I told you already.”
“I know.”
“Nothing to worry about.”
“You say that, but then what do I see?”
My turn: “I know.”
“Police come round looking for you. Not once, but twice in as many days.”
“They found Mo.”
“I know they did.”
“So Donkey wants to … question me. Wants to take me in. Except he can't.”
Paulo looks at me. “Because he's suspended.”
“Sacked, more like.” I pluck the cigarette from my mouth. “It'll be fine. You worry … you make me worried.”
“Okay.”
Best I change the subject. “How's Jason?”
“He's great. Now. Back on form.”
“Glad to hear it.”
Paulo looks at the pavement, breathes out. He might as well be smoking, the way his breath comes out in a long plume. He scrapes his bottom lip with his teeth, then straightens up.
“Listen, whatever you're doing—”
“You know … what I'm doing.”
“Make sure it's on the level. Make sure you're not going to take all this onto yourself.”
“I can't—”
“I don't want that on my conscience, Cal. Don't need any more shit weighing us down like that.”
I shake my head. “Blame's got to fall … somewhere.”
“Not on you,” he says.
“No. I've got it covered.”
“Do I want to know?”
Shake my head once and ditch the cigarette. I've lost my taste for it. “Probably not.”
He stares at me for a long time. “What the fuck are you doing?”
“Not sure,” I say, half-smiling. “But if Donkey … comes back. You know what to do. Right? Don't take a chance. Call the police. Let them handle him.”
“Okay.”
I pull my jacket as I walk round the side of the building. I parked the Micra round there so Paulo wouldn't see it and start asking stupid questions. These days it's hard enough to talk, never mind come up with reasonable explanations as to why the back of my motor's suddenly bashed in. And he would ask about it. The way he's been acting recently, I wouldn't have been surprised if he asked me for a cigarette himself. Constantly on edge, drinking way too much coffee in some misguided attempt to keep him away from the booze. Only need to spend five minutes in his company to know his mental health's all over the shop, but he can't admit it, especially not to me.
It shouldn't be long now, though. Then it'll be all over one way or another.
They destroyed us, the Tiernans. Mo Tiernan turned my brother into a smackhead, then a thief. I was along for the ride, so they turned me into a scapegoat and a jailbird, a walking fucking menagerie.
Nobody's business what happened to me in prison. Not something I want to dwell on now, either. And besides, when I came out, I had more important things to worry about. I entered the legit world after two-and-change to find that the Tiernans had strung Declan out. But they kept him in the bosom, just in case he got any ideas that he was better than his friends.
Judge a man by his mates, and watch him burn.
And because they strung him out, they were the ones to blame for his eventual suicide. Mo Tiernan killed my brother; Morris Tiernan helped.
They put me
in that place. Made me impotent. Destroyed what little life I had, put a stain on me I couldn't scrub off.
They killed my brother, tore up my family and stamped the remnants into the dirt without even fully fucking realising it.
They turned me into a fucking mong, just like everyone says, a man who can't walk, talk or fuck on account of the stroke that was the direct result of a job I did for Morris fucking Tiernan.
Which is why I'm about to do what I'm doing. Because I already know who killed Mo Tiernan, and I can't let him take the fall for it.
After all, Paulo's the only real friend I have.
36
INNES
Of course it comes down to Jason Kelly in the end. One of the reasons I've been staying away from him, especially after when Paulo tells me how it all happened. The lad was trying to stay on the straight and narrow. Difficult enough on your own, made harder by the dealer that insisted on hanging around the club, looking for all the world like a stray dog nobody wanted to shoo away. Or had the balls, considering that dealer had the name Tiernan, ringing bad bells for those who didn't know the backstory.
The way Paulo told it, it was Jason Kelly he was looking out for. He saw that spark in the lad's eyes, wanted to focus it on the right thing. One bad spar, a lad a couple years younger than Jason marked him up because Jason hadn't been watching his loose guard, and he'd started wavering after that. Looked to the dubious comforts of the past to see him through.
Now Paulo tried to pull him to one side — he'd already seen Mo nosing around the place again, didn't want to get into it if he didn't have to. Besides, Mo hadn't actually come onto the premises as yet, so Paulo didn't think he could get too demonstrative. Anyway, Jason was all understanding, the usual smiles and denials. Course he wasn't back on the wraps, Paulo. No way he'd do that anymore, is there? That was the shit got him in trouble in the first place.
The rehabilitation song, and Jason was in full voice.
But Paulo's never been an idiot, despite his palooka-looking face. So he kept an eye on Jason. And after a week or so, he saw Mo come out of the shadows. Paulo'd made a show of locking the place up and leaving, and it was only then that Mo showed his face.
“Should've seen him, Cal. You knew the bloke was a walking corpse anyway. Anything I did to him …”
“Okay,” I said. “Carry on.”
Jason Kelly with his kitbag, moving into the darkness where Mo was skulking. Paulo watching from the club. Saw Jason emerge from the shadows a few minutes later with both hands in his pockets.
Paulo waited long enough for the suspicion to die down, waited for Jason to head up Coronation Street. He'd deal with Jason the next day, in the office, the kind of intense whispering that put the fear of God into the other lads, and which I remembered from my early days at the club.
Once Jason had gone, Paulo came out of the club, stopped by the front doors. “Mo?”
Nothing.
“You're out there, son, I know it.”
A shuffling sound, but not much else.
“Think we need a word, don't you?”
“I'm not on your fuckin' property,” he said.
“I know.” Paulo tried to keep his voice friendly. Calm. “But I think we should still have a talk, you and me.”
“Fuckin' joking, I'm not coming anywhere fuckin' near you.”
“Don't be daft, Mo.”
“Fuck off.”
“Don't make this difficult, son.”
“Here, I didn't do nowt wrong. Got nowt on us.”
Paulo didn't hang about. Off the steps and into the darkness, grabbed a handful of greasy Berghaus before Mo could react, wrenched him out of the shadows, the breeze throwing a stink into Paulo's face. He gritted through it, dragged Mo into the club and shoved him into the middle of the gym.
“Take a good look around, mate,” said Paulo. “Want you to see exactly what you and your scally mates did. Reckon you haven't had much of a chance to admire your fuckin' handiwork, eh?”
The walls were still blackened then. They were still using the old rings, the old equipment, all of which had a layer of engrained soot on it.
Paulo brought Mo into the club to look at it all. The way he told me, he just wanted Mo to see what he'd done, show him that the place was still standing. He wanted to see the lad's reaction, and as he watched Mo look around, he already had a nice long speech for him, the usual warning and lecture rolled into one.
He'd just started when Mo said, “Ah, fuck it.”
“You what?”
Mo danced back into the club a little more. His eyes seemed almost hollowed out. And when Paulo told me how bad Mo looked, it was difficult not to think of a dancing skeleton, a rictus grin and the junkie tremble.
“Fuckin' deserved it. What, you want to fuckin' tell us that it didn't work? It worked.” Mo pointed at Paulo then, still grinning. “Went right off the fuckin' rails, you did. Think I'm having problems, you was almost back on the fuckin' sauce, don't think I don't know about that. And so the fuck what anyway, man? What, you think you're better than me? You're not better than me. This — all this shite — it was a fuckin' warning. You got nobody to help you, nobody to protect you, we're gonna come at you any fuckin' time we choose to, know what I mean? You are not safe.”
“Don't be a dick, Morris.”
“You think I give a fuck anymore?” he screamed. And his eyes were red. “You think I got owt to fuckin' take away from us now? What, you think I'm going to look around here and realise how fuckin' great you are? Fuckin' daft cunt.”
“You're out of your fuckin' mind,” said Paulo.
“The fuck?”
“Get out of my club.”
“You brought us in here, man.”
“And now you have to leave.”
Because as soon as Paulo brought Mo into the light, he saw the damage and knew how deep it went. Saw what he told me — a walking corpse, held together with a rare raging electricity, moving through sheer force of will. Mo's face twitched, a spasm of fear or hatred, as if he'd seen his reflection in a mirror, saw the mixture of faces in his own — the mother who left him, the father who hated him — and realised that they'd both been right to do so. Because somewhere amongst the misfiring synapses in his head, Mo knew his weaknesses.
But there was a difference between knowing your weaknesses and having them pitied by someone you hated.
“Aye,” said Mo. “I know why you brought us in here, like. You want to have a pop at us. Because your fuckin' mate knows, I'm not going to stop if I don't want to, and there's nowt you can do to persuade us to back off. So you want to fuckin' end it.” He waved his hands — a come-and-have-a-go gesture — and stepped towards Paulo. “Course you want to fuckin' end it. We all want to fuckin' end it.”
Paulo stood his ground, told Mo that he wanted him to leave. He didn't want to put hands on him, not like this. In the end, though, he didn't have a choice.
It was what Mo was waiting for. Soon as he felt Paulo's touch, Mo twisted, ducked and brought his forehead into Paulo's left cheek.
You could barely see the mark on Paulo's face by the time he told me what happened that night. And it wasn't so much the pain — Mo was weak as fuck, barely able to throw enough solid punches to get him out of the proverbial brown paper bag, so there was no chance he'd knock down Paul Gray — but the shock of the blow, the fact that this little prick had managed to plant one on him. And like a lot of ex-fighters, it wasn't even a conscious decision on Paulo's part to hit Mo back. It was as natural a reaction as breathing out when your lungs were full.
But he was pro enough to keep his punch loose. Told me that he didn't hit Mo hard at all, just enough to burst a lip and put him off-balance. A few steps, a one-two, three-four, then Mo dropped.
But not before he smacked his head off the end of the bench behind him.
The wet, heavy crack seemed to hang in the air long after Mo hit the floor. Paulo watched him roll onto his side. Looked at the bloody mark on the end of the be
nch, thought he saw something solid stuck, glistening, to the wood. Then he watched more blood begin to pool under Mo's head.
Paulo told me he was sorry.
“It's okay,” I said.
“I'm so fuckin' sorry, I didn't—
“Don't … worry about it.”
The reason he told me was Tiernan. When he found out I was seeing Tiernan, he knew the game was up. If I hadn't been contacted, there would've been nothing said, I know it. The new club was open for a while, the bench gone along with the rest of the old gym equipment. All the walls of the place were painted, the trace evidence destroyed.
But guilt had a way of lingering. And as soon as Paulo knew I was on the case, he felt the need to spill his guts. Sitting forward in his chair, leaning on his knees, looking through me. His voice hoarse from all the talking, from trying to keep back tears of panic. As he talked, I watched his big hands clenching each other, the knuckles scuffed and scarred from a million punches that hadn't ended up in someone's death. But Paulo knew it only took one. Did the last time, the reason he went to prison, which was why he was stuck to his seat when he told me.
“I checked him out,” he said.
“And?”
“He was breathing.”
“Sure?”
“Yeah.”
But either way, it wouldn't look good. If Mo had been alive, he'd need a hospital. And there'd be an assault charge or worse pinned on Paulo. Plus more bad publicity for a club that had just made a couple of page fours by being firebombed.
And if Paulo was mistaken, that Mo was dead, then that would mean the end of everything. Without a doubt, all the hard work Paulo put in to get the club up and running would be totally worthless. Because all people would see was a man who'd previously done time for beating a man to death, up on trial for almost exactly the same thing. He'd be an ex-con who couldn't even rehabilitate himself, let alone the lads that came into the club.
“He couldn't stay there,” said Paulo.