Saturday's child ci-1

by Ray Banks

His face tightens, looks like a pimple on his forehead is about to start weeping at the tension. ‘Okay. Then I’ll see what I can find for you, sir.’

  Really hammering that ‘sir’. Little prick. My head’s started banging. I need to get back to the Micra, take some Nurofen, take a breather.

  The sales kid shows me a phone. It’s cheap. It looks cheaper.

  I take it.

  Outside, I grab the first taxi I can find, slump into the back seat and tell the driver where I’m going. He stares at me in the rear view mirror. So I tell him again. Once he pulls away, I catch him glancing at me like I’m some sort of free freak show. I feel like telling him to keep his eyes on the road, but I’m too tired. I crack the window to get a breeze going.

  First things first, I need to get in touch with Uncle Morris.

  After a couple of wrong numbers courtesy of a directory enquiries service, I get the number for The Wheatsheaf.

  Three rings and the landlord answers.

  ‘Brian, it’s Cal Innes. I need to speak to Mr Tiernan.’

  ‘What for?’

  ‘It’s personal.’

  There’s a pause. Then: ‘He’s not here.’

  ‘If he wasn’t there, Brian, you wouldn’t have asked me what it was about. Now go fetch. I can wait.’

  ‘I told you ‘

  ‘Don’t fuck me about, Bri. I’m not in the mood.’ I glare at the driver to make sure he gets the point too.

  ‘Fine,’ says Brian, and puts the phone onto the bar with a clatter. It’s silent at the other end now. The Wheatsheaf is as dead as usual. It’s nice to know some things don’t change. A minute later, Brian comes back on the line. ‘He says he’ll call you back.’

  ‘Then let me give you the number.’

  ‘He’s already got it.’

  ‘Not this number he hasn’t.’ Jesus Christ.

  Brian grumbles, rustles something. ‘Okay. Fire away.’

  I give him the new number and disconnect. The cab passes a girl with low-cut jeans and a hanging belly.

  ‘Jesus, would you look at that,’ says the driver.

  I grunt, realise I’m hungry. My mobile starts bleating. After three shrill rings, I pick up. ‘Mr Tiernan.’

  ‘Mr Innes.’ Morris doesn’t sound too impressed. Either bored or homicidal; I can’t work out which. ‘You were supposed to phone Mo.’

  ‘I would if I had his number,’ I say.

  ‘I gave you his number.’

  “I lost it. I had an altercation with a couple of Stokes’ boys.’

  ‘They beat the shit out of you.’

  ‘You can tell, huh?’

  ‘You’re mumbling,’ he says. ‘So you know where Stokes is.’

  ‘He’s about. But I don’t know how long he’ll hang around.

  He thinks I’m out of the picture.’

  ‘Then I’ll get Mo up there.’

  ‘I want to find him first.’

  ‘It’s too late for that. I’ll get Mo to call you from the road.’

  And he hangs up, leaving me with a dead line and an open mouth.

  Well, that could have gone better.

  I check my watch, try to work this out. Okay, give Mo a couple of hours to rally his bruisers, three hours on the road and he should be up here by tonight. Which doesn’t give me nearly enough time. Donna’s voice keeps telling me I should let this lie, but I can’t do that. I don’t relish the idea of Mo taking over. This is my job, and if he finds Stokes without my help, I’ll still owe Tiernan. Which sends me right back to square one.

  I can’t have that. This is do or die.

  When I glance at the cab driver, I see him staring at the package on my lap. His forehead is furrowed deep. I’m not surprised. A guy with a knocked-up head gets in his cab and starts talking about finding another guy, well, I can see how he’d leap to conclusions. I decide to play it friendly, give him a smile to show I’m harmless. He goes white.

  ‘It’s alright, mate,’ I say, but my voice is too guttural.

  He doesn’t reply.

  In fact, we don’t exchange another word until he drops me off in Benton. Just to show there’s no hard feelings, I tip him, but he’s still out of there sharpish. I watch the taxi disappear before I light up and walk to my Micra, still where I left it.

  There’s no pleasing some people.

  FORTY-SIX

  ‘Dad, I’m at home, where the fuck else would I be?’

  ‘You weren’t at home last night.’

  ‘Nah, I were out with Rossie and Baz. Had some business to take care of.’

  ‘You make much?’ I didn’t like the tone of Dad’s voice.

  Summat wrong with it, either like he were trying to butter us up or he were taking the piss.

  ‘Some,’ I said.

  “I got a call from Innes,’ he said.

  Me cheek reacted, but me voice didn’t. ‘What’s up?’

  ‘Nothing much. He’s in Newcastle. Stokes is up there.’

  ‘He got an address yet?’

  ‘No. He knows where Stokes is, though. And he’s going to need all the help he can get. A couple of Stokes’ boys worked him over.’

  ‘When were this?’

  “I don’t know. Just get whoever you need and get up to Newcastle. And give Innes a call from the road.’ And then Dad gave us Innes’ new number. I wrote it down. I broke the connection and sat there staring at Rossie and Baz. Baz caught me eye and I jerked me head. They could come back from fuckin’ Coventry.

  What you grinning at?’ said Rossie.

  Stokes and his lads did over Innes last night.’

  ‘Fuckin’ hell’

  ‘Saved us a job,’ said Baz.

  Yeah, I thought. Like you two would be any fuckin’ use.

  ‘So where’s Stokes?’

  “I dunno yet. But I want to go back to that flat, see if anyone’s about, know what I mean? He were looking fuckin’ proud of himself yesterday, so he got summat there. If he got a lead, we’ll get a lead.’

  ‘You don’t know which flat it is,’ said Rossie. Always the fuckin’ nay-sayer.

  ‘I’ll sniff it out. If Alison were round there, I’ll know it.

  Trust us.’

  ‘Cause there were summat I had that Innes didn’t. I knew me sister inside out. I knew what she were like and I knew the way her fuckin’ mind worked.

  Which meant that I’d get the bitch before Innes did. * ‘Y’alright, mate? I lost me keys.’

  This lad with a beard and a belly didn’t care, and he held the door open for us to prove it. I pushed through, Baz and Rossie behind us. ‘Cheers, mate.’

  Went up the stone steps, looked about the walkway.

  ‘Well?’ said Rossie. ‘Where’s she live?’

  I didn’t know. Shook me head. I could work summat out.

  Just had to think about it. Headed up one way, but it was all fuckin’ pot plants and fancy number signs. Nah. Went back to the other end, and I knew we was in business. The door to thirty-five was open and the place stank like a burning poof.

  That were Alison. She loved all that fuckin’ incense and shit. I looked at Rossie and Baz, jerked me head towards the door and pushed it wide open.

  On the right, there was stairs. I told Rossie to go up them and check it out. Baz came with me. I didn’t have nowt in the way of protection apart from me fists. But Baz and a wicked keen Stanley. We went into the front room, all quiet. Ready to fuck someone over if they wanted to play ninja.

  Nowt in here.

  Looked like the place’d been fuckin’ trashed an’ all. I picked up a cushion and squeezed it like a stress ball. Me nose started running so I wiped it on the cushion and kept squeezing.

  ‘You sure this is the right place, Mo?’ said Baz.

  I didn’t answer him, went out into the hall and shouted up the stairs. ‘Rossie, you found owt up there?’

  Rossie appeared at the top of the stairs. ‘You don’t want to see this fuckin’ bathroom, man.’

  I tossed the cushi
on, took the stairs two at a time, pushed Rossie out the way. He were right – I didn’t want to see the fuckin’ bathroom. The smell were enough. Alison were a proper pig. That’s why she used all that incense, hide the smell of her dirt. I said to Baz, ‘Give us your Stanley.’

  Baz dug deep into his trackies, handed it over. I clicked the blade out as far as it went and pushed open a door. The bedroom. Me eye itched so I scratched it. Went over to the mattress on the floor, still had the-sheets on it, but nowt else in the room. They’d done a runner. That, or they lived like fuckin’ squatters. On that mattress.

  ‘Y’alright, Mo?’ said Rossie.

  I pushed the bedroom door shut, didn’t take me eyes off the mattress. Lousy fuckin’ cooze. If she wanted to come back, she’d have summat waiting for her. I got down on me knees and started slashing at the mattress, cut the fucker to ribbons. Tugged me way through the sheets and whistled while I worked, got me bladder pressed. When it were time, I pulled me cock out and pissed all over the remains.

  Try fucking on that, Alison.

  When I got out the bedroom, Rossie and Baz was waiting for us.

  ‘What now?’ said Baz. Rossie were staring at what was left of the mattress.

  ‘Now we tear what’s left of this shithole apart until we get a lead,’ I said.

  And I pulled Rossie away from the bedroom so’s we could start on the downstairs.

  FORTY-SEVEN

  The GM Maxi Senior Cricket Bat.

  It’s a big bat in everyway; handcrafting bows the blade into the drive area to produce the unique GM PowerArc shape. A special pressing technique blended with a massive swell and strong edges gives the powerful players the bat of choice for awesome hitting.

  Awesome hitting. I like that. Nice ring to it. The Maxi’s sitting across my lap right now. It feels too light to be of any use, but then what do I know? As long as it doesn’t break into firewood on the first decent swing, I couldn’t care less.

  But then, the box doesn’t say anything about using it on someone’s legs.

  Anger management. Controlling your emotion so it doesn’t spill out and hurt yourself and other people. I know all about that. I did courses in jail about that. I had to. It made the authorities think you were serious about rehabilitation, and it passed the time.

  ‘When you feel that urge, Deffenbacher suggests that you picture yourself as a god or goddess, a supreme ruler, striding alone and having your way in all situations while others defer to you. The more detail you can get into your imaginary scenes, the more chances you have to realise that maybe you are being unreasonable; you’ll also realise how unimportant the things you’re angry about really are.’

  This from a young guy who crossed his legs too tightly and had a PhD in Patronising Prisoners. He was the leader of a group that encouraged enhanced thinking skills and anger management.

  We met twice a week in a cold room with green-and- white walls, sitting in a circle while this guy talked, his hands flapping like a couple of coked-up birds. He had his pet subjects, his pet theorists. He loved talking in a slow, soft and completely judgemental voice, telling us exactly why we were inside.

  And we had to put up with it. Not that the group was compulsory. It was just that it looked better on your record if you attended. Which I did, because by that time, the last thing I wanted was to stay behind bars.

  The group leader once told this brick-headed fucker called Hawkins that he needed to concentrate on his cognitive restructuring.

  ‘You fuckin’ what?’

  ‘It means that when you’re angry, your thinking can become exaggerated. Cognitive restructuring lets you understand how silly you’re being.’

  Silly? Hawkins looked like he wanted to batter the little prick. If he’d thrown a punch, I got the feeling the rest of us would join in.

  ‘It’s silly to lamp a cunt, is what you’re saying,’ said Hawkins.

  ‘See, now -‘ The group leader raised one finger. ‘- you’re using humour. That can be healthy, but there are problems with that. Can anyone tell me what they are?’

  ‘Nobody laughs?’

  His voice sounded like a sigh. ‘There are two cautions in using humour, gentlemen.’ The leader got to his feet and went to the white board. ‘First, don’t try to “laugh off’ your problems.’

  He wrote ‘laugh off’ and drew a line through it.

  ‘Rather, use humour to help you to face your problems more constructively.’

  ‘We should be more constructive,’ said Hawkins.

  ‘Second, don’t give in to harsh, sarcastic humour; that’s just another form of unhealthy anger expression.’

  He wrote ‘sarcastic’ and ‘unhealthy’. Between the two words, he drew an equals sign.

  Anger management. Manage my situation, you speccy fucker.

  ‘All an angry person is saying, really, is: “Hey, things aren’t going my way!”’

  Fucking tell me about it.

  I feel the weight of the bat and then lay it down again. Nah, it should be fine. I’m only going to use it the once. Before I got here, I was at the pub. Dutch courage, maybe Scotch and a pint or twelve of Belgian lager to make it a European dream. I called the casino, pretended I was George’s brother, that his dad had had a stroke. When he got on the phone, I hung up.

  He’s working tonight.

  I did a slow recce of the casino carpark before I got settled in. George’s car is a blue Fiat with a scuffed bonnet and dark spots on the boot. The bloke didn’t have the foresight to scrub my blood off his car. Which means I’m not watching for him anymore, just anyone who goes near his motor. It’s a good job, too. It’s getting dark now, making it almost impossible for me to make out faces. I’ve already had my hand on the door a couple of times, ready to get out, heart thumping. But so far it’s been nothing but false alarms.

  I pop some Nurofen, notice I’ve got two left in the pack, and throw the box back into the glove compartment. Then one of each from the little brown bottles that Doctor Dick prescribed. I chase the pills down with a swig from the half bottle of vodka. Good job I bought that bastard, I think. The beer and whisky buzz is fading fast and I need something to keep me ticking over. Rage is a bitch to maintain.

  Mo’s coming. He’ll be on his way right now. Sick bastard.

  Gets his own sister pregnant. Alison, the wee whore. Stokes, the bullshit chip junkie.

  And George. Borderline psycho. Workaholic. He’d rather do double shifts behind a bar than live his life. He’s the only one with ties here. Stokes and Alison might have left the city, but George wasn’t about to go anywhere.

  He was stupid enough to think I wouldn’t come after him.

  He’s been sloppy and turned up for work, regular as. So my phone call might have spooked him a little, but he’d get over it the minute he gets a decent tip. The more I think about him, the less I care about Alison and Stokes. It isn’t about them anymore. It’s about that little prick who thrives on being an arsehole. Stokes had a reason to do me over but George got off on it. And that kind of violence, it’s a drug.

  You know you’re safe, you can play out your sadistic wee fantasies on whichever poor fucker you’ve got cornered.

  Yeah, I’ve seen that happen enough times. Been on the receiving end more than I like to admit.

  The power trip George was on, that rush of adrenaline, he should channel it elsewhere, because one day he’ll throw it at the wrong bloke and it’ll end up biting him in the arse.

  I’m that wrong bloke. And better I bite him now than he ends up dead later on. At least I’ve got a conscience. Someone else, someone single-minded, someone greedy, fucked-up, twisted, some junkie, they might not be as nice to him.

  What I’m doing here is teaching a bloke a lesson. And some lessons need a personal tutor. I’m doing him a favour.

  It’s all about anger management.

  I notice I’ve started drumming my fingers on the blade of the bat. I stop, take another swig of vodka. All this waiting’s killing me.


  Donna loves me. Right. Donna doesn’t want to see me hurt. Fuck her. She doesn’t know me. Some drunk bitch wants a life mate, she should look somewhere other than bars. I mean, Christ, picking someone up in a pub. How desperate is that? It stinks of Brenda Lang. And look where that got me. On the fucking run.

  I hope Paulo’s alright.

  Shake that thought from my head. No point in dwelling on that. Donkey’s all talk. He wouldn’t do anything to Paulo. He couldn’t.

  More vodka.

  I watch a minicab pull into the carpark. A drunk punter comes staggering out of the casino. He holds onto the roof of the taxi and struggles with the door.

  Some people just can’t take their beer.

  After the punter slides into the back seat, the cab pulls away. I watch it head past the casino and out of the carpark.

  Then look back at the side of the building. Two girls, two lads.

  My fingers tighten around the rubber grip of the bat.

  It’s George. The bar must be closed for the night. Telling a joke, a stupid story, he’s doing everything he can to impress these two girls. They’re not having any of it, but his mate is laughing his arse off. Overdoing it to make George look better. They stop in the light from reception and George points in the direction of his car.

  Don’t do it, girls. He’s not worth it, really.

  And you, George’s mate, fuck off. I don’t need an audience for this.

  The group breaks apart, the girls heading for the main road, the two lads backing off towards George’s car. George has his hands up and is shouting something at the girls.

  Blown out. My heart bleeds.

  George’s mate is still with him.

  Shit. I don’t need this. I don’t need witnesses. But needs must. Needs fucking must. As they reach the Fiat, I push open the car door, GM Maxi Senior in one clammy hand. My right leg is numb; I have to shake the blood back as I try to stride across the carpark. I zero in on George. Difficult to do, because there’s sweat in my eyes.

  He’s still talking, the mouthy bastard. Concentrating on getting his key in the car door. I wouldn’t be surprised if he’s alittle drunk.

  Tonight, we’re all tipsy. It helps us do what a man’s gotta do.