Saturday's Child

'Stokes was a dealer.'

He frowns at me. 'Yeah, and?'

'So how come you were single-handed?'

'Because Alison left too, man.'

I lean back in my chair, wait for him to follow that up. When he doesn't, I have to ask, 'Who's Alison?'

There's a moment of panic in his face. He spilled too much and he knows it. But his thirst takes hold, becomes a moment of triumph because I don't know the half of what's going on. And some blokes, no matter how scared they are, thrive on being smug. 'Tell you what,' he says. 'You get another round in and I'll tell you.'

*

Alison Tiernan.

No coincidences. Not anymore. Alison fucking Tiernan.

I keep buying the drinks, Kev keeps downing them. His mouth runs away from him, then he falls into a mumbling slur. This carries on, swings from one extreme to the other, but I end up with the whole story eventually. I have to keep asking him to repeat himself, because the rowdy Royals are singing their own songs on the other side of the bar.

Alison Tiernan, sixteen-year-old daughter of Morris Tier- nan. She worked behind the bar at Morris' club. The way Kev told it, Alison was supposed to be learning the value of money, having to earn it herself. She confided in Kev. She reckoned they were the best of friends. But the barman didn't know the difference between friendship and a come-on. When she up and left, he got angry.

I don't owe her a fuckin' thing,' he says. 'She was a fuckin' prick tease.'

'And you didn't know she was planning to leave.'

He stares at his glass, his lips puckered. 'Yeah, she talked about it. Christ, they all fuckin' talk about it. Not an employ- ee in there that doesn't talk about leaving. You got to understand, we get all the shit in that place. The punters what've been thrown out of the other clubs. Punters with issues, man. Hygiene, anger management, you name it. It was no place for her. Christ's sake, she was only sixteen.'

So you know that then. It's a start. One click away from a paedo, Kev. Watch yourself.

'What about the money?' I say. I light an Embassy. His eyes flicker to the pack, so I offer him one.

I don't normally smoke,' he says. 'I'm not a smoker.'

Social smoker, living in denial, never buys his own. This lad's not doing anything to get himself off my shit list, that's for certain. 'The money, Kev. Did she say anything about the money?'

'No.' He lights up, takes a long pull and closes his eyes. 'Gave them up five years ago, but I fuckin' miss 'em at times.’

‘Where'd she go?'

He blinks through the smoke in his eyes. 'Alison? Well, I suppose she went off with Rob.' Talking to me like I'm a special needs case.

'She say where?'

'No idea. She has friends up in Newcastle. Kept mention- ing them, but tell you the truth, she got a bit boring with all that. I tuned out.'

Newcastle. 'You have an address?’

‘I told you, I tuned out. Why the fuck would I have an address?'

'What about Rob?'

'What about him? I told you, I didn't know him. Fuck's sake. All I know is that he fucked off with Alison, right? That's all I know. And he should be shot. She's sixteen. They could put him behind bars for a stunt like that.'

The rugby players make a loud exit, chanting that they're either going to eat pizza or Ibiza. Either way, it's good fucking riddance.

'What does he look like?' I say.

Kev looks at me, incredulous. 'You're after a bloke and you don't know what he looks like?’

‘Tell me what he looks like, Kev.'

He grins, shakes his head. 'Fuckin' hell. What do I care, eh? He's tall, dark hair. Grey in it, know what I mean? Not fat, not thin.' He shrugs. 'Just looks like a bloke.'

'Oh, you're tons of help.'

Kev takes another drag. He doesn't look like he's used to smoking, got that kid playing adult thing going on. Look at me, I'm smoking. I'm a grown up. 'I didn't know they'd actually do it,' he says. 'I just thought it was talk. People are always whinging about something. And I didn't think she had the guts to do it, didn't think she'd be so bloody stupid. Listen, mate, you think what you want, but we had something going, me and her.'

I've been getting an honest-to-God Jilted John vibe from him all night. It's grown the more booze he pours down his neck. But that's the kind of drunk he is. Regretful, emotional, one step away from a Loretta Lynn song and self-pity rolling down his cheeks. He knows there was nothing between them, but the sick romantic can't give that up.

I don't give a shit as long as the information's correct.

I knew they'd send someone, y'know,' he says. 'I knew it would happen. I even told her, said, "Look, there's not enough money in the world to make you safe".'

'Should've argued your case a bit better.'

'He's a prick, y'know. Rob. I know I said I didn't know him, but I know his fuckin' type. He'll blow the lot. He'll flush it down the bog.'

'He have a drug problem?'

Kev looks at me with a sheen on his eyes. 'He's got a losing problem. He's a punter. There's not a dealer in that place who isn't. Dealers, man. Fuckin' dealers, they reckon they've all got the inside track on the bet. Like they deal the games, they know the way they work. You watch people lose all night, and you think you're better than them?'

Not better, I think. Just different.

'You're a good lad, Kev. Don't let this place grind you down.' I get to my feet.

'What's going to happen to them?' he asks. I rub out my cigarette. I don't know.’

‘Then what are you doing?'

'I'm being paid to find them, Kev. After that, it's out of my hands.'

'So you're setting them up,' he says. 'I'm just hired to find them.'

'You're a fuckin' hatchet man. You're setting them up.’

‘Go home. Get some sleep.'

He pulls himself out of his slump. 'You're a fuckin' hatchet man!' he shouts.

I walk away from the table, resist the urge to reach across and smack him hard in the nose. He repeats himself, then deflates like someone stuck a pin in him.

Hatchet man. Fuck's sake. I can't get anyone on my side.

EIGHTEEN

I were watching Predator 2 when the doorbell went. Put me spliff in the ashtray and downed me Courvoisier and got out me beanbag, went to the door to give the cunt some grief.

Dad stabbed his Rothmans out on the doorway. 'Mo.'

'Y'alright, Dad. I were just watching a film, like.'

'Uh-huh,' he said and he went into the lounge. Danny Glover were investigating a crime scene done by the Predator. Drug dealers dead all over the shop. I didn't give a shit, like. Already seen the good bit when the Predator fucked 'em all up, Rastas getting proper splattered all over the shop and this bird with her tits hanging out giving it with the vocals. Weren't as good as the first one, mind.

Dad looked down at the telly, grabbed the remote and knocked off the volume. 'You been working, Mo?'

'This and that,' I said.

'Pills is what I heard.'

'Aye, I do some pills. Some shrooms, some resin.’

‘It paying alright?' he said. 'I didn't know people were still doing pills.'

'The old school still like 'em. Sometimes I do 'em powder, like.’

‘Coke?’

‘Nah, the E.'

'Uh-huh.' He looked around. 'What's your mark-up?’

‘On the powder?'

'On the pills.’

‘Couple quid.'

Dad nodded. He looked like he were thinking about summat. 'You do the Bruce Lees, but you don't do coke.'

'Nah. Too hard to get hold of. You want some speed, I can get you some speed, Dad.'

'I'm not looking to buy, son. You be interested in the bigger deal?'