I let myself go limp on the road. A fuzzy mental check and I don't think anything's broken, just battered. My head's
bleeding, though. Something warm and sticky is gumming my eyes.
My tooth throbs.
That little fucker just can't give it up for a second.
I don't think about where I am. I don't think about what just happened. All I think about is whether I need to change my boxers. When I move my leg, the skin stings with urine.
So yeah, I do. So much for Nan's advice.
I want to sleep, but I know I can't. More advice from Nan, that one. You go to sleep after a knock to the head, you'll end up in a coma. And I've got to stay alive. I concentrate on my breathing, try to keep it from slowing. My head spins. I've got blood on my tongue and the smell of my own piss makes me want to heave.
'I think I got him.' A whining voice. I know it from somewhere. I keep my eyes half-closed, playing possum. Like there's anything else I can do.
'Good.' Man, I know that voice too, but my brain's so fogged up I can't make any connections. 'Get him in the back of the car.'
'Fuck that. I'm not sitting next to him.'
'Stick him in the fuckin' boot, man.'
A pair of market trainers come into view. Pumas with a mucky red stripe. Old jeans swim into focus, the kind that look pre-distressed. Whoever knocked me over is a ponce. I lands grab me under the arms, pull me up with my feet dragging in front of me. My head lolls forward. One of my leg buckles and I hope it isn't broken. My back screams and I want to scream with it.
'C'mon, man, hold him straight. Don't dance with the fucker.'
A breeze dries the blood on my face. I can feel it start to crust up. It itches.
'I'm not dancing with the fucker, but if you'd take some of the fuckin' weight…'
I hear the boot being opened, feel myself turned. I keep my eyes closed now, but I can see light through my eyelids. They dump me head first into the boot. I crumple, double up and someone pushes my foot so it's twisted against my leg. Then the boot lid comes down with a thump.
No use in kicking up a fuss, not yet. Give myself a chance to heal first, get my head straight. Difficult to do when it feels like I've been pushed arseways through a woodchipper. I can hear muffled sounds outside the car. They're talking, arguing.
I recognised those voices, but I still can't place them. Fuck. Think, Cal. Can't. Too tired. Then I pass out.
Coach class.
I open my eyes to darkness, feel a jolt and think I've gone blind. Then I remember where I am. The boot vibrates under me, jiggling me about. So we're moving, which means they meant to hit me, as if I didn't know that already.
When I try to move, I can't. Pressed up by the back seats, there's a weight holding me to the floor of the boot. Some- one's sitting in the back seat, and he's a heavy bugger. That makes three in the car, at least. From the flash in the dark, I thought I could make out more, but it could have been the shock and the light.
I run my tongue over my throbbing tooth. It throbs harder, but it keeps me awake.
So that's three. At least. Maybe a couple more. Which means I'm fucked.
My knees knock together, my gut pitches, my spine feels out of whack. The boot has filled up with the smell of me and it's almost unbearable, the stench of urine and fear high in my nostrils.
God, I've got to try and think straight here. Okay, at the most, there's five guys in this car, not counting me. That's five guys who pose a threat. More than likely, there's three. Unless the driver didn't get out after they ran me down.
Fuck. Concentrate.
That weak voice, he's my first point of call if this gets nasty. When this gets nasty. I'll be able to connect that voice to a build, no bother. And if I know him, and I recognise the voice, it'll give me the extra fire I need to kick the cunt in the jewels. Because I'm not about to wade into big bloke and hope the rest of them go running scared. I do that, the big bloke'll just stomp on my neck while the rest of them wade in.
So nah, go for the weakling, aim a swing at that big fucking mouth.
Feels like my gums are on fire. Want to go back to sleep. Want to pass out. I poke the tooth.
Keep thinking, Cal. This is important. Keep awake, son.
Okay, so Stokes finds out about my visit to Alison. He gets scared and stupid, reckons the best thing to do would be to take me out of the equation. Fair enough, but how did he find out about me?
He smelled a rat at the casino. Placed me by the Mane accent I never knew I had. Another time I should have kept my mouth shut. But then he talked to me first. What was I supposed to do? Another punter could have told him. The guy with his flies open. Or Pauline could have spilled some- thing to keep him at the other casino. But I know who it was. It's as clear as crystal who grassed me. Georgie.
He tipped off Stokes. Just like he tipped me off, playing both sides to see who'd pay him more. Or maybe he did it because I stood him up.
And that weak voice, that's George. A high-pitched version of him, anyway. A George scared out of his mind. And it would make sense that he was driving too.
I think I got him.'
That's about right. This car's too small for Stokes' Escort. If it had been Stokes behind the wheel, I get the feeling I wouldn't be breathing now.
It was George.
He sets me up, tells Stokes. Stokes goes home, talks to Alison. And guess who just paid her a visit? But then, why would she mention that? I'm missing something.
So here I am, rattling about like the last Pringle in the tube, coming up with theories left, right and centre. But then, when you're trapped in the boot of a car that knocked the shit out of you, you tend to take stock. Alison, George, Stokes, Mo, Morris, even Donna. The whole lot of them, whirling around my head and it's difficult to stop them colliding with insane conclusions. I've been stitched up, I'm in pain. I can't think straight and all I want to do is go to sleep. Because I know the worst is just around the corner. I know as soon as this car stops, I'm going to be dragged out of this car and get a kicking I won't be able to crawl away from.
I can take a beating with the best of them. I've proved that since I started pretending to be a PI. But I like to have a good reason to get knocked about. I do something drunk and
stupid, that's fine. I pick a fight with the wrong lad, that's also fine. That's a lesson learned and chalk it up to bad decision- making on my part.
But this? A car ploughs into me and I get bundled off somewhere remote, cloak-and-dagger style, it doesn't fit with me. It's too serious, too fucking life-threatening. It's not something I've experienced, and the thought of it becoming a reality makes my bowels loose.
I'll be buggered if I shit myself too. I clench.
The engine growls, the rumble under me slowing to a dull vibration. I can hear the click of the indicator light.
We're pulling in somewhere.
This is it. I tell myself to buckle up.
The first punch lands heavy against my cheek, the second fires up a ball of pain where I think my nose used to be.
I hit the road in a heap, hands in my armpits, legs curled under me, dead to the world.
It's cold out here, the middle of nowhere. Some motor- way, surrounded by black trees and all the life sucked out of the scene by the cars that whoosh by. It's hardly private, but who's going to stop when they're going sixty. And it affords these guys a convenient hard-shoulder burial if they need it.
My right eye is closing up. Through the slit, I can make out three of them. One of them is Stokes. I recognised his voice as soon as I could fit it to a figure. One of the others is George, I know it. The third is a mystery to me, but he's doing most of the grunt work and he's got power in his fists.