Saturday's Child

I try to sit up. Another blow to the head makes me reconsider. And fuck, I can't see again. It hurts, but doesn't add too much. If this big guy knew how to beat the shit out of someone, to keep the pain going, he'd be dangerous. As it stands, he's just here to batter me into submission, which shouldn't take too long.

I cough up blood and spit. Christ, I'd kill for a cigarette. A passing car throws a light over George. He's skinnier than I remember. I smile at him as best I can, say, 'You're fuckin' dead, mate.' But it comes out like gawfaggagekmay…

He gets the point. His face creases up and he pushes the big guy out of the way, launches a weak right at my head. It connects with my scalp, but it hurts him more than it hurts me. He takes a step back, a pained expression on his face. He blows on his knuckles, eyes sparking at me from the shadows.

'Salford, eh?' says Stokes.

I turn my head to the sound of his voice, but I can't look up. I concentrate on the sparkling tarmac. A light rain is falling. It's the only thing keeping me conscious.

'What d'you wanna do with him?' A Geordie voice. Must be the big guy. Sounds like a big guy, but not the voice of a muscleman. More like he's having trouble breathing. If I can keep him battering me, maybe he'll have a heart attack or something.

Jesus, get your head together.

'Fuckin' Salford,' says Stokes. 'Not what I expected, like. Has to be said. I expected Mo.'

I jerk my head up and grin at him. I can taste blood in my mouth and my lips are wet. I must be a right looker.

'You like that?'

I keep grinning.

'You think that's funny?'

I push bloody spittle through my teeth and shake my head slowly. Fuck am I doing? Slap-happy, punch-drunk, that one- way ticket to Palookaville checked and stamped. Whatever it is, it's messed up my coordination.

Stokes steps forward and crouches down in front of me. Streaming headlights carve clarity in his face. I can make out a deep scratch on his cheek, a bruise swelling his bottom lip. He reaches into his jacket and I automatically flinch.

He smiles. Getting off at playing the hard man.

When his hand emerges from his jacket pocket, it's holding my mobile.

Ah, for fuck's sake…

'You know Mo's number off by heart, do you, Innes?' My head falls forward.

'Lad like you,' he says, 'a fuck-up scally like you, I don't think you've written it down, have you? Nah, what you did was just stick it on your mobile and leave it at that.'

I shake my head, bring up some blood-laced lung butter and let it fly full in his face. He recoils, stands and kicks me in the throat. I drop back, end up sprawled on the tarmac, staring through a haemorrhage at a moonless sky. Choking. I can't breathe. Trying to cough, but my vision starts closing in.

I roll onto my side. Stokes plants another size eleven in my gut. I spew onto the road, tears searing the cuts around my eyes. I try to blink, but it hurts too much. Coughing, spluttering air out of my lungs, bile burning the back of my throat.

Stokes drops my mobile in front of my face, makes sure I'm paying attention. Then he brings his foot down on it. I flinch hard, my body jerking. Once cracks the fascia, twice kills the display. The third smashes the mobile to pieces. He grinds his heel on the plastic then leans over. I feel the wet slap of gob hit my cheek.

'Tou-fuckin'-che,' he says.

I want to weep. He's right. I just saved Mo's number onto the mobile and left it. There are other ways of getting it again, but that would be admitting failure. And Stokes must know I didn't call Mo yet. Which means something that I didn't want to admit to myself.

Alison's the one that fucked me over.

Another volley of kicks, and I'm on my back. I keep wanting to draw my knees up over my stomach, but I don't have the strength.

'What d'you wanna do with him?' The big guy. Yeah, answer him, tell him. Let's get this over and done with.

'We kill him, he'll be out of the picture,' says George.

Thanks, mate. You'll get yours.

'We kill him, we'll have to deal with his body.'

'Howeh, Rob, he's fucked up. Might as well follow through. What's to deal with? We dump him in a fuckin' ditch and call it a night.'

'It's too risky. People know he's up here,' says Stokes.

'Aye, but we'll be gone.'

'I'll be gone, George.'

'He's grassed you right up,' says George.

'Nah,' says Stokes. 'He hasn't told Mo where I am. Least that's what Alison says.'

'Who gives a fuck? Better safe than sorry.'

'Take it down a notch, Georgie. You're beginning to sound like a proper psycho. Far as I'm concerned, this isn't worth the bother.'

'And I'm saying better safe than — '

'How about you shut up, George? You're not the bloke Morris wants. You're a fuckin' tourist, so hang onto yourself.'

My lips start flapping. In my mind I'm calling George all the bastards under the sun, but it comes out as a gurgling wheeze. George doesn't like it. He kicks me hard. I roll over onto my other side, curl up into a ball. Shut the world out, try to keep breathing.

Best to keep my mouth shut. Let them sort this out.

Stokes says, 'We'll dump him in a ditch. By the time he makes it back to Newcastle, we'll be long gone.' He leans close to me. 'You hear that, Innes? Long fucking gone. You messed up, son. You dropped the ball.'

I can't see him anymore.

'Pick him up,' says Stokes.

'Fuck that, I'm not touching him.'

'George, don't make me tell you twice, mate.'

I feel hands under me again, feel the sky get that little bit closer before my head falls to my chest. The world starts spinning and I have to blink to keep myself from throwing up again. I'm upright, looking down now. I notice my shoelaces are untied. Wondering how the fuck that happened. My ankle turns, a stabbing pain at the top of my foot. Then I drop face forward into a ditch by the side of the road. The mud is cool against my face. If I close my eyes, I can pretend it's my bed.

Footsteps disappearing, the sound of the engine.

They're not going to kill me, but they've left me for dead.

Small mercies.

I wait for the engine sound to fade away. All that's left are the sounds of passing cars and my own whistling breath. It's cold out here, getting colder all the time. I should make a move, but I don't want to. Not yet. Enjoy the rest.

My head starts feeling heavy, then the fear of coma spikes me with adrenaline. I put my hands out into the mud, sinking them deep. I try to push myself to my knees. It takes a couple of attempts, and when I get there, my head's thumping. Keep my eyes narrowed, because the world's going to get bright soon, I know it. It might be dark here, but the headlights of oncoming cars feel like they're burning my eyes right out of their sockets.

I concentrate on the road, lit up, raindrops like stars. They burst as my focus shifts.

And something catches my eye. It shines white against the tarmac. I pull myself closer on my hands and knees.

A tooth.

That tooth.

I finally got the bastard out.

And it hurts to laugh, but I do it anyway.

PART THREE Blue Skies for Everyone

Parole is granted on the basis of reports by prison and probation staff, on the nature of your offences, your home circumstances, your plans for release and your behaviour in prison.

An Irish guy with a soft voice gave me a book about the American penal system.

'Read this,' he said. 'But I want it back. It's part of my library.'