Saturday's Child

That's the bastard right there.

I fill out a wee form with a chewed pen and take it up to the counter. Spend the next ten minutes waiting for my number to come up, gasping for a cigarette. My skin feels itchy, and I wish I hadn't talked to Donna like that. Fuck's sake, she was only looking out for me. But I'm in no mood to be civil. Things to do.

I have a plan, but it's blurred around the edges. I wouldn't go so far as to call it revenge, but it's a way of evening the score a little.

When my number fizzes up onto the screen, I go to the counter and pay. Then I tuck the package under my arm and brave the sun again. Only for a second, stocking up on cigarettes and Lucozade. I get short-changed, but I don't care. Outside, I light up, take a few puffs to get enough nicotine slammed into my brain, and then I'm back across the road and checking out the mobile phones.

I don't want anything too expensive. If Stokes shows up again, he might get as stamp-happy as he was the last time. So I scan the shelves for the cheapest phone there is. As I'm doing so, a guy built like a jockey's whip ambles over. He stands behind me, but I can catch a whiff of Cool Water.

'The new Motorola's a doozy,' he says.

'I'm after something cheap,' I say. I try to enunciate. It makes me sound like I have learning difficulties.

'Ah. You want contract or pay-as-you-go?'

'Whichever's cheapest.'

'And what extras were you thinking about?'

I finally turn round and get a decent look at him. The lad's riddled with acne, sports a tuft of blonde hair under his cracked bottom lip and looks like he'd fall over if I breathed too heavily. But then, he probably doesn't think I'm much of a looker, either.

I want a fuckin' phone, mate,' I say. I don't care if it comes with a Jacuzzi and a wet bar. I want something I can make a phone call on that isn't two soup cans and a piece of string. Something cheap, something durable and something that I can press a number on without having to use a fingernail, alright?'

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-FIVE

'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.