Saturday's Child

George lets the smoke hiss out through his teeth. 'Fuck are you, anyway? I thought you was a private detective.’

‘Investigator,' I say.

'Yeah, shit. Big fuckin' difference, eh? Private investigators beat the shit out of people with cricket bats?’

‘They do if they're pissed off.'

George snorts. Coughs and spits something in the back of my car. 'Aye, you're a private investigator. You work for Morris Tiernan, you're not a PI. You're a bloody hatchet man.'

That's the third time I've been described like that. I didn't like it much the first time. Now it's starting to boil my piss. 'You done bird?' he says. 'I've been in prison.’

‘So you're an ex-con.'

'You ought to be in the police, you're that fuckin' smart. What's your point?’

‘You got a licence?’

‘They don't license.'

'So you're just playing the part,' he says.

I don't like where this is going. I glare at him in the rear view.

'You're not a PI,' he says. And he laughs. Loud. 'Fuckin' hell, you're no more a private investigator than I'm James Bond, man.'

'Shut your mouth, George.'

'You honestly think you're doing good here?'

'I don't have to do good. I just have to do a job.'

'You talked to Alison, man. No, wait, I got it. You got chivalrous because she was sporting a shiner, right?'

'Your mate Rob's a piece of shit,' I say.

'Oh, come on, man. You saw him the other night. She gave as good as she got. And if I know her like I think I know her, she was the one that threw the first punch, and I bet it was nowhere near being over the fuckin' belt, either.'

'That's not true. I was there.'

'And what did you see?'

'I saw a fight.'

'Who started it?'

'I know what I saw.'

'Fuck that, you saw what you wanted to see. And how pissed were you then?'

I twist around in my seat. 'You going to shut up, George?'

He takes another drag on the cadged Embassy and smiles with a swollen lip. It's an ugly sight. 'I'm trying to tell you what's going on here, man. You see what you want to see, you don't realise that you're playing for the wrong team. C'mon, the Tiernans are the good guys? Give your fuckin' head a shake, man.'

I didn't have a choice.'

'Way I see it, you're responsible for what happens to Rob.’

‘Am I fuck.'

'You've as good as set him up. You tell the Tiernans where he is, you're as good as killing him yourself. How's that sit on your conscience?'

'It's none of my business.'

'Course it is,' he says. 'You're as bad as the rest of them. A charva fuckin' gangster playing PI because you're too scared to stand up for yourself.'

My elbow finds his teeth before I know what I've done. George flies back in his seat, hand up over his mouth, swearing in blood bubbles. I turn back around in my seat and stare through the windscreen, my skin itching. Behind me, George is mumbling through broken teeth.

I didn't have a choice,' I say.

And I'm out of the car before George can say anything else.

FIFTY

George. Dickhead. Fucking dickhead. Where does he get off playing the morality card with me? Where the hell does a guy who wanted to kill me and leave me by the side of the road in a ditch find the balls to put his boot in the stirrup and get up on that high horse? Fucking hypocrite.

And there he goes, muddying my thoughts with this bullshit conspiracy theory. Alison Tiernan behind it all, which makes Rob Stokes a scapegoat and dead man walking. She's unhappy with her life and her bastard kid, so she decides to steal from her dad and go on the run. It fits with what she said, but it's the guilt I'm having trouble with.

I've seen battered wives and girlfriends before. I know what they look like and there was something defiant about Alison that didn't fit. Like she was willing me to start in on her. At the time, I thought it was just her way of coping. And thinking of Stokes now, I'm not sure if he was sporting any new wounds. I thought I saw something, but the state I was in, it could have been a trick of the light.

But if Alison's behind it, then I've been fucking up since day one. And Rob Stokes is going to pay for it. Maybe he's just like the rest of us, caught up and in too deep to swim.

I light a cigarette even though I don't want one. The sky's the same colour as the smoke that drifts from my mouth. Some- where I can hear birds chirping and when I check my watch, it's five in the morning. I wonder where the night went, can't remember the last time I had a good night's sleep. My back's all knotted up and jabbing at me. A yawn builds until my ears pop.

Too much to think about right now. I check my mobile for messages. There's a half-dozen from Mo. He's staying at the airport Travelodge, wants me to call him as soon as, or else. A message from Morris, basically the same thing. Where the fuck am I?

I'm right here, boys. No need to get shitty with me.

So what now? Time's running out. Soon it won't be just Rob Stokes Mo's after, it'll be me. And why would that be? Because he wants to hand over some personal justice for the guy nicking his girl and me, I'm the guy his dad said would be able to find Stokes. Even though Mo probably wanted the job himself, which would explain a lot.

I look in the car and George seems to have fallen asleep. A loud, rattling snore fills the Micra with noise, drowns out the radio. I prod his leg hard. He snaps awake, yelling.

'Stokes has a mobile,' I say.

'Fuck're you talking about?' George blinks rapidly, his eyes narrowed against daylight.

'Stokes has a mobile, right? Give me the number.’

‘He doesn't have a mobile.'

'I don't have time to fuck about, George. Stokes has a mobile, you have a mobile, we've all got fuckin' mobiles. You want the truth, I'm going to help him out.'

'Fuck off.'

'Fuck off? That's nice, but if I don't call him, he's dead.' George looks at me, wipes some crust from his eye. He's still not convinced.

'I'm not lying to you, George.'

His jaw pulses, then he shuffles in the seat so he can reach inside his jacket. 'If you're fucking about — '

'Then I already know you can contact him, don't I? And if that's the case, I can use the bat if you don't fork out the number.'

He pales. 'You're kidding.'

'Give me the number and we'll see.'

George pauses, then pulls out his mobile phone. I snatch it off him and slam the car door shut. I lean against the window so he can't see what I'm doing. Scrolling though his contact list, I notice there's only one ROB.

This idea taking root, it's probably daft. But the way I see it, I haven't got many cards left to play, and this might just get me out of feeling guilty. It might go some way to making a bad situation better, or it could make it a hell of a lot worse. But it's about the only thing I can do right now that makes sense.

I call Stokes. He's kept his mobile switched on, because it hasn't gone straight through to voicemail. Which means he's either too lazy to switch it off, or he's waiting on a call. When he picks up, he speaks with a voice full of early morning phlegm.

'Rob, it's Cal Innes.'

'How'd you get this number?' Sounding more awake by the second. Fear, otherwise known as the body's own caffeine. I want to make you a deal,' I say. 'Who'd you get this number off?’

‘Doesn't matter. Is Alison there?'

There's a pause, as if he's thinking. Then: 'No, she's not.’

‘Then we can talk.'

'Fuck do I want to talk to you about?'

I have a proposition for you.'

'Fuck your proposition.'

'I'm outside, Rob.'

'The fuck you are,' he says.

'You're a grumpy bastard in the mornings, aren't you? Look, my deal is you keep the money you stole — ’