Saturday's Child

'Can you throw a punch yet?'

'I'm trying, bruv. But I'm a lover, not a fighter.'

'Huh. When you coming up?'

'As soon as I can, mate. I'm stuck in Newcastle right now, but I'll try to get up for Christmas or New Year or something, okay?'

'What you doing in Newcastle?'

'Working,' I say. 'Look, I've got to go. Stuff to do. I'll give you a call at the end of the month, we'll sort out a session, okay?'

'Aye, alright,' he says.

'Take care.’

‘You too.'

I ring off and stare at the mobile. It's hard talking to my brother. In fact, it's a fucking chore at times. My whole family's like that. We'd rather skirt around the issue than have it out head-to-head. It took me a stretch inside to face up to Dec. After all, he was my older brother. I remember him beating the crap out of me on a regular basis and even when I did floor him, he had the ability to make me feel guilty as fuck about it.

We'll see what Christmas brings. A good bevvy and maybe we'll be okay.

Right now, though, I've got more important things to do. Newcastle's casinos are open for business.

TWENTY-ONE

'I'm sorry, sir, but I can't give out that information.'

'Okay, well, I was just asking. He's a mate of mine.'

'I understand that, but I'm afraid I still can't help you.'

'That's fine,' I say. 'Two o'clock tomorrow, then?'

'We'll see you then,' says a smiley female voice. A blonde voice.

I hang up.

Gaming regulations are gaming regulations, and they mean the casino staff can't tell me if Rob or Robin or Robert Stokes is a member. They also can't let me just swing by, not until after the twenty-four hour cooling off period. Christ, it's not as if I'm trying to buy a gun. But I joined up over the phone anyway. Both places. All they ask is that I bring identification when I come in tomorrow.

Which I told them was fine. I root through my wallet for my driving licence and dump the rest of my accrued crap into the bin, slot the driving licence back into a prime place. My wallet's still plump with cash, but otherwise it looks sparse. If I was found dead, they wouldn't get much information.

Twenty-four hours. I look around the room. Bland. The travelling man's lot: dull furniture, a portable telly and a plastic kettle. Porn on pay-per-view and five channels with bad reception, sachets of coffee and tea, hot chocolate if you're lucky.

I need to get out of here. And I need a drink.

At reception, I ask a girl with braids in her hair if there's a pub nearby. She looks at me with a smile in her eyes. 'You're on the Quayside, Mr Innes. It's all pubs down here.'

Huh. Maybe Newcastle's not the shithole I was led to believe. She gives me directions and I follow them to the letter.

You can tell a lot about a place by its pubs. Judging from the stretch along the Quayside, Newcastle's desperate to please. It's just like Withy Grove, but pulled taut and facing onto a rolling brown river. Looks like I'm coming out on the tail end of the lunch hour. I pass suits and skirts; a couple of young guys in the similar colour tie-shirt combo are talking loudly about how crap their jobs are.

Tell me about it, fellas. At least I don't have to dress up.

The first place I come to, The Pitcher & Piano, looks too expensive. I give it a glance, but when I realise the piano isn't real and the clientele look like twats, I move on. That's the trouble with this place. The bars are like those that have cropped up in Manchester. Ball-less, soul-less, all glass coffee tables, animal print sofas and bottled beers. Jukeboxes play- ing Joss Stone and cocktails with 'ironic' names. Wine bars for the noughties.

Fifteen minutes of walking, and I finally find a pub. Inside, the place is decorated with black-and-white pictures of famous Geordies. I only recognise some of them, and that's mostly because they look like stills from Get Carter and The Likely Lads. At the bar, they've got a few lagers on tap, which is a good start. I order a Stella and it comes without fuss. The price isn't too bad, either. I settle at a table and watch the pub. A guy in a suit is eating a burger and managing to get most of it on his tie. When he catches me staring, I turn away and light up. There's nothing like flicking ash into a pristine ashtray.

My stomach growls, but I'm not about to chance pub grub. I don't think I've got the constitution for it.

But I'm calmer now. This place isn't exactly heaven, but it's better than Manchester. For the moment, at least.

'Anyone sitting here?'

I look up. She's a brunette, looks a little rough around the edges. Like that drunk bird from Will and Grace. And from the way she's handling the chair, it looks like she's already had a few today. She's smiling and that's about all I can see. That, and a stunner with a good few years on me.

Course, it could be the drink talking.

'Nah, y'alright,' I say. Thinking she'll just pull the chair away somewhere else.

She sits down and places her drink on the table. 'You okay?'

'Yeah, fine,' I say. 'Couldn't be better.'

'Funny that.'

'Yeah?'

'Because you look like someone pissed on your chips.' A mouth on this one. I smile, say, 'I don't have any chips to ruin.'

'Aw,' she says. 'Tell you what, I'll buy you a drink.'

'Why?'

'You don't look like the kind of guy who'd ask that.' Known me five seconds and she's already got me pegged. 'I'm getting drunk,' she announces after she comes back with the drinks, a couple of chasers lined up. 'Looks like you already are.’

‘Are what?’

‘Drunk.’

‘Are you?’

‘Not me. You.'

'You got drunk fast,' she says.

I'm not. Why're you getting drunk?'

'Because I hate my job.' She crosses her legs and pulls her skirt over her knees.

'Everyone hates their job. That's why it's called a job.'

'Oh, you're funny,' she says, deadpan. She drinks, then: 'I've decided. I'm going to take a half-day.'

'It's already three.'

'A quarter-day. Whatever. I didn't go back after lunch. You up for getting sloshed?'

'You don't know me,' I say. I could be anyone.’

‘Yeah, you could be a murderer. What's your sign?’

‘Leo.'

She breaks into a beaming smile, shows fantastic teeth. 'You actually know your sign. Jesus, I was joking. What's your name?'

'Cal.'

'Like the Helen Mirren movie.’

‘Can't say I saw it.'

'You didn't miss much. Love story set in Ireland. She's the widow of a murdered Proddy copper, he's skirting about with the IRA. I'm Donna.'

'Pleased to meet you. So what's so bad about your job?'

She sighs dramatically. 'I'm a PA for a director of a PR company. It's all initials to make a job sound more impor- tant. What do you do?'

'I'm a PL'

Donna laughs. 'So we're in the same boat. What does PI stand for, anyway?’

‘Private investigator.'

'That kind of PI? Fuckin' hell, I thought you meant personal injury. I was about to say, you don't look like a lawyer, like. Wow.' She seems genuinely impressed. But then, she's slurring. 'So you're like a two-fisted kinda guy, right?

You do the cheating spouses, fraud claims? You solve the murders?'

'The first two sometimes. The police solve murders.'

'Sometimes. I heard there was this gadgie, they slit his throat and dumped him on the beach at Tynemouth. They never solved that one. But a PI, wow. How'd you get into that racket? That's the right lingo, isn't it? Racket?'

'I sort of fell into it. Did favours for a few people, they paid me for it. I discovered I had a knack for it. Not something I can explain. And yeah, your lingo's spot on.'