Saturday's Child

'Cool. You don't look like a private dick.'

'What am I supposed to look like?'

She thinks, then opens her hands and says, 'Mickey Spillane.'

'You know what Mickey Spillane looks like?’

‘Alright, Humphrey Bogart.’

‘Well, I'm sorry to disappoint you.’

‘I didn't say I was disappointed. So what you working on, Shamus?'

I shake my head. Too much for polite conversation, no matter how much the drink seems to be flowing. 'Nothing,' I say.

'Unemployed, eh? Looks like I'll be getting the drinks in, then.'

'You don't have to do that,' I say.

'I'm a modern woman, Cal. I can do whatever the fuck I want.'

And as we tan those chasers, I don't doubt it.

TWENTY-TWO

Came out Accident & Emergency with a splint on me finger. Doctor said it weren't broke, like, but what did that cunt know? It felt broke. And I were boiling over with things I'd do to Paulo given half the chance. The look on me face were enough to get the doctor rushing me through. And the bastard didn't prescribe any painkillers, either. Fucker.

Baz were outside in his Nova. He didn't want to come in; the lad had issues with hospitals. Said his mam died in one. When I got in the car, he said, 'Y'alright?'

I held up me splint. 'Do I look alright?'

Baz nodded to himself, started the engine. 'Where you want to go?'

'Pub,' I said. 'We got business to discuss.'

'What business?' said Baz.

'Alison.'

Baz sighed. 'Why you always got to go on about that, man? Christ, look at you: your finger's broke.’

‘It's sprained.'

'You got X-rays. It's broke.'

'It's sprained. And I'm gonna fuckin' kill that Paulo.'

'Leave it, Mo. He's not worth it.'

'What do you know who's worth it? I'll do the cunt.'

I knew I were a daft bastard for going round the club, but what else could I do? Summat had to be done. Summat had to be said. I had to tell me dad that I weren't fuckin' happy with

this situation, not one fuckin' bit. And going round the club were the best way of doing it. You tell us not to interfere, Dad, here's what I think of that. Fuck yourself.

Course, the whizz helped matters, gave us that extra touch of rock'n'roll. Trouble was it got snapped out of us when Paulo did his fuckin' finger trick.

I stared out the window. Fuck it. Reached in me trackie bottoms and pulled out me mobile. Realised I couldn't dial worth shit so I chucked it at Baz. He nearly lost control of the car.

'What's this?' he said.

'Call Rossie. We got to get a plan B.'

'You call him.'

I held up me finger. 'You been in a fuckin' coma, Baz? How'm I supposed to press buttons with this?'

'Aye, alright,' he said. 'Jesus.' He searched for Rossie's number on me mobile, one eye on the road.

And I started working on that Plan B.

TWENTY-THREE

At seven, Donna gets the bright idea to call a cab and pick up a bottle on the way back to her place. I try to put up a gentlemanly fight, but the booze has taken hold. She wants company, and if I get to thinking about it, so do I. So we keep each other upright and take the taxi. It's already dark by the time we get through the front door. The place smells like lavender. I feel my eyelids getting heavy.

I trip over a cat in her living room, end up on the couch. I think it's a cat, anyway. Could be a child or a midget. Whatever it is, it barrels out into the hall with a screech. Donna starts laughing. It's a great sound, and infectious. 'Stella doesn't like you,' she says.

'Stella?'

'The cat.'

So it was a cat. 'Why'd you call your cat Stella?'

She comes into the living room, screws up her face and puts on a bloke's voice. 'Stelllllllllla… Hey, Stellllllllllaaaaaa…'

'Rocky?'

'Streetcar Named Desire, you prole,' she says and returns to the kitchen. 'Or Seinfeld, whatever you prefer.’

‘I think I'm pissed,' I say.

There's a clatter from the kitchen. 'Yeah, well, Mr Innes. I believe I'm in a similar state.' The sound of ice in glasses, and she emerges with a bottle of Glenfiddich and two tumblers.

She sets one of them on the coffee table in front of me and sways as she makes her way over to a chair. I gaze at the glass, watching her splash the single malt.

'The good stuff,' I say.

'I save the crap for special occasions.'

'You know how to make a guy feel wanted.'

'Chin chin,' she says, and sips from her glass.

'Cheers.'

We drink in silence. I look around her flat. Lots of books. Lots of CDs. Church candles skewered in wrought iron candlesticks. The place looks like an Ikea showroom. When I look at her, I notice she's staring at me. 'What?' I say.

'You look lonely,' she says.

I always look lonely,' I say. 'The wind changed.'

'And you stayed like that.'

'Exactly'

'I think I jacked in my job today,' she says. 'Really?'

I should have gone back to work after lunch. If I'd had any sense, I would have gone back to work.’

‘Tell them you were sick.'

'I've been sick a lot recently' She picks out an ice cube and sucks on it, then drops it back in her glass. I hate my job.’

‘Get another one.'

I might have to. You need a secretary?' I can't pay you.'

'Cheap bastard.' She smiles. She has really great teeth. American teeth. She stretches in the chair and then shifts position, throwing her legs up over the arm and tugs at the hem of her skirt. I try not to look. 'I don't think I could be a secretary, anyway,' she says. 'Too close to being a PA. Besides, my shorthand stinks.'

'So what do you want to do with your life?' I say.

'I don't know. I suppose I could be a lady of leisure.’

‘That's not a career.'

'It's a vocation.' She knocks back the rest of her Glenfiddich and pours another. 'See?’

‘Yeah, I see. Very leisurely.'

Donna pulls herself up in the chair, narrows her eyes at me. 'You don't like me, do you?’

‘Don't know what you mean.’

‘I mean, you haven't tried anything.’

‘You what?'

She gets up with some effort, walks over to me and sits on the couch. 'I mean, you haven't tried chatting me up.'

'You want me to chat you up?'

'Ach, you're right. We're probably past that stage now.’

‘I think you're probably right,' I say, shifting in my seat. 'I should go back to my hotel, really.’

‘Hotel? You're staying in a hotel?’

‘Yeah.'

'You're not from Newcastle. I knew that, but I thought you lived up here. Why're you staying in a hotel?’

‘I'm up here on business,' I say. 'So you are working. You owe me drinks, pal.’

‘Kind of. It's too complicated to explain.’

‘I've got all night.'

We sit in silence. She pours me another drink. It glugs into the glass, a heavy measure. Too heavy for me, but I give it my best shot. After a few drinks, I'm sitting back in the couch and we're both listening to John Lee Hooker.

My eyes start closing. Then I say, 'I can't stay, y'know. Things to do tomorrow.'

'You don't have to,' she says. She's leaning against me, has her hand on the inside of my thigh. It hasn't moved for three songs and I haven't had the heart to remove it. In a way, it's comforting. In another, it ties my stomach into a half-hitch.

I should call a cab,' I say as the song finishes.

'Be my guest,' she says.

*

Donna follows me downstairs when the taxi arrives. I turn to talk to her, and she snakes her arms around my waist. The alcohol on her breath makes me lazy.

'You've got my number,' she says. 'You call me, okay?'