Saturday's Child

'I'm not daft, Mr Innes.'

'Good lad,' I say. 'Make sure you stay that way.'

And I leave. Glad I got something out of him, even though I'm not sure what it is. A feeling, but sometimes that's all it takes. Most of all, though, I'm glad I could leave that pint unfinished. No self-respecting alkie would let that happen.

Which makes me one step on the road to normal.

So I had to go with them. No skin off my cock. They wouldn't go up without us, the born fuckin' leader that I were. So I said alright, what the fuck. I could keep Dad off me back for as long as it took. And I knew I wouldn't be able to keep meself from going mental if I'd stayed down here. Call me a control freak.

Standing outside this garage in Moss Side, and Baz were with us. Rossie were inside talking to this lad with a swallow tattoo on his neck. He looked like a proper hard cunt, like. I wished I had him with us instead of Baz, who were griping again.

'Why we got to be here, man? What's the matter with my car?'

'Your car's a fuckin' shitheap, Baz. Couldn't make it to Chester in your car. Besides, it's too suspicious. It looks like a gangster's vehicle.'

Baz looked a bit happier at that. Like he were the real deal. Like fuck he were.

Rossie came out the garage. 'Jimmy says he's got a Bedford we can use.'

'How much?' I said.

'Nowt. Just a favour for a mate.'

'You're kidding.'

'Nah, I help him out sometimes.'

We went through into the garage. Jimmy were waiting for us, didn't look like he wanted owt to do with us. Clocked me once and reckoned me a soft cunt. I wanted to prove him

different. As we went to the back of the place, I heard all these dogs barking somewhere. 'Fuck's that?' I said.

'Them's Jimmy's dogs,' said Rossie.

'Animal lover.'

'Nah,' said Jimmy. He had a growl of a voice, sounded like them dogs. You know what they say about pets and their owners, like. He had a rollie in the corner of his mouth that didn't smoke, but it moved when he talked. 'Them's me fighting dogs. I fight 'em.'

'Fuckin' hell, Jimmy. That's not much of a match, is it?'

'They fight each other, Mo,' said Rossie.

'Your mate simple?'

I ain't simple, Jimmy-son. Where's this fuckin' wreck you want us to drive?'

I don't know if I like his tone,' Jimmy said to Rossie.

Rossie looked at us to shut up. At the back of the garage, there were this dirty-looking heap. Jimmy kicked one of the tyres. 'This is it. How long you need it?'

'Couple days,' said Rossie.

I kept me mouth shut. Didn't like the way Rossie were handling all this, like. I were the one in charge. I looked at Baz, but he were already looking around for a way out, the bottling bastard. Went up to the Bedford and pulled open the back door. In the back of the van, there were a mattress that stank of dog and a cage between that and the cab.

'I keep me bitches in there,' said Jimmy.

'Good,' I said. 'Cause that's what we're gonna be using it for an' all'

'I want it back in good nick.'

We all looked at him then. Like we could trash this fuckin' heap any more than it already was. Rossie said, 'Yeah, no problem, Jimmy.'

And as we was driving away, the engine coughing, I said to Rossie, 'And the cunt called me simple.'

TWENTY-SEVEN

The receptionist at the Grey Street casino has black make-up clogged in the corner of her eye. She looks at me with resigned recognition and it's strangely comforting. A uniform that's been washed too much, a spare tyre around her waist and the gnarly hands of the serial drinker.

If I was a gambler, I'd be in here all the time. It's all faded glamour. Like the receptionist, the furnishings used to be lush, but now they're a little threadbare. A group of Chinese guys are crowded round a blackjack table. Every so often one of them yells. Then there's laughter, the kind that follows excitement. All over a steady rhythm of Mah Jong tiles being shuffled by some Chinese ladies in the far corner. It's difficult to see through the cigarette smoke. I add to it with another Embassy. My lungs are starting to scratch, but the nicotine helps keep that down.

I can hear 'Spanish Eyes' being sung by a guy with a whisky-soaked voice.

The bar's at the back of the room, so I start walking. With the music, I feel like I should be carrying a six-shooter. I hope nobody notices that I'm walking to a rhythm.

There's a girl behind the bar, cleaning something out of sight. She doesn't look up as I come over. I lean against the bar and try to look nonchalant. She carries on cleaning. I don't see her face, just the expanse of her arse and a visible panty line. But I try not to stare too hard at that. When she

straightens up, she starts. Colour rises in her puppy-fat cheeks. I can't place her age. She could be anywhere from sixteen to thirty. According to her name tag, she's called Pauline.

'Y'alright?' I say.

'Aye,' she says. 'Sorry, you gave me a fright.'

I smile my charming smile. It doesn't sit right, obviously, because she looks a little intimidated. I tone it down. 'Sorry. You open?'

'What you after?'

'Bottle of Becks.'

She smiles. There's no need for it, and her smile is like a bonny baby in a morgue. It makes me wonder why she works here. She fetches my beer and sets it on the bar. I pay, take a long swallow. 'It's dead in here,' I say.

'Always is this time of day.'

Another yell from the Chinese guys. Yeah, it's dead. Nice one, Innes.

'I just joined. Thought it might be a laugh.’

‘Don't get too attached to the place,' she says. 'They knocking it down or something?’

‘Nah. Just don't get too attached to the place.’

‘Right. I get you.' I take a swig. 'You just work in the afternoons?'

She blushes again. Probably thinks I'm flirting. And maybe I am. The beer's got me lazy. 'Why d'you ask?'

'I'm looking for a guy. I heard he might come in here.’

‘What's his name?’

‘You know names?’

‘I know some names.'

'Rob Stokes. He'll be a new punter. Probably started coming in a week or so ago. Mane accent.'

Pauline pours herself a Coke from the draught. Sips it, thinking. Then: 'What's he look like?'

I give her the description I was given. 'Apparently, he's got a temper on him.'

'They've all got tempers on them if they lose.'

'Fair enough.'

'What'd he do?' she says.

'He owes a friend of mine money.'

Her eyes sparkle. 'You're going to break his legs, is that it?'

I smile. 'Nothing like that. Do I look like a legbreaker?'

'You don't look like much of anything,' she says.

'Cheers.'

'I didn't mean it like that. I just meant you don't look like a legbreaker. I should think before I say stuff.' She drinks her Coke and leans against the bar. 'My boyfriend says that.'

'Your boyfriend sounds like a wanker,' I say.

'He is.' She looks out at the pit and yawns. 'He's a lazy bastard, right enough. Supposed to be at home right now looking after the bairn, right? Bet you he's out drinking.'

'You want to call him?'

'And get disappointed? Nah. I'll wait till I get home.’

‘He doesn't work?'

'Does he fuck. He's on disability. Reckons he's depressed.’

‘Aren't we all?'

'Aye. That's why he's down the pub or smoking tack in the house. Depression. Fuck's sake, he wants to get himself a job.' Her voice hardens, and for a moment, she looks a lot older. 'What do you do, though? He's a free babysitter.'

'A babysitter who smokes tack in the house.'

'Better than nothing. Christ, look at me. You want another drink?'

I drain the bottle. 'Why not, eh?'