I move away from the painting, scan a couple of country- side landscapes that don't do anything for me. Usual sheep and lakes. An England that never existed except in the imaginations of those rich enough to buy this shite.
A guy in a black leather jacket shows the same distaste. I don't blame him. Then I head upstairs for the portraits.
The door to the exhibition has a blackout curtain over the
glass panes. Looks like it's closed, but I try the handle anyway. When I step inside, it's dark apart from a circle of upturned televisions in the centre of the floor. And this white noise of voices, sounds like screaming, and they're all out of sync. Movement catches my eye, and there's a young guy bent almost double, walking around the circle. For some reason, I can't breathe.
I stare at the young guy, wary of him. It sounds like a killing floor in here and the way he moves — slow, deliberate steps backwards, thrown into relief by the flickering tellies — he looks like something out of Twin Peaks. Jerky, but purposeful. I can't quite make out his face, not sure if he has one.
He looks straight at me and I nearly shit myself.
Not as much as he does, though. He twitches with fright, then straightens up, makes for the door.
Christ. The guy was just like me. And we scared the hell out of each other. I stay in the room for a while longer, crane to see what's showing on the televisions. A choir, different shots, looks like old footage from the Proms.
No wonder he got a fright. This is some creepy stuff.
The door squeals open again, and the guy in the black leather jacket steps into the room. He doesn't flinch, doesn't look at the televisions.
He just watches me.
I watch him right back.
I stay where I am. Don't want to confront the bloke. In the light, he looks bigger than he should be, flickering large like a nightmare. Besides, I've got a bad track record when it comes to dealing with people who might be following me. But he doesn't look like a scally. This bloke looks like a professional.
We stand there. The voices mesh into one strangled shriek. He doesn't even glance at the televisions.
Something catches the light in his right hand. Then it flips out of sight.
I make my way towards the door, my ears ringing. This got bad really fast. And I know for a fact that this guy is a tail. Who he's working for, what he wants, I'm not about to stick around to find out. I push open the door and the hinges screech. A plaque on the wall tells me that those tellies were Mark Wallinger's idea of hell.
Close, but no cigar, Mark.
I head for the stairs as the door squeaks open again. Taking them two at a time, I'm down in the gift shop before I get a chance to catch my breath. I pretend to look through some postcards, but keep an eye on the staircase. If the guy's following me, he'll be down in a minute or two.
He appears just as I head into the landscape section again. I keep my head down, but I can hear his footsteps against the floor. He's wearing boots.
I return to the gift shop, and he comes with me. He looks like he might be a copper. If that's the case, then Donkey's determined to bring me in. And if Donkey's determined to bring me in, then things in Manchester have taken a turn for the worse.
A crowd has developed outside a club down the street. I head straight for it. The reek of bad aftershave and flowery perfume battles with the smell of beer and bad Italian meals for air space. I keep my head down, light a cigarette. A Bruce Banner lookalike bears down on me, crisp Fred Perry shirt on his back. I swerve out of the way before I accidentally get a Regal in the eye.
I take a quick look over my shoulder, and the black leather jacket is nowhere to be seen. I take a moment to breathe.
Friday nights, the same everywhere. Hordes of chequered shirts and women with love handles and bad halter tops. I can hear the chorus of a group of Welsh lads pissed off their faces. The women are all white, shivering legs and high-pitched curses. I can't make out what they're saying, but it's probably bad.
This is hell, Wallinger. Look around you.
Up the spiral steps, across the bridges that criss-cross the motorway, cars roaring by on the edge of the city. It's a clear night. I stop by the barrier and watch the traffic for a moment. After a while, the headlights stream into long red lines. I find enough phlegm to gob a fat one onto the motorway from the bridge. It doesn't have the same sense of satisfaction it did when I was ten. I try it again, but it's a poor effort. I have to wipe the spittle from my chin.
Me and Declan used to do it when we were kids. Spent hours gobbing at cars, people, whatever passed under our bridge. It didn't make much difference. Now the kids lob concrete blocks from these places, kill guys my age. Times change.
I lean against the barrier and ditch my cigarette. I should get back to the hotel, but I don't want to. The heaviness in my legs might spread to the rest of me. And I need to stay awake, just in case. Knowing my luck, I'd stretch out for a second and wake up nine hours later with nothing to show for it.
My mobile rings. I answer it.
'Mr Innes, it's George.'
'George,' I say.
'I work at the casino. You gave me your card. I think Rob Stokes is here.'
'You're sure,' I say. But I know he's sure. He knows who Rob Stokes is. I knew that when I talked to him.
'As sure as I can be. He matches your description.'
'Uh-huh. He just walk in?'
'He's been in a while. I had to wait until I got my break.'
'Right, I'll be there in a bit. Try to keep an eye on him for me. Let me know if he leaves, okay?'
I disconnect, start back towards town. My legs ache and my bad tooth starts to throb. So Rob Stokes is at the casino, that's great. But something doesn't add up. Things are happening too quickly for me to get my head round them. I've been in town two days and found the bugger, so why couldn't Morris?
Because he never got this far. Gave up at the first hurdle, maybe.
I shouldn't think about it. Just go with the flow, see where the current takes me. If George says Stokes is there, he's probably there. If it's a mistake, then we're back to square one.
I check my wallet. If it's the right guy, I should pay George. Yeah, I've got enough. A couple of hundred should do it. And then all I need to do is keep an eye on Stokes and follow him home.
Then I call Mo and I'm out of here.
And then what happens to Stokes? I can't afford to care. At least if I'm out of Newcastle, I won't have to hear about it. Not unless Mo feels like bragging. But then, I'll be off the hook with Tiernan. There'll be no reason to see any of that lot again.
Keep telling yourself that, Cal.
I take the long way round, skirt the drunks and avoid eye contact. Outside a fun pub two lads in Hilfiger shirts shower each other with spit when they talk. One of them wears more jewellery than my mam. It throws light off his arms when he flaps his hands.
I press on. Hit Central Station, and the line for black cabs is already growing. People have started to walk up to the casino now, either beered-up and looking to blow the rest of their money, or out to impress whoever they have on their arm. I fall back from the herd, take my time. There's no need to rush. From what I know about Rob Stokes, he'll be there all night. It's not like he doesn't have enough money to lose.
'So I says to him, get the fuck out my way, like. Then I stots him right in the fuckin' face…'
This from a couple of bruisers in suits walking behind me.
'And he's like all bleeding an' that, fuckin' bubbling like a bairn. So I gives him a kick in the knackers for good measure.'