Saturday's Child

*

I wake up at noon, pull myself from the bed and stumble into the bathroom. Brush my teeth. The brush catches my bad tooth and I grunt, chuck the toothbrush into the sink as blood mingles with minty freshness. Look up at myself in the mirror and realise that a good night's sleep has still left me looking like death.

I grab my mobile and call Paulo. Something about that tail yesterday put me on edge. When he picks up, I ask him if Donkey's been round the club.

'Yeah, he's been round, Cal. Every fuckin' morning he's been round. The bloke's got a doctorate in mithering.'

'What'd you tell him?'

'What d'you think I told him? I told him you were out of town.'

'How'd he take it?'

'He told me to let him know the second I got off the phone to you. Said you were in deep shit. What'd you do?'

'Hey, what makes you think I did something?'

'Because you're asking more questions than you're answer- ing. What'd you do?'

'I didn't do anything. Donkey's got a fuckin' stiffy for me because I'm an ex-con. I told you about that.'

'He's leaning on me, Cal.'

'So lean back. You're a big boy.'

There's a silence on the other end. Then Paulo clears his throat. 'Who the fuck do you think you're talking to?'

'I'm sorry, mate. I just… I've got enough on my plate at the moment. I need your help on this, Paulo. Just fob him off or something, okay? I'll be back in a couple of days.'

'I got my club to think about. I'm not doing you any more fuckin' favours, Cal. Mo's one thing, but the police? That's a whole other story.'

'He thinks I did over this bloke, alright? He hasn't got a stitch of evidence, but he's after my blood.'

'You leaving town's not helped matters.'

'I know that. Look, tell you what. He left you a number, right? Give me the number and I'll call him myself.'

As Paulo grumbles to himself, it sounds like he's shifting furniture. I need to talk to Donkey, just to get the bastard off my back. I've got a throbbing pain in the back of my neck.

The guy in the black leather jacket, he must have been a copper. Donkey's watching me, just like he said he would. And this is the worst possible time for it. But me losing him in the crowd has tweaked Donkey where it hurts, so he's making things tough for Paulo. Typical Donkey.

'Got it,' says Paulo. And he gives me the number. 'Cheers, mate. I'm sorry. I'll sort this out.’

‘Be sure you do.'

I hang up. As I'm pressing in Donkey's number, there's a light knock at my door. My arse clenches. He couldn't have found me already. Part of me wants to bolt for the window, but that's a stupid move. I'm not dressed enough for a getaway, and if it's the police, I wouldn't get far after hitting the concrete. They'd be on me like flies on shit and I'd be in even more trouble than I already am. So I cancel the call, stuff my mobile into my jacket and open the door.

The braided blonde from reception stares at me. She looks like she just swallowed a pint glass of brine. I look up the corridor to make sure she's alone.

'Mr Innes?' she says.

'Yeah.'

'Do you own a white Micra?'

Takes me a moment to get my head straight. 'Uh, yeah, I do.'

'I'm really sorry,' she says. I mean, were really sorry.'

'Fuck. Give me a second to get dressed.'

And before I leave the room, I make sure I dry-swallow a couple of Nurofen to kill the toothache. Grabbing my jacket, I notice that the bin's empty. It could be house-keeping, but something tells me they're not the ones who have taken out the rubbish.

I can't think about it now. The receptionist has bad news for me.

They're sorry. That about sums it up. Out here in the carpark, it's starting to rain. I feel the weight of the car keys in the palm of my hand, stare at my car. The metal part of the key is cold against my skin.

'We're all really sorry,' says the receptionist. She's been saying that on and off for the past ten minutes. I'm getting a little sick of being apologised to.

'Not a problem,' I say.

My warhorse Micra. The windscreen's still in one piece, as are the wing mirrors. The bodywork is fine apart from that prang.

But someone's taken a spray to the paintwork and a blade to the front two tyres. Across the side of the car in stark red letters it reads: 'RIP'.

'I think it might be a tag,' says the receptionist. 'Some of the kids round here have them.'

I think it's Rest In Peace, but thanks anyway.'

I didn't want to say that,' she says. 'It doesn't bear thinking about.'

'Easy for you to say. It's not your car.’

‘I'm sorry?'

'Yeah, I know.' I crouch down by the side of the car. The front two tyres, they're shredded. Someone took their time over this.

'I mean, we have CCTV,' she says. 'We'll be forwarding the tapes to the police.'

'Don't bother,' I say. 'It's not worth it. Only a couple of tyres.'

Put the rubber together, you'd have a Westwood dress. Carved up.

'I hope this won't reflect badly on us.'

'It doesn't reflect badly on you, love. It reflects badly on this shithole area.'

Back in reception, I leaf through the Yellow Pages, find a garage in Benton and give them a ring. It'll cost me, they say. If I want them today, that is. And am I sure I want them to pick the car up from the middle of town? That'll cost too. I mean, they really want to be sure. The mechanic's voice has a twist of amusement about it, like he can't believe the kind of fish he's got on the line.

I'm sure. But there's one thing: I want a lift to Benton.

'Oh aye, that's not a problem, mate.'

'It better not be, the amount you'll skin me out of.'

Just because the Micra's out of action, doesn't make me a cripple. I still have work to do, still have questions that need to be answered. And I don't have much time.

Somehow that pissed-off dealer found out where I was staying, found out which car was mine and decided to take a knife to the wheels. If he'd left well enough alone, I wouldn't have been that arsed to wrap this up. But you mess with a man's motor, you get his attention. From what I've seen of Newcastle, it's populated with the same kind of narrow-minded scallies we have in Manchester. But at least when it rains back home, it really rains.

I turn to the receptionist. 'I'll be checking out today.'

She nods to herself. It's like she snapped out of sympathy, become this sterile jobsworth. I don't care, though. If they know where I'm staying, then it's just a matter of time before they get in my room, if they haven't already. And I don't want to be at the mercy of anyone.

It was the wind, Cal. Don't think so much.

I open my wallet, take out Donna's number, think about a pint. It's still too early, and I've got too much to do. Christ, I wish I'd met her somewhere else down the line. Somewhere I wasn't acting like a complete prat, playing detective. I crum- ple up her number, stick it in my back pocket and make a mental note not to take it out the next time I wash these jeans.

In my room, I pack the holdall and make sure I've got everything I came in with. Back out on reception the braided blonde hands me the bill and I pay it, no questions asked. Then I'm out on the street, waiting on the tow truck. I light up and think I couldn't be fucking this up more.

I'm not a private investigator. That's a fact. I'm a guy who tells people he's a PI, and that's as far as it goes. The job's not something I ever really wanted to do, but I admit that urban white-knight shit appealed after a while. I started off running errands for Paulo. Not much, really. If a kid didn't turn up to the club, he'd send me out after him, bring him back in. Sometimes they'd kick up a fuss, but most of the time they didn't reckon on Paulo sending someone after them. Those kids, they were used to pansy social workers, men and women getting paid too little to care too much. As long as they weren't robbing cars or shoplifting, the social couldn't care less. And why should they? Those poor bastards had enough on their books. What the kids didn't realise, though, was that the club was a labour of love for Paulo. He lost one kid, he lost a bit of himself.