Saturday's Child

George babbles in the back seat. 'Listen man, I'm sorry, alright? I got carried away, it happens. I'm sorry. I didn't mean to — '

'Save it, George.'

'Nah, I mean it. C'mon, you can't think I was really gonna kill you, do you? I'm all talk, you ask anyone. I'm a fuckin' coward, man. I'm a fuckin' wreck. Look, you just let us out here, I'll be fine, right?' He tries to move his leg and chokes. 'I'm gonna be sick.'

'Go ahead.'

'What d'you want, man? I'm not Rob, am I? You want cash, I got some on us, but if you want serious cash then you'll have to drop us off at a bank — '

I look at him in the rear view. 'What d'you think I want?'

He looks blank. The pain's made him slow. He'll get it soon enough, though.

Even if I have to break his other leg.

FORTY-SEVEN

Another night, another motorway.

I pull in, flick on the hazard lights and get out of the car. Cold out here, my breath misting up in front of my face. The drive here gave me a bastard behind the eyes. I didn't take anything for it, either. Let the pain dull the senses, stop me from thinking about what I'm about to do. The headache subsides for a second once I get some fresh air into my lungs, then I pull open the driver's door and flip the seat forward. George is still in the same position. He's frightened out of his mind, his eyes shining in the dark.

Good.

'Get out the car, George,' I say quietly.

'Howeh, you're not thinking straight.'

I grab his bad leg and pull hard. George splutters a shout as he tries to fight me off, but I give a good hard yank and he comes spilling onto the road, landing on his back with a thump. I give him a dig in the ribs. George tries to double up, winded. I drag him like the sack of shite he is over the lay-by and send him rolling down into a ditch. Then I reach into the car, heft the Maxi to my shoulder and stare at him until he manages to turn himself over.

'Fuck's the matter with you?' he says. His voice is strained, hoarse. Too much screaming, his fear boiled into anger now. I know that feeling all too well. Let him get wrapped up in darkness until it clamps around his lungs like two damp fists. Let him suffer those sudden jabs of light from passing cars.

Give him a taste of his own fucking medicine.

'Where is he, George?'

George shakes his head. 'Where's who?'

'Stokes.'

'I dunno where Rob is, man. He fucked off. He's gone.’

‘I don't believe you.'

'I don't give a fuck. I'll have you locked up.'

Better give him something to grass up, then. I bring the sharp end of the Maxi down on his right shin, a swift hard stamp. He spasms on the ground, yelps like a scalded puppy. Bring the bat down again and twist the bastard against the bone. George tries to move his leg, but he hasn't got the strength. He keeps calling out for God. And I keep the pressure on.

'Where is he, George?'

'I fuckin' told you where he is.'

I twist the bat, feel bone stretch and crack under my weight. Then the bat's back up at my shoulder and over his yelling, I tell him, 'You told me nowt, mate.'

George curls up as best he can, snot all down his chin. He chokes on whatever he's trying to say because his whole body is racked with sobs. I toy with the idea of battering his teeth out, but then that would defeat the purpose. It's hard enough to understand what he's saying, thanks to a swollen top lip and a collapsed nose.

I grab the bottle of vodka from the car and take a swig until my lips feel dry and stinging. Then I screw the cap back onto the bottle and let the bat touch my leg. 'What's the matter with you, George? Stokes did fuck all for you, mate, except get you here.'

'He didn't tell me nowt' It comes out as a scream, the indignant wail of a kid. A flash from passing headlights shows his red eyes, his bleeding mouth, the colour rising high in his cheeks. Like someone held a scarlet filter up to his face.

'He's a mate, though,' I say. 'You two are close. He must've told you something. I can't believe he didn't give you an inkling at least.'

'Rob's not a mate,' says George. 'He ain't fuckin'…' He shakes his head, gobs thick spittle from his burst mouth. 'Rob's an idiot, man.'

'So he's not a mate, so there's no loyalty.'

'That's not it. Fuckin' hell. You know what he did?'

'He stole money,' I say.

'He saw the chance for a big score and he went for it. And, y'know, I told him not to do it. I told him not to fuck himself over for her. Can't trust her as far as you can shit her.'

'This would be Alison.'

'Who else would it be? Aye, Alison.'

'And what's her big secret, eh?'

'It's not a secret, man. She's a fuckin' little cooze. A proper bitch and snide with it'

'She call you a name behind your back?'

George blinks slowly, his eyes rolled to the whites. The lad'll pass out given half a chance. I slam the bat against the side of the Micra and the noise shakes him awake.

'Keep alert, George.'

'It was all her, man,' he says.

'It was Alison's idea.'

'Aye.'

'Not Rob.'

'Rob didn't have the balls to do it.'

'She robbed her own fuckin' father is what you're telling me,' I say. The vodka's kicked in, crackling the blood and throwing my brain around the inside of my skull. 'You're out of your mind.'

'And you're fuckin' blinkered, man.'

I stamp hard on his ankle. As I twist, something gives way underfoot. George throws himself forward, scrabbling at my leg. I knock his hand away with the bat. As I step off, he tries to roll out of the way, ends up face-down in a puddle. 'How about you tell me the truth, George? How about that? Else I take this bat to your fuckin' skull.'

He breathes muddy bubbles in the puddle water, his face screwed up. When he talks, he sprays. 'I'm telling you the truth. I swear to God I'm telling you the fuckin' truth.'

Bringing God into it again. I test the weight of the cricket bat in my hand, aim my swing at his other ankle. It connects with a sharp crack. George buries his scream in the mud and when he tries to speak, it comes out with a throbbing staccato underscore: 'Whuh-huh-the fuck…'

'I don't like you, George. I thought I made that patently fuckin' obvious, mate. I don't like you because you were all set to top me and leave me in a bloody ditch, and I don't like you because you're lying to me.'

George shakes his head, pulls his body up with all the weight firmly on his forehead. A vein in his neck looks fit to burst. It's like watching a tape of myself from the other night. When he gets to his knees, he spits a mixture of blood and mud at me. 'And I told you the fuckin' truth, you cunt. You wanna do me in, go for it, fuckin' do it.'

I raise the bat quickly, ready, to swing. Adjust my grip, make sure it's good and firm, take a second to wipe the sweat from my left palm. Draw a bead on the back of George's head — the fucker's cowering now — and narrow my eyes until he's a blur. Just the way it has to be. Holding up the Maxi, my fingers twitching against the rubber grip.

Go on. Do it. Swing the fucker. Knock some sense into him. Lying cunt, lying cunt, lying fuckin' bastard cunt.

Headlight flash behind me, grab George's shadow and throw it from left to right, headlights behind them punching

the shadow into three. Time lapse. I open my eyes, feel the bile scratch at the back of my throat.

I can't do this.