Saturday's Child

Wimp. Pussy. Do it.

I can't fucking do it.

This is why you're constantly being fucked over, Cal. It comes to the crunch and you shit it, pal. The bat trembles in my hands. I can't control it. COWARD. No.

'Fuck's sake.' The words come out in a rush. I lower the bat, massage the blood back into my hands. My leg hurts. My arms ache. My spine pinches at me. My heart is beating too fast, and I've broken out in a cold sweat. 'Fuck's sake.'

George's back heaves in the dim light. It's the only move- ment he makes.

I have to lean against the car. I put the bat by my leg and light up.

I'd go for the vodka, but I can't move.

Sitting on the tarmac, the arse of my jeans getting soaked right through to the skin, and I'd feel sorry for myself if it wasn't for George whimpering in the dark. Kind of puts my wet buttocks into perspective.

'If Alison set it up, then why did she agree to come back with me?' I say.

A loud, long breath escapes from George. I look up, and make him out lying on his back. A stiff breeze blows the smell of urine my way. 'She told us you'd be there. She wanted you taken care of,' he says.

'She does that, and someone else'll just come after her.'

'You think they're after her?'

I wipe the nose with the back of my hand. 'They're after Stokes. Fuck it, nah, I don't know who they're after anymore.’

‘You had to find Rob,' he says. 'Yeah.'

'She set him up.'

'She had no reason to set him up,' I say. 'She doesn't give a shit.’

‘Rob would beat her to death.' I need to go to the hospital.'

'Rob would hit her, mate. She's scared of him. I've seen her. She's taken a beating.'

'Mr Innes, Cal, I need to go to a hospital.'

I look up at George, find him staring at me. Pleading. I get

to my feet, grab the cricket bat and throw it onto the back seat. 'I can't do that, George.'

'C'mon, it's the least you can do — you broke my fuckin' legs.'

'And you don't know how close I came to killing you, you ungrateful bastard. I wish I'd broken your mouth.’

‘You've got to take me to the hospital.’

‘I'm not taking you anywhere.’

‘I told you everything.’

‘You didn't tell me where he is.’

‘I told you everything.’

‘You think he's gone back to his flat?’

‘I don't know.'

'What'd he say to you after you left me the other night?'

George's head twists like he's been through this and through this and he still can't get a handle on it. 'He said that it was over. He said that there'd be no more trouble from you, and Alison would be happy with that.'

'So he went back to his flat,' I say.

'I told you, I dunno.'

I move towards George and he flinches, tries to pull himself away. I grip his shirt collar and pull hard, drag him screaming to the back seat of the car. I throw the seat back and get behind the wheel, adjusting the rear view so I can get a better look at him. 'Tell you what, George — as soon as I find Stokes, I'll drop you off at A & E.'

He summons up a mouthful of spit and aims it at me. When it connects with my face, I feel fire in my cheeks. I lean over the seat and slap him open-handed. George recoils, his face growing red.

'Don't play gangster with me, son. Else I will finish you off.'

Driving back to Benton is a chore. My arms feel like lead weights, my vision blurred. Sick of the same streets, the same battered faces on the corner. I take a swig of the vodka to keep my blood going and have to tell George to shut up. He's moaning in the back seat that he's not comfortable. I tell him he's just going to have to make do. Life stinks, so hold your nose. At least I've had the decency to promise him a hospital. More than he ever did for me.

George says, 'Why me, man?'

'Why you what?'

'Why'd you come for me?' He stops himself. 'I know, for last night — '

'That's a good enough reason.'

'But it's not the only one, right? You're not just out to do me over.'

'You were the only one I knew I could find in a hurry.'

'Huh,' he says. 'You didn't have to bring the bat with you.'

I look at George in the rear view. 'What the hell else was I supposed to do? You deserved it.'

He falls silent. Tries to move, but falls back against the seat. Now he's propped up against the windows, staring up at the roof of the car. Mud on his face, blood hardening his top lip. He mops at his mouth with the back of his hand, then looks to see if he's still bleeding. Every now and then, he'll glance at something on the floor of the car.

I watch him. I know what he's thinking. If he could only get to the bat, he'd let loose with it on the back of my head. I catch his eye. I wouldn't bother, George. Think about it this way: you use that bat on me, I'll probably black out, right? I black out, I lose control of the car.' I press my foot on the accelerator; the engine roars, momentum pushing me back in my seat. 'I lose control of the car, we're just a twisted heap of metal and bone.'

'I wasn't — '

'Course you were. If I was in your position, I'd be thinking the same thing. Now picture this: I crash the car and, through some miracle, you haven't gone through the windscreen. Maybe you're so limp back there that you come out of it unmarked. We're in the middle of nowhere. How fast d'you think you can run on two broken legs?'

'Mr Innes — '

'Nah, hold up, let me speak. And don't go offering excuses, because you've got priors for making daft mistakes. So listen to me. You even look at that bat again, and I'll fishtail this car all over the sodding road, make things proper uncomfortable for you back there.'

George sighs. It sounds painful. He keeps his eyes on the passing scenery.

'We're going back to Rob's and you're going to sit quiet until I see him. Then when the cavalry's arrived, I'll take you to the fuckin' hospital, alright?'

'I don't even know if he's still there,' says George.

'Why wouldn't he be?'

George shakes his head, sucks his teeth. His eyes are shining. The guy's crying again.

'Look, I'm sorry to do this to you, but you brought it on yourself. You're a bloody idiot.'

'Don't I fuckin' know it,' he says.

I reach across and pull open the glove compartment. My head's throbbing, but I toss the Nurofen into the back seat. 'Here,' I say. 'Get them down you. Should dull the pain for a bit.'

He opens the pack. 'There's only two left.'

'I had a toothache.' I drain the vodka bottle and sling it into the open glove compartment, slam it closed. In the back, George dry-swallows the two pills as I pull the car into Manor Road.

The prescription pills rattle in my pocket, and part of me thinks about tossing a few his way. But then, they're mine. I could have given him something to wash the Nurofen down, but there's no way I'd let him get between me and my booze. I might be feeling slightly sorry for him, but there are limits.

I've already tested a few of my own tonight.

FORTY-NINE

Early morning silence gives you space to think, even if you don't want to. The vodka's slipping away fast, and I have the radio on. John Lee Hooker with a slow, mournful tune that I can't name or make out the lyrics to, reminding me of Donna. I switch the radio station. Another dishrag morning, another half-hearted shower of rain against the windscreen.

Reminds me of the last time I saw Kumar. We were out in the prison allotment, turning over manure which stank worse with the rain and the damp. I was keeping my head down and getting on with it, but Kumar had issues with it all. He should have known better than to act up. The screw watching us looked just like Gary Busey. That should have been a sign.