Saturday's Child

'Fuck's sake, man.' I toss the bat to one side. It clatters onto the tarmac.

Then he's on me, faster than my brain can work. My hands slapped behind my back, the cold bite of metal on wrist. I catch a whiff of cheap deodorant. It makes me jerk in his grip, shout, 'You want to find out what's going on, you go in that fuckin' house, you go in there right the fuck now, you bunch of daft fuckin' cunts.'

The copper's elbow knocks me in the side of the head, throws me off. And he did it on purpose.

I got him, Chris. Get the girl.'

'You're making a mistake, man.'

'We'll see.' His hand on my shoulder, one on my wrists, guiding me towards the car. 'You been drinking?'

I can't speak. My tongue feels thick in the back of my throat.

'I'm going to ask you to take a breathalyser. Do you understand what I'm saying?'

'I understand what you're fuckin' saying, but you've got no idea what's going on here.'

He presses my head down as I slip into the back of the police car. My wrists feel bloodless, every muscle in my back raging tense and painful. All the injuries from the last couple of days — every knock, crack, punch and kick — come rushing through my system like a bad trip. The breath rips out of me, and it tastes like smoke.

I gaze heavy-lidded at the dashboard of the police car.

Then I see Alison being interviewed by the two uniforms. She's shaking her head, looking at the ground. Her cheeks are streaked with tears and dirt. Mo emerges from the house in the middle of a stride. When he sees the two coppers, he looks my way and a smile makes his mouth jump for a second. Then he slips an arm around Alison's shoulders and looks concerned as the diplomatic uniform asks him questions. Some nodding and Alison looks up at Mo. I feel like throwing up; she's playing this to the hilt.

Rossie comes out of the house, quickly pocketing the butterfly knife when he sees the police. Then his face cracks open when he sees the van. The thing must be his pride and joy; it looks like someone punched him in the throat. I savour that face he's pulling. I got some revenge there, I think. Teach him to mess with my car.

The squat copper gets in the driver's side and watches me in the rear view.

'What you smiling at?'

'Nowt.'

'Cause you got nowt to smile about, man. You want to pray he doesn't press charges.'

The diplomatic copper approaches the car, gets in. 'Do- mestic'

'Christ, how old is she? You want to watch you don't get sent down for kiddie-fiddling,' the squat copper says to me. 'What about him?' I say. 'None of my business.'

'Well, if you were after ruining the guy's van, you got the wrong one,' says the diplomat.

The squat copper brays out a laugh. 'Not your day, is it?'

'Nah,' I say. I got the right van. I definitely got the right fuckin' van.'

It's about the only thing I've done right so far.

FIFTY-FIVE

'Here, officer, I want to thank you an' that. This were a bad lot, all this, 'specially this early in the morning. Lad must've had a few too many.'

There were me, like, showing plenty teeth and playing the good citizen. Hey, it were fun to be the good guy for once. And Christ knew, I'd been put out by that fucker Innes from the get-go. Time he got-gone.

'Don't mention it,' said this busy behind the desk. 'I take it you're not pressing charges?'

'Nah, I told the lads before. Let's face it, a bloke has too much to drink, he gets to feeling lonely and aching down- stairs, he wants his old lass back. But then, she ain't exactly old, know what I mean?'

'Well, we'd like to ask her a few questions, if that's alright.'

'Nah, don't worry about it.'

'There's the statutory rape charge — '

'Mate, she's sixteen, she's legal.'

'Yes, but we've got to follow up.'

'Here, listen, button it a sec and listen to us. I don't know what this lad Innes and her got up to when they was going out together, and it's really none of my business, you get me? But the point is she's safe now. We'll sort it out when we get back to Manchester.'

'You're going to Manchester?'

'It's where we live, innit, Sis?'

Alison nodded like a good girl.

'We'll need an address,' said the copper.

'Not a problem.' I gave him an address. It were a wank shack off Lime Street. Let 'em come looking. Like they didn't have enough crime up here, they'd come after me and Alison for nowt. 'Listen, we got to be going and everything. Thanks again, mate. Nice to see you're keeping Newcasde's streets clean an' that.'

The copper looked at us like I were being funny. And I weren't, not really. I were glad his lot were about. Else I probably would've murdered Innes with me bare hands, splint or no fuckin' splint.

Me and Alison left the station. Rossie were standing by the van, his face all screwed up. 'How'm I gonna explain this to Jimmy?' he said.

'Tell him the truth.'

'He'll kill us.'

'Then get it fixed.'

'With what, man? I was skint when I came up here. I didn't make no money in the meantime, did I?'

'Course you did,' I said. 'There's a bag of it in the van.'

Got Alison in the van, and with me and Baz and Rossie in there, it were a bit of a squeeze. I told Baz to get driving, we was going back to the house for Alison's clothes. When we was on the road, I fished around for me mobile, called The Wheatsheaf. 'Brian, put Dad on.'

'Who's this?' said Brian.

'I called him Dad, who the fuck else would it be? Now get running, fat lad. I need to talk to him now.'

Took a couple minutes. Then me dad came on the phone. 'Where are you?'

'On our way back, Dad. I got the girl'

'You get the money?'

'Some of it. Stokes spent a couple stacks.'

'Where's Innes?'

Always asking after that cunt. 'He's with the busies.’

‘You what?'

'He went nuts, smashed up Rossie's van. Got nicked.’

‘Right. Which station?'

I gave him the address. 'Why d'you want to know?’

‘I'll get Clayton up there.’

‘For fuck's — '

'Where's Stokes?' said Dad. 'He's out of the picture.’

‘You kill him?’

‘Nah.'

'Don't kill him. Leave him. Just bring Alison back and we'll have a talk.’

‘Dad — '

'Leave Stokes alone. And get your arse back to Manchester.'

Dad hung up. I put me mobile back in me pocket. Aye, he were losing it. Time were, he'd have a fucker like Stokes buried in five seconds flat. He'd have me cut him to ribbons and scatter what were left to the fuckin' wind. What I'd said to Rossie and Baz in the pub, I meant it. One day, some- body'd come up to us and ask us was I interested in going into business with a professional outfit? And I'd say yeah, but then they'd say, you wanna join up, you gotta do your dad.

And I'd wait in The Wheatsheaf, watch me dad drink his black and smoke his Rothmans, keep meself pumped with whizz and wait until he went to the bogs and then I'd sneak up on the cunt with a claw hammer and batter him until his brains made it hard to swing. And then I'd go out in the bar, hammer at me side and I'd yell at the crowd to come and have a fuckin' go, the king were dead, and I were large and in charge.

But that'd have to wait.

First I had to clean up me sister's fuckin' mess.

FIFTY-SIX

A holding cell and a mattress that cuts you if you don't lay on it right. The smell of antiseptic and whatever they use to kill the fleas the late night drunks bring in. Someone's written shitfuckcunt on the wall, and I can't help but notice they've taken time to chisel it into the brickwork. You'd have thought they'd come up with something profound.

The police arrived thanks to a conscientious Neighbour- hood Watcher, drawn to the nets by the commotion in the street so early in the morning. Apparently a guy going apeshit with a cricket bat isn't a normal occurrence in Heaton, and this grass thought the police should sort it out.