I've gone through it enough since they left me in here. The breathalyser didn't help matters; it showed me way over the limit. Which I probably am. I can't remember the last time I drank something that wasn't alcoholic. So the police get this idea in their heads, here's a guy with a cricket bat demolishing a van with a girl inside, they think it's a domestic. It's probably the way it was reported and I doubt Alison and Mo did anything to dissuade them from that, especially considering there was a bloke choking his last in the house.
If they'd just checked it out. If they'd just seen beyond what was in front of them. If they'd just fucking believed me instead of being the bull-headed pricks they were…
My Nan said, 'If «ifs» and «buts» were berries and nuts, then squirrels would never go hungry.'
And she'd know all about nuts.
Ach, it's probably for the best. If I'd stayed there, I don't know what would have happened. From the look on Baz's face, I'd be cut up and bleeding to death right about now. So there's something to be thankful for. It's his face that's kept me smiling all the time I've been in here. I'd know exactly, but they took my watch.
I wonder how long they're going to keep me in here. I've had no contact for a while now, and fear's started to prick at the back of my mind. They keep me in here much longer, then they think they have something on me. Something's cropped up.
Christ, I hope George hasn't spilled his guts.
I get off the bunk and stop in the middle of the cell. No idea what to do, where to go. Being back in a cage is sending my memory into overdrive. I can't go back to prison. I gave George a bundle to keep his mouth shut.
But then, he's a rat and he's got a survival instinct. And how do I know he didn't lie to me last night?
Because you were beating the shit out of him with a cricket bat, Cal.
Ah, Jesus. That Maxi. Still got blood on it. If George was doped up, or if he was just plain sick of the pain, he'd talk. He talked to me. And I get picked up for a domestic with a cricket bat in the same twenty-four hours; it doesn't take a genius to put it together.
You'd think I'd know better by now.
I haven't been charged, though. They're probably letting me sweat it out in here, get myself worked up so I'll tell them anything rather than go back inside. Once they find out I've got form, they'll throw that in my face. They'll make me feel guilty, they'll bring up Paulo, how I disappointed him. They'll go easy on me if I just cooperate.
'We know you're not to blame here, Cal. You just tell us how you got into this and we'll see what we can do.'
See what we can do. Working for Morris Tiernan, it's like the mark of Cain. Invisible to everyone but the police and fellow criminals. The criminals keep the respect coming, the fear flashing behind their eyes. The police look at it as a beautiful opportunity, a way to make their names. This is one of Tiernan's, this is the one that might roll over. The fucking busies pray for people like me, the ones so scared they'll say anything to keep out of prison, the ones that have that wee snippet of information that'll put the big bosses behind bars. They look at me the way Ness looked at Capone's accountant.
I can't keep thinking about this. It's what they want me to do. I'm innocent until proven otherwise. Everything I did, it was because I had to. I didn't have any other choice. I sit back on the bunk and stare at the cell door.
Donna doesn't want to see me hurt. As if self-preservation wasn't important enough, there's a part of me that doesn't want to disappoint her. Even though I'll probably never see her again.
If the probation services find out about this, I'm recalled. Back inside. And it doesn't matter if I'm guilty or not. Just the appearance of an illegal act is enough to get their knee to jerk.
Hanging out with known criminals, those that put me inside in the first place.
Not cooperating with the Manchester Met on a man- slaughter case in which I'm the prime suspect.
GBH with a GM Maxi cricket bat.
Criminal damage to a van and attempted kidnap.
And all this with a bloodstream that's a hundred per cent proof.
They won't prove half of it, but I deserve my old cell back. I haven't been able to call anyone yet, and I don't know
who I'd call if I got the chance. I don't have a lawyer anymore, and I doubt Paulo would help. Not now. I'm left alone here with no idea what's going on.
Someone's coming up the corridor. The kind of boots a copper wears, the steady, officious sound of someone who knows those footsteps put the shits up people. They stop in front of my cell door. The clatter of the hatch coming down, then keys in the lock.
'Your briefs here,' says a uniform who's built like a cathedral and has the face of a priest.
I don't have a brief.'
The uniform looks startled for a moment. Then he says, 'Well, he's here.'
'You got the wrong cell, officer.'
'You're Innes.'
'Uh-huh.'
'Then your brief's here.'
I get to my feet, brush myself down and follow the copper to a waiting interview room.
FIFTY-SEVEN
Stokes were out of it when we got back to the house. I told Baz to go and grab Alison's things from upstairs and I went into the kitchen, stood in front of Stokes and lit a ciggie. Smoked it halfway down and watched the bastard squirm in his seat. His head came back and he tried to look at us with his one good eye.
'You're a lucky cunt, Rob,' I said.
His neck couldn't keep his head up. It dropped down. His shoulders started heaving, like he were crying. Poof.
'I'm gonna let you live. You remember that. Anyone asks, you tell 'em Mo Tiernan let you live. I'm fair.'
Stokes said nowt, opened his mouth. Closed it again. I went up to him, untied his hands and gave him me ciggie. He coughed it out onto the floor. I didn't pick it up. Had all this spittle and shite on it. Fuck it, let it burn the place down.
'Get yourself cleaned up, Rob. Else you won't be able to pull any more fuckin' teenyboppers, know what I mean?'
Went out into the hall, and there were Baz with an Asda bag overflowing with Alison's stuff.
'Anything she wanted in particular?' said Baz.
'Give your head a shake, Baz.'
When I got back in the van, Alison were staring at us. I chucked the bag at her. 'There you go.’
‘Did you kill him?' she said. 'Nah, I spared him.'
'Spared him. Fuck's sake, Mo, you think you're a proper hard arse, don't you?'
'I can go in and finish the job, you want me to.’
‘He'd done nowt to you.'
'He'd done plenty to us. He'd fucked me sister, stole me money.'
'It wasn't your money. You think this is about that? You could've left him alone, Mo. But nah, you have to go proving you're the hard arse.'
'Dad knows what I am.'
'Dad reckons you're a fuck-up,' she said. Her eyes was blazing now. 'Dad said to me that he reckons you're a fuck- up.'
'When'd you talk to Dad?'
'After I called you, you daft bastard. When I told him you were up here. Told him what you said an' all. Told him everything. Told him it was you what got me pregnant in the first place, told him the whole fuckin' story.'
I scratched me cheek. Sat in silence for a bit. Then I said, 'What'd he say?'
'He said that you were a fuck-up and he'd deal with you when you got back.'
'He said that?'
'Yeah.'
'He said that.'
'You fuckin' deaf? Yeah, he said that.'
I grabbed her by the hair and bounced her fuckin' head off the dashboard. When I pulled her back up, her face were all bloody. She breathed red bubbles. She gabbed on. I twatted her against the dash again, harder this time. Wanted to keep going, but when I pulled her back, she'd shut her fuckin' yap. Let go of her hair and smoothed it down, looked out the windscreen.