Saturday's Child

The scally turns and leans against the bar, a pint in his hand. He hasn't touched it, surveying the dance floor with all the intensity of a tail. He's long-bodied, pale in the light. And he doesn't look like he's bothered about being out of place in here. He's too busy thinking about something else. His steel face gives it away. Reading his watch would give him that same concentrated look, though.

I sit on the edge of a backless couch with a cow-print pattern as the lights in the place start to move, dappled, across the dance floor.

He looks around the place, his head bobbing as someone moves into his line of sight. He doesn't think to lift his head. He sips from his pint. I'm trapped up here.

Nah, nobody's trapping this bloke. I'm a bigger man than that.

I get up, finish my beer and put the empty bottle on the table next to me. Go straight for the stairs and down onto the dance floor, keep my head down but the scally in my peripheral vision. There's only one way to get round this, I reckon. And that's to call the bugger's bluff.

The scally rolls his shoulders back when he sees me. He's definitely a tail. I turn on my heel and make straight for the bar. His face tightens. As I reach him, he moves to one side, his trainers squeaking on the floor.

'You want a drink, mate?' I say.

I know you?'

I was about to ask you the same thing.'

'Dunno what you're talking about,' he says. His left eye- brow twitches; a terrible fucking liar. 'Tell Morris I'm handling it.'

'Fuck you talking about?'

I look at him, make sure I've got his full attention. 'You tell Morris I'm fine by myself. I don't need help on this.'

He shakes his head. 'Who the fuck's Morris?' His face all screwed up, not meeting my eye.

'I see you again, I'll knock you on your arse,' I say.

'Whoa, what's up with you, man? I'm just having a drink.'

'You're a fuckin' scally.'

'Who you calling a scally?'

'I don't like being tailed.'

'Tailed?' He laughs. It makes him sound like a twat.

I grab him by his tracksuit and his hand opens around his pint. The glass drops to the floor, smashes. And suddenly he's all indignant, puffed up and ready to fight. I push him hard in the chest and he slams off the bar. The scally gets his balance the same time he gets his breath and makes for me.

Someone shouts for security. But I'm already out the door.

I pull my jacket tight, shivering from the cold and maybe just a little fear, start walking back to Victoria Station. I look over my shoulder, waiting for the tail to come running after me. He doesn't. The pit of my stomach feels like it's twitch- ing, trying to digest something that isn't there. I let loose with a loud belch, then light a cigarette to stave off the cold.

My head's whirling. Maybe I'm going nuts.

Get it together.

I find my Micra, slip behind the wheel and chew the inside of my cheek. I could go home, but I wouldn't sleep. Check my watch, and it's probably about time the dealers at Morris' club knock off. I could stop by, see if I can't have a word with that barman again, maybe chip some information out of him.

I turn the key in the ignition and Billy Bragg starts playing, a busker voice and a one-amp guitar. Twenty-one years when he wrote this song. Doesn't want to change the world. Who does? Too much work, too little respect. I'd settle for beer money and a roof over my head.

A short drive to Hanover Street, and I park behind a Ford Escort with a bad paint job. I'm guessing that the staff go in the same way as the punters, so I watch the front door, Bragg turned down.

This is how I spend most of my time these days. Sitting. Waiting. Watching. Listening to music at an inconspicuous volume and hoping to Christ I don't get spotted. When I started this job, I was prison-hard. I wasn't afraid to walk down them mean streets with a rude wit and clenched fists. I had ideas. But the streets take their toll, and I soon found out it was safer to sit in a car than be out in the open. I don't run as fast as I'd like, not as fit as I need to be. So the Micra it is.

I turn off Bragg, stick in The Smiths. I should invest in a CD player for the car. Spend some money on it. But then the kit would be worth more than the car, and I'd come out the flat one day, find a gaping hole where a Blaupunkt used to be, the rest of my motor in flames. Kids'll torch anything round our way.

So I'm sticking with tapes.

Eject Morrissey and Marr, stick in The Animals. I listen to the opening bars of 'We Gotta Get Out Of This Place' then stop it before Eric Burdon kicks in with the vocals.

Fuck's the matter with me?

You're being followed, Cal.

That's not the case, though. I know that. That bloke in the bar, he could've wandered in just like me. He could've been checking out the meagre talent on display. There are some blokes who don't realise that there are boundaries when it comes to scoring. I've seen enough pissed-up tracksuits trying it on with office totty. He might have been one of them.

It's this job. I'm not sure of anything. Doubt's a pisser.

Sitting in silence now, wishing I was home, but knowing I can't go back yet. My skin crawls with the cold. I'd turn the heater on, but it'd be like kicking this car in the bollocks. Besides, the amount of drink in me might knock me out if I get too comfortable. I crack open a window, light a cigarette and inhale.

My mouth feels dirty. I open the glove compartment; see if I can't find a mint or gum or something. A tidal wave of mix tapes spills out onto the passenger seat. Tom Waits, Joy Division, more Smiths, Warren Zevon, The Stranglers, Elvis Costello, Ian Dury and some crappy tape I got free from a magazine that promised New Wave, but gave me New Romantic. And, at the back, an opened pack of Extra. I struggle with the wrapper, take the last piece. Pop the gum in my mouth even though the coating's cracked and it tastes like an inner tube.

I start shovelling the tapes back into the glove compart- ment, manage to pile them all in there and close it with a dull click.

'Fuck are you doing here?'

I jump across the car. It takes me a moment to place where the voice is coming from, and when I do, all the alcohol drains from my system.

The doorman. That big bastard bouncer who chucked me out this afternoon. He's wearing a black puffer jacket. Light catches the massive sovereign rings on his fingers and a dirty twinkle in his black eyes. 'What'd I tell you?'

I try to get my cool back. 'What did you tell me? My memory's shot'

'You're not welcome at the club.'

I'm not at the club.'

'You're near enough. What you waiting on?'

'A bloke can't sit in his car?'

'Get out.'

'You know I'm working for Morris.'

'I don't give a shit who you're working for. Get out the car or I fuckin' drag you out.'

'Listen to me,' I say, but my voice cracks into a whine. 'Morris Tiernan hired me to find a dealer who used to work for him. His name's Rob Stokes, right? And he's fucked off with Morris' money. Now Tiernan wants — '

One hand on my mouth, the other wrapping fingers around my throat. I choke out. The bouncer removes one hand, pulls his fist back and cracks me hard with those sovereigns. I black out for a second, come back to the here and now with his fingernails digging into my neck. Blood all over my jacket and one nostril feels like it's been ripped open. I scrabble against the door, black flies instead of vision.

He gazes at me, eyes half-closed, and squeezes my throat.

I try to tell him to wait up, hold on, let me explain, but it comes out like Donald Duck with a voice box.

'Get out the car,' he says. Low, soft.

I get out the car, I'm as good as dead. I don't get out of the car, I'm as good as dead. Rock, meet hard place. My hands flap, telling him to calm down. Ease off so's I can open the door. If I get out, I might have a chance to take off running, even though my lungs feel like they're fit to burst. I know I wouldn't get far, but when the devil shits in your pillow, sometimes you've just got to pretend it's extra stuffing.