Saturday's Child

The bouncer's fingers loosen. I try to smile at him. He doesn't smile back.

I glance at the tape deck. It's still on. Which means a swift

twist of the ignition, and I'm out of here. That's if I can manage it without him crushing my windpipe.

Reach across and unlock my door. The doorman removes his hand and cracks the knuckles. I rub my bruised neck, cough my voice back into action. 'I wish you'd let me explain.'

I put one hand on the door handle, click it open. My foot eases onto the accelerator.

He catches the movement. He lunges.

As I turn the key, the engine coughs. The bouncer's eyes become wide, like what the fuck do I think I'm doing? This was supposed to be a one-on-one. His top lip curls.

The engine catches as I throw open the driver door. It glances off his right knee as he makes a grab for me. One short dig in the kneecap and he twists away, his hand falling short, his face all screwed up with anger and pain.

I floor it.

Pull on the steering wheel as hard as I can, and the Micra jerks forward, pranging the car in front with a grinding shudder. I keep the pressure on until something snaps. One of the Escort's hubcaps goes spinning into the street. The Micra's engine screams at me to take it easy, but panic has taken over. I need to put as much distance between me and the bouncer as possible. I hear his hand slam the boot of the car and tense up. Keep the motor gunned, trying to do nought to sixty in first gear.

Nothing but the roar and whine of the car in my ears now. When I'm halfway up the street and the engine sounds like it's going to blow, I force myself to ease off on the accelerator. A quick look in the rear view and the bouncer's nothing but a hulking shadow. Jesus, that was close. I ease down at traffic lights, head back to Salford. Settle back into a rhythm; let my lungs catch a decent breath. My throat stings, feels like

someone took a cheese grater to it. I cough up something slick that tastes of blood and spit out of the window. Check myself in the rear view mirror. I'm a fucking mess. My nose has stopped bleeding, but one nostril is torn in the middle. Those bastard rings. Big ugly bruises on my neck, and it feels like he broke the skin somewhere.

As I pull into my parking space, I light another Embassy. Something is seriously rotten in Morris' club, and I'll be fucked if I let some steroid freak stop me finding out what it is.

I get out of the Micra, inspect the damage. The left wing is scratched and battered to hell, but I suppose it adds character. I'll put it on expenses, let Morris pay for it. Maybe I'll have a word with him about his bouncer. I might even let Mo have his wicked way.

Man, my neck really hurts. And to cap it off, my tooth's started throbbing again. I get into my flat, pull the half-empty bottle of Vladivar from the freezer and take a swig. The first hit tugs on the raw nerve, the second freezes the pain. Bring it with me into the bathroom. I take drinks from it as I mop the blood from my face with a damp flannel. Dabbing, not rubbing.

Yeah, my nostril's ripped. Not a lot, but enough to give me the look of a bad boxer: I peel the back off a plaster and slip it over the tear. A couple of prods, and it looks like it might stick fast. Another drink to celebrate.

I can't do anything more tonight. Might as well try to get some sleep.

I think I deserve it.

TWELVE

'You fuckin' what?' said Rossie. His face had gone a slapped- arse red. 'You fuckin' what? You're having a fuckin' laugh aren't you, Darren?'

Baz and me looked at each other. Baz said, 'Some lads don't like to swallow. Crying shame, innit?'

'I asked you to do one thing for us, right? One fuckin' thing. And you couldn't do that, could you?'

I watched Rossie in the rear view. He had his head down. I saw a bald patch starting on the top of his head.

'Nah, don't give us that, son. And don't think you're getting a fuckin' penny, either.' Rossie beeped the lad off and sucked his teeth. 'That scally fuckin' wanker.'

'Didn't go well then,' I said.

'He fucked it up.'

'Then you ought to fuck him up, Rossie.'

'Innes spotted him.'

'Who'd you use?'

'Darren Walker.'

'Why'd you use that cunt? He couldn't find his arsehole, two hands and a map.'

'He owes us a favour,' said Rossie.

'Looks like he still owes you that fuckin' favour.'

We was in Baz's Nova, headed out for the night. Baz had turned on his Fast and Furious underlighter, which made the

car look like shit, but Baz were proud of it. I reckoned it looked about as gay as you could get.

Normally I would've been buzzing, but that phone call Rossie just took put a proper crimp on the evening. I turned round in me seat. 'So what'd he say?'

'He says Innes saw him.'

'Where'd he go?'

'Some bar in Withy Grove.'

Baz snorted. 'Darren in Withy Grove. No wonder he got fuckin' spotted.'

'Before that,' I said.

'He was round at the club,' said Rossie. He had a sour face on him, like he didn't care for me asking all these questions. Like I gave a fuck.

'The club?' I said. 'Yeah, right. The club.' Course he would've started there, wouldn't he? Stokes worked there, it were only fuckin' right the cunt Innes would've started beaking it round there. But he would've got nowt, like. The word had already gone round that place like fuckin' wildfire, Just a rumour — Mo'll kick your fuckin' teeth in, you say owt — but a rumour well spread. Dealers, man, they fuckin' shite it at the first sniff of a pasting. And I were discreet about it. I didn't do nowt 'cept get Rossie to break a lad's wrists.

Try dealing now, cunt.

We pulled up in the NCP in town and I got out and let Rossie stretch his legs. Baz lit a ciggie. I taxed it off him after he'd had a few puffs. Baz pulled a face. 'Here y'are, nobhead.'

'I'll get you another pack laters,' I said. Took a draw, but it tasted like fuckin' socks. That were the trouble with the pills, like. They proper fucked up your tastebuds. I took another puff and chucked it at the ground. Baz pulled another face, the twisty fucker.

'What d'you want to do?' said Rossie.

"Bout what?’

‘Innes.'

'Fuck him. He won't find out nowt, know what I mean? The lad might call himself a private dick, but he's a fuckin' drunk.' I tapped the side of me head. 'If he didn't whistle, he wouldn't know where to wipe his arse, the daft bastard. Fuck it. Forget it. We got other shit to be doing.'

Walked out onto Whitworth Street, got a gust of wind right in the boat. Getting cold these nights. I needed the sweat of a proper club in me armpits. We headed up towards the Village, but I weren't going to try me luck in any of them places. Aye, there were a market for the uppers and poppers in there, but fucked if I were gonna get touched up. Places was full of shirtlifters and fag hags. So nah to the pink parties and on to the student union. The students had the most money in this town. Fuckin' rich kids with Mater and Pater paying their way through Media Shite Studies. Disposable income. And they wasn't bothered about getting caught. I had that to say for fuckin' students: they didn't give two shits about the law. Most of 'em, they did one module in it, they thought they was Perry Mason.

A big bouncer with a shaved head, proper monkey goon cunt, tried feeling us up on the door. I wouldn't have minded if he were a proper bouncer, like, but you could never tell with the student nights. This big bastard had a yellow vest on and like a tight T-shirt underneath, so he could've been fruity. I bared my teeth and gave him the wild eyes. He knew us then. He knew Rossie an' all. Rossie slipped the bouncer a twenty and he let us in.