Saturday's Child

'Early doors.'

She helps me through to the living room and I ease myself onto the couch. A mournful song on the CD player, a piano and an alcoholic's voice. Donna brings me a glass and fills it from a half-empty bottle on the table. 'I washed your clothes,' she says.

I sip my drink. Sweet with no burn, another single malt. 'Thanks. I thought I'd have to chuck them.'

'You still should. How you feeling?'

'I can walk, so that's a start. Doctor Dick did wonders. How do you know him? He can't be your GP, not with that kind of service.'

'He's a friend.'

'Uh-huh. Close by the sounds of it.’

‘He's helped me in the past.’

‘What with?'

'I don't want to talk about it.'

'Okay,' I say. Another drink and there's a dribble at the bottom of the glass. I swallow it and struggle to my feet. 'Thanks again, Donna. I should be going, though. Stuff to do.'

She doesn't answer me as I limp back into the bedroom. What am I supposed to do? I can't thank her again, and I don't know what else to say to her. It's like we're trying this on for size and it fits neither of us, this relationship hanging dead around our necks. And who am I kidding? What fucking relationship? I grab my jeans off an easy chair, slump into it as I pull them on.

Thanks for picking me up, thanks for getting the doctor, thanks for the booze and the bed. Thanks for clamming up. Thanks for making me feel like a shithead because I've got other more important things on my mind.

This isn't the time to get involved, even if it was possible. Even if she didn't put up this front every time I open my mouth. Every time she looks at me, she sees what? A drunk woman picking up rough trade in a pub?

I'm pulling on my shirt when I feel her presence in the room. The clink of ice cubes in her glass gives her away.

'You didn't tell me what happened,' she says.

'You wouldn't believe it.'

I picked you up. You owe me.'

'I got knocked down by a car,' I say. 'And then they chucked me in the boot, drove me out to a lay-by and worked me over, left me for dead.'

'You know who it was?'

'Yeah.'

'So what're you going to do?’

‘I'm going to fuck them up. What else can I do?’

‘You could quit,' she says. 'Next time they might make sure you're dead before they leave you.’

‘I'm not about to do that, Donna.’

‘Why not?’

‘Difficult to explain.’

‘Try.'

I do. Start right at the beginning; fill her in so far. The job, the journey, George, Stokes, Alison, the fight, the supposed flight, the man in the black leather jacket. We take it back into the living room, and I spill the story over another couple of drinks. I let her know that these people, they're amateurs. I made plenty of mistakes, mind, and I admit that too. Trusting George, trusting Alison. Playing saviour when I should have been watching my own back.

'But I'll make up for it,' I say. 'They should have dug that fuckin' grave and dropped me in it.'

Donna sits in her chair, staring at me. Stella ambles into the room and hops up onto the arm of the chair. For a moment, I think Donna's eyes have glazed over and she's not listened to a word I said. Then she pipes up. 'So they'll have gone by now.'

'You what?'

'This Stokes guy, Alison. They'll have skipped town by now. If they know you're after them.'

'Yeah.'

'So what's the point in carrying on?' she says. 'You've got nowhere to go.’

‘I've got George.’

‘Give it up, Cal'

'I can't.' I take another drink, ice knocking my teeth. 'I can't do it. I let this go now and they've won.'

'You let this go now and you get to live, Cal. Look at yourself. You're a bloody wreck. It's only the booze that's holding you together right now. You go out there and cause trouble, you're asking for a casket.'

I check my pockets, pull out a pack of Embassy and open it up. There's not one of them that hasn't been mangled beyond repair. So I say: 'What the fuck do you care?'

It slipped out before I got a chance to think.

Donna sits back in her chair and disgust flickers across her face. 'You know what, Cal? You're right. What the fuck do I care? What the fuck do I care if you go off and get yourself killed when I could have stopped it.'

'That's not what I — '

'If you'd just bloody listen to yourself, Cal, you'd know why I'd fuckin' care. You're a mess. You're in no state to think straight and you haven't been from the moment you came up to Newcastle, by the sounds of it. So you're looking to blame anyone you can get your hands on because you can't hack the truth of it.'

'I don't need this.'

'Nah, you probably don't. But you're not right in the head. A guy in a black leather jacket following you? You have any idea how mental that sounds?'

'He's following me,' I say. 'It's not Donkey, but it's some- one. Probably Stokes. I don't know.'

'You're paranoid,' she says. 'You're delusional.'

'And you don't know what the fuck you're talking about. You don't know the kind of world I live in.'

'Aw, stop the PI bullshit for just a second. I've seen kittens tougher than you. Just because you can take a beating, it doesn't make you a prizefighter. And I don't want to be the one who sees you hurt.'

'You won't have to. You made that clear,' I say.

'You don't get it, do you?'

'I get it. You're happy with me when you're pissed, but anything more than that and the doubts set in.’

‘You know that's not true.'

'Why'd you pick me up in the first place, Donna? Doctor Dick knock you back and you were out for a pity fuck?'

Her blue eyes flash once, then go dead. She raises the glass to her lips, but it's empty. When she speaks, it's like someone shut off the electricity. 'Forget it, Cal. You do what you want to do. Go beat the crap out of the rest of the world if it makes you feel better. Just do me a favour and don't ring me the next time you're scared. I've got enough problems in my life without having to worry about yours.'

'I'm sure you do.' I head to the front door, cigarette still on the go. Then come back and grab the prescription pills off the table. 'Thanks for washing my trousers, Donna. I appreciate it.'

I leave the door open as I head out into the hallway. If I go to close it, I'll end up slamming the bastard in the frame. And once I get outside I realise I've no idea where I am. After an hour of painful hobbling, on and off, I find a Metro station, hop aboard a train and head into town.

And I'm burning up inside, but it's got nothing to do with Stokes.

FORTY-FOUR

I get off the Metro at the Monument stop. I've got a few errands to run before I pick up my car, and the city centre's the only place I can run them. I'm blinded by sunlight as I step out of the station onto Northumberland Street, and the moment my eyes adjust, my heart sinks.

Sunday afternoon, a shopping extravanganza. Like the Arndale Centre, but more people packed into a smaller space and pissed off about it. The street is jammed and most of the crowd have no peripheral vision. Pushchairs and screaming kids, old women who think they've got the right of way, young hoodlums and scally lasses hanging around with gimlet eyes and too much saliva in their mouths.

I visit a couple of sports shops, but they seem to be selling clothes and nothing else. It's summer, it's the height of the season, but I can't find what I'm looking for. A parade of children with name badges and attitude problems give me nothing but cock-eyed stares. I end up sweating through my shirt, my lips dry and my patience frayed.

I yawn, bone-shattered.

God bless the Index catalogue shop, that's what I say.

Air-conditioned, kept at a temperature somewhere between freezing and frostbite, it's like heaven compared to the hell outside. I wander up to one of the catalogues and leaf through it until I find what I'm looking for. Sporting goods. I can't smile because my face feels swollen, but inside I'm beaming.