'I'll sniff it out. If Alison were round there, I'll know it. Trust us.'
'Cause there were summat I had that Innes didn't. I knew me sister inside out. I knew what she were like and I knew the way her fuckin' mind worked.
Which meant that I'd get the bitch before Innes did.
'Y'alright, mate? I lost me keys.'
This lad with a beard and a belly didn't care, and he held the door open for us to prove it. I pushed through, Baz and Rossie behind us. 'Cheers, mate.'
Went up the stone steps, looked about the walkway.
'Well?' said Rossie. 'Where's she live?'
I didn't know. Shook me head. I could work summat out. Just had to think about it. Headed up one way, but it was all fuckin' pot plants and fancy number signs. Nah. Went back to the other end, and I knew we was in business. The door to thirty-five was open and the place stank like a burning poof. That were Alison. She loved all that fuckin' incense and shit. I looked at Rossie and Baz, jerked me head towards the door and pushed it wide open.
On the right, there was stairs. I told Rossie to go up them and check it out. Baz came with me. I didn't have nowt in the way of protection apart from me fists. But Baz and a wicked- keen Stanley. We went into the front room, all quiet. Ready to fuck someone over if they wanted to play ninja. Nowt in here.
Looked like the place'd been fuckin' trashed an' all. I picked up a cushion and squeezed it like a stress ball. Me nose started running so I wiped it on the cushion and kept squeezing.
'You sure this is the right place, Mo?' said Baz.
I didn't answer him, went out into the hall and shouted up the stairs. 'Rossie, you found owt up there?'
Rossie appeared at the top of the stairs. 'You don't want to see this fuckin' bathroom, man.'
I tossed the cushion, took the stairs two at a time, pushed Rossie out the way. He were right — I didn't want to see the fuckin' bathroom. The smell were enough. Alison were a proper pig. That's why she used all that incense, hide the smell of her dirt. I said to Baz, 'Give us your Stanley.'
Baz dug deep into his trackies, handed it over. I clicked the blade out as far as it went and pushed open a door. The bedroom. Me eye itched so I scratched it. Went over to the mattress on the floor, still had the sheets on it, but nowt else in the room. They'd done a runner. That, or they lived like fuckin' squatters. On that mattress.
'Y'alright, Mo?' said Rossie.
I pushed the bedroom door shut, didn't take me eyes off the mattress. Lousy fuckin' cooze. If she wanted to come back, she'd have summat waiting for her. I got down on me knees and started slashing at the mattress, cut the fucker to ribbons. Tugged me way through the sheets and whistled while I worked, got me bladder pressed. When it were time, I pulled me cock out and pissed all over the remains.
Try fucking on that, Alison.
When I got out the bedroom, Rossie and Baz was waiting for us.
'What now?' said Baz. Rossie were staring at what was left of the mattress.
'Now we tear what's left of this shithole apart until we get a lead,' I said.
And I pulled Rossie away from the bedroom so's we could start on the downstairs.
The GM Maxi Senior Cricket Bat.
It's a big bat in every way; handcrafting bows the blade into the drive area to produce the unique GM PowerArc shape. A special pressing technique blended with a massive swell and strong edges gives the powerful players the bat of choice for awesome hitting.
Awesome hitting. I like that. Nice ring to it. The Maxi's sitting across my lap right now. It feels too light to be of any use, but then what do I know? As long as it doesn't break into firewood on the first decent swing, I couldn't care less.
But then, the box doesn't say anything about using it on someone's legs.
Anger management. Controlling your emotion so it doesn't spill out and hurt yourself and other people. I know all about that. I did courses in jail about that. I had to. It made the authorities think you were serious about rehabilitation, and it passed the time.
'When you feel that urge, Deffenbacher suggests that you picture yourself as a god or goddess, a supreme ruler, striding alone and having your way in all situations while others defer to you. The more detail you can get into your imaginary scenes, the more chances you have to realise that maybe you are being unreasonable; you'll also realise how unimportant the things you're angry about really are.'
This from a young guy who crossed his legs too tightly and had a PhD in Patronising Prisoners. He was the leader of a group
that encouraged enhanced thinking skills and anger manage- ment. We met twice a week in a cold room with green-and-white walls, sitting in a circle while this guy talked, his hands flapping like a couple of coked-up birds. He had his pet subjects, his pet theorists. He loved talking in a slow, soft and completely judgemental voice, telling us exactly why we were inside.
And we had to put up with it. Not that the group was compulsory. It was just that it looked better on your record if you attended. Which I did, because by that time, the last thing I wanted was to stay behind bars.
The group leader once told this brick-headed fucker called Hawkins that he needed to concentrate on his cognitive restructuring.
'You fuckin' what?'
'It means that when you're angry, your thinking can become exaggerated. Cognitive restructuring lets you under- stand how silly you're being.'
Silly? Hawkins looked like he wanted to batter the little prick. If he'd thrown a punch, I got the feeling the rest of us would join in.
'It's silly to lamp a cunt, is what you're saying,' said Hawkins.
'See, now — ' The group leader raised one finger. '- you're using humour. That can be healthy, but there are problems with that. Can anyone tell me what they are?'
'Nobody laughs?'
His voice sounded like a sigh. 'There are two cautions in using humour, gentlemen.' The leader got to his feet and went to the white board. 'First, don't try to "laugh off" your problems.'
He wrote 'laughoff' and drew a line through it. 'Rather, use humour to help you to face your problems more constructively.'
'We should be more constructive,' said Hawkins.
'Second, don't give in to harsh, sarcastic humour; that's just another form of unhealthy anger expression.'
He wrote 'sarcastic' and 'unhealthy'. Between the two words, he drew an equals sign.
Anger management. Manage my situation, you speccy fucker.
'All an angry person is saying, really, is: "Hey, things aren't going my way!"'
Fucking tell me about it.
I feel the weight of the bat and then lay it down again. Nah, it should be fine. I'm only going to use it the once. Before I got here, I was at the pub. Dutch courage, maybe Scotch and a pint or twelve of Belgian lager to make it a European dream. I called the casino, pretended I was George's brother, that his dad had had a stroke. When he got on the phone, I hung up. He's working tonight.
I did a slow recce of the casino carpark before I got settled in. George's car is a blue Fiat with a scuffed bonnet and dark spots on the boot. The bloke didn't have the foresight to scrub my blood off his car. Which means I'm not watching for him anymore, just anyone who goes near his motor. It's a good job, too. It's getting dark now, making it almost impossible for me to make out faces. I've already had my hand on the door a couple of times, ready to get out, heart thumping. But so far it's been nothing but false alarms.
I pop some Nurofen, notice I've got two left in the pack, and throw the box back into the glove compartment. Then one of each from the little brown bottles that Doctor Dick prescribed. I chase the pills down with a swig from the half bottle of vodka. Good job I bought that bastard, I think. The beer and whisky buzz is fading fast and I need something to keep me ticking over. Rage is a bitch to maintain.