Mo's coming. He'll be on his way right now. Sick bastard.
Gets his own sister pregnant. Alison, the wee whore. Stokes, the bullshit chip junkie.
And George. Borderline psycho. Workaholic. He'd rather do double shifts behind a bar than live his life. He's the only one with ties here. Stokes and Alison might have left the city, but George wasn't about to go anywhere.
He was stupid enough to think I wouldn't come after him. He's been sloppy and turned up for work, regular as. So my phone call might have spooked him a little, but he'd get over it the minute he gets a decent tip. The more I think about him, the less I care about Alison and Stokes. It isn't about them anymore. It's about that little prick who thrives on being an arsehole. Stokes had a reason to do me over but George got off on it. And that kind of violence, it's a drug. You know you're safe, you can play out your sadistic wee fantasies on whichever poor fucker you've got cornered.
Yeah, I've seen that happen enough times. Been on the receiving end more than I like to admit.
The power trip George was on, that rush of adrenaline, he should channel it elsewhere, because one day he'll throw it at the wrong bloke and it'll end up biting him in the arse.
I'm that wrong bloke. And better I bite him now than he ends up dead later on. At least I've got a conscience. Someone else, someone single-minded, someone greedy, fucked-up, twisted, some junkie, they might not be as nice to him.
What I'm doing here is teaching a bloke a lesson. And some lessons need a personal tutor. I'm doing him a favour.
It's all about anger management.
I notice I've started drumming my fingers on the blade of the bat. I stop, take another swig of vodka. All this waiting's killing me.
Donna loves me. Right. Donna doesn't want to see me hurt. Fuck her. She doesn't know me. Some drunk bitch wants a life mate, she should look somewhere other than bars. I mean, Christ, picking someone up in a pub. How desperate is that? It stinks of Brenda Lang. And look where that got me. On the fucking run. I hope Paulo's alright.
Shake that thought from my head. No point in dwelling on that. Donkey's all talk. He wouldn't do anything to Paulo. He couldn't.
More vodka.
I watch a minicab pull into the carpark. A drunk punter comes staggering out of the casino. He holds onto the roof of the taxi and struggles with the door.
Some people just can't take their beer.
After the punter slides into the back seat, the cab pulls away. I watch it head past the casino and out of the carpark. Then look back at the side of the building. Two girls, two lads. My fingers tighten around the rubber grip of the bat.
It's George. The bar must be closed for the night. Telling a joke, a stupid story, he's doing everything he can to impress these two girls. They're not having any of it, but his mate is laughing his arse off. Overdoing it to make George look better. They stop in the light from reception and George points in the direction of his car.
Don't do it, girls. He's not worth it, really.
And you, George's mate, fuck off. I don't need an audience for this.
The group breaks apart, the girls heading for the main road, the two lads backing off towards George's car. George has his hands up and is shouting something at the girls.
Blown out. My heart bleeds.
George's mate is still with him.
Shit. I don't need this. I don't need witnesses. But needs must. Needs fucking must. As they reach the Fiat, I push open the car door, GM Maxi Senior in one clammy hand. My right leg is numb; I have to shake the blood back as I try to stride across the carpark. I zero in on George. Difficult to do, because there's sweat in my eyes.
He's still talking, the mouthy bastard. Concentrating on getting his key in the car door. I wouldn't be surprised if he's a little drunk. Tonight, we're all tipsy. It helps us do what a man's gotta do.
The lad with George is a mealy little bugger, skinny as a wicker man and twice as fragile. He sees me coming, but he can't get his brain around it. So he stares. He starts gold- fishing. As I get closer, I can hear tiny noises in the back of his throat, wee grunts and clicks. The fucker sounds like Flipper.
'They'll come running back,' says George. 'That Debbie loves me, Trev. I can smell it on her — '
I cut him short with a chop to his right knee.
'Howzat, you cunt.'
The bat makes a dull thump, not the ear-splitting crack I was hoping for, but George buckles, knocks his head off the roof of the car and crumples to the ground. His mate looks at me, wide-eyed and visibly shaking. There's a moment before George realises how much pain he's in. When he does, he starts screaming like someone poured acid in his eyes.
'Back off,' I say to Trev. 'Turn around and walk the other fuckin' way.'
George loses the breath to scream, falls into heavy sobbing. I want to take the bat to his head, but Trev's still here.
'Don't make me tell you twice, son. This is none of yours.'
I raise the bat. It's the picture he needed painting. Trev bolts straight for the casino and the bouncers. I need to hurry this thing along. I grab George by the shirt collar and drag him across the tarmac. He starts screaming again; no words, just noise. A quick glance at him and tears are streaking the blood on his face. He must have broken his nose on the way down.
Bonus.
For someone so bloody thin, he's a dead weight. I manage to get him to the Micra just as I look across at Trev. He's telling the bouncers what happened, pointing at me. I pull the driver's seat forward and say to George, 'After you, mate.'
He looks up at me. 'You broke my fuckin' legs!'
'Bollocks. I didn't break nowt.' I lift him under the arms and heave him into the back seat. One of the bouncers shouts. I look up and see one of the bruisers in full pelt towards me. The other one's disappeared. He must be calling the police. I slam the seat against George's fucked up leg and he yelps. Then I slide behind the wheel.
I start the engine and it catches no problem. There's a first time for everything. I gun it out of the carpark, light an Embassy as we pull onto the main road and away from the city centre.
George babbles in the back seat. 'Listen man, I'm sorry, alright? I got carried away, it happens. I'm sorry. I didn't mean to — '
'Save it, George.'
'Nah, I mean it. C'mon, you can't think I was really gonna kill you, do you? I'm all talk, you ask anyone. I'm a fuckin' coward, man. I'm a fuckin' wreck. Look, you just let us out here, I'll be fine, right?' He tries to move his leg and chokes. 'I'm gonna be sick.'
'Go ahead.'
'What d'you want, man? I'm not Rob, am I? You want cash, I got some on us, but if you want serious cash then you'll have to drop us off at a bank — '
I look at him in the rear view. 'What d'you think I want?'
He looks blank. The pain's made him slow. He'll get it soon enough, though.
Even if I have to break his other leg.
FORTY-SEVEN
Another night, another motorway.
I pull in, flick on the hazard lights and get out of the car. Cold out here, my breath misting up in front of my face. The drive here gave me a bastard behind the eyes. I didn't take anything for it, either. Let the pain dull the senses, stop me from thinking about what I'm about to do. The headache subsides for a second once I get some fresh air into my lungs, then I pull open the driver's door and flip the seat forward. George is still in the same position. He's frightened out of his mind, his eyes shining in the dark.