Saturday's Child

Good.

'Get out the car, George,' I say quietly.

'Howeh, you're not thinking straight.'

I grab his bad leg and pull hard. George splutters a shout as he tries to fight me off, but I give a good hard yank and he comes spilling onto the road, landing on his back with a thump. I give him a dig in the ribs. George tries to double up, winded. I drag him like the sack of shite he is over the lay-by and send him rolling down into a ditch. Then I reach into the car, heft the Maxi to my shoulder and stare at him until he manages to turn himself over.

'Fuck's the matter with you?' he says. His voice is strained, hoarse. Too much screaming, his fear boiled into anger now. I know that feeling all too well. Let him get wrapped up in darkness until it clamps around his lungs like two damp fists. Let him suffer those sudden jabs of light from passing cars.

Give him a taste of his own fucking medicine.

'Where is he, George?'

George shakes his head. 'Where's who?'

'Stokes.'

'I dunno where Rob is, man. He fucked off. He's gone.’

‘I don't believe you.'

'I don't give a fuck. I'll have you locked up.'

Better give him something to grass up, then. I bring the sharp end of the Maxi down on his right shin, a swift hard stamp. He spasms on the ground, yelps like a scalded puppy. Bring the bat down again and twist the bastard against the bone. George tries to move his leg, but he hasn't got the strength. He keeps calling out for God. And I keep the pressure on.

'Where is he, George?'

'I fuckin' told you where he is.'

I twist the bat, feel bone stretch and crack under my weight. Then the bat's back up at my shoulder and over his yelling, I tell him, 'You told me nowt, mate.'

George curls up as best he can, snot all down his chin. He chokes on whatever he's trying to say because his whole body is racked with sobs. I toy with the idea of battering his teeth out, but then that would defeat the purpose. It's hard enough to understand what he's saying, thanks to a swollen top lip and a collapsed nose.

I grab the bottle of vodka from the car and take a swig until my lips feel dry and stinging. Then I screw the cap back onto the bottle and let the bat touch my leg. 'What's the matter with you, George? Stokes did fuck all for you, mate, except get you here.'

'He didn't tell me nowt' It comes out as a scream, the indignant wail of a kid. A flash from passing headlights shows his red eyes, his bleeding mouth, the colour rising high in his cheeks. Like someone held a scarlet filter up to his face.

'He's a mate, though,' I say. 'You two are close. He must've told you something. I can't believe he didn't give you an inkling at least.'

'Rob's not a mate,' says George. 'He ain't fuckin'…' He shakes his head, gobs thick spittle from his burst mouth. 'Rob's an idiot, man.'

'So he's not a mate, so there's no loyalty.'

'That's not it. Fuckin' hell. You know what he did?'

'He stole money,' I say.

'He saw the chance for a big score and he went for it. And, y'know, I told him not to do it. I told him not to fuck himself over for her. Can't trust her as far as you can shit her.'

'This would be Alison.'

'Who else would it be? Aye, Alison.'

'And what's her big secret, eh?'

'It's not a secret, man. She's a fuckin' little cooze. A proper bitch and snide with it'

'She call you a name behind your back?'

George blinks slowly, his eyes rolled to the whites. The lad'll pass out given half a chance. I slam the bat against the side of the Micra and the noise shakes him awake.

'Keep alert, George.'

'It was all her, man,' he says.

'It was Alison's idea.'

'Aye.'

'Not Rob.'

'Rob didn't have the balls to do it.'

'She robbed her own fuckin' father is what you're telling me,' I say. The vodka's kicked in, crackling the blood and throwing my brain around the inside of my skull. 'You're out of your mind.'

'And you're fuckin' blinkered, man.'

I stamp hard on his ankle. As I twist, something gives way underfoot. George throws himself forward, scrabbling at my leg. I knock his hand away with the bat. As I step off, he tries to roll out of the way, ends up face-down in a puddle. 'How about you tell me the truth, George? How about that? Else I take this bat to your fuckin' skull.'

He breathes muddy bubbles in the puddle water, his face screwed up. When he talks, he sprays. 'I'm telling you the truth. I swear to God I'm telling you the fuckin' truth.'

Bringing God into it again. I test the weight of the cricket bat in my hand, aim my swing at his other ankle. It connects with a sharp crack. George buries his scream in the mud and when he tries to speak, it comes out with a throbbing staccato underscore: 'Whuh-huh-the fuck…'

'I don't like you, George. I thought I made that patently fuckin' obvious, mate. I don't like you because you were all set to top me and leave me in a bloody ditch, and I don't like you because you're lying to me.'

George shakes his head, pulls his body up with all the weight firmly on his forehead. A vein in his neck looks fit to burst. It's like watching a tape of myself from the other night. When he gets to his knees, he spits a mixture of blood and mud at me. 'And I told you the fuckin' truth, you cunt. You wanna do me in, go for it, fuckin' do it.'

I raise the bat quickly, ready, to swing. Adjust my grip, make sure it's good and firm, take a second to wipe the sweat from my left palm. Draw a bead on the back of George's head — the fucker's cowering now — and narrow my eyes until he's a blur. Just the way it has to be. Holding up the Maxi, my fingers twitching against the rubber grip.

Go on. Do it. Swing the fucker. Knock some sense into him. Lying cunt, lying cunt, lying fuckin' bastard cunt.

Headlight flash behind me, grab George's shadow and throw it from left to right, headlights behind them punching

the shadow into three. Time lapse. I open my eyes, feel the bile scratch at the back of my throat.

I can't do this.

Wimp. Pussy. Do it.

I can't fucking do it.

This is why you're constantly being fucked over, Cal. It comes to the crunch and you shit it, pal. The bat trembles in my hands. I can't control it. COWARD. No.

'Fuck's sake.' The words come out in a rush. I lower the bat, massage the blood back into my hands. My leg hurts. My arms ache. My spine pinches at me. My heart is beating too fast, and I've broken out in a cold sweat. 'Fuck's sake.'

George's back heaves in the dim light. It's the only move- ment he makes.

I have to lean against the car. I put the bat by my leg and light up.

I'd go for the vodka, but I can't move.

Sitting on the tarmac, the arse of my jeans getting soaked right through to the skin, and I'd feel sorry for myself if it wasn't for George whimpering in the dark. Kind of puts my wet buttocks into perspective.

'If Alison set it up, then why did she agree to come back with me?' I say.

A loud, long breath escapes from George. I look up, and make him out lying on his back. A stiff breeze blows the smell of urine my way. 'She told us you'd be there. She wanted you taken care of,' he says.

'She does that, and someone else'll just come after her.'

'You think they're after her?'

I wipe the nose with the back of my hand. 'They're after Stokes. Fuck it, nah, I don't know who they're after anymore.’

‘You had to find Rob,' he says. 'Yeah.'

'She set him up.'

'She had no reason to set him up,' I say. 'She doesn't give a shit.’