Saturday's Child

'Cal, this is Baz and that's Rossie.'

'Kind of a name's Rossie?' I say. Trying to be hard as. Trying to make aggro conversation when there's ice in my veins.

The guy in the black leather jacket says, 'Kind of a name's Cal?'

Stokes raises his head at the sound of my voice. I catch a glint where I think there's an eye, but the rest is obscured by shadow and blood.

'He was here when you arrived,' I say.

'Yeah, we found him upstairs,' says Mo. 'He were hiding in the fuckin' wardrobe.'

The stupid things you do when you're scared. Acting like Robin Askwith in a Confessions film. Running to your girlfriend when you know she's the reason you're getting fucked in the first place. Taking a job you know is going to end in tears because you're afraid of what'll happen if you don't. Acting the prick with a woman who cares about you, because it's easier than contemplating an honest relationship. Spinning yourself a cunt's yarn to hide the truth.

'Way Sis tells it, he were here all the time,' says Mo. I look across at him. Yeah, he knows. He takes a step towards me. 'The way Sis tells it, he got a phone call and woke her up, started acting all weird.'

Stokes mumbles something. Saliva drips onto his chest, glistening red.

'He went for the cash.' Then Mo turns and shares a giggle with Rossie and Baz. 'And it were sitting there on the fuckin' bed, can you believe it?'

'Priceless,' says Rossie, letting out this laugh that sounds like a horny pig. Baz joins in, laughing through his teeth like someone throttling a snake. It's a proper zoo in here.

I try to smile but my face hurts too much.

'But what I don't get is, who called Rob?'

'Fucked if I know,' I say, but I blurt it out.

Mo pauses, then looks at Stokes. 'Yeah, well, we'll find out, won't we, Rob?'

Stokes doesn't answer but his legs tremble. He shifts position in the chair, sniffs hard.

'I think you better get back to Manchester,' says Mo.

'You think so.'

'Yeah.' His lips are thin. 'Yeah, I think you should go home. You look like you need a good night's sleep, mate.'

Mo slaps me hard on the back and a bolt of pain runs up to the nape of my neck. I flinch, but other than that, I'm rock steady. Too busy staring at Stokes, wondering why he would stick around so long, wondering why he didn't tell me that Alison was in bed next to him and trying not to look too hard at the answers because it would hurt too much.

Yeah. Stokes was there with Alison. And they were getting ready to go when Mo came knocking. Which meant Stokes was delayed somehow. Alison, maybe, digging her heels in, stalling him until Mo came round.

I want to speak to Alison,' I say. 'I've still got some questions for her.'

'Nah, y'alright, Cal. You're done up here. You're finished. Well done. Nowt more to do.'

'Rien a faire,' says Baz.

'Bazza's part French,' says Rossie.

'Yeah, the part that don't wash,' says Mo.

I turn and walk out of the room as the laughter hits its peak, Stokes left half-dead in the middle of it all. Through the hallway, out onto the street. I light an Embassy and draw the smoke deep into my lungs as the speed freak pushes his way into the house. In the passenger seat of the van, Alison watches me with lazy eyes. I watch her straight back.

If she had any sense, she'd be running down the street right now, but she stays put. But then, why should she run? It's worked out exactly the way she planned it.

Alison realised it didn't matter what she did, she was going to get caught. And when Stokes got my phone call, made for the money, that was the kicker. She couldn't trust him to be a willing patsy anymore, so she decided on damage limitation. Mo was coming, she might as well be here when he does, crying rape and making Stokes out to be the bad guy. Any chance I had of saving the dealer was scuppered the moment he went for the money.

Always the gambler.

I stand in the middle of the street and blow smoke at the van. She turns her head, looks at herself in the wing mirror. I walk back to my Micra, glance at the cricket bat, dotted with dried blood.

What the fuck.

I reach in for the Maxi and limp across to the van as fast as my aching legs allow. Build up speed, breeze against my face, and swing that bat straight into the windscreen, Alison screams in fright; I find a roar tear its way out of me. The windscreen spider- webs, then the bat breaks through, glances off the dashboard. I pull the Maxi free, aim at the left wing mirror and take it off with one swing. It bounces off the tarmac. Then the right mirror. Then I change hands and stab out the headlights. Once, twice, glass spilling onto the road. Pain burning my limbs as I batter the front of the van with all my strength. I knock the rest of the windscreen into the cab, Alison screeching behind her hands.

I can't touch her. If I lay this Maxi across her, I won't stop until she's dead.

Somewhere above the thumping in my ears, I can hear the sound of a car. Out the corner of my eye, I can see it too. A police car. Fucking sneaked up on me. One uniform already getting out now.

Good.

I'm about to open my mouth to say something when the copper speaks. 'You put down the bat, alright, pal?'

'I'm alright, I'm okay. You've got to go in there.' I point at the house with the bat. And I can't talk properly, feels like my lungs are on fire. Too much exertion, too little time to recuperate. 'You go in that house, man. You go in there now.'

'You just put the bat down, son.'

Behind him, the other uniform is trying to calm Alison down with a voice like anal sex. He's a squat bastard, loving every moment of it. I flare. 'Don't fuckin' talk to her, mate. She's a liar.'

'It's okay,' says the uniform. 'It's alright. You just put that bat down and we'll sort this out.'

'You want to sort it out, you go in that fuckin' house and you see what they did.'

I will,' he says. Drawing closer now, his hands out. 'Just drop the bat.'

'Fuck's sake, man.' I toss the bat to one side. It clatters onto the tarmac.

Then he's on me, faster than my brain can work. My hands slapped behind my back, the cold bite of metal on wrist. I catch a whiff of cheap deodorant. It makes me jerk in his grip, shout, 'You want to find out what's going on, you go in that fuckin' house, you go in there right the fuck now, you bunch of daft fuckin' cunts.'

The copper's elbow knocks me in the side of the head, throws me off. And he did it on purpose.

I got him, Chris. Get the girl.'

'You're making a mistake, man.'

'We'll see.' His hand on my shoulder, one on my wrists, guiding me towards the car. 'You been drinking?'

I can't speak. My tongue feels thick in the back of my throat.

'I'm going to ask you to take a breathalyser. Do you understand what I'm saying?'

'I understand what you're fuckin' saying, but you've got no idea what's going on here.'

He presses my head down as I slip into the back of the police car. My wrists feel bloodless, every muscle in my back raging tense and painful. All the injuries from the last couple of days — every knock, crack, punch and kick — come rushing through my system like a bad trip. The breath rips out of me, and it tastes like smoke.

I gaze heavy-lidded at the dashboard of the police car.

Then I see Alison being interviewed by the two uniforms. She's shaking her head, looking at the ground. Her cheeks are streaked with tears and dirt. Mo emerges from the house in the middle of a stride. When he sees the two coppers, he looks my way and a smile makes his mouth jump for a second. Then he slips an arm around Alison's shoulders and looks concerned as the diplomatic uniform asks him questions. Some nodding and Alison looks up at Mo. I feel like throwing up; she's playing this to the hilt.