Saturday's Child

But then, he's a rat and he's got a survival instinct. And how do I know he didn't lie to me last night?

Because you were beating the shit out of him with a cricket bat, Cal.

Ah, Jesus. That Maxi. Still got blood on it. If George was doped up, or if he was just plain sick of the pain, he'd talk. He talked to me. And I get picked up for a domestic with a cricket bat in the same twenty-four hours; it doesn't take a genius to put it together.

You'd think I'd know better by now.

I haven't been charged, though. They're probably letting me sweat it out in here, get myself worked up so I'll tell them anything rather than go back inside. Once they find out I've got form, they'll throw that in my face. They'll make me feel guilty, they'll bring up Paulo, how I disappointed him. They'll go easy on me if I just cooperate.

'We know you're not to blame here, Cal. You just tell us how you got into this and we'll see what we can do.'

See what we can do. Working for Morris Tiernan, it's like the mark of Cain. Invisible to everyone but the police and fellow criminals. The criminals keep the respect coming, the fear flashing behind their eyes. The police look at it as a beautiful opportunity, a way to make their names. This is one of Tiernan's, this is the one that might roll over. The fucking busies pray for people like me, the ones so scared they'll say anything to keep out of prison, the ones that have that wee snippet of information that'll put the big bosses behind bars. They look at me the way Ness looked at Capone's accountant.

I can't keep thinking about this. It's what they want me to do. I'm innocent until proven otherwise. Everything I did, it was because I had to. I didn't have any other choice. I sit back on the bunk and stare at the cell door.

Donna doesn't want to see me hurt. As if self-preservation wasn't important enough, there's a part of me that doesn't want to disappoint her. Even though I'll probably never see her again.

If the probation services find out about this, I'm recalled. Back inside. And it doesn't matter if I'm guilty or not. Just the appearance of an illegal act is enough to get their knee to jerk.

Hanging out with known criminals, those that put me inside in the first place.

Not cooperating with the Manchester Met on a man- slaughter case in which I'm the prime suspect.

GBH with a GM Maxi cricket bat.

Criminal damage to a van and attempted kidnap.

And all this with a bloodstream that's a hundred per cent proof.

They won't prove half of it, but I deserve my old cell back. I haven't been able to call anyone yet, and I don't know

who I'd call if I got the chance. I don't have a lawyer anymore, and I doubt Paulo would help. Not now. I'm left alone here with no idea what's going on.

Someone's coming up the corridor. The kind of boots a copper wears, the steady, officious sound of someone who knows those footsteps put the shits up people. They stop in front of my cell door. The clatter of the hatch coming down, then keys in the lock.

'Your briefs here,' says a uniform who's built like a cathedral and has the face of a priest.

I don't have a brief.'

The uniform looks startled for a moment. Then he says, 'Well, he's here.'

'You got the wrong cell, officer.'

'You're Innes.'

'Uh-huh.'

'Then your brief's here.'

I get to my feet, brush myself down and follow the copper to a waiting interview room.

FIFTY-SEVEN

Stokes were out of it when we got back to the house. I told Baz to go and grab Alison's things from upstairs and I went into the kitchen, stood in front of Stokes and lit a ciggie. Smoked it halfway down and watched the bastard squirm in his seat. His head came back and he tried to look at us with his one good eye.

'You're a lucky cunt, Rob,' I said.

His neck couldn't keep his head up. It dropped down. His shoulders started heaving, like he were crying. Poof.

'I'm gonna let you live. You remember that. Anyone asks, you tell 'em Mo Tiernan let you live. I'm fair.'

Stokes said nowt, opened his mouth. Closed it again. I went up to him, untied his hands and gave him me ciggie. He coughed it out onto the floor. I didn't pick it up. Had all this spittle and shite on it. Fuck it, let it burn the place down.

'Get yourself cleaned up, Rob. Else you won't be able to pull any more fuckin' teenyboppers, know what I mean?'

Went out into the hall, and there were Baz with an Asda bag overflowing with Alison's stuff.

'Anything she wanted in particular?' said Baz.

'Give your head a shake, Baz.'

When I got back in the van, Alison were staring at us. I chucked the bag at her. 'There you go.’

‘Did you kill him?' she said. 'Nah, I spared him.'

'Spared him. Fuck's sake, Mo, you think you're a proper hard arse, don't you?'

'I can go in and finish the job, you want me to.’

‘He'd done nowt to you.'

'He'd done plenty to us. He'd fucked me sister, stole me money.'

'It wasn't your money. You think this is about that? You could've left him alone, Mo. But nah, you have to go proving you're the hard arse.'

'Dad knows what I am.'

'Dad reckons you're a fuck-up,' she said. Her eyes was blazing now. 'Dad said to me that he reckons you're a fuck- up.'

'When'd you talk to Dad?'

'After I called you, you daft bastard. When I told him you were up here. Told him what you said an' all. Told him everything. Told him it was you what got me pregnant in the first place, told him the whole fuckin' story.'

I scratched me cheek. Sat in silence for a bit. Then I said, 'What'd he say?'

'He said that you were a fuck-up and he'd deal with you when you got back.'

'He said that?'

'Yeah.'

'He said that.'

'You fuckin' deaf? Yeah, he said that.'

I grabbed her by the hair and bounced her fuckin' head off the dashboard. When I pulled her back up, her face were all bloody. She breathed red bubbles. She gabbed on. I twatted her against the dash again, harder this time. Wanted to keep going, but when I pulled her back, she'd shut her fuckin' yap. Let go of her hair and smoothed it down, looked out the windscreen.

'You show me some fuckin' respect,' I said.

She were weeping. I looked at Rossie. He were staring at me like I'd just broke her neck right in front of him.

'She's me sister, Rossie. Call it sibling rivalry. Now stick her in the back of the van before she fucks us off even more.'

FIFTY-EIGHT

I know this guy. I've seen him before. He's a shitheel with all morals of a sewer rat, but with the bonus of personal hygiene thrown in. He's an old-school gang lawyer, the kind of local lad who had his tuition paid and his accent softened in order to represent the best interests of his criminal clientele. I know him, because I was offered him once before when I was looking at a stretch inside. The stretch I ended up doing because I turned him down flat.

Derek Clayton, LLB and wannabe QC. If it wasn't for Morris Tiernan, Clayton would be practising personal injury and advertising on Living TV in a battered ill-fitting suit. As it turns out, he's wearing something tailored and expensive, the kind of suit that doesn't wear its label on its sleeve. The kind of suit I'll never be able to afford. He cries out for the legit gig, but working for Morris Tiernan has aborted that baby, so he contents himself with the cash.

Clayton extends a hand to me as I enter the interview room and I take it. A handshake means nothing to a lawyer and his hands are too dry. We're alone in here, a pre-interview briefing. Which doesn't bode well.