Sod it, why not? I ll be back in a minute. I climbed out and marched down the street.
Ethan s front door opened and there he was, his left arm encased in plaster from the tips of his fingers all the way to the elbow. He turned on the top step and fumbled with his keys, then stomped down the stairs and froze staring at me. I didn t do anything! I was up at the hospital: I haven t been anywhere near them!
Good. I unfolded the ticket from Little Mike s Pawn Shop. Held it out.
Ethan flinched back.
It s the receipt for your things. Pawnbroker s name and address is on there. You can redeem them.
He picked at the cast on his smashed hand. Why?
Because you know what ll happen if you fuck with my family again. I ve won. Don t need to rub your nose in it.
Ethan didn t move.
I pinned the ticket under the windscreen wiper of a Porsche parked at the kerb. Your car s at K amp;B Motors in Cowskillin. Probably haven t sold it on yet. I turned and walked back towards the Renault. Do yourself a favour and think about leaving town. Next time you don t get another chance.
I climbed in behind the wheel again.
He was still standing there, staring after me. Then he crept over to the Porsche, grabbed the pawn ticket, and got in the taxi.
As it drove past he kept his gaze fixed out the other window.
Maybe this time the little shite would take a telling.
Dr McDonald hadn t moved since I d left head resting on the dashboard, arms dangling by her sides. Urgh
You ready?
Can you go really fast and crash into something, please?
I eased out of the parking space, bearings making that wonky squealing noise every time I put the wheel on full lock. Get your seatbelt on.
I want to curl up and die
You re the one who wanted to go traipsing round town in the cold. Now get your bloody seatbelt on.
Groan. She did, then slumped back in her seat as if someone had removed all her bones. He keeps making me drink whisky, I don t even like whisky
You re a grown-up. If you don t like it, don t drink it. Elegant Georgian houses slid past as we headed for Dundas Bridge.
But then he won t like me, and he won t help me, and
Henry was on the phone. You could ve been drinking camomile tea: how would he know?
She put her hands over her face. He d know.
You can t let people pressure you into doing things, just so they ll like you. It For fuck s sake, it was like talking to an eight-year-old. Not my responsibility if she wanted to rot her liver with Henry it was her problem, not mine.
Dundas Bridge stretched over Kings River in a gentle arc of white-painted steel held up by two sets of pylons and thick black suspension cables.
Dr McDonald grabbed the dashboard. Pull over.
What? Did you see something
Oh God, pull over, pull over right now!
I stomped on the brakes and she fumbled open the passenger door, then retched. And heaved. Her back hunched and convulsed, arse rising out of the seat with each contraction.
Then she sagged, one hand holding on to the door handle as she spat into the gutter. Urgh
You sure you want to go door-to-door?
Urgh, bile
What did I tell you about not having breakfast?
More spitting. Then she hauled herself back into the car. Had a big fry-up on the boat. Stayed down till about half eight.
I pulled out again, taking us up onto the bridge. The Kings River was a gunmetal ribbon below us. Do you really need a lecture about matching drink for drink with an alcoholic?
I don t feel well
There s a bloody shock.
The granite blade of Castle Hill loomed above us, like the bow of a submarine breaching through the valley floor, casting everything around it into shadow. On the other side of the bridge, I took a left, skirting the twisted cobbled streets and heading for the post-war beige-and-grey sprawl of Cowskillin.
Where are we
I m not letting you interview anyone like that: you ll scare the serial killers. Up ahead the City Stadium dominated the surrounding housing estate like a big metal BDSM mistress. Trust me, I know what ll sort you out.
The Renault bumped over the rutted dirt of the parking lot. About half a dozen morons were marching in a little circle outside the main entrance to the Westing, each one carrying placards
with things like GAMBLING IS SATAN S PATH! HE THAT HASTETH TO BE RICH HATH AN EVIL EYE! and JESUS WILL SAVE US FROM OUR SINS!!! Breath streaming out behind them.
From the front, the Westing had all the bland grey-and-blue-painted-corrugated-iron charm of a cash-and- carry on a rundown industrial estate. Six-foot-high plastic letters were mounted above a little recessed opening: The Westing, and the silhouette of a sprinting greyhound, bordered with blue and red neon. As if anyone didn t know what this place was. Or who owned it.
I parked next to a dented minibus with PaedoPopeMobile in spray-paint graffiti along the side, then climbed out into the cold afternoon.
The greyhound track sat on the edge of a sprawling Fifties housing development. A couple of pubs lurked on the other side of the road along with a minicab office, and a newsagents, the shiny modern bulk of the City Stadium looming in the background.
A stray beam of sunshine carved its way through the heavy clouds, glittering off Bad Bill s Burger Bar a jury- rigged Transit van that scented the air with the dark, savoury smell of frying onions and mystery meat.
The man himself lounged in a folding chair in front of the van, sunbathing and smoking a cigarette and scratching himself. His pale hairy stomach bulged out between a pair of fraying jeans and a pink short-sleeved shirt. Arms thick as cabers, tattoos snaking about beneath the fur.
He looked around, squinted at me, then jerked his chin in the air, setting everything wobbling. Nodded towards his van. He pinged his cigarette butt off into the shadows, levered himself out of the chair, stomped to the back doors, and clambered inside. The Transit rocked on its springs.
Dr McDonald shifted her feet. Are you it s not exactly the most hygienic-looking of places. I m sure it s got its own rustic charm, but I can t Ash?
I was already walking.
Great, now I get alcohol poisoning and food poisoning.
By the time we d reached the serving hatch Bill was tying an apron around his swollen middle, the rumble of a kettle filling the van s interior with steam. A radio burbled out mass-produced plastic pop, fighting against the hiss and crackle of onions on a flat greasy griddle.
You believe these pricks? Bill jerked a thumb at the protesters. Like that s going to make a pube s worth of difference.
I sniffed at the menu chalked up on the side of the van where the paint was matt, like a blackboard. Two teas: white, sausage buttie, and a hangover special.
Dr McDonald tugged at my sleeve. But I don t
Like I said: trust me.
Bill took the stainless-steel lid off a deep-fat fryer and dumped six sausages into the hot oil. A handful of streaky bacon rashers went in after them, popping and crackling. He scratched himself with a pair of tongs. These religious types get right on my moobs.
The song faded out on an autotuned harmony. And we ll be playing the other three semi-finalists songs after
