You don’t fuck me over because I’m Mo Tiernan, not ‘cause I’m Morris Tiernan’s son. You don’t fuck me over ‘cause I’ll fuckin’ cut you up if you even think about it, you hear what I’m saying?’
Columbo just looked at me. I couldn’t read him. Didn’t matter as long as he got the message.
‘Yeah, Mo,’ he said. ‘I hear what you’re saying.’
‘Make sure you fuckin’ do,’ I said.
And I took the lads and left, went back to Rossie’s gaff to prepare for the night’s business.
NINE
It’s not easy driving in Manchester city centre. In fact, it’s a pain in the arse. Minicab drivers without fear, bus drivers with more road rage than sense.
So I leave the Micra in the shadow of Victoria Station and pay for an overnighter. I shouldn’t be gone that long, but I can’t take the chance of the car being towed. That happens, and I might as well be in a wheelchair, the amount of work I could do. Hanover Street’s not far from here and the walk’ll do me good.
The wind picks up around my waist; I pull my jacket tight.
Rain is in the air. And the cold is making my head throb. As I turn the corner, I see the tattoo parlour, a place called Roscoe’s. A blue neon sign advertises ‘peircings. The windows are plastered with posters, mostly bands and DJs I’ve never heard of. One of them has a drawing of a mean-looking Goth holding up a dripping heart. I look for the handle to the front door. It doesn’t have one, so I push. A small bell rings somewhere.
An antiseptic smell in the air, the trace of lemon. The floor is covered with linoleum that makes a tacking sound as I walk across it. A couch, coffee table and dirty-looking chair dot the room. A girl sits behind a counter with more band posters stuck to it. Probably the only thing holding it together. The girl looks like she covered her face in glue and headbutted a bag of ball bearings. She’s reading a well-thumbed magazine with a bored expression. When she finally looks up, I notice her eyes are purple. It’s a little startling.
‘Can I help you?’ She shows teeth, one of them streaked with a calcium deposit. Something shines in the back of her mouth.
‘My name’s Callum Innes.’
She blinks. ‘You expected?’
‘I think so. There should have been a call.’
‘Uh-huh. Well, straight up the stairs, second door on your right. You can’t miss it.’ The girl points to a beaded curtain to my right. I nod, rifle through my jacket for my cigarettes.
When I pull the pack, she taps a sign with one purple fingernail. ‘Health regulations,’ she says.
‘Oh, right. Sorry.’
‘No biggie.’
I part the curtain, feel the strands flick against my head as I pass through. Look to my left, and there’s a small room with what looks like doctor’s table. In a chair next to it is a guy with a full-on Rod Steiger, stripped to the waist, a roll of fat hanging over his belt. He’s leafing through a thick book of tattoo designs, more of which hang on the walls. Celtic bands, swirling multicoloured dragons, flaming Bowie knives. He looks up at me and for a moment, my arse goes into spasm. I blink and see he’s wearing opaque contacts. What is it with these people and their fucking eyes?
‘You my three-thirty?’ he says.
‘Nah,’ I say. ‘I’m here to do some money.’
He runs his tongue over his top teeth. ‘Kay. Well, she’ll have told you where to go.’
‘Yeah. Up the stairs, second door on the right ‘
‘And straight on till morning,’ he says. He smiles, but only for a second. Then he goes back to his book. Yeah, thanks, Peter.
I head up a narrow stairwell. No need for a banister, the walls are that tight on me. When the space opens up into a landing, I’m confronted by a mountain masquerading as a bouncer. He’s stuffed into a tuxedo two sizes too small. His shirt cuffs ride up on his wrists, prison ink spilling out from under. I need to take a step back to look up at his face, then wish I hadn’t. He’s done time, this one, and it wasn’t easy.
‘Yeah?’ he says.
‘Callum Innes,’ I say.
He digs into his jacket pocket, pulls out a wrinkled sheet of A4, lined. Studies it as if he needs glasses but he’s too vain to get them. With a boat like that, vanity should be the last thing on his mind. I don’t tell him that. I value my scrotum too much.
‘You got ID?’ he says.
I show him my driver’s licence. He takes it, compares the picture to what’s standing in front of him.
‘Morris sent me,’ I say.
‘Big whoop. Morris sends everyone.’ He hands me my licence, jerks his head. ‘Go on.’
I try to give him a friendly smile, but it doesn’t feel right and he doesn’t offer anything in return, so I move past him into the club. A cloud of cigar smoke hits me in the eyes as soon as I step through the door. The sound of chips being click-shuffled, the muted rattle of a roulette wheel somewhere and the throbbing undercurrent of cards hitting felt.
As the smoke clears, I blink through the tears and get a better look at the room. It’s crowded with gamblers, most of them too dangerous to hit the legit casinos. The bad vibe of barely-concealed aggression. Low ceilings smother us from above, thick carpet threatens to do the same from the opposite direction. A small bar on my right, blackjack tables in front of me, the roulettes behind them. And right at the back, huge red curtains tied back to reveal private rooms.
I recognise a couple of scallies with temper problems drinking at the bar, but they don’t recognise me, thank fuck.
Tiernan’s lads. The last thing I want is to get into conversation with them. I’m sick of telling people Declan’s clean, sick of seeing their eyes glaze over.
Oh, right, yeah. Your brother’s clean, he’s off the junk.
Good on him. No more gabbing to the busies for a baggie of black. No more living in his own filth. He’s fine, that’s a good thing.
Have a drink on me.
I head to the nearest blackjack table, find a spot and get seated. Hand over a tonne to the dealer and get twenty reds back. I sit and fiddle with the chips, try to look like a proper punter. When I see the dealer staring at me, waiting, I smile and slip a tenner onto the table. He clicks onto autopilot, starts dishing out the cards.
Five minutes later and I’m down to half my stack. The other players aren’t the best conversationalists. In fact, they haven’t said a thing. They came to play.
‘Been a while since I been in here,’ I say.
A grunt from two seats down. The dealer doesn’t acknowledge me.
‘Yeah, used to be a dealer here, a guy called Rob. He still about?’
‘Card?’ says the dealer. He stares at me intently. Something in his eyes, but I can’t make out if I’ve hit a nerve or not. He might just hate all the punters in here. I look down at my cards. Sixteen. I take another. The dealer flips a four. I stay.
‘So I don’t see him about,’ I say. ‘What happened? He get the sack or something?’
No answer. The dealer continues as if I’m not there.
‘Fine, fuckin’ hell. Just trying to make a little conversation.’
The Chinese guy next to me turns his head, looks me up and down. ‘No here for talking,’ he says. ‘You play, you no play.’ He points at me with his right hand. I notice two fingers cut off at the knuckle. A tattoo on his neck, a bluebird peeking out from under the collar. He’s an old-time wannabe Triad, maybe a real one. I don’t want to find out which.
‘Okay,’ I say. ‘That’s fine with me.’
‘Card?’ says the dealer. This time, there’s a twinkle in his eye. If I didn’t know better, I’m sure he’s laughing at me. My heart starts to beat faster.
