‘That’s what I told you.’
‘What’s this got to do with?’
“I told you to do nowt, didn’t I? I said Innes was handling this.’
‘Aye, and he is.’
‘Then what’s the score with Walker, eh?’
I shook me head. “I don’t know nowt about it, Dad.’
Me head jerked back like whiplash. Me cheek caught on fire. When I brushed the water away, I saw me dad with his hand returning to his side. ‘Thought I’d raised you to be a better liar, Mo.’ He walked over to me beanbag and picked up the brandy bottle. “I told you, you took care of this, you’d fuck it up. You got Darren Walker to tail Innes, you got made.’
I gritted me teeth. Me cheek were flared, man. Fuckin’ hurt like a bastard. ‘Swear to God, Dad, I don’t know nowt about it.’
Dad took a swig from the bottle. ‘You lie to me again, son, I’ll break this bottle over your skull’
‘You wanted to keep this in the family,’ I said. ‘You got no right to get Innes on this.’
‘I had every right.’
‘Alison’s my fuckin’ sister.’
‘And you haven’t got the nous to deal with it. You’re your mother’s kid, Mo. And I kept you on from the goodness of my heart. But you’re old enough to get your arse kicked. So don’t go pissing me off. Because I don’t owe you nowt.’
‘You’re me dad.’
‘I’m your dad, but I wouldn’t trust you as far as I could shit you, son. You’re a fuck-up. You’re no good to me and you’re no good to yourself. You want to get yourself a proper fuckin’ job and stop playing the gangster, because you haven’t got the bollocks for the real thing. You carry on playing and you’re gonna get hurt. And I’m not gonna be there to kiss it better, you understand me?’
‘I can handle this,’ I said.
‘You can handle the rough stuff if you want. You get to deal with Stokes but only when Innes finds him, alright? Don’t go beaking it, Mo. You’re nowt but a pair of fists and flick knife.
Sooner you get that in your skull, the better.’
I didn’t say nowt. I stared at him. Fuck him. I wanted to deck the fucker. Cunt. Me eyes hurt. My throat hurt. Fuck him.
“I wanted to get you involved, Mo. I really did. I thought if you could handle keeping your fuckin’ nose out of this thing with Alison, you were mature enough to do some good work.
But you couldn’t even do that. So you’re locked down, son.
And if you get yourself in trouble with the law, I’ll leave you to the spurs.’
‘Dad ‘
‘You’re lucky I don’t call this whole thing off right now.
But the deal stands because I’m a soft bastard. In the meantime, you stay well away. You get me?’
I shook me head. There were no talking to the cunt.
“I ask you a question, you answer it,’ he said.
‘Aye, I get you,’ I said.
‘Good. Make sure it sinks in this time.’
And when Dad left, he took me bottle with him. I sat on the edge of the sofa and rubbed me cheek. Fuckin’ bastard, talking to me like that.
Don’t touch Innes, Mo. He’s far too fuckin’ important to piss about with. He’s fuckin’ golden balls, isn’t he? Moral fuckin’ fibre an’ all that. And a brain in his head.
He weren’t the only one with a brain.
Dad didn’t say nowt about Rossie and Baz. I could stay locked down, but them lads were free as fuckin’ birds.
Which meant that Innes were fucked big style.
NINETEEN
Stokes is with Morris’ little girl. And Alison’s in Newcastle.
It explains a lot. Why Morris was so keen to use me instead of one of his scallies. He wants to keep this hushed and he knows I can keep my mouth shut. Word gets out that Tiernan’s got Lolita for a daughter, well, anything could happen. It’s a weakness. And Morris has got any number of enemies who’d play on that something rotten. So he’s nipping the bugger in the bud before it becomes public. Keep it close, which is why I have to phone Mo when I find them. It makes sense, but something about it makes me feel sick.
So I’m going to Newcastle. I don’t know anything about the place, other than it’s chock full of angry Geordies and bad football. Girls with scrunchies so tight in their hair, they look permanently surprised. The same as Manchester, only colder, more hostile and all delivered in an accent that makes Glaswegian sound like Received Pronounciation. Wish you were here.
Check my mobile. More from Brenda.
‘Mr Innes, it’s Brenda Lang. I can understand why you don’t want to talk to me, but I need to talk to you. Please call me.’
‘Please, Mr Innes. I’d like you to call me at this number.’
More pleases. More Mister Innes. Then the messages become slurred.
‘Call me, Callum. I need your help.’
‘You promised you’d help me. You remember? You promised.’
And then finally, the heavy, throaty voice of a depressed and angry drunk: ‘Fuck you.’
She’s a charmer. I can see how a guy would be smitten enough to marry her.
I grab a pile of clothes that smell cleanish, chuck an extra pair of pants into my holdall. Nan always said, you got to wear clean skids in case you’re ever in an accident. What she didn’t mention was that it didn’t matter. At the moment of impact, you shit yourself thin. But Nan’s advice is hard to shift, even if she was a bampot. Clear my bathroom out and dump the essentials into the bag. I pocket some Nurofen. I get the feeling I’ll need them on a regular basis. Maybe I’ll see if I can get something stronger up there. Until then, I know I’ll be popping these fuckers like Smarties.
I check my nose, realise it’s not healed yet, and replace the plaster. Check my throat and it looks worse than it feels. Give it a few more days and I shouldn’t look like I’ve had a fight with a hoover.
Look at my watch. It’s early yet. But what the hell, I call Brenda Lang. I promised myself I wouldn’t, but this is the end of the line for her. Put a full stop on the end of that sentence.
‘Mrs Lang, it’s Callum Innes.’
‘Innes?’ She sounds groggy. I must have woken her up.
Sounds like she has a thumping hangover. Good. ‘I’ve been calling you.’
‘I know you have, Mrs Lang. And it’s got to stop.’
‘Wait, I wanted to apologise.’
‘For what? Grassing me up for something I didn’t do? Or leaving obscene messages on my mobile?’
‘My husband’s in critical condition.’
‘So I hear. But if you think I’m going to head round to ICU and hold a pillow on his face, you’ve got another think coming.’
She launches into a coughing fit. It sounds painful. When she’s finished, she says, ‘I know you didn’t do it, Mr Innes.’
‘That makes two of us. How’s about you tell the busies that so I don’t have walk around with an extra shadow, eh?’
“I have told them. I’m sorry. I just got scared. Is there somewhere we can meet?’
You what? ‘I’m leaving town today, Mrs Lang. And we’ve got nowt to talk about.’
“I need to find out who did this,’ she says, her voice rising into a whine.
