‘Then you need to trust the police.’
‘If it’s a question of money ‘
‘It’s a question of being fucked over once already, Mrs Lang. Look, I’m sorry you don’t have the perfect marriage, and I’m sorry that your husband got done over. But you’ve got to understand, you put me in a position where I can’t play the PI for you. Get someone else.’
‘You were the only person I talked to, you know.’
“I don’t care. It was none of my business then, and it’s certainly none of my business now.’
“I thought you were a professional,’ she says.
‘A professional what?’
And I hang up before she answers. I suck my teeth. A bad taste in my mouth. I try to swill it out with coffee, but my brew’s gone cold. I spit back into the mug, go to the kitchen, drink a glass of water and stick the kettle on. As I wait for it to boil, I lean against the counter and stare at a brown stain on the lino.
That could have gone better. But fuck it; it’s over with now.
Hopefully. I pour the dregs from my mug into the sink and make myself another coffee. Light a cigarette as I walk back through to the living room.
Christ, what did she think I was going to do? The woman got me nicked. She think I was just going to roll over and forget it? Probably. Most people do. Brenda, Donkey, Morris fuckin’ Tiernan.
But this Innes has balls.
I shouldn’t be working for Morris; I know that. But it’s something I have to do. I’ll try to keep Paulo out of it as much as I can. Let him know that he’s not involved, and this is something that I’ll finish, no harm done. It won’t take more than a couple of days of visiting casinos before I find Rob Stokes. The way Kev went on, the dealer has a gambling problem. And with all that cash at his disposal, the first itch he’s going to get is to punt it.
It’s not much of a plan, but it’s something. It’s a lead. And a lead’s better than sitting here.
I grab cash and keys, head out of the flat. As I tuck some of Morris’ money into my wallet, I notice a brown fleck on one of the notes. I pick at it with my nail and it comes away. Dirty money, blood money, it bubbles to the surface of my mind.
And then I tell myself to shut up.
Yeah, keep telling yourself this is going to work out peachy, Gal.
Down the stairs, out into the carpark. My Micra looks like it’s fit for the scrap yard. I only hope she can make it up to Newcastle and back. But what the hell, I’m living dangerously.
The caffeine’s slipped into my blood stream, got me a little hyper. As I slip behind the wheel, I slam in Hamell On Trial.
‘I’m good to go, I’m good to go, y’know…’
The lads’ club still has the smell of church about it, that musty odour of enforced worship hanging in the air. At first glance, you’d think Paulo was running an under-age fight club. The lads in here have scars; they fight like they mean it. All Paulo tries to do is control it, mould that rage into something that might end up in a career. That, or they tire themselves straight. Hard knocks, but it seems to work.
I walk through the middle of it, strip lighting above giving everyone jaundice, casting their eyes way back in the sockets.
A couple of lads I know are in the corner, slapping gloves. As I pass, one of them turns and gives me a nod that passes for a greeting. I nod back.
Paulo’s in the ring, a ginger kid’s forehead against his. He’s talking low and intense. Looks like they’re praying together, but I know he’s prepping the kid, jazzing the little fucker up. I notice that Paulo’s holding up a pair of focus pads. As the kid steps back, Paulo brings up the pads and hunkers down behind them. The kid’s eyebrows knot in the centre of his forehead, his eyes crinkled at the edges.
Then the kid lets fly, windmilling three wild punches into the air. His fourth connects without force. His fifth catches the edge of the pad and throws him off-balance. He stops, wheezing. As I get closer, I watch the kid wipe a mixture of tears and snot from his red cheeks. Paulo slaps him on the back, sees me, and tells the kid to get changed.
‘Y’alright, Cal?’ he says.
‘I’m okay.’
‘Just, I ain’t seen you about, son. Thought you might be avoiding the place.’
‘Nah, I’ve just been busy.’
Paulo leans against the ropes. ‘You up for a spar, then?’
I check my watch. ‘Nah, mate. Can’t do it. I’ve got business.’
‘Going somewhere?’
‘Newcastle.’
‘You’ll need a warm-up, then. Them lads up there, they’re not the Queensbury Rules type.’
“I don’t know if I’ve got the time.’ Check my watch again to make the point. I’d thought about telling Paulo exactly what’s going on, but all that just flew right out the window. I’ve bottled it and, yeah, I’m a fucking coward, but what about it?
I want out of here. And once this job’s all over and done with, maybe I’ll find the nerve to come back.
This is Paulo, this is the guy who got me out on the community visits, basically got me out of prison. And I bring the Tiernans into his club. Talk about gratitude.
‘C’mon,’ he says. ‘We’ll get you loose before you hit the road.’
As I get changed, my stomach growls. I don’t feel right this is a bad idea – but there’s fuck all I can do about it. My tooth tweaks and I suck the blood from my mouth, wonder how much I can swallow before I get sick. Feels like I’ve already reached that stage. I look around for a gum-shield, but can’t find one, so I walk out into the club hoping that Paulo’s going to go easy on me.
He’s already up in the ring. As I swing through the ropes, he turns and smiles at me. He’s not wearing a gum-shield either. Which means he wants to talk.
As soon as he notices the bruises on my neck, Paulo says, ‘What’s up with that?’
‘Nothing,’ I say.
‘Them love bites?’
‘No, they’re not love bites.’
He bounces on the balls of his feet, slaps his gloves together. ‘Then what’s up with your neck, Cal?’
“I told you.’
‘What’s it called? That auto-erotic stuff? You’re not into that, are you? Never struck me as the kinky type.’
I throw a weak punch. ‘Fuck off.’
He knocks my glove away with his right. ‘I’m just asking.’
‘I’m not kinky, Paulo. You know me better than that.’
‘What about your nose?’
‘Cut myself shaving.’
‘Uh-huh.’
We circle each other. I try to concentrate on what I’m going to tell him about Morris, but he breaks it with a swing to the left. I catch the side of it with my cheek. My tooth screams. Give my head a shake and I move that little bit faster. Paulo’s a big lad and he lumbers, but he can take a shitload of damage before he breaks step. Comes from taking beating on a regular basis for the last forty years, lines and scars marking his face like a roadmap of bad moves.
‘Pity you weren’t in yesterday,’ he says. ‘You had a visitor.’
‘Yeah?’
‘Old mate of yours.’ He shakes his head, working out the kinks in his neck. ‘A copper.’
He bounces to my left, and I jump too far, miss what should have been an easy blow. He punches me lightly on the shoulder. Playing with me. Testing the water.
‘Donkin?’ I say.
‘Aye, that was his name. Fat lad, looked like he could use a spar himself. Except he had scar tissue on his knuckles.’
‘What’d he want?’
