‘You’re kidding,’ said Baz.
I punched him in the arm. ‘C’mon.’
We went out the hotel and I clocked a bunch of girls with backpacks. Looked like proper tourists. ‘Alright, girls?’ said Rossie.
They didn’t say nowt, just walked past.
‘Fuckin’ lezzes.’
‘So what now?’ said Baz. “I ain’t sleeping in the back of the van, I tell you that right now.’
‘We go up the airport,’ I said. ‘Before that, I want a pint.’
Left the van in an NCP and wandered about in the town.
Fat fuckin’ Geordies everywhere I looked, man. Some proper ugly in this town. Saw this place called Dobsons and we went inside ‘cause it had cheap pints an’ that. Got settled at a table by the window and I rubbed some whizz on me gums ‘cause the moggies were still in me system, slowing us right down. I supped me pint and wiped me mouth. Looked around at me posse, but they was looking down, bags under the eyes.
‘Cheer up,’ I said. ‘Might never happen.’
Rossie said, ‘What we doing up here, Mo?’
“I told you.’
“I thought your dad had you locked down.’
‘And I thought you said I were a grown fuckin’ man.’
“I said that?’
‘Aye, Rossie. You said that. No more fuckin’ doves for you, man. Your short-term’s fucked. Summat you got to learn, mate. I am a grown fuckin’ man. I do what I want to do because I can. I don’t give a shit what me dad says because you know what? He’s not gonna be around forever. One day some cunt’s gonna bury a hatchet in his fuckin’ head and they’re gonna need someone to help ‘em do it.’
Baz stared at us. ‘You’d do your dad?’
‘If I got the right offer.’
‘That’s fucked up.’
‘You’d do Morris Tiernan,’ said Rossie. His mouth were twitching into a grin.
‘What’s Morris Tiernan, man? It’s a name. It’s a bloke with a rep. But a rep only goes so far, know what I mean?’
‘You’refucked up,’ said Rossie. He shook his head and took a sup.
‘You don’t think I’d do it?’
“I think you better stop with the pills, Mo. You sound mashed.’
‘You don’t think I’d do it.’
‘Nah, mate. I don’t think you’d do your own dad. Don’t make sense.’
I gulped me pint, wiped me mouth. Me throat were still all dry. ‘Don’t make sense. Lot of things don’t make sense. You don’t know what he’s like. And I’m not saying any day soon, but you mark mine, Rossie, one day I’ll get an offer and I’m saying that when that day comes, I might just fuckin’ take it with a smile on me face.’
‘You’re full of shit,’ said Rossie.
The speed kicked in with a twitch and I wanted to go drink-chucking again, but I kept it down. I wouldn’t have got a decent throw in, not with me finger in a splint. Proper fucked me up that one. Go round Paulo’s in the middle of the night with a couple cans of petrol, torch that fuckin’ place to the ground, watch it burn from across the street with five doses in me blood. Paulo lived there, even better. I wondered what a fuckin’ cock jockey smelled like when he burned. Probably fuckin’ lilacs or some shite.
Or give the outside of the club a new coat of paint. Me and Baz, we went to Homebase and I picked up an armful of spray cans. I had it all planned out in me mind, paedopaulo, sprayed ten feet fuckin’ tall in red paint, aids scum right next to it. I had visions of mobs with flaming torches ‘cause of that one.
They’d come storming down on his club like it was Frankenstein’s castle, smoke the fuckin’ monster out into the street and crucify him. Just the thought of that made me balls jump.
But I kept it buzzing under the skin. That were for later. I couldn’t be a fuckin’ kid about it. A lad what gets knocked and knocks straight back, he’s a fuckin’ chump, know what I mean? It takes time for payback. Time makes it sit better.
Until I could pay Paulo back for me fuckin’ finger I had Innes on me mind.
And I weren’t the only one. I beamed back to the pub, saw Rossie staring out the window. ‘What?’
‘Is that Innes?’ he said.
I got out me seat, knocked me pint over. Lucky it only had a couple thumbs of beer in it. Nudged Rossie out the way and looked out at the street.
Well, fuck me. ‘Rossie, get out there and follow the cunt.’
‘You what?’
I gave him bug eyes. ‘Get. Out. There.’
TWENTY-NINE
More time to kill, and the beer is wearing off. I think about another drink, maybe something stronger, but I don’t want to chance it after last night. It’s a short step from that first shot to becoming a bloodstain on a bed sheet.
Instead, I wander into town, looking for something free to pass the time. Pass a pub that looks too dingy for me and check my watch. Just after four. I find myself outside a gallery, then inside. Not my usual cup of tea, but it’ll while away a couple of hours. A sign says I have to turn my mobile off. I ignore it.
An exhibition of portraits, or so the posters say. I follow the signs, stop in front of a huge painting. Proper Old Testament stuff, it looks like. When I read the plaque, it tells me it’s the destruction of Sodom. From the looks of it, a Catholic put that bastard on canvas, probably Scottish. Fear and sadism. I remember it from my childhood. Sometimes I thought about telling my dad I was gay, just to see him hit the roof. But cowardice kept the thought at bay.
I move away from the painting, scan a couple of countryside landscapes that don’t do anything for me. Usual sheep and lakes. An England that never existed except in the imaginations of those rich enough to buy this shite.
A guy in a black leather jacket shows the same distaste. I don’t blame him. Then I head upstairs for the portraits.
The door to the exhibition has a blackout curtain over the glass panes. Looks like it’s closed, but I try the handle anyway.
When I step inside, it’s dark apart from a circle of upturned televisions in the centre of the floor. And this white noise of voices, sounds like screaming, and they’re all out of sync.
Movement catches my eye, and there’s a young guy bent almost double, walking around the circle.
For some reason, I can’t breathe.
I stare at the young guy, wary of him. It sounds like a killing floor in here and the way he moves – slow, deliberate steps backwards, thrown into relief by the flickering tellies he looks like something out of Twin Peaks. Jerky, but purposeful. I can’t quite make out his face, not sure if he has one.
He looks straight at me and I nearly shit myself.
Not as much as he does, though. He twitches with fright, then straightens up, makes for the door.
Christ. The guy was just like me. And we scared the hell out of each other. I stay in the room for a while longer, crane to see what’s showing on the televisions. A choir, different shots, looks like old footage from the Proms.
No wonder he got a fright. This is some creepy stuff.
The door squeals open again, and the guy in the black leather jacket steps into the room. He doesn’t flinch, doesn’t look at the televisions.
He just watches me.
I watch him right back.
