his mouth.
This is banter to go with the drinks. About as friendly as he wants to get with me watching.
‘You’re right,’ says Stokes. ‘You’re always right, man. The house has the advantage. I should know fuckin’ better. It’s not like you don’t tell me that.’
George doesn’t hear him. Or if he does, he doesn’t show it.
He moves to the other end of the bar. Out of the way. And I know why.
I don’t know who you’re talking about, mate.
Georgie doesn’t know Rob Stokes. The lying bastard. The question now is how well does he know him. I make a mental note not to pay the barman. Fuck him. And his glance at me when Stokes arrived at the bar bothers me. I didn’t get a look at Stokes’ face, but I’m sure it was for his benefit. Like, here’s the guy who’s looking for you, Rob. Gets me thinking that George set the pair of us up.
Stokes drinks his bitter, then knocks back the whisky. He turns to me, says, “I know you?’
I’m shaken out of it. ‘Don’t think so, mate.’
‘You’re a Mane,’ he says.
‘Salford.’
‘Fuckin’ hell, small world. I used to live down Manchester.’
‘Whereabouts?’ I ask.
He takes a moment. ‘All over.’
If there’s any fear in Stokes, he’s not giving it up. As far as he’s concerned, I’m just another transplanted Mane. How he knows that from my accent, I don’t know. The more I drink, the more I sound like a Leith lad. Which means he’s probably been briefed.
‘Why’re you up here?’ I say.
His eyes flash, then he drinks. ‘Girlfriend wanted to move up here. I fancied a change of scenery.’
‘And what do you think of the place?’
‘Newcastle? It’s a shit pit.’ Stokes leans against the bar, regards me with red-rimmed eyes. ‘But it’s better for me right now.’
‘Why’s that?’
‘Just because.’ He finishes his pint, sucks his teeth again.
‘What’s with the Coke?’
‘Stops me getting drunk.’
‘Expensive, though.’
‘It does the job.’
‘Why you scared of getting drunk?’ he says.
Because I’ll end up twatting people like you, I think. “I just hate hangovers.’
‘Uh,’ he says. He opens his wallet again, sorts out his cash.
He removes a wad and nods to me. ‘Nice talking to you.’
‘And you,’ I say.
I finish my pint as he strides back down to the pit and heads for a blackjack table. I order another drink, sip at my Coke while I wait for George to get his arse in gear.
When he finally hands over the pint, I look at him. He’s gone white.
‘You feeling alright, George?’ I say.
‘I’m okay.’
‘Good.’ I reach into my pocket. ‘You want me to pay you now?’
He shakes his head. ‘No good here. There’s cameras all over the place. Just meet me outside after work.’
‘Right,’ I say. ‘Wouldn’t want you to get into trouble.’
‘Thanks. Is it the right guy?’
“I think you know fine well it’s the right guy, Georgie.’
He looks at the floor. I notice his hairline is receding. Older than I thought. Not that it matters much. He has to serve another customer, so I let him go.
I call for a cab when it looks like Stokes is hitting rock bottom. It’s outside waiting for me at ten-thirty when he calls it a night. As I get in, a Ford Escort’s headlights go up full blaze and Stokes tears out of the carpark.
‘That’s my mate there. I got to follow him home,’ I say to the driver.
The cab driver looks at me in the rear view.
‘I mean it.’
‘Uh-huh,’ he says and breaks into a smug grin, pulls the cab out of the carpark and makes sure he keeps two cars behind all the way.
As Stokes turns off towards Benton, I check the clock on the cab dashboard. It’s getting towards eleven. I can picture George hanging around outside the casino after his shift ends at two. Waiting for me to turn up and hand over the cash. He can go fuck himself.
I wonder how long he’ll wait there before he realises he’s been stood up.
And I can’t help smiling to myself.
THIRTY-TWO
Stokes turns off Benton Road before he hits the Metro station into a residential area. Mostly bungalows and semi-detached.
Nice gardens, well-kept. Obviously owned, no council.
But as soon as I see the block of flats, I know that’s where he lives. This is definitely rented accommodation, but the council tax is probably a bigger expense. He turns left into the block carpark.
‘Right here’s fine, mate,’ I say to the driver.
The cabbie lets me out. I tip him well and make a note of the firm’s number. I’m going to need a ride back. As he pulls away from the kerb, I sink into the shadows on a patch of wasteground, squint through the gloom.
Stokes appears, goes into the door nearest the end of the building.
So he lives in one of six flats. It’s a start. When I’m sure he’s inside, I cross the grass towards the block of flats. I check the windows for any sign of life. The one at the far end has the door to the balcony open and a flickering blue light behind curtains, probably a television. The one below has a lit window, too. I scan the rest of the flats for any signs of someone coming home.
Nothing.
I keep watching.
I wait. Watch. Listen. The television keeps blaring out.
Sounds like the theme tune to Sex and the City.
Georgie, I’m having a shitty night.
That bothers me. Something I’ve missed. Yeah, I know George knows Stokes. That’s a given. But does it go any further than that? Something’s niggling at me, something about the way George’s face tightened when Stokes came over. Something about the way he kept his distance when Stokes was at the bar, like he didn’t want to be associated with him.
They’d know each other. Obviously. If Stokes is a regular, and a regular loser at that, of course he’d know George. And the barman’s a shift junkie, so he’d be in most nights. But something about that glance, that twitch of the face. It wasn’t just the knowledge that I’d caught him out.
It was like he was scared of Stokes.
Fuck it, forget it. It’s nothing. The barrage of an approaching hangover, the twinge in my tooth, the idea I’m doing something wrong, that’s what it is. It adds up to paranoia.
Nobody’s setting me up.
A shadow crosses in front of the curtains, thrown into strobed distortion. From the flat I can hear voices, but I can’t make out what they’re saying. I try to get closer. The grass squelches underfoot and I hope to hell I didn’t step in dog shit.
