God, I’ve got to try and think straight here. Okay, at the most, there’s five guys in this car, not counting me. That’s five guys who pose a threat. More than likely, there’s three. Unless the driver didn’t get out after they ran me down.
Fuck. Concentrate.
That weak voice, he’s my first point of call if this gets nasty. When this gets nasty. I’ll be able to connect that voice to a build, no bother. And if I know him, and I recognise the voice, it’ll give me the extra fire I need to kick the cunt in the jewels. Because I’m not about to wade into big bloke and hope the rest of them go running scared. I do that, the big bloke’ll just stomp on my neck while the rest of them wade in.
So nah, go for the weakling, aim a swing at that big fucking mouth.
Feels like my gums are on fire. Want to go back to sleep.
Want to pass out.
I poke the tooth.
Keep thinking, Cal. This is important. Keep awake, son.
Okay, so Stokes finds out about my visit to Alison. He gets scared and stupid, reckons the best thing to do would be to take me out of the equation. Fair enough, but how did he find out about me?
He smelled a rat at the casino. Placed me by the Mane accent I never knew I had. Another time I should have kept my mouth shut. But then he talked to me first. What was I supposed to do? Another punter could have told him. The guy with his flies open. Or Pauline could have spilled something to keep him at the other casino. But I know who it was.
It’s as clear as crystal who grassed me.
Georgie.
He tipped off Stokes. Just like he tipped me off, playing both sides to see who’d pay him more. Or maybe he did it because I Stood him up.
And that weak voice, that’s George. A high-pitched version of him, anyway. A George scared out of his mind. And it would make sense that he was driving too. “I think I got him.’
That’s about right. This car’s too small for Stokes’ Escort. If it had been Stokes behind the wheel, I get the feeling I wouldn’t be breathing now.
It was George.
He sets me up, tells Stokes. Stokes goes home, talks to Alison. And guess who just paid her a visit? But then, why would she mention that? I’m missing something.
So here I am, rattling about like the last Pringle in the tube, coming up with theories left, right and centre. But then, when you’re trapped in the boot of a car that knocked the shit out of you, you tend to take stock. Alison, George, Stokes, Mo, Morris, even Donna. The whole lot of them, whirling around my head and it’s difficult to stop them colliding with insane conclusions. I’ve been stitched up, I’m in pain. I can’t think straight and all I want to do is go to sleep. Because I know the worst is just around the corner. I know as soon as this car stops, I’m going to be dragged out of this car and get a kicking I won’t be able to crawl away from.
I can take a beating with the best of them. I’ve proved that since I started pretending to be a PI. But I like to have a good reason to get knocked about. I do something drunk and stupid, that’s fine. I pick a fight with the wrong lad, that’s also fine. That’s a lesson learned and chalk it up to bad decisionmaking on my part.
But this? A car ploughs into me and I get bundled off somewhere remote, cloak-and-dagger style, it doesn’t fit with me. It’s too serious, too fucking life-threatening. It’s not something I’ve experienced, and the thought of it becoming a reality makes my bowels loose.
I’ll be buggered if I shit myself too. I clench.
The engine growls, the rumble under me slowing to a dull vibration. I can hear the click of the indicator light.
We’re pulling in somewhere.
This is it. I tell myself to buckle up.
FORTY-ONE
The first punch lands heavy against my cheek, the second fires up a ball of pain where I think my nose used to be.
I hit the road in a heap, hands in my armpits, legs curled under me, dead to the world.
It’s cold out here, the middle of nowhere. Some motorway, surrounded by black trees and all the life sucked out of the scene by the cars that whoosh by. It’s hardly private, but who’s going to stop when they’re going sixty. And it affords these guys a convenient hard-shoulder burial if they need it.
My right eye is closing up. Through the slit, I can make out three of them. One of them is Stokes. I recognised his voice as soon as I could fit it to a figure. One of the others is George, I know it. The third is a mystery to me, but he’s doing most of the grunt work and he’s got power in his fists.
I try to sit up. Another blow to the head makes me reconsider. And fuck, I can’t see again. It hurts, but doesn’t add too much. If this big guy knew how to beat the shit out of someone, to keep the pain going, he’d be dangerous. As it stands, he’s just here to batter me into submission, which shouldn’t take too long.
I cough up blood and spit. Christ, I’d kill for a cigarette. A passing car throws a light over George. He’s skinnier than I remember. I smile at him as best I can, say, ‘You’re fuckin’ dead, mate.’ But it comes out like gawfaggagekmay…
He gets the point. His face creases up and he pushes the big guy out of the way, launches a weak right at my head. It connects with my scalp, but it hurts him more than it hurts me. He takes a step back, a pained expression on his face. He blows on his knuckles, eyes sparking at me from the shadows.
‘Salford, eh?’ says Stokes.
I turn my head to the sound of his voice, but I can’t look up. I concentrate on the sparkling tarmac. A light rain is falling. It’s the only thing keeping me conscious.
‘What d’you wanna do with him?’ A Geordie voice. Must be the big guy. Sounds like a big guy, but not the voice of a muscleman. More like he’s having trouble breathing. If I can keep him battering me, maybe he’ll have a heart attack or something.
Jesus, get your head together.
‘Fuckin’ Salford,’ says Stokes. ‘Not what I expected, like.
Has to be said. I expected Mo.’
I jerk my head up and grin at him. I can taste blood in my mouth and my lips are wet. I must be a right looker.
‘You like that?’
I keep grinning.
‘You think that’s funny?’
I push bloody spittle through my teeth and shake my head slowly. Fuck am I doing? Slap-happy, punch-drunk, that oneway ticket to Palookaville checked and stamped. Whatever it is, it’s messed up my coordination.
Stokes steps forward and crouches down in front of me.
Streaming headlights carve clarity in his face. I can make out a deep scratch on his cheek, a bruise swelling his bottom lip. He reaches into his jacket and I automatically flinch.
He smiles. Getting off at playing the hard man.
When his hand emerges from his jacket pocket, it’s holding my mobile.
Ah, for fuck’s sake…
‘You know Mo’s number off by heart, do you, Innes?’
My head falls forward.
‘Lad like you,’ he says, ‘a fuck-up scally like you, I don’t think you’ve written it down, have you? Nah, what you did was just stick it on your mobile and leave it at that.’
I shake my head, bring up some blood-laced lung butter and let it fly full in his face. He recoils, stands and kicks me in the throat. I drop back, end up sprawled on the tarmac, staring through a haemorrhage at a moonless sky. Choking.
