I can’t breathe. Trying to cough, but my vision starts closing in.
I roll onto my side. Stokes plants another size eleven in my gut. I spew onto the road, tears searing the cuts around my eyes. I try to blink, but it hurts too much. Coughing, spluttering air out of my lungs, bile burning the back of my throat.
Stokes drops my mobile in front of my face, makes sure I’m paying attention. Then he brings his foot down on it. I flinch hard, my body jerking. Once cracks the fascia, twice kills the display. The third smashes the mobile to pieces. He grinds his heel on the plastic then leans over. I feel the wet slap of gob hit my cheek. ‘Tou-fuckin’-che,’ he says.
I want to weep. He’s right. I just saved Mo’s number onto the mobile and left it. There are other ways of getting it again, but that would be admitting failure. And Stokes must know I didn’t call Mo yet. Which means something that I didn’t want to admit to myself.
Alison’s the one that fucked me over.
Another volley of kicks, and I’m on my back. I keep wanting to draw my knees up over my stomach, but I don’t have the strength.
‘What d’you wanna do with him?’ The big guy. Yeah, answer him, tell him. Let’s get this over and done with.
‘We kill him, he’ll be out of the picture,’ says George.
Thanks, mate. You’ll get yours.
‘We kill him, we’ll have to deal with his body.’
‘Howeh, Rob, he’s fucked up. Might as well follow through. What’s to deal with? We dump him in a fuckin’ ditch and call it a night.’
‘It’s too risky. People know he’s up here,’ says Stokes.
‘Aye, but we’ll be gone.’
“I’ll be gone, George.’
‘He’s grassed you right up,’ says George.
‘Nah,’ says Stokes. ‘He hasn’t told Mo where I am. Least that’s what Alison says.’
‘Who gives a fuck? Better safe than sorry.’
‘Take it down a notch, Georgie. You’re beginning to sound like a proper psycho. Far as I’m concerned, this isn’t worth the bother.’
‘And I’m saying better safe than – ‘
‘How about you shut up, George? You’re not the bloke Morris wants. You’re a fuckin’ tourist, so hang onto yourself.’
My lips start flapping. In my mind I’m calling George all the bastards under the sun, but it comes out as a gurgling wheeze. George doesn’t like it. He kicks me hard. I roll over onto my other side, curl up into a ball. Shut the world out, try to keep breathing.
Best to keep my mouth shut. Let them sort this out.
Stokes says, ‘We’ll dump him in a ditch. By the time he makes it back to Newcastle, we’ll be long gone.’ He leans close to me. ‘You hear that, Innes? Long fucking gone. You messed up, son. You dropped the ball.’
I can’t see him anymore.
‘Pick him up,’ says Stokes.
‘Fuck that, I’m not touching him.’
‘George, don’t make me tell you twice, mate.’
I feel hands under me again, feel the sky get that little bit closer before my head falls to my chest. The world starts spinning and I have to blink to keep myself from throwing up again. I’m upright, looking down now. I notice my shoelaces are untied. Wondering how the fuck that happened. My ankle turns, a stabbing pain at the top of my foot. Then I drop face forward into a ditch by the side of the road. The mud is cool against my face. If I close my eyes, I can pretend it’s my bed.
Footsteps disappearing, the sound of the engine.
They’re not going to kill me, but they’ve left me for dead.
Small mercies.
I wait for the engine sound to fade away. All that’s left are the sounds of passing cars and my own whistling breath. It’s cold out here, getting colder all the time. I should make a move, but I don’t want to. Not yet. Enjoy the rest.
My head starts feeling heavy, then the fear of coma spikes me with adrenaline. I put my hands out into the mud, sinking them deep. I try to push myself to my knees. It takes a couple of attempts, and when I get there, my head’s thumping. Keep my eyes narrowed, because the world’s going to get bright soon, I know it. It might be dark here, but the headlights of oncoming cars feel like they’re burning my eyes right out of their sockets.
I concentrate on the road, lit up, raindrops like stars. They burst as my focus shifts.
And something catches my eye. It shines white against the tarmac. I pull myself closer on my hands and knees.
A tooth.
That tooth.
I finally got the bastard out.
And it hurts to laugh, but I do it anyway.
PART THREE
Blue Skies for Everyone
Parole is granted on the basis of reports by prison and probation staff, on the nature of your offences, your home circumstances, your plans for release and your behaviour in prison.
An Irish guy with a soft voice gave me a book about the American penal system.
‘Read this,’ he said. ‘But I want it back. It’s part of my library.’
I read it in a day.
Six months before the Parole Eligibility Dates and thereafter annually you will be asked whether you wish to apply for parole.
This book was about the Depression in America, made up of all these first-hand accounts of convicts over there. And they were fucked from the start. See, these guys had no education, they were mostly black, and had fuck all in the way of civil rights. No money in your pocket, you’re sent down for vagrancy. You stay too long in one place, you’re loitering.
Four months before your FED you will have the opportunity to see the reports and to make written representations stating why you believe you should get parole and what you will do on release.
God help you if you wanted a little action. The girls might have been pros, but they were being employed by the law to snare these guys. You got drunk, thought that girl with the come-to-bed eyes actually wanted a slice of you, the next thing you knew you were behind bars.
Three months before FED you will be seen by a member of the Parole Board who will write a report for the Board. You can see and comment on the report. He will be a kindly-looking guy in a beige shirt, white collar. He won’t ask you if you feel like you’ve been rehabilitated, because that’s a bullshit question.
In ‘30s America, convicts were leased out as slave labour to wealthy landowners. When their sentences were up, they were pressured into signing contracts they couldn’t read.
Then they were slaves for another ten years. Couldn’t leave, either. Not unless they wanted armed guards with hounds on their tail.
Two months before FED – a panel of Board members will consider your case. You will not attend. They will focus primarily on the risk to public of a further offence being committed were you released, although they will consider the benefits of early release under supervision.
A Glaswegian called Harry Beggs collared me when the news filtered along the spur. He threw an arm around my shoulder and said quietly, ‘Don’t think about it, son. You think about it, you’ll go nuts instead of flying, ken? Dinnae let them clip yer wings before you get a chance to use ‘em.’
