I didn’t, which is why I read so much in those final months. But it weighed on me. When I heard I’d been approved on condition that I report to Paulo’s club, it felt like my stomach was lined with lead. This was what freedom was about, moving from one cage to another. When I gave the Irish guy his book back, he said, ‘The Irish are the niggers of Europe.’
‘What about the Scots?’
‘The Scots are the Irish who could swim.’
Bloke had an answer for everything.
When Paulo came by before that final hearing, I was in no state for his usual bullshit. We argued hard. Part of me wanted to tell him to go fuck himself, that I’d wait until the last moment of my sentence before I agreed to work for him.
We fell into silence. I focused on the tattoo on Paulo’s arm.
A blue heart with three names: Mam, Dad and Keith.
It was fear that kept me inside, but a greater fear that made me back down and agree to his terms.
Back then, I was my own worst enemy.
Nothing’s changed.
FORTY-TWO
It’s a long night and a longer limp back to civilisation. Or Sunderland, which is the next best thing. Road signs point the way north, and the freezing wind lets me know I’m getting there. As much as I want to slump into a ditch by the side of the road and sleep for forty hours, I know I can’t. Things to be done, loose ends flapping in the breeze.
So I follow the signs along the side of the road, a constant whoosh of cars flying by. I watch the night crack into morning, grey skies above. Dishrag clouds. More rain. I let a downpour wash away the self-pity, replaced it with anger once I started walking, and now all I have are images of Stokes, George and Alison. The rage keeps me limping, even though every bone in my body wants to rest. Muttering to myself, it’s no wonder people don’t give me a ride. Well, shit on ‘em. If they don’t fancy giving a lift to a stranger covered in blood and mud and piss, then that’s their loss. I could have paid them well, made their day with a stack of cash, but no.
The great British public, otherwise known as It’s None Of My Fucking Business.
Another thing to keep me going: the promise of a service station. The signs have been pointing to one for the past six miles, and I’m desperate enough to believe in them. Anything to get out of the cold for a while, get myself cleaned up and rested before I work out my next move.
When I finally get to the service station, it’s in the arse end of nowhere and somewhere in my battered head I wonder if it’s the same one I passed when I drove up here. I hobble into the carpark, lean against the side of an articulated lorry and catch my breath. I’ve resisted smoking until now, but after the walk, I think I’ve deserved it. I light up an Embassy and break into a nasty, painful cough.
I ditch the cigarette. I haven’t healed enough to enjoy it, but it kills me to see it wasted, so I move on.
Into the rest area, past the blaring arcade machines and into the Granary Restaurant. The woman behind the counter looks like she just caught a nostril full of something rancid.
It’s probably me. I make the mistake of talking to her, and her top lip pushes further into her nose.
‘I’m sorry, sir. But the toilets are for customers only’
“I just want to clean myself up, love.’
‘And I’m sorry, but the facilities are for customers.’
‘I’m a customer.’ I look around, grab a muffin wrapped in plastic and slam it onto the counter. ‘There you go.’
She looks down at the muffin. When I follow her gaze, I notice the muffin’s all mashed up. And when I look up again, she’s staring at me like I’m a psycho.
‘How much?’ I say.
‘Three pounds.’
‘For a fuckin’ muffin?’
Her face crinkles. One step from calling the police or hammering a panic strip. I root around in my jacket, pull out my wallet. Stokes and his mates are a bunch of amateurs: from the looks of the wad in my wallet, they didn’t even have the sense to rob me. I hand the woman a tenner. When she takes it, there’s dirt on the note.
‘Have you anything smaller?’ she says.
‘Is testing my fuckin’ patience part of your job description?’
“I just asked ‘
‘Keep the change. Call it a tip. Customer service like yours, you deserve one.’
She points to a sign for the toilets and I drag myself across the restaurant. I manage to stun a couple of kids in the process. They were happy enough throwing their breakfast around, but one sniff of me seems to have killed their appetites stone dead. As I push open the door to the toilets, I hear the mother say, ‘Don’t stare.’
Listen to your mother, kids.
It’s too bright in the gents. I think about knocking one of the lights out with my shoe, but I’m too knackered to do it. I move to the basin, feel a wave of nausea rise and crash in my gut. Run the cold water and splash some on my face. I watch the dried blood streak and feel my cheeks go numb. It looks like my face is melting. My fingers brush stubble as I wipe the excess water away and the bruise on my jaw aches.
What a fucking state.
I grab a fistful of paper towels, run the hot water and start dabbing at the cuts around my eye. It’s no good, though. I can’t focus properly.
Count them off: a battered nose, swollen; major damage to the cheek and my right eye; the left eye swelling in sympathy; a nasty purple bruise where I got kicked in the throat.
Oh, there’s plenty to pay back here. And I haven’t even checked below the collar.
Back in the restaurant, I don’t get as many stares. I grab my muffin from the counter, give a cracked smile to the woman and make my way out to the phones. I have a plan. But it requires equipment, and it requires that I get some rest first.
But I can’t phone Mo without his number. And there’s nobody else I can trust up here.
Well, there’s one.
I feed a handful of change into the payphone and listen to it ring.
‘Donna, it’s me.’
‘Cal. How are you? How’s Manchester?’
‘I’m not in Manchester.’
‘What’s up with your voice? Sounds like you had the shit kicked out of you.’
‘That’ll be because I had the shit kicked out of me.’
‘Are you okay?’
‘I’ll live. I think. Look, Donna, I really need some help. Can you come and pick me up?’
‘Where are you?’
‘I’m at the services south of Sunderland, I think. I’m near Sunderland. I saw a sign for Darlington, too. I don’t know.
I’m near somewhere, but I can’t see it.’
‘Calm down.’
‘I’m calm. It’s been a rough night, that’s all.’ I close my eyes for a second and feel my legs start to buckle. Snap awake.
‘Please, Donna. I swear. This’ll be the last time.’
‘Give me an hour,’ she says.
I wander out into the lobby of the station and watch the carpark. Another hour and I’ll be out of here. And then what?
Knocking me down and beating the shit out of me stank of desperation, like Stokes didn’t know what to do with me.
