‘Cause I heard you was like a private eye.’
“I wouldn’t go that far,’ I say.
‘How far would you go?’
‘I’ve done some work like that, yeah. Word gets around, I’ll do some again.’
Mo nods, but it’s not an affirmative. More like the DJ in his skull just mixed in a buzzing song. ‘Fuckin’ hell, I wouldn’t have took you for a gumshoe, eh? Things change. Been a while since I seen you. Here, what happened to your brother?’
‘Declan’s in Edinburgh.’
‘How is he?’
‘He’s clean.’
‘That’s good. Fuckin’ gear, fucks you up. Kudos to the kicker.’
‘I’ll tell him you said hello.’
‘No need. I’ll probably see him soon enough.’ Mo’s lips part into a yellowish grin. ‘Once a Mane, always a Mane’
A Leith lad in Manchester is a Mane now. That’ll make me Liam Gallagher. I’m not about to correct him, though. My accent was beaten down by the scally tongue a long time ago.
I suppose it helps me blend in.
I light a cigarette. Mo’s not here for a reunion. The last time we spoke, I called him a daft cunt and butted him sharply just above the nose. I had my reasons. I was younger, stupider and I knew I would have been too scared to do it at a later date. But the way he’s sitting there, dancing along to whatever rhythm his head’s picked up this time, he’s not here to do me over. This is a business call and, from the looks of him, he’s not happy about it.
‘What’s up, Mo?’
His eyes narrow for a split-second, as if he’s trying to remember why he’s here. Then he licks his bottom lip and says, The dad wants a word.’
‘Anything in particular?’
‘He just wants a word. Here, don’t give us that face, either.
He knows you’re on the level now.’
Uncle Morris wants a word. That means he’ll get a word, whether you want one or not. No questions asked. You’re summoned, you go. Else he’ll find you.
‘Where’s he doing business these days?’
‘Usual place, mate.’
‘Okay,’ I say.
Mo gets up off the desk, smiles at me as he walks out of the office. I watch him as he lopes across the club. One of the lads recognises him, looks at me. I close the door and take a seat.
Feels like I’ve just done six rounds; my legs are shaking. I stare at the floor, light an Embassy. Breathe smoke from my nostrils, watch it billow and disappear.
So what now?
A knock at the door. Paulo comes in and looks around the office before he speaks. ‘Well?’
I don’t look at him. ‘It was nothing.’
‘You sure? Fucker looked bloody happy with himself ‘He’s Mo Tiernan. He always looks happy with himself.
Pills’ll do that to you.’
‘You about ready?’
I shake my head. ‘Can’t do it today, Paulo. Got other things to do.’
‘Like?’
‘Business, mate.’
Paulo watches me leave; I can feel him staring.
FIVE
The Wheatsheaf is a corn-fed pub just out of town. Too close to the motorway to be anyone’s local, but it gets the family day-trippers every Sunday. The kind of pub with mock antiques and a woodchip play area for the kids. A beer garden, horse brasses and a landlord called Brian West, whose name’s on the lease but that’s as far as it goes. To those of us in the know, it’s The Uncle’s office. And if you know that, you’re already ears-deep in the shit.
I pop two Nurofen and wash them down with a bottle of warm water. As I pull into the carpark, I see a fat child screaming her way down a slide shaped like an elephant. Her dad, a Pringle sweater with the look of a fortnight father about him, sups a pint of real ale and watches her out the corner of his eye. Sunday drinking. Warm and relaxed, even though the skies are streaked grey and black. Outward respectability when a storm is brewing.
The way the story goes, Morris Tiernan once had a bad debt slit from arsehole to appetite. It happened at The Wheatsheaf. In the men’s toilets, right by the novelty condom machine. Someone took a sharpened screwdriver, gutted him. While the guy was bubbling his last bloody breath face down in a urinal, Morris Tiernan bought a round of drinks for a wedding party he didn’t know.
And now he wants a word.
I get out of the Micra, dump my final cigarette of the journey and crush it into the gravel until the smoke stops.
Take a deep breath, check my watch. It’s noon. I spent a while in my car, unable to turn the key in the ignition. My hand shook too much. Thinking that they could call me back to the ‘Ways just for talking to this guy.
It’s taken me all my time to get here and now I am, I’m set to turn on my heels and hit the road. Morris knows I’m straight, but he still wants a word. That doesn’t make sense and my stomach knots. The guy hasn’t done a legal thing in his life, so what does he want with me?
There’s only one way to find out.
I walk to the pub doors, pull them open. Inside, the place is dead. As I head to the bar, the doors close behind me like a gunshot. I flinch. Brian gives me a matey smile from behind the bar. A fat, balding guy with a moon face. He’s nice enough, but he’s one of the defeated. He’d let the world and his dog walk all over him if it meant avoiding trouble. Which is why he’s in this hole. And he won’t stop digging until he’s six feet under.
Brian nods to me. ‘Y’alright?’
‘Been better,’ I say.
‘Drink?’
‘Nah, I’m not staying long. He here?’
‘He’s in the lounge. He’s expecting you.’
I push open the door to the lounge. It glides across the carpet with a whisper. Morris Tiernan sits in the corner, dressed in a dark blue Adidas tracksuit. Light from the frosted window next to him catches a large scar above his left eye.
He’s reading The Racing Post, a pint of Guinness on the table next to the paper. One hand rocks a pushchair. A toddler with a face like a bag of marbles is fast asleep.
The lounge door clicks shut. Part of me thinks it just locked. The same part of me starts panicking.
Morris looks up from the paper. ‘Callum.’
I smile. My cheeks hurt. ‘You wanted to see me, Mr Tiernan.’
‘Yeah, take a seat.’
I look around for a chair. Nothing but leather-cushioned stools, built for midgets. I pick one up, buckle a little under its weight, and drag it over to Morris’ table. Then I plant myself on it as casually as I can. My knees press into my chest. I look like I’m in pain.
‘Who d’you reckon in the three-thirty Chepstow?’
