Her blue eyes flash once, then go dead. She raises the glass to her lips, but it’s empty. When she speaks, it’s like someone shut off the electricity. ‘Forget it, Cal. You do what you want to do. Go beat the crap out of the rest of the world if it makes you feel better. Just do me a favour and don’t ring me the next time you’re scared. I’ve got enough problems in my life without having to worry about yours.’
‘I’m sure you do.’ I head to the front door, cigarette still on the go. Then come back and grab the prescription pills off the table. ‘Thanks for washing my trousers, Donna. I appreciate it.’
I leave the door open as I head out into the hallway. If I go to close it, I’ll end up slamming the bastard in the frame. And once I get outside I realise I’ve no idea where I am. After an hour of painful hobbling, on and off, I find a Metro station, hop aboard a train and head into town.
And I’m burning up inside, but it’s got nothing to do with Stokes.
FORTY-FIVE
I get off the Metro at the Monument stop. I’ve got a few errands to run before I pick up my car, and the city centre’s the only place I can run them. I’m blinded by sunlight as I step out of the station onto Northumberland Street, and the moment my eyes adjust, my heart sinks.
Sunday afternoon, a shopping extravanganza. Like the Arndale Centre, but more people packed into a smaller space and pissed off about it. The street is jammed and most of the crowd have no peripheral vision. Pushchairs and screaming kids, old women who think they’ve got the right of way, young hoodlums and scally lasses hanging around with gimlet eyes and too much saliva in their mouths.
I visit a couple of sports shops, but they seem to be selling clothes and nothing else. It’s summer, it’s the height of the season, but I can’t find what I’m looking for. A parade of children with name badges and attitude problems give me nothing but cock-eyed stares. I end up sweating through my shirt, my lips dry and my patience frayed.
I yawn, bone-shattered.
God bless the Index catalogue shop, that’s what I say.
Air-conditioned, kept at a temperature somewhere between freezing and frostbite, it’s like heaven compared to the hell outside. I wander up to one of the catalogues and leaf through it until I find what I’m looking for. Sporting goods. I can’t smile because my face feels swollen, but inside I’m beaming.
That’s the bastard right there.
I fill out a wee form with a chewed pen and take it up to the counter. Spend the next ten minutes waiting for my number to come up, gasping for a cigarette. My skin feels itchy, and I wish I hadn’t talked to Donna like that. Fuck’s sake, she was only looking out for me. But I’m in no mood to be civil.
Things to do.
I have a plan, but it’s blurred around the edges. I wouldn’t go so far as to call it revenge, but it’s a way of evening the score a little.
When my number fizzes up onto the screen, I go to the counter and’pay. Then I tuck the package under my arm and brave the sun again. Only for a second, stocking up on cigarettes and Lucozade. I get short-changed, but I don’t care. Outside, I light up, take a few puffs to get enough nicotine slammed into my brain, and then I’m back across the road and checking out the mobile phones.
I don’t want anything too expensive. If Stokes shows up again, he might get as stamp-happy as he was the last time. So I scan the shelves for the cheapest phone there is. As I’m doing so, a guy built like a jockey’s whip ambles over. He stands behind me, but I can catch a whiff of Cool Water.
‘The new Motorola’s a doozy,’ he says.
‘I’m after something cheap,’ I say. I try to enunciate. It makes me sound like I have learning difficulties.
‘Ah. You want contract or pay-as-you-go?’
‘Whichever’s cheapest.’
‘And what extras were you thinking about?’
I finally turn round and get a decent look at him. The lad’s riddled with acne, sports a tuft of blonde hair under his cracked bottom lip and looks like he’d fall over if I breathed too heavily. But then, he probably doesn’t think I’m much of a looker, either.
‘I want a fuckin’ phone, mate,’ I say. “I don’t care if it comes with a Jacuzzi and a wet bar. I want something I can make a phone call on that isn’t two soup cans and a piece of string. Something cheap, something durable and something that I can press a number on without having to use a fingernail, alright?’
His face tightens, looks like a pimple on his forehead is about to start weeping at the tension. ‘Okay. Then I’ll see what I can find for you, sir.’
Really hammering that ‘sir’. Little prick. My head’s started banging. I need to get back to the Micra, take some Nurofen, take a breather.
The sales kid shows me a phone. It’s cheap. It looks cheaper.
I take it.
Outside, I grab the first taxi I can find, slump into the back seat and tell the driver where I’m going. He stares at me in the rear view mirror. So I tell him again. Once he pulls away, I catch him glancing at me like I’m some sort of free freak show. I feel like telling him to keep his eyes on the road, but I’m too tired. I crack the window to get a breeze going.
First things first, I need to get in touch with Uncle Morris.
After a couple of wrong numbers courtesy of a directory enquiries service, I get the number for The Wheatsheaf.
Three rings and the landlord answers.
‘Brian, it’s Cal Innes. I need to speak to Mr Tiernan.’
‘What for?’
‘It’s personal.’
There’s a pause. Then: ‘He’s not here.’
‘If he wasn’t there, Brian, you wouldn’t have asked me what it was about. Now go fetch. I can wait.’
‘I told you ‘
‘Don’t fuck me about, Bri. I’m not in the mood.’ I glare at the driver to make sure he gets the point too.
‘Fine,’ says Brian, and puts the phone onto the bar with a clatter. It’s silent at the other end now. The Wheatsheaf is as dead as usual. It’s nice to know some things don’t change. A minute later, Brian comes back on the line. ‘He says he’ll call you back.’
‘Then let me give you the number.’
‘He’s already got it.’
‘Not this number he hasn’t.’ Jesus Christ.
Brian grumbles, rustles something. ‘Okay. Fire away.’
I give him the new number and disconnect. The cab passes a girl with low-cut jeans and a hanging belly.
‘Jesus, would you look at that,’ says the driver.
I grunt, realise I’m hungry. My mobile starts bleating. After three shrill rings, I pick up. ‘Mr Tiernan.’
‘Mr Innes.’ Morris doesn’t sound too impressed. Either bored or homicidal; I can’t work out which. ‘You were supposed to phone Mo.’
‘I would if I had his number,’ I say.
‘I gave you his number.’
“I lost it. I had an altercation with a couple of Stokes’ boys.’
‘They beat the shit out of you.’
‘You can tell, huh?’
‘You’re mumbling,’ he says. ‘So you know where Stokes is.’
‘He’s about. But I don’t know how long he’ll hang around.
He thinks I’m out of the picture.’
‘Then I’ll get Mo up there.’
