I turn and walk out of the room as the laughter hits its peak, Stokes left half-dead in the middle of it all. Through the hallway, out onto the street. I light an Embassy and draw the smoke deep into my lungs as the speed freak pushes his way into the house. In the passenger seat of the van, Alison watches me with lazy eyes. I watch her straight back.
If she had any sense, she’d be running down the street right now, but she stays put. But then, why should she run? It’s worked out exactly the way she planned it.
Alison realised it didn’t matter what she did, she was going to get caught. And when Stokes got my phone call, made for the money, that was the kicker. She couldn’t trust him to be a willing patsy anymore, so she decided on damage limitation.
Mo was coming, she might as well be here when he does, crying rape and making Stokes out to be the bad guy. Any chance I had of saving the dealer was scuppered the moment he went for the money.
Always the gambler.
I stand in the middle of the street and blow smoke at the van.
She turns her head, looks at herself in the wing mirror. I walkback to my Micra, glance at the cricket bat, dotted with dried blood.
What the fuck.
I reach in for the Maxi and limp across to the van as fast as my aching legs allow. Build up speed, breeze against my face, and swing that bat straight into the windscreen, Alison screams in fright; I find a roar tear its way out of me. The windscreen spider webs, then the bat breaks through, glances off the dashboard. I pull the Maxi free, aim at the left wing mirror and take it off with one swing. It bounces off the tarmac. Then the right mirror.
Then I change hands and stab out the headlights. Once, twice, glass spilling onto the road. Pain burning my limbs as I batter the front of the van with all my strength. I knock the rest of the windscreen into the cab, Alison screeching behind her hands.
I can’t touch her. If I lay this Maxi across her, I won’t stop until she’s dead.
Somewhere above the thumping in my ears, I can hear the sound of a car. Out the corner of my eye, I can see it too. A police car. Fucking sneaked up on me. One uniform already getting out now.
Good.
I’m about to open my mouth to say something when the copper speaks. ‘You put down the bat, alright, pal?’
‘I’m alright, I’m okay. You’ve got to go in there.’ I point at the house with the bat. And I can’t talk properly, feels like my lungs are on fire. Too much exertion, too little time to recuperate. ‘You go in that house, man. You go in there now.’
‘You just put the bat down, son.’
Behind him, the other uniform is trying to calm Alison down with a voice like anal sex. He’s a squat bastard, loving every moment of it. I flare. ‘Don’t fuckin’ talk to her, mate.
She’s a liar.’
‘It’s okay,’ says the uniform. ‘It’s alright. You just put that bat down and we’ll sort this out.’
‘You want to sort it out, you go in that fuckin’ house and you see what they did.’
“I will,’ he says. Drawing closer now, his hands out. ‘Just drop the bat.’
‘Fuck’s sake, man.’ I toss the bat to one side. It clatters onto the tarmac.
Then he’s on me, faster than my brain can work. My hands slapped behind my back, the cold bite of metal on wrist. I catch a whiff of cheap deodorant. It makes me jerk in his grip, shout, ‘You want to find out what’s going on, you go in that fuckin’ house, you go in there right the fuck now, you bunch of daft fuckin’ cunts.’
The copper’s elbow knocks me in the side of the head, throws me off. And he did it on purpose.
‘I got him, Chris. Get the girl.’
‘You’re making a mistake, man.’
We’ll see.’ His hand on my shoulder, one on my wrists, guiding me towards the car. ‘You been drinking?’
I can’t speak. My tongue feels thick in the back of my throat.
‘I’m going to ask you to take a breathalyser. Do you understand what I’m saying?’
“I understand what you’re fuckin’ saying, but you’ve got no idea what’s going on here.’
He presses my head down as I slip into the back of the police car. My wrists feel bloodless, every muscle in my back raging tense and painful. All the injuries from the last couple of days – every knock, crack, punch and kick – come rushing through my system like a bad trip. The breath rips out of me, and it tastes like smoke.
I gaze heavy-lidded at the dashboard of the police car.
Then I see Alison being interviewed by the two uniforms.
She’s shaking her head, looking at the ground. Her cheeks are streaked with tears and dirt. Mo emerges from the house in the middle of a stride. When he sees the two coppers, he looks my way and a smile makes his mouth jump for a second.
Then he slips an arm around Alison’s shoulders and looks concerned as the diplomatic uniform asks him questions.
Some nodding and Alison looks up at Mo. I feel like throwing up; she’s playing this to the hilt.
Rossie comes out of the house, quickly pocketing the butterfly knife when he sees the police. Then his face cracks open when he sees the van. The thing must be his pride and joy; it looks like someone punched him in the throat. I savour that face he’s pulling. I got some revenge there, I think. Teach him to mess with my car.
The squat copper gets in the driver’s side and watches me in the rear view.
‘What you smiling at?’
‘Nowt.’
‘Cause you got nowt to smile about, man. You want to pray he doesn’t press charges.’
The diplomatic copper approaches the car, gets in. ‘Domestic’
‘Christ, how old is she? You want to watch you don’t get sent down for kiddie-fiddling,’ the squat copper says to me.
‘What about him?’ I say.
‘None of my business.’
‘Well, if you were after ruining the guy’s van, you got the wrong one,’ says the diplomat.
The squat copper brays out a laugh. ‘Not your day, is it?’
‘Nah,’ I say. “I got the right van. I definitely got the right fuckin’ van.’
It’s about the only thing I’ve done right so far.
FIFTY-SIX
‘Here, officer, I want to thank you an’ that. This were a bad lot, all this, ‘specially this early in the morning. Lad must’ve had a few too many.’
There were me, like, showing plenty teeth and playing the good citizen. Hey, it were fun to be the good guy for once.
And Christ knew, I’d been put out by that fucker Innes from the get-go. Time he got-gone.
‘Don’t mention it,’ said this busy behind the desk. “I take it you’re not pressing charges?’
‘Nah, I told the lads before. Let’s face it, a bloke has too much to drink, he gets to feeling lonely and aching downstairs, he wants his old lass back. But then, she ain’t exactly old, know what I mean?’
‘Well, we’d like to ask her a few questions, if that’s alright.’
‘Nah, don’t worry about it.’
‘There’s the statutory rape charge ‘
‘Mate, she’s sixteen, she’s legal’
‘Yes, but we’ve got to follow up.’
‘Here, listen, button it a sec and listen to us. I don’t know what this lad Innes and her got up to when they was going out together, and it’s really none of my business, you get me? But the point is she’s safe now. We’ll sort it out when we get back to Manchester.’
