Ray Banks: Saturday's child

‘As my lawyer? I didn’t ask you to come here.’

‘Mr Tiernan did.’

‘Would that be big Morris or his screw-up son?’

Clayton sighs and drops the pen on the pile of paper in front of him. He leans back in his chair and regards me. ‘If you’ve got much more of this, I suggest you let it all out now, Cal. As much as I don’t like being your therapist, if it gets you to a point where you understand that there is no way out without my help and the help of Morris Tiernan, it’s worth it.’

I have plenty of clever things to say, but none of them come out of my mouth: ‘Fuck off’

He sucks his teeth, runs the spit around the inside of his mouth and picks up his pen, slots it into an inside pocket.

‘You don’t want my help, that’s fine. I’ll say you’ve changed your mind. But if these lads decide to dig beyond the topsoil, Cal, you’re in the shit. And if you decide to spill your guts about what’s been going on, I can’t vouch for your safety.

You’re still on probation, aren’t you?’

Again, zingers all over the place, but the one that sticks is the one I say. ‘Fuck off’

‘You’re liable to recall, you know that. They don’t have to give you a reason,’ he says. Clayton stands, grabs the papers on the table and tucks them under one arm. ‘You’re the tough guy. We’ll see how tough you are after a second stretch.’

Clayton looks at me like he looks at every case he gets from Tiernan. I’m judged before I get a chance to plead not guilty.

He sees me as Tiernan’s hatchet man. Just like everyone else.

The way I treated Donna, so fucking selfish when I want. The way George cried out and I gave him more of a beating.

Christ, that wasn’t the way I was supposed to be. That wasn’t the way I thought I’d act.

And yeah, if my PO gets wind of this, he could recommend a recall, and I’d be even further up shit creek. I could be hard about it, demand prison as a right and a respite, turn over the Tiernans.

But what could I tell the police? There’s nothing to tie Rob Stokes to Morris Tiernan, just Mo. And that wouldn’t be enough to buy me safety. Mo would end up getting off because he’d have Wonderboy Clayton here representing him. Morris would have an airtight alibi all worked out for his son, no matter how sick the lanky bastard was.

The family that lays together stays together.

So then what? I would end up back on the spur with a price on my head. I wouldn’t last day one. Someone would carve me up like Dennis Lang, and I’d end up with a pauper’s grave, hired mourners at the service.

Clayton’s about to knock on the door to leave when I stand up.

Because a deal with the devil is better than no deal at all.