Ray Banks: Saturday's child

The place were chocka, the lunch trade in full swing. The landlord here did a fine line in proper Corrie Betty hot-pots, all meat and gravy and rank veggies. I wouldn’t touch ‘em with yours, like. Because I knew the lad what punted the meat on to this place. And beef didn’t used to fuckin’ miaow, know what I mean? Rossie did his upward nod from the bar and I jerked me head in response, did a saunter through the crowd.

Digged a fucker in the ribs like I wanted to. He turned with a full-on wanker face. I gave him the teeth and he backed right off. Like I reckoned, soft as shite.

‘Y’alright, Mo? Baz the spaz?’

‘Fuck off,’ said Baz.

‘Get us a Kronie,’ I said.

‘Kronie,’ said Rossie to the barman.

‘And scratchings.’

‘And scratchings.’

‘What’s up?’ said Rossie.

‘Eh?’ I got me Kronie and sipped it. Cleared out the shite in me mouth.

‘You look like someone pissed in your porridge.’

‘I’m alright,’ I said.

But I weren’t. That cunt Innes put us right on edge.

Couldn’t get to sleep last night, so I kept pilling it. Feeling bone-cracked tired now, like. And I had to go over that cunt’s place and play messenger?

As the Cockneys say: ‘Faaack youse.’

Got Paulo giving us the evils as soon as I got through the door. Like I were summat he just scraped off his shoe. No way does a fuckin’ cock-jockey get away with that, like. But nah, not right then. I were there on business, so I had to be ice.

Suffer the fucker when I wanted to break his face.

Waited on Innes and took a look round his office while I was there. Nowt, man. If the lad was a private detective, he should have a bottle in the drawer or summat, but there were nowt. There was me, I were in the need to half-inch summat, just to keep me hand in, and there were nowt. So I got fuckin’ edgy. Innes had put on weight since the last time I saw him.

Fat fucker. Prison’s supposed to harden a lad up, innit? Strip him lean and build him out of rock. But then, what the fuck did I know, eh? I’d never seen the inside of a cell. Been too fuckin’ smart.

I supped me Kronie. Cadged a snout off of Baz. He had a mate what robbed them out the Kwiksave warehouse, so he were always flush. Lit it up and, through the smoke, I saw this boat I knew.

‘That Dougie Harris?’ I said.

Rossie picked at his teeth, followed me stare. ‘Aye,’ he said.

I hadn’t seen him in a coon’s age. Last time were when we was kids, like. He used to hang out with us in the tram station down Piccadilly. That were when I were on the cider and the blues. Dougie were always out his fuckin’ skull on pills, like.

Last I heard, he were on the smack. And it looked like it an’ all. He had a bowling ball for a head, nowt in the way of hair and legs that’d break in a strong wind. The kind they said had a hard paper round, know what I mean? And top that off, it looked like Dougie’d seen the wrong end of someone’s fuckin’ boots. Burst mouth and two shiners. He were drinking a pint like it nipped his skull.

‘I’m gonna chew the fat,’ I said.

‘C’mon, Mo. The lad’s a fuckin’ ghost.’

‘Get off it, Baz. He were a mate.’

‘Was, like.’

I went over to Dougie’s table and slapped him hard on the back. His eyes swivelled in their sockets. When he looked at me, the colour went from his face – from white to fuckin’ see through. ‘Y’alright, Doug? Rossie, get Doug another pint.’

‘Tell him to get his fuckin’ own,’ said Rossie.

‘You what?’

‘Nowt.’ And Rossie went back to the bar.

‘How you doing, Dougie?’ I said. Baz came up and took the other seat, looked from me to Dougie, then back again. He didn’t know what the fuck were going on. And neither did Doug, from the looks of him. ‘You look like pan-fried shite, son.’

Doug flickered with a dirty yellow smile. ‘Bad night last night.’

‘Tell us about it. What you doing these days?’

Baz shook his head. I looked at him.

‘Nowt much,’ said Dougie. ‘This and that.’

‘Same here,’ I said. ‘This and that. More of that. You working legit?’

‘Nah.’

‘You working?’

‘Nah.’

‘You need work?’

‘I’m alright, Mo,’ he said.

‘I’m asking ‘cause I might have some work for you, you need it.’

‘I’m alright.’ Dougie started gulping at his pint. Tried to neck the whole fuckin’ thing rather than talk to me. Now what the fuck were up with that? A lad can’t have a friendly how-you-doing without some cunt getting edgy?

I sipped me Kronie, slipped a hand in me pocket and watched Dougie out the corner of me eye. ‘You need owt, Doug?’

He shook his head. ‘Nah, I’m off it.’

‘Off it? You fuckin’ must be, son. Baz, you remember that time Dougie took a dump in the canal?’

‘Aye.’

‘By Castlefield, wunnit? You just ripped your keks down and curled one right in the canal. Man, I fuckin’ ended meself.’

Rossie came over with two pints. He sat one in front of Doug. I said, ‘You brew it yourself?’

‘Eh?’

‘Where you been?’

Rossie frowned. ‘At the bar.’

‘Your face looks painful,’ I said to Doug. ‘You want a couple pills?’

Doug glanced at his fresh pint, looked like he was gonna throw. ‘Nah, Mo. I’m fine. I’m clean now.’

Clean, my arse. I didn’t need to see the tracks to know he’d been trainspotting, know what I mean?

‘Aye, well,’ I said. ‘You can have a half I broke a pill and slid it up close to his new pint. He drained the old Kronie and chewed his bottom lip. He shook his head.

‘You don’t have to pay us nowt, Dougie-son. I know you’re strapped. You always was. It’s a freebie.’

“I told you, Mo.’ He were smiling like it were a joke.

My left eye hurt. I had all snot in me nose, so I sniffed it back and swallowed. Cleared the rest out my throat with a gulp of beer. Picked up the half-pill and held it up to Doug.

Then I dropped it in his pint. Bubbles fizzed all around it, like. Dougie Harris just looked at us, big old black eyes dead to the world, not a light in ‘em.

Nah, it weren’t a joke.

‘Tell you what, I fancy a Courvosier. You want a brandy, Baz? Rossie?’

‘I could drink a brandy,’ said Baz.

‘You want one, Doug?’

He looked like he were about to shit his pants. I got to my feet, slapped him on the shoulder. ‘Course you do,’ I said.

‘Who turns down a brandy?’ Lit a ciggie on the way to the bar, all fuckin’ swagger and shit. Doug Harris turning down a pill.

Pull the other one; that one’s got fuckin’ bells on it. That cunt what used to knock ‘em back like Smarties and now the lad had a clean-living bullshit halo over his head?

Nah, man.

Leopards. Spots.

I leaned against the bar, waiting on the brandies. Watched the back of Doug’s head, looked at Baz. If anyone were gonna help the cunt out, it’d be Baz ‘cause Baz were a soft cunt even though he were a big cunt. And if he helped Doug out, I’d have it out with him.

Doug were talking to Baz. I couldn’t hear him. The way Baz were talking back, they both must’ve reckoned I were having them on. I wanted to go back over there and stove the pair of them fuckin’ nobheads in.

As the brandies arrived, I saw Doug knocking back his pint.

Got back to the table, and he weren’t finished with it. Felt my gut knot up so I dropped a couple of full kilt moggies into Doug’s brandy and necked one myself. Sat and watched until Doug swallowed the rest of his pint, one eye on the brandy in front of him. ‘That’s it, Dougie-son. You sup up.’

‘Mo, I’m off it.’

“I know, son.’