Ray Banks: Saturday's child

‘Nah, I mean it, Mo. Joke’s a joke, innit?’

‘Sup up, Dougie.’

‘Mo’

‘You a simple cunt, Dougie? Fuckin’ tapped or what? Sup up.’

After another couple brandies spiked with half me stash, uppers and downers, Doug were having it large in his own back yard. Rossie and Baz and me, we watched him turn all the colours of the rainbow, watched him blink slow like his brain were fizzing out hardcore. Dougie Harris had turned into a proper lightweight. He looked like one of them rats they test the vaccines on, itching like a fucker. I watched him squirm and drank some more.

‘We going out tonight?’ said Baz. He weren’t looking at Doug. Like he couldn’t stomach it.

‘Aye,’ I said. ‘We got to go see Columbo.’

‘Fuck’s sake,’ said Rossie. ‘Columbo’s a creepy cunt.’

‘You ain’t gonna be in there, Rossie. I need you to do us a sly one.’

‘What?’

I’d been thinking about it while I watched Doug wind down. Dad wanted Innes to do this job for him, find Stokes, I still weren’t comfortable with that. Innes were a fuckin’ pisshead and whether he was a proper private eye or not, he had nowt in the way of bollocks. Certainly not enough to carry out a job like this. So fuck him and fuck Dad. I needed to sort this out on me own. ‘I’ll tell you in the car, Johnny Nob-Rot.’

Baz spluttered on his pint, laughing. Aye, I were a funny cunt. Doug giggled like a fuckin’ girl, like a nah-ha-ha-nah, and choked out quick.

‘You heard then,’ said Rossie. He had a face like a cat’s arse.

‘Yeah, I heard. Now sup up and let’s get the fuck out of here.’

We drank ‘em off as Doug leaned on the table. He were dozed right out. Before I left, I went through his wallet. The lad had a score on him so I took it.

Way I saw it; it served him right for being a cheeky cunt.

Half now, half when I call Mo. I haven’t opened the envelope Morris gave me, but it feels heavy in my hand. He gave me the address where Stokes used to work, a tattoo parlour on Hanover Street. I didn’t know people gambled there, but then that was probably the point. It’s a members only club.

Morris said I’ll be expected. Just head to the first floor and give my name. They’ll let me in, no problem.

Morris promised me that we’d be even after this. I had no choice but to believe him.

And now I’m sitting here in my local, I’m wondering. Even for what? I’ve never done anything to Morris, I don’t owe him a bloody thing. If anything, he owes me.

Find a runaway, simple as.

It’s always simple as. Do a little work for Uncle Morris.

Yeah, he’s a little shady, got a few fingers in a few pies, but that doesn’t make him a proper criminal, does it? It’s good money and you know he pays in full.

A job, simple as. Keep your mouth closed, simple as. End up doing half a five-year sentence in Strangeways so a judge can prove a point. Keep a look out over your shoulder and try not to get killed.

Simple fucking as.

I sip my pint and stare at a framed picture of Manchester in the grimy days when it had an industry that wasn’t customer service. A group of blokes wearing shellsuits are at the bar, talking loud and laughing louder. I try to ignore them. Tap the envelope with the tip of my finger until it becomes too much for me and I open it up, peek inside. About five hundred in twenties. I close up the envelope. A lot of money for someone like me, too much to explain away.

I have to tell Paulo about this. That, or avoid the club altogether. I don’t see that happening, though. Paulo’d get suspicious. And then what? Out on my ear.

I could tell Morris I’ve thought about it, but I’ll have to turn down the job. Life would be easier that way.

But then, according to The Uncle, I owe him. And I’ll still owe him if I turn this down. The next job he offers me might be mandatory, and it might throw me back in the ‘Ways.

Fuck. I have to do this. I don’t see any way around it.

This runaway dealer, he’s either ballsy as fuck or just plain stupid. I’m banking on the latter. That way maybe I can clear all this up before Paulo gets wind of what I’m doing, who I’m working for. Because I know I’ll be up the creek if Paulo finds out. I drain my pint and push back my chair. Tuck the envelope into my jacket pocket, reckon I might as well get to work straight away.

The sooner I’m done with this, the sooner I can get back to normal.

The pub door opens as I’m putting out my cigarette. It’s Paulo. Got a face on him. He heads straight for me. Fuck.

‘Cal,’ he says. ‘Fancy one?’

I check my watch. ‘Bit early for you, isn’t it?’

‘You already started by the smell on you.’

He orders at the bar, two pints. He looks at his with the eyes of a guy who used to enjoy his drink too much. Paulo shouldn’t be drinking, not if his doctor has anything to do with it. But having Mo at the club’s put him in a drinking mood. Paulo’s got a good thing going on at the club, but it’s precarious. He reckons it’s because he’s an ex-con, and that’s probably got something to do with it. No matter how open minded people say they are, you mention either mental illness or prison and they start looking for the nearest exit.

Paulo’s had both in his life. One led to the other. He used to fight. Started out amateur when he was sixteen, turned pro in his twenties, but he never rose above mediocre. The way some of the old lads tell it, Paulo had flashes of brilliance in the ring, and he could take a punch or twenty. They kept mentioning Jake La Motta with his iron jaw. The guy was a bull, built like the proverbial shithouse.

Trouble was, Paulo Gray had something in his brain that wasn’t quite right. He’d zone out at times, and that left him open. He’d sit in his dressing room and stare at the wall. One night, they say, it took two guys to drag him out of there. He wasn’t scared, just depressed.

After that, he couldn’t get the fights. He drank. And he ended up doing a bloke in a pub in Cheetham Hill with his bare hands. Paulo says he doesn’t remember it and I don’t push him. He’s got other stuff to worry about. Sorting out the young offenders that come through his door in droves is part of it. Taking his medication is the other part.

Normally, I’d be out of here, but he’s paying.

We return to my table and it’s a while before he drinks.

Even then, it’s a sip. He savours the taste and looks at me.

‘Got a new lad started this morning,’ he says. ‘Reminds me of you.’

‘Good-looking, is he?’

‘He’s fuckin’ angry is what he is. Tried to pick fights outside the ring. I had to batter him, teach him some manners.’

‘Spare the rod, eh?’

‘You know the way I work.’

Yeah, I do. Paulo’s hard but fair. Once you have him as a mate, you’re sorted. Stand by you thick and thin. And Christ knows there’s been a famine recently.

‘What did Mo want?’ he asks.

‘He wanted me to see Tiernan.’

‘And?’

‘And I went.’

‘And?’

‘Fuck’s sake, Paulo. He wanted a chat. Asked me to do something for him.’ And my heart skips, tooth pricking. ‘I told him no.’

Paulo stares at me with clear blue eyes. Doesn’t blink.

‘What was it?’

‘Does it matter?’

‘You’re right. I don’t want to know. And you told him no,’ he says.

‘Yeah.’

‘Good lad.’ Paulo finally lets himself blink, returns his attention to his pint. Takes a large gulp. “I shouldn’t be drinking,’ he says. ‘Doctor said I shouldn’t. One pint is all it takes, he says.’

‘You’re doing alright, though.’

‘Yeah, because I know when enough is enough.’ Paulo looks up at me. ‘Self-discipline, it’s tough. But it’s worth it.’