'Nah, mate,' I said. 'Pills.'

'I don't do pills,' he said.

'You want business, you stump up. Otherwise, fuck off out of me sight, alright?'

The Waistcoat blinked like a million times. Lairy fuck, this one. Stand Up Tall, fuck arf. Rossie saw it in the cunt's eyes,

even behind them glasses; Waistcoat were gearing up to go off on one. Coke flies in his head. Rossie moved towards the Waistcoat, sucked his teeth and showed the Waistcoat the butterfly in the palm of his hand. That were all it took to make the Waistcoat's bowels loose.

'Here, I didn't mean nowt,' he said.

'Fuck off,' I said.

'Get yerself a Smirnoff Ice,' said Rossie.

Baz came up behind the Waistcoat and hammered the point. Baz were a big fucker. Waistcoat turned off, went back into the crowd as Baz pushed a bottle of Becks into me hand. I necked half the beer right away. The medication I were on had dried us right out. And I were sweating like a paedo in a creche, man. I kept some pills for meself and sold the rest on to a shorn member of the rave generation born five years after his time. I didn't even fuck about with the price. Cunt reminded me of the old school. Could he get a rewind? Certainly fuckin' could. And I rolled back the prices like fuckin' Asda.

The Becks got us a thirst, so I had to push through to the bar and got me a couple Martells. Double and trebles to clear the chalk in me throat. Baz got bleary and had to hang onto the bar, the fuckin' lightweight.

Weren't long before I started slowing right down, like. My head started getting mangled about four hours in. When I banged back the last two, washed 'em down with beer, I were ready for the floor and ready to get loved the fuck up. So I went out there, left Rossie and Baz holding their cocks while my blood were mercury on fire and the beat took the thought of Innes and Stokes and everything fuckin' else right out me head.

THIRTEEN

Normally, I'm okay when I wake up. Normally I've killed dreams with booze or a half-dozen Nytol. Normally, I get to wake up without the stifling fear that I'm back inside.

This time, it feels like the walls are coming down on me.

Eyes still closed, I can't hear anything above the sound of a jackhammer. I can't get my head straight enough to find the source, but I'm up. There's no doubt about that.

My neck clicks painfully as I reach for the alarm clock. Open my eyes and red lines blink noon at me. Pull myself out of my kip. I swallow. It hurts.

As I pad into the living room, the front door's rattling in the frame. Much more of this, and it'll come flying off its hinges. Another volley of blows make my head throb.

'Fuck's sake,' I say. 'Alright, I'm coming. Jesus…'

I squint through the peephole. Nothing. Black. A pause in the battery, then it sounds like someone kicking the door. Hard. I take a step back. I know that knock. Detective Sergeant Donkey Donkin of the Manchester Met. And I don't have much of a choice in the matter. I have to let him in.

Fuck.

Pull the chain off, open the door.

Donkey stands there with a sick grin on his face. His body is just like that boat of his, overstuffed. A lanky streak of piss in a uniform stands next to him, the Matchmaker to his Creme Egg. The uniform has a sour look, probably thinks it makes him look professional, but constipation's the first thing that springs to my mind. At first glance, he's not old enough to be wearing the uniform. At second glance, he doesn't even look old enough to shave. It makes me wonder why Donkey's brought him along. If he's here to roll me, then he's best doing it without witnesses. Unless Donkey's taken up teaching his moves. Anything's possible. 'Morning, Detective.'

'It's afternoon, you lazy bastard. What's with the China- town look?’

‘I cut myself shaving.'

'Don't play funny buggers, Innes. Let us in. We got something we need to talk to you about.’

‘You got a warrant?' I ask.

Donkey thinks I'm serious, but only for a moment. Rage flashes across his face, but once it hits his mouth, he parts his lips in an ugly grin. 'Yeah, son. I've got a warrant. My boot up your arse. You got the kettle on?'

I don't want Detective Sergeant Donkin in here. Not that I've got anything to hide. It's just that I hate the fucker and once he gets in, he'll start playing The Sweeney with me. And, to be fair, he does have a touch of John Thaw about him. If John Thaw was twenty stone and smelled like a dead dog. But if I slam the door on him, he'll just kick it down.

I step back and leave the door open. It's up to him. He squeezes through, the uniform following at a safe distance. I catch the young copper glance up and down the corridor as if he's afraid of a rear attack.

'So d'you want a brew, then?' I say.

Donkey licks his thick lips and apparently finds something wedged in his teeth. 'Aye, why not? Milk and four.'

'Sweet tooth.' I walk into the kitchen, fill the kettle and grab a couple of mugs from the draining board. 'What about your boyfriend?'

'Nah,' comes the reply. 'He's on duty.'

Click the kettle on and dump a teabag into Donkey's mug. I make sure to hawk up a fat one to keep it company. Sometimes it's the little things that brighten your day.

While the kettle boils, I lean against the doorway to the living room. Donkey's already made himself comfortable on my couch. Going for the regulation Burtons suit with the egg stain on the tie, he's also wearing one of those retro brown leather coats that stop at the arse. The sides are bunched up around his thighs. It makes him look fatter than he already is, which is some feat. His neck is thick to the collar, but when he moves, I catch a brown stain running around the inside of his shirt.

He watches me with rodent eyes.

'This business, then?' I say.

'I'm not here to admire the wallpaper.' Donkey reaches into his jacket, pulls out a tin with a Harley Davidson on the lid. Pops it open and sticks a reed-thin roll-up between his lips. 'Is that anaglypta, by the way?'

'What's this about?'

He lights the ciggie with a knock-off Zippo, takes a few puffs. The smoke smells like pipe tobacco. 'Where was you the other night?'

'The other night? You've got to be more specific than that, Detective.'

'Last night, smart arse.'

The kettle clicks off in the kitchen. 'Be right back,' I say.

I make the tea, brain ticking over. He can't have heard about my run-in with the bouncer. Doesn't make sense that the big bugger would go crying to the busies, especially considering his line of work. But stranger things have hap- pened. Donkey's notorious for keeping his ear to the ground, mostly because he's as bent as they come. Not difficult to find out stuff happening in the underworld if you're part of it.

Make sure to give him the sugar that's congealed into a hardened lump, shot through with old coffee. He'll have to chew the last mouthful.

As I give him his mug, he says, 'You got an ashtray?'

There's one right next to him.

'Never mind,' he says, and flicks ash onto the floor. 'So where was you last night?'

I smile. 'I was out at Withy Grove.'

'Fuck me, going up in the world, eh? You'll have plenty witnesses.'

'Probably. I didn't take any names, mind. Didn't think I'd need 'em.'

'Oh, you need 'em.'

This is Donkey through and through. Thinks he's a proper hard case, reckons he should be down London and head of the Flying Squad by now. The closest he's going to get is watching Regan and Carter on Granada Plus and getting pissed up on duty. Oh yeah, and maybe the odd bit of police brutality.

He sets his mug on the table next to him, reaches into his pocket for a hip flask. He adds a nip to the brew. 'How's Declan?'

It always comes down to my brother. 'He's fine,' I say. 'He's clean.'