Well, fuck the pair of 'em.

I got out into the caff and punched Baz in the shoulder. He made out like it hurt more than it did. 'Fuck's up with you?'

'Bored, fuckin' bored is what's up with us, mate.'

'You wanna go down the amusements?'

'Amusements? What am I, twelve?'

'You want to call that blonde piece?' said Rossie. He had a mouthful of sausage.

'You what?'

'That blonde piece from last night. She gave us her number for you.'

'You never said that.'

'You want to?'

'Nah, she were dog rough.'

'Dog rough, but nineteen,' said Rossie. He raised his eyebrows.

Baz shook his head. He rubbed his shoulder. 'Nineteen's too old for Mo.'

Silence then. I stared at him. 'Fuck's that supposed to mean?

'You like 'em younger is all,' said Baz. He smiled. Always smiling, that fat fuck.

'Aye, and fuck's that supposed to mean?' I had a grip on me cuppa. Some spilled onto me hand, and it was hot. I felt the burn, but it were nowt compared to what were inside. A fuckin' volcano, just waiting on that shift.

'Baz didn't mean anything by it, Mo,' said Rossie.

'Let Baz talk for his fuckin' self, Rossie. Fuck were that supposed to mean, Baz? Calling us a fuckin' paedo or summat?'

'Nah — '

'Nah, what? You call us a fuckin' paedo, I'll put your head through that fuckin' wall, how's about that?'

Baz were laughing like he always did when he weren't sure about summat, the simple fuck. Rossie put his knife and fork down. 'C'mon, Mo,' he said.

'Fat cunt's got summat to say, let's hear it,' I said.

'Hey,' said Baz. He didn't like being called fat. Which was unlucky, like, because he were the fattest cunt I knew. 'I was just messing.'

'Fuck off.' And I chucked me tea at him. Baz were fast

enough to miss the mug, but too slow not to catch the brew right in the fuckin' face. He went off it, yelled, knocked the table when he got up. I planted two fists in his chest and he slumped into his chair, nearly went over. Then I got out from the table and went outside.

I could hear Baz kicking off. Calling us out an' that. But I lit a ciggie and took a draw. Held the smoke in me lungs hard and tight.

Rossie told him to calm the fuck down, then he came outside with me. 'Fuck was all that about?'

'He wants to start summat, he better follow through,' I said. 'It's a cunt with a mouth and nowt to back him up, you know that.'

'He was just messing with you.'

'Aye, so what? You want us to take that kind of talk on the chin?'

'Fuck's the matter with you? You mashed up or what?'

'Nah, mate. I'm clean as. It's that bastard what needs sorting out. Fuck it. Go back to your boyfriend. I'm off.'

I chucked the ciggie at Rossie's feet and made for the tram. I didn't look over me shoulder or nowt.

SIXTEEN

The afternoon turns to early evening, rain to drizzle. I've been sitting in this car for two hours now with nothing to show for it apart from an empty pack of Embassy and a throaty cough.

Nothing stirring. I've toyed with the idea of calling Brenda Lang, find out what the score is, but decided against it. I don't want to get any deeper. Right now, I'm innocent of every- thing. If I start digging around, phoning her back, it won't look good if this ever gets to court. No contact means no evidence. I've got to watch my arse when Donkey's involved.

I get out of the car, stretch my legs. There's no use waiting for a lead to drop into my lap. Something's got to be done. I start walking towards the tattoo parlour, an idea growing in my head. If I can't talk to the dealers and that barman's nowhere to be seen, there's always another option.

The bell rings as I push open the door. As I expected, the bionic girl is still behind the counter. And she's still reading that same magazine. When she looks up, her eyes are bright blue. Her nails are the same shade. She must change colours daily.

'How you doing?' I say.

'Straight up the stairs, second door on your right,' she says. Then goes back to her magazine. 'Nah, I'm not here to punt.’

‘You want a tattoo?'

'Not today, no. I wanted a quick word with you, if that's alright.'

'What about?' She looks suspicious. 'You know what goes on up there. You know the staff. You know a guy called Rob Stokes?’

‘What's he look like?’

‘I don't know.'

She raises her eyebrows, then scans an article on body- piercing. A photo of a guy with a face like a human gimp mask catches my eye. 'Then I don't know who you're talking about.'

'You never heard the name Rob Stokes.’

‘Nah.'

'You hear anything about a guy doing a runner with casino money?'

'You think I listen to what that lot say? They're a bunch of arseholes.'

'Couldn't agree more. So you never heard the name, and you don't know anything about it.' It was worth a try. 'Am I under arrest now?' she says. 'I'm not the plod, love.'

'Then I really shouldn't be speaking to you, should I?’

‘Yeah, you and everyone else,' I say. 'What do you do, then?’

‘I'm a private investigator.'

She starts laughing. Too long, too hard. But I'm used to it. 'A PI? Jesus, I thought they was just in the pictures. Fuckin' hell. Where's your hat?'

I left it in the car.'

'And you're tracking down this Rob fella.’

‘That's right.'

'You're doing a shit job of it.'

I know. And thanks for your time.' I turn to leave. Then: 'D'you know Kev?’

‘The barman?'

'Yeah.'

'Yeah, I know him. Proper sleazy bastard, that one. Keeps trying to get me to go out with him.’

‘Anywhere nice?'

'Place called The Basement. It's a proper dive.’

‘That's his local, is it?'

'Yeah,' she says. 'They try to get him to go somewhere else, he shits it. The place is his home away from home. He told us once that he missed a night and they called his flat looking for him. Like that's something to boast about.'

I smile at her. 'What's your name?'

'Brianna,' she says. 'Why?'

'Brianna, you're a fuckin' doll.'

'And you're not my type.'

The Basement is a student bar, and it's as rough as the name suggests. I get past the bouncer, a skinny lad with a nice line in gold teeth, and have to duck my head as I head down the stone steps to the bar. This place looks more like a cave than a basement, all chipped walls and dim light. In one corner, a small stage with a tinsel backdrop. On it is a guy who looks about eighty. He's singing 'Golden Brown' as if it was an old- fashioned love song. Beside him, a karaoke machine blinks like it's on its last legs.

He gives me a nod as I head to the bar. I nod back, order a Coke. The place isn't busy and I could have a long wait on Kev, if he shows up at all. Get my change and a filthy look from a blonde dreadlocked barman, take my drink to a table and sit down. It's nicely shadowed here. I should be able to keep an eye on the door and not be seen.

The old guy finishes off his song with a flourish, then picks up a tumbler of whisky. He toasts us all, though most of us aren't even looking at him. Then he downs the treble. From the karaoke machine, I can hear the opening bars to 'Pea- ches'. The guy's a Stranglers fan, obviously. These days, somebody's got to be.

I smoke a cigarette. Kev might not turn up. That's a possibility.

Check my mobile again. Another message from Brenda Lang. I let it play and then save it. Laters.

I sit there most of the night, sipping Coke and smoking. Students come and go. One of them, a ruddy-faced Royal wearing a rugby shirt, starts taking the piss out of the singer. I feel like smacking his head in. Yeah, the old guy's a drunk, but at least he's not obnoxious.