I shifted under his hand, felt me teeth grind together. If I could've got gob in me mouth, I would've spat at the cunt. Me fingers near the Stanley now. He caught summat in me face, though. I'd grabbed the Stanley when I heard this muffled crack and then this fuckin' agony in me hand. Paulo let us go and I dropped to the floor.

Looked up and there he were with me Stanley in his hand, staring at it like he'd found it up his arse. And he'd broke me fuckin' finger an' all, I were sure of it. I looked down and saw me first finger lean to one side. It weren't supposed to do that. Plenty of water in me eyes, but a throat that were dry as fuck.

Paulo chucked the Stanley at me. I got out the way. It clattered on the floor.

'Go on then,' he said. 'Pick it up. Billy fuckin' Big Bollocks.'

I looked at the Stanley. It shone. Looked back at Paulo. He were a big fucker for his age, like. And faster than I reckoned him.

'C'mon,' he said. 'You want to be the big man, you try coming at me.'

And if it'd been me, man, I would've told it loud and proud. But him, he were just standing there and talking dead quiet. Relaxed on the outside, but he had proper mental eyes, summat I'd never seen in him before. I cradled me hand and got up off me knees. 'You're fuckin' dead.'

'Aye, son? That right? C'mon, then.'

I shook me head. 'Nah, not now.'

"Why not now? Fuck's the matter with you? You can't take a sprained finger? Who's the fuckin' poof now?' He took a step forward; I took one towards the door.

'You're dead.'

'Keep saying it, son. One day it'll come true.’

‘You're fuckin' dead.'

And I left the Stanley on the floor, pelted it out the club and made it back to Baz.

'What happened to you?' he said as I got in the Nova. 'Nowt,' I said. 'Just start the fuckin' car.'

When I hit the edge of the city, concrete blocks looming across a sickly-looking sky, I turn off The Chemical Brothers.

Down by the Quayside, I find a parking space and book myself into a Travel Inn. The place is right in the middle of development. On one side, new office buildings, all glinting glass and virgin sandstone. On the other, council flats. Somewhere it feels like a line's been drawn, and neither party is going to cross it without a damned good reason.

'Would that be a smoking room?' says the receptionist.

I take a drag on an Embassy. 'Take a wild guess, love.'

The casinos don't open for another hour so I spend my time staring at the ceiling of my room. A quick scan of the Yellow Pages, and I only find two casinos in Newcastle. The city is behind the times. Manchester's got at least six legit clubs. But I'm glad. Two casinos are easier to canvass. That's if Rob Stokes is even up here.

I open the desk drawer, find a Gideon Bible and slam it closed again. Pull myself off the bed and wander through to the bathroom. I've nothing better to do, so I have my second shower of the day. It feels like I'm being beaten up, but after a while I can feel the knots in my shoulder melt. Towel off and have to use both sachets of coffee to get a decent cup. Then I reach for my mobile and check for messages. Declan's is still on there, so I give him a ring. 'How you doing, bruv?'

'I'm good,' he says.

'Where are you?'

'I'm in the pub. I just got out of a meeting.'

Oh, that's just fantastic. A guy goes to an Outreach programme, then nips to the pub afterwards. Mind you, I can't blame him. Anything that good for you has got to give you a thirst. 'You're doing okay, then.'

'Yeah, I'm doing fine,' he says.

'How's Mam?'

'She says for you to call her.'

I will when I can.'

'You said that last time.'

'I've got nothing to talk to her about, man.'

'Doesn't matter. She's your mam. She deserves a call every now and then. You still working for Paulo?'

'You still clean?' I say, then pause. 'Yeah, I'm still working for Paulo.'

'Can you throw a punch yet?'

'I'm trying, bruv. But I'm a lover, not a fighter.'

'Huh. When you coming up?'

'As soon as I can, mate. I'm stuck in Newcastle right now, but I'll try to get up for Christmas or New Year or something, okay?'

'What you doing in Newcastle?'

'Working,' I say. 'Look, I've got to go. Stuff to do. I'll give you a call at the end of the month, we'll sort out a session, okay?'

'Aye, alright,' he says.

'Take care.’

‘You too.'

I ring off and stare at the mobile. It's hard talking to my brother. In fact, it's a fucking chore at times. My whole family's like that. We'd rather skirt around the issue than have it out head-to-head. It took me a stretch inside to face up to Dec. After all, he was my older brother. I remember him beating the crap out of me on a regular basis and even when I did floor him, he had the ability to make me feel guilty as fuck about it.

We'll see what Christmas brings. A good bevvy and maybe we'll be okay.

Right now, though, I've got more important things to do. Newcastle's casinos are open for business.

TWENTY-ONE

'I'm sorry, sir, but I can't give out that information.'

'Okay, well, I was just asking. He's a mate of mine.'

'I understand that, but I'm afraid I still can't help you.'

'That's fine,' I say. 'Two o'clock tomorrow, then?'

'We'll see you then,' says a smiley female voice. A blonde voice.

I hang up.

Gaming regulations are gaming regulations, and they mean the casino staff can't tell me if Rob or Robin or Robert Stokes is a member. They also can't let me just swing by, not until after the twenty-four hour cooling off period. Christ, it's not as if I'm trying to buy a gun. But I joined up over the phone anyway. Both places. All they ask is that I bring identification when I come in tomorrow.

Which I told them was fine. I root through my wallet for my driving licence and dump the rest of my accrued crap into the bin, slot the driving licence back into a prime place. My wallet's still plump with cash, but otherwise it looks sparse. If I was found dead, they wouldn't get much information.

Twenty-four hours. I look around the room. Bland. The travelling man's lot: dull furniture, a portable telly and a plastic kettle. Porn on pay-per-view and five channels with bad reception, sachets of coffee and tea, hot chocolate if you're lucky.

I need to get out of here. And I need a drink.

At reception, I ask a girl with braids in her hair if there's a pub nearby. She looks at me with a smile in her eyes. 'You're on the Quayside, Mr Innes. It's all pubs down here.'

Huh. Maybe Newcastle's not the shithole I was led to believe. She gives me directions and I follow them to the letter.

You can tell a lot about a place by its pubs. Judging from the stretch along the Quayside, Newcastle's desperate to please. It's just like Withy Grove, but pulled taut and facing onto a rolling brown river. Looks like I'm coming out on the tail end of the lunch hour. I pass suits and skirts; a couple of young guys in the similar colour tie-shirt combo are talking loudly about how crap their jobs are.

Tell me about it, fellas. At least I don't have to dress up.

The first place I come to, The Pitcher & Piano, looks too expensive. I give it a glance, but when I realise the piano isn't real and the clientele look like twats, I move on. That's the trouble with this place. The bars are like those that have cropped up in Manchester. Ball-less, soul-less, all glass coffee tables, animal print sofas and bottled beers. Jukeboxes play- ing Joss Stone and cocktails with 'ironic' names. Wine bars for the noughties.

Fifteen minutes of walking, and I finally find a pub. Inside, the place is decorated with black-and-white pictures of famous Geordies. I only recognise some of them, and that's mostly because they look like stills from Get Carter and The Likely Lads. At the bar, they've got a few lagers on tap, which is a good start. I order a Stella and it comes without fuss. The price isn't too bad, either. I settle at a table and watch the pub. A guy in a suit is eating a burger and managing to get most of it on his tie. When he catches me staring, I turn away and light up. There's nothing like flicking ash into a pristine ashtray.