My stomach growls, but I'm not about to chance pub grub. I don't think I've got the constitution for it.

But I'm calmer now. This place isn't exactly heaven, but it's better than Manchester. For the moment, at least.

'Anyone sitting here?'

I look up. She's a brunette, looks a little rough around the edges. Like that drunk bird from Will and Grace. And from the way she's handling the chair, it looks like she's already had a few today. She's smiling and that's about all I can see. That, and a stunner with a good few years on me.

Course, it could be the drink talking.

'Nah, y'alright,' I say. Thinking she'll just pull the chair away somewhere else.

She sits down and places her drink on the table. 'You okay?'

'Yeah, fine,' I say. 'Couldn't be better.'

'Funny that.'

'Yeah?'

'Because you look like someone pissed on your chips.' A mouth on this one. I smile, say, 'I don't have any chips to ruin.'

'Aw,' she says. 'Tell you what, I'll buy you a drink.'

'Why?'

'You don't look like the kind of guy who'd ask that.' Known me five seconds and she's already got me pegged. 'I'm getting drunk,' she announces after she comes back with the drinks, a couple of chasers lined up. 'Looks like you already are.’

‘Are what?’

‘Drunk.’

‘Are you?’

‘Not me. You.'

'You got drunk fast,' she says.

I'm not. Why're you getting drunk?'

'Because I hate my job.' She crosses her legs and pulls her skirt over her knees.

'Everyone hates their job. That's why it's called a job.'

'Oh, you're funny,' she says, deadpan. She drinks, then: 'I've decided. I'm going to take a half-day.'

'It's already three.'

'A quarter-day. Whatever. I didn't go back after lunch. You up for getting sloshed?'

'You don't know me,' I say. I could be anyone.’

‘Yeah, you could be a murderer. What's your sign?’

‘Leo.'

She breaks into a beaming smile, shows fantastic teeth. 'You actually know your sign. Jesus, I was joking. What's your name?'

'Cal.'

'Like the Helen Mirren movie.’

‘Can't say I saw it.'

'You didn't miss much. Love story set in Ireland. She's the widow of a murdered Proddy copper, he's skirting about with the IRA. I'm Donna.'

'Pleased to meet you. So what's so bad about your job?'

She sighs dramatically. 'I'm a PA for a director of a PR company. It's all initials to make a job sound more impor- tant. What do you do?'

'I'm a PL'

Donna laughs. 'So we're in the same boat. What does PI stand for, anyway?’

‘Private investigator.'

'That kind of PI? Fuckin' hell, I thought you meant personal injury. I was about to say, you don't look like a lawyer, like. Wow.' She seems genuinely impressed. But then, she's slurring. 'So you're like a two-fisted kinda guy, right?

You do the cheating spouses, fraud claims? You solve the murders?'

'The first two sometimes. The police solve murders.'

'Sometimes. I heard there was this gadgie, they slit his throat and dumped him on the beach at Tynemouth. They never solved that one. But a PI, wow. How'd you get into that racket? That's the right lingo, isn't it? Racket?'

'I sort of fell into it. Did favours for a few people, they paid me for it. I discovered I had a knack for it. Not something I can explain. And yeah, your lingo's spot on.'

'Cool. You don't look like a private dick.'

'What am I supposed to look like?'

She thinks, then opens her hands and says, 'Mickey Spillane.'

'You know what Mickey Spillane looks like?’

‘Alright, Humphrey Bogart.’

‘Well, I'm sorry to disappoint you.’

‘I didn't say I was disappointed. So what you working on, Shamus?'

I shake my head. Too much for polite conversation, no matter how much the drink seems to be flowing. 'Nothing,' I say.

'Unemployed, eh? Looks like I'll be getting the drinks in, then.'

'You don't have to do that,' I say.

'I'm a modern woman, Cal. I can do whatever the fuck I want.'

And as we tan those chasers, I don't doubt it.

TWENTY-TWO

Came out Accident & Emergency with a splint on me finger. Doctor said it weren't broke, like, but what did that cunt know? It felt broke. And I were boiling over with things I'd do to Paulo given half the chance. The look on me face were enough to get the doctor rushing me through. And the bastard didn't prescribe any painkillers, either. Fucker.

Baz were outside in his Nova. He didn't want to come in; the lad had issues with hospitals. Said his mam died in one. When I got in the car, he said, 'Y'alright?'

I held up me splint. 'Do I look alright?'

Baz nodded to himself, started the engine. 'Where you want to go?'

'Pub,' I said. 'We got business to discuss.'

'What business?' said Baz.

'Alison.'

Baz sighed. 'Why you always got to go on about that, man? Christ, look at you: your finger's broke.’

‘It's sprained.'

'You got X-rays. It's broke.'

'It's sprained. And I'm gonna fuckin' kill that Paulo.'

'Leave it, Mo. He's not worth it.'

'What do you know who's worth it? I'll do the cunt.'

I knew I were a daft bastard for going round the club, but what else could I do? Summat had to be done. Summat had to be said. I had to tell me dad that I weren't fuckin' happy with

this situation, not one fuckin' bit. And going round the club were the best way of doing it. You tell us not to interfere, Dad, here's what I think of that. Fuck yourself.

Course, the whizz helped matters, gave us that extra touch of rock'n'roll. Trouble was it got snapped out of us when Paulo did his fuckin' finger trick.

I stared out the window. Fuck it. Reached in me trackie bottoms and pulled out me mobile. Realised I couldn't dial worth shit so I chucked it at Baz. He nearly lost control of the car.

'What's this?' he said.

'Call Rossie. We got to get a plan B.'

'You call him.'

I held up me finger. 'You been in a fuckin' coma, Baz? How'm I supposed to press buttons with this?'

'Aye, alright,' he said. 'Jesus.' He searched for Rossie's number on me mobile, one eye on the road.

And I started working on that Plan B.

TWENTY-THREE

At seven, Donna gets the bright idea to call a cab and pick up a bottle on the way back to her place. I try to put up a gentlemanly fight, but the booze has taken hold. She wants company, and if I get to thinking about it, so do I. So we keep each other upright and take the taxi. It's already dark by the time we get through the front door. The place smells like lavender. I feel my eyelids getting heavy.

I trip over a cat in her living room, end up on the couch. I think it's a cat, anyway. Could be a child or a midget. Whatever it is, it barrels out into the hall with a screech. Donna starts laughing. It's a great sound, and infectious. 'Stella doesn't like you,' she says.

'Stella?'

'The cat.'

So it was a cat. 'Why'd you call your cat Stella?'

She comes into the living room, screws up her face and puts on a bloke's voice. 'Stelllllllllla… Hey, Stellllllllllaaaaaa…'

'Rocky?'

'Streetcar Named Desire, you prole,' she says and returns to the kitchen. 'Or Seinfeld, whatever you prefer.’

‘I think I'm pissed,' I say.

There's a clatter from the kitchen. 'Yeah, well, Mr Innes. I believe I'm in a similar state.' The sound of ice in glasses, and she emerges with a bottle of Glenfiddich and two tumblers.

She sets one of them on the coffee table in front of me and sways as she makes her way over to a chair. I gaze at the glass, watching her splash the single malt.

'The good stuff,' I say.

'I save the crap for special occasions.'

'You know how to make a guy feel wanted.'