'You're full of shit,' said Rossie.

The speed kicked in with a twitch and I wanted to go drink-chucking again, but I kept it down. I wouldn't have got a decent throw in, not with me finger in a splint. Proper fucked me up that one.

Go round Paulo's in the middle of the night with a couple cans of petrol, torch that fuckin' place to the ground, watch it burn from across the street with five doses in me blood. Paulo lived there, even better. I wondered what a fuckin' cock- jockey smelled like when he burned. Probably fuckin' lilacs or some shite.

Or give the outside of the club a new coat of paint. Me and Baz, we went to Homebase and I picked up an armful of spray cans. I had it all planned out in me mind, paedo paulo, sprayed ten feet fuckin' tall in red paint, aidsscumright next to it. I had

visions of mobs with naming torches 'cause of that one. They'd come storming down on his club like it was Franken- stein's castle, smoke the fuckin' monster out into the street and crucify him. Just the thought of that made me balls jump.

But I kept it buzzing under the skin. That were for later. I couldn't be a fuckin' kid about it. A lad what gets knocked and knocks straight back, he's a fuckin' chump, know what I mean? It takes time for payback. Time makes it sit better. Until I could pay Paulo back for me fuckin' finger I had Innes on me mind.

And I weren't the only one. I beamed back to the pub, saw Rossie staring out the window. 'What?’

‘Is that Innes?' he said.

I got out me seat, knocked me pint over. Lucky it only had a couple thumbs of beer in it. Nudged Rossie out the way and looked out at the street.

Well, fuck me. 'Rossie, get out there and follow the cunt.'

'You what?'

I gave him bug eyes. 'Get. Out. There.'

TWENTY-NINE

More time to kill, and the beer is wearing off. I think about another drink, maybe something stronger, but I don't want to chance it after last night. It's a short step from that first shot to becoming a bloodstain on a bed sheet.

Instead, I wander into town, looking for something free to pass the time. Pass a pub that looks too dingy for me and check my watch. Just after four. I find myself outside a gallery, then inside. Not my usual cup of tea, but it'll while away a couple of hours. A sign says I have to turn my mobile off. I ignore it.

An exhibition of portraits, or so the posters say. I follow the signs, stop in front of a huge painting. Proper Old Testament stuff, it looks like. When I read the plaque, it tells me it's the destruction of Sodom. From the looks of it, a Catholic put that bastard on canvas, probably Scottish. Fear and sadism. I remember it from my childhood. Sometimes I thought about telling my dad I was gay, just to see him hit the roof. But cowardice kept the thought at bay.

I move away from the painting, scan a couple of country- side landscapes that don't do anything for me. Usual sheep and lakes. An England that never existed except in the imaginations of those rich enough to buy this shite.

A guy in a black leather jacket shows the same distaste. I don't blame him. Then I head upstairs for the portraits.

The door to the exhibition has a blackout curtain over the

glass panes. Looks like it's closed, but I try the handle anyway. When I step inside, it's dark apart from a circle of upturned televisions in the centre of the floor. And this white noise of voices, sounds like screaming, and they're all out of sync. Movement catches my eye, and there's a young guy bent almost double, walking around the circle. For some reason, I can't breathe.

I stare at the young guy, wary of him. It sounds like a killing floor in here and the way he moves — slow, deliberate steps backwards, thrown into relief by the flickering tellies — he looks like something out of Twin Peaks. Jerky, but purposeful. I can't quite make out his face, not sure if he has one.

He looks straight at me and I nearly shit myself.

Not as much as he does, though. He twitches with fright, then straightens up, makes for the door.

Christ. The guy was just like me. And we scared the hell out of each other. I stay in the room for a while longer, crane to see what's showing on the televisions. A choir, different shots, looks like old footage from the Proms.

No wonder he got a fright. This is some creepy stuff.

The door squeals open again, and the guy in the black leather jacket steps into the room. He doesn't flinch, doesn't look at the televisions.

He just watches me.

I watch him right back.

I stay where I am. Don't want to confront the bloke. In the light, he looks bigger than he should be, flickering large like a nightmare. Besides, I've got a bad track record when it comes to dealing with people who might be following me. But he doesn't look like a scally. This bloke looks like a professional.

We stand there. The voices mesh into one strangled shriek. He doesn't even glance at the televisions.

Something catches the light in his right hand. Then it flips out of sight.

I make my way towards the door, my ears ringing. This got bad really fast. And I know for a fact that this guy is a tail. Who he's working for, what he wants, I'm not about to stick around to find out. I push open the door and the hinges screech. A plaque on the wall tells me that those tellies were Mark Wallinger's idea of hell.

Close, but no cigar, Mark.

I head for the stairs as the door squeaks open again. Taking them two at a time, I'm down in the gift shop before I get a chance to catch my breath. I pretend to look through some postcards, but keep an eye on the staircase. If the guy's following me, he'll be down in a minute or two.

He appears just as I head into the landscape section again. I keep my head down, but I can hear his footsteps against the floor. He's wearing boots.

I return to the gift shop, and he comes with me. He looks like he might be a copper. If that's the case, then Donkey's determined to bring me in. And if Donkey's determined to bring me in, then things in Manchester have taken a turn for the worse.

A crowd has developed outside a club down the street. I head straight for it. The reek of bad aftershave and flowery perfume battles with the smell of beer and bad Italian meals for air space. I keep my head down, light a cigarette. A Bruce Banner lookalike bears down on me, crisp Fred Perry shirt on his back. I swerve out of the way before I accidentally get a Regal in the eye.

I take a quick look over my shoulder, and the black leather jacket is nowhere to be seen. I take a moment to breathe.

Friday nights, the same everywhere. Hordes of chequered shirts and women with love handles and bad halter tops. I can hear the chorus of a group of Welsh lads pissed off their faces. The women are all white, shivering legs and high-pitched curses. I can't make out what they're saying, but it's probably bad.

This is hell, Wallinger. Look around you.

Up the spiral steps, across the bridges that criss-cross the motorway, cars roaring by on the edge of the city. It's a clear night. I stop by the barrier and watch the traffic for a moment. After a while, the headlights stream into long red lines. I find enough phlegm to gob a fat one onto the motorway from the bridge. It doesn't have the same sense of satisfaction it did when I was ten. I try it again, but it's a poor effort. I have to wipe the spittle from my chin.

Me and Declan used to do it when we were kids. Spent hours gobbing at cars, people, whatever passed under our bridge. It didn't make much difference. Now the kids lob concrete blocks from these places, kill guys my age. Times change.

I lean against the barrier and ditch my cigarette. I should get back to the hotel, but I don't want to. The heaviness in my legs might spread to the rest of me. And I need to stay awake, just in case. Knowing my luck, I'd stretch out for a second and wake up nine hours later with nothing to show for it.