THIRTY-ONE

I stay away from the hard stuff, maintain a buzz with the watered-down Kronenburg the place has on tap. George busies himself with other punters. A guy at the end of the bar has his flies open, but nobody seems to have told him. He watches a plasma screen above the bar. Sky Sports is on, a wealth of stats and breaking news sailing across the bottom of the screen. He's transfixed, until something breaks the mood and he scribbles on a napkin.

At about nine, the music kicks up in volume. What was Dionne Warwick and Kenny Rogers slips into The Who and David Bowie. Right now, Bowie's singing 'Heroes'. It's an odd choice, considering the clientele. They're young and stupid enough to think the song's from a mobile phone advert.

Stokes is at the same table as before, but the dealer's changed twice since I came in. I've watched him rake in a couple of decent wins, but it means nothing in the long run. Any winnings go right back onto the layout. He's tapping his knuckles against the edge of table. The woman next to him resembles a tanned skeleton. She looks down at the sound, her face creasing up like a cat's arse. Then she realises she has to get some chips down before the balls stops and panics, shoves a couple of reds onto a column.

The dealer rakes them in. She looks fit to spit.

I order another pint, a Coke to go with it, just to keep me alert. 'How long are your shifts, George?'

'What d'you mean?'

'It just struck me, you were in this afternoon. How many hours do you work?'

'I'm on a double,' he says. 'I'm stuck here till the bar closes.'

'When's that?'

'Two.'

'Right. That's harsh.'

'Tell me about it. It's the only way to make decent money, though.'

'How long does Stokes usually stay?'

'Until he's pissed away his cash, Mr Innes.'

It doesn't look like I'll have too long to wait. A quick glance at the roulette table, and I can see Stokes is short-stacked already. His back is all knotted up, giving him a stoop and a concentrated look. One more spin, and that look becomes desperate. He sticks the last of his stack on an outside bet.

True to form, it doesn't come in.

'Fuckin' bastard,' he says. Loud enough for everyone to hear. I take a drink from my pint. He'll be popular with the dealers in here, no doubt about it. That kind of showboating marks him out, especially on a night where most of the punters aren't taking the games too seriously. And for a guy on the run with someone else's money, he's suspiciously high profile.

But then, he's a gambler. And from what I know about Stokes already, he's stupid and arrogant enough to think he's invincible. Suddenly the idea of letting Mo off his leash doesn't sound too bad at all.

I stifle a belch as Stokes pulls himself away from the table, and storms out of the pit.

Straight for me.

I turn away, try to be cool about it. He looks too wound-up to pay me any attention, but I pretend to fade into the cigarette smoke anyway. He pulls out his wallet and I get a glimpse of enough cash to make my tongue feel thick in my mouth. I take a sip of my pint and watch the plasma screen.

Stokes sucks his teeth and slaps a fiver on the bar. 'Georgie, I'm having a shitty night.'

'Sorry to hear that, Mr Stokes.'

I catch a twitch in George's face, see him glance at me. 'I'll have the usual,' says Stokes.

George shifts his weight from one foot to the other as he's pouring a John Smith's for Stokes. Sets the pint down and cranks a double Johnny Walker from an optic. He takes the fiver and dumps silver on the bar. Stokes takes a long pull on the bitter. 'You lot in here, you might as well fuckin' mug me. It'd be faster.'

'But less fun,' says George. He has a fake smile plastered on his face, like someone put vinegar on the roof of his mouth. This is banter to go with the drinks. About as friendly as he wants to get with me watching.

'You're right,' says Stokes. 'You're always right, man. The house has the advantage. I should know fuckin' better. It's not like you don't tell me that.'

George doesn't hear him. Or if he does, he doesn't show it. He moves to the other end of the bar. Out of the way. And I know why.

I don't know who you're talking about, mate.

Georgie doesn't know Rob Stokes. The lying bastard. The question now is how well does he know him. I make a mental note not to pay the barman. Fuck him. And his glance at me when Stokes arrived at the bar bothers me. I didn't get a look at Stokes' face, but I'm sure it was for his benefit. Like, here's the guy who's looking for you, Rob. Gets me thinking that George set the pair of us up.

Stokes drinks his bitter, then knocks back the whisky. He turns to me, says, 'I know you?'

I'm shaken out of it. 'Don't think so, mate.'

'You're a Mane,' he says.

'Salford.'

'Fuckin' hell, small world. I used to live down Manchester.'

'Whereabouts?' I ask.

He takes a moment. 'All over.'

If there's any fear in Stokes, he's not giving it up. As far as he's concerned, I'm just another transplanted Mane. How he knows that from my accent, I don't know. The more I drink, the more I sound like a Leith lad. Which means he's probably been briefed.

'Why're you up here?' I say.

His eyes flash, then he drinks. 'Girlfriend wanted to move up here. I fancied a change of scenery.'

'And what do you think of the place?'

'Newcastle? It's a shit pit.' Stokes leans against the bar, regards me with red-rimmed eyes. 'But it's better for me right now.'

'Why's that?'

'Just because.' He finishes his pint, sucks his teeth again. 'What's with the Coke?’

‘Stops me getting drunk.’

‘Expensive, though.’

‘It does the job.'

'Why you scared of getting drunk?' he says.

Because I'll end up twatting people like you, I think. I just hate hangovers.'

'Uh,' he says. He opens his wallet again, sorts out his cash. He removes a wad and nods to me. 'Nice talking to you.'

'And you,' I say.

I finish my pint as he strides back down to the pit and heads for a blackjack table. I order another drink, sip at my Coke while I wait for George to get his arse in gear.

When he finally hands over the pint, I look at him. He's gone white.

'You feeling alright, George?' I say. 'I'm okay.'

'Good.' I reach into my pocket. 'You want me to pay you now?'

He shakes his head. 'No good here. There's cameras all over the place. Just meet me outside after work.'

'Right,' I say. 'Wouldn't want you to get into trouble.’

‘Thanks. Is it the right guy?'

'I think you know fine well it's the right guy, Georgie.'

He looks at the floor. I notice his hairline is receding. Older than I thought. Not that it matters much. He has to serve another customer, so I let him go.

I call for a cab when it looks like Stokes is hitting rock bottom. It's outside waiting for me at ten-thirty when he calls it a night. As I get in, a Ford Escort's headlights go up full blaze and Stokes tears out of the carpark.

'That's my mate there. I got to follow him home,' I say to the driver.

The cab driver looks at me in the rear view. 'I mean it.'

'Uh-huh,' he says and breaks into a smug grin, pulls the cab out of the carpark and makes sure he keeps two cars behind all the way.

As Stokes turns off towards Benton, I check the clock on the cab dashboard. It's getting towards eleven. I can picture George hanging around outside the casino after his shift ends at two. Waiting for me to turn up and hand over the cash. He can go fuck himself.

I wonder how long he'll wait there before he realises he's been stood up.

And I can't help smiling to myself.