'Ow, ya bastard. Fuck was that for?'

I thought you was asleep.'

'I was asleep.'

'And now you're awake.'

Baz yawned, then his face went all fat and rumpled again. 'What'd you wake us up for, Mo?’

‘You still got them spray cans?’

‘What fuckin' spray cans?' said Baz. 'The ones we was going to do Paulo's place with.’

‘Yeah.'

'C'mon then.'

'They're in the back of me car,' said Baz. 'You're fuckin' kidding.'

'I didn't know we was supposed to bring 'em with us.' I kicked the side of the van. The bang echoed in the street. 'Here, Mo, if you'd let us bring me car, we'd be sound right now.'

'Oh, you just figured that out, did you? I knew I kept you round for a reason. Get the engine going. We're gonna buy some spray paint.'

'Where the fuck are we gonna get spray paint this time of night?'

'I don't give a shit. We keep driving until we find a fuckin' garage, alright?' I got in the van. Rossie made a noise like he were waking up. 'Now let's get going, Baz.'

Baz shook his head, tried to get awake as he twisted the ignition. When the engine caught, Rossie woke right up. 'What's going on?'

'We're going to a garage,' said Baz.

'Sweet. I'll have a pasty if they got 'em.'

This were what I had to fuckin' deal with. No wonder I were so pissed off.

I don't get much sleep. It's too warm, the air too heavy. I open the windows in my hotel room and slump back onto the bed. Stare at the ceiling. Lights pass across it as cars go by outside. I reach for my mobile and sit with Donna's number in my hand. I don't know if I should call her. She might not remember me. She might put me down as a bad mistake. And it's late.

Press in her number, but I don't follow through. Come on, Cal. Grow some fucking balls. Then I connect.

It rings. And then rings some more. My throat goes dry. I take a drink from the glass of water next to me, but it doesn't seem to make it better. When she picks up, my mouth is full, and I realise I don't know what I'm supposed to say. I swallow.

'It's Callum.' Which is better than nothing, I suppose.

'Callum?' she says.

'Yeah, Callum. Cal. Sorry, it's Cal. Like the Helen Mirren movie. We met the other night, remember?'

'Course I remember. You were supposed to call me. Did you forget, or is it a bloke thing?'

'I… Well, I thought I was calling you.'

'I expected a next-day service,' says Donna.

'Sorry. I've been busy'

'Stop apologising. I'm joking.' She laughs. It should hurt, that sound. 'So what are you doing tonight?'

I check my watch. It's a scratch past midnight. 'What, you mean now?'

'No, I mean tonight.'

'I don't know. I have to work.'

'And then?'

'Then I'm going back to Manchester.’

‘Right.'

'But we can meet up before I go,' I say. She doesn't say anything. 'You still there?'

'Yeah,' she says. 'Well. You have my number. Call me if you want. I'll understand if you don't.’

‘I'll give you a ring.'

'Okay.' She doesn't believe me. Before I get a chance to say anything else, she rings off and I'm left holding a dead line.

Forget it.

I do. For the moment, anyway. And the rest of the night falls into blackness.

I wake up at noon, pull myself from the bed and stumble into the bathroom. Brush my teeth. The brush catches my bad tooth and I grunt, chuck the toothbrush into the sink as blood mingles with minty freshness. Look up at myself in the mirror and realise that a good night's sleep has still left me looking like death.

I grab my mobile and call Paulo. Something about that tail yesterday put me on edge. When he picks up, I ask him if Donkey's been round the club.

'Yeah, he's been round, Cal. Every fuckin' morning he's been round. The bloke's got a doctorate in mithering.'

'What'd you tell him?'

'What d'you think I told him? I told him you were out of town.'

'How'd he take it?'

'He told me to let him know the second I got off the phone to you. Said you were in deep shit. What'd you do?'

'Hey, what makes you think I did something?'

'Because you're asking more questions than you're answer- ing. What'd you do?'

'I didn't do anything. Donkey's got a fuckin' stiffy for me because I'm an ex-con. I told you about that.'

'He's leaning on me, Cal.'

'So lean back. You're a big boy.'

There's a silence on the other end. Then Paulo clears his throat. 'Who the fuck do you think you're talking to?'

'I'm sorry, mate. I just… I've got enough on my plate at the moment. I need your help on this, Paulo. Just fob him off or something, okay? I'll be back in a couple of days.'

'I got my club to think about. I'm not doing you any more fuckin' favours, Cal. Mo's one thing, but the police? That's a whole other story.'

'He thinks I did over this bloke, alright? He hasn't got a stitch of evidence, but he's after my blood.'

'You leaving town's not helped matters.'

'I know that. Look, tell you what. He left you a number, right? Give me the number and I'll call him myself.'

As Paulo grumbles to himself, it sounds like he's shifting furniture. I need to talk to Donkey, just to get the bastard off my back. I've got a throbbing pain in the back of my neck.

The guy in the black leather jacket, he must have been a copper. Donkey's watching me, just like he said he would. And this is the worst possible time for it. But me losing him in the crowd has tweaked Donkey where it hurts, so he's making things tough for Paulo. Typical Donkey.

'Got it,' says Paulo. And he gives me the number. 'Cheers, mate. I'm sorry. I'll sort this out.’

‘Be sure you do.'

I hang up. As I'm pressing in Donkey's number, there's a light knock at my door. My arse clenches. He couldn't have found me already. Part of me wants to bolt for the window, but that's a stupid move. I'm not dressed enough for a getaway, and if it's the police, I wouldn't get far after hitting the concrete. They'd be on me like flies on shit and I'd be in even more trouble than I already am. So I cancel the call, stuff my mobile into my jacket and open the door.

The braided blonde from reception stares at me. She looks like she just swallowed a pint glass of brine. I look up the corridor to make sure she's alone.

'Mr Innes?' she says.

'Yeah.'

'Do you own a white Micra?'

Takes me a moment to get my head straight. 'Uh, yeah, I do.'

'I'm really sorry,' she says. I mean, were really sorry.'

'Fuck. Give me a second to get dressed.'

And before I leave the room, I make sure I dry-swallow a couple of Nurofen to kill the toothache. Grabbing my jacket, I notice that the bin's empty. It could be house-keeping, but something tells me they're not the ones who have taken out the rubbish.

I can't think about it now. The receptionist has bad news for me.

They're sorry. That about sums it up. Out here in the carpark, it's starting to rain. I feel the weight of the car keys in the palm of my hand, stare at my car. The metal part of the key is cold against my skin.

'We're all really sorry,' says the receptionist. She's been saying that on and off for the past ten minutes. I'm getting a little sick of being apologised to.

'Not a problem,' I say.

My warhorse Micra. The windscreen's still in one piece, as are the wing mirrors. The bodywork is fine apart from that prang.

But someone's taken a spray to the paintwork and a blade to the front two tyres. Across the side of the car in stark red letters it reads: 'RIP'.

'I think it might be a tag,' says the receptionist. 'Some of the kids round here have them.'

I think it's Rest In Peace, but thanks anyway.'

I didn't want to say that,' she says. 'It doesn't bear thinking about.'