Thanks, mate. You'll get yours.

'We kill him, we'll have to deal with his body.'

'Howeh, Rob, he's fucked up. Might as well follow through. What's to deal with? We dump him in a fuckin' ditch and call it a night.'

'It's too risky. People know he's up here,' says Stokes.

'Aye, but we'll be gone.'

'I'll be gone, George.'

'He's grassed you right up,' says George.

'Nah,' says Stokes. 'He hasn't told Mo where I am. Least that's what Alison says.'

'Who gives a fuck? Better safe than sorry.'

'Take it down a notch, Georgie. You're beginning to sound like a proper psycho. Far as I'm concerned, this isn't worth the bother.'

'And I'm saying better safe than — '

'How about you shut up, George? You're not the bloke Morris wants. You're a fuckin' tourist, so hang onto yourself.'

My lips start flapping. In my mind I'm calling George all the bastards under the sun, but it comes out as a gurgling wheeze. George doesn't like it. He kicks me hard. I roll over onto my other side, curl up into a ball. Shut the world out, try to keep breathing.

Best to keep my mouth shut. Let them sort this out.

Stokes says, 'We'll dump him in a ditch. By the time he makes it back to Newcastle, we'll be long gone.' He leans close to me. 'You hear that, Innes? Long fucking gone. You messed up, son. You dropped the ball.'

I can't see him anymore.

'Pick him up,' says Stokes.

'Fuck that, I'm not touching him.'

'George, don't make me tell you twice, mate.'

I feel hands under me again, feel the sky get that little bit closer before my head falls to my chest. The world starts spinning and I have to blink to keep myself from throwing up again. I'm upright, looking down now. I notice my shoelaces are untied. Wondering how the fuck that happened. My ankle turns, a stabbing pain at the top of my foot. Then I drop face forward into a ditch by the side of the road. The mud is cool against my face. If I close my eyes, I can pretend it's my bed.

Footsteps disappearing, the sound of the engine.

They're not going to kill me, but they've left me for dead.

Small mercies.

I wait for the engine sound to fade away. All that's left are the sounds of passing cars and my own whistling breath. It's cold out here, getting colder all the time. I should make a move, but I don't want to. Not yet. Enjoy the rest.

My head starts feeling heavy, then the fear of coma spikes me with adrenaline. I put my hands out into the mud, sinking them deep. I try to push myself to my knees. It takes a couple of attempts, and when I get there, my head's thumping. Keep my eyes narrowed, because the world's going to get bright soon, I know it. It might be dark here, but the headlights of oncoming cars feel like they're burning my eyes right out of their sockets.

I concentrate on the road, lit up, raindrops like stars. They burst as my focus shifts.

And something catches my eye. It shines white against the tarmac. I pull myself closer on my hands and knees.

A tooth.

That tooth.

I finally got the bastard out.

And it hurts to laugh, but I do it anyway.

PART THREE

Blue Skies for Everyone

Parole is granted on the basis of reports by prison and probation staff, on the nature of your offences, your home circumstances, your plans for release and your behaviour in prison.

An Irish guy with a soft voice gave me a book about the American penal system.

'Read this,' he said. 'But I want it back. It's part of my library.'

I read it in a day.

Six months before the Parole Eligibility Dates and thereafter annually you will be asked whether you wish to apply for parole.

This book was about the Depression in America, made up of all these first-hand accounts of convicts over there. And they were fucked from the start. See, these guys had no education, they were mostly black, and had fuck all in the way of civil rights. No money in your pocket, you're sent down for vagrancy. You stay too long in one place, you're loitering.

Four months before your PED you will have the opportunity to see the reports and to make written representations stating why you believe you should get parole and what you will do on release.

God help you if you wanted a little action. The girls might have been pros, but they were being employed by the law to snare these guys. You got drunk, thought that girl with the come-to-bed eyes actually wanted a slice of you, the next thing you knew you were behind bars.

Three months before PED you will be seen by a member of the Parole Board who will write a report for the Board. You can see and comment on the report. He will be a kindly-looking guy in a beige shirt, white collar. He won't ask you if you feel like you've been rehabilitated, because that's a bullshit question.

In '30s America, convicts were leased out as slave labour to wealthy landowners. When their sentences were up, they were pressured into signing contracts they couldn't read. Then they were slaves for another ten years. Couldn't leave, either. Not unless they wanted armed guards with hounds on their tail.

Two months before PED — a panel of Board members will consider your case. You will not attend. They will focus pri- marily on the risk to public of a further offence being committed were you released, although they will consider the benefits of early release under supervision.

A Glaswegian called Harry Beggs collared me when the news filtered along the spur. He threw an arm around my shoulder and said quietly, 'Don't think about it, son. You think about it, you'll go nuts instead of flying, ken? Dinnae let them clip yer wings before you get a chance tae use 'em.'

I didn't, which is why I read so much in those final months. But it weighed on me. When I heard I'd been approved on condition that I report to Paulo's club, it felt like my stomach was lined with lead. This was what freedom was about, moving from one cage to another. When I gave the Irish guy his book back, he said, 'The Irish are the niggers of Europe.'

'What about the Scots?'

'The Scots are the Irish who could swim.'

Bloke had an answer for everything.

When Paulo came by before that final hearing, I was in no state for his usual bullshit. We argued hard. Part of me

wanted to tell him to go fuck himself, that I'd wait until the last moment of my sentence before I agreed to work for him.

We fell into silence. I focused on the tattoo on Paulo's arm. A blue heart with three names: Mam, Dad and Keith.

It was fear that kept me inside, but a greater fear that made me back down and agree to his terms.

Back then, I was my own worst enemy.

Nothing's changed.

FORTY-ONE

It's a long night and a longer limp back to civilisation. Or Sunderland, which is the next best thing. Road signs point the way north, and the freezing wind lets me know I'm getting there. As much as I want to slump into a ditch by the side of the road and sleep for forty hours, I know I can't. Things to be done, loose ends flapping in the breeze.

So I follow the signs along the side of the road, a constant whoosh of cars flying by. I watch the night crack into morning, grey skies above. Dishrag clouds. More rain. I let a downpour wash away the self-pity, replaced it with anger once I started walking, and now all I have are images of Stokes, George and Alison. The rage keeps me limping, even though every bone in my body wants to rest. Muttering to myself, it's no wonder people don't give me a ride. Well, shit on 'em. If they don't fancy giving a lift to a stranger covered in blood and mud and piss, then that's their loss. I could have paid them well, made their day with a stack of cash, but no. The great British public, otherwise known as It's None Of My Fucking Business.