He opens the pack. 'There's only two left.'

'I had a toothache.' I drain the vodka bottle and sling it into the open glove compartment, slam it closed. In the back, George dry-swallows the two pills as I pull the car into Manor Road.

The prescription pills rattle in my pocket, and part of me thinks about tossing a few his way. But then, they're mine. I could have given him something to wash the Nurofen down, but there's no way I'd let him get between me and my booze. I might be feeling slightly sorry for him, but there are limits.

I've already tested a few of my own tonight.

FORTY-NINE

Early morning silence gives you space to think, even if you don't want to. The vodka's slipping away fast, and I have the radio on. John Lee Hooker with a slow, mournful tune that I can't name or make out the lyrics to, reminding me of Donna. I switch the radio station. Another dishrag morning, another half-hearted shower of rain against the windscreen.

Reminds me of the last time I saw Kumar. We were out in the prison allotment, turning over manure which stank worse with the rain and the damp. I was keeping my head down and getting on with it, but Kumar had issues with it all. He should have known better than to act up. The screw watching us looked just like Gary Busey. That should have been a sign.

So Kumar said he wanted a cigarette. The screw said he wasn't allowed, that Kumar'd had his smoke break. Busey also said that if Kumar fancied himself a hard arse about it, he'd end up with that there spade in his spine.

Kumar didn't listen. Kumar ended up in the infirmary. When he got out, he mouthed off that he was going to file a complaint. It was inhumane, he said. He had a shit hot brief who'd make toast of Busey and the whole prison.

We stayed away from him. It was one thing to be a crusader; it was another to be a grass. Yeah, Busey was a guard, but he taught a valuable lesson.

You've got to know who's in charge. And sometimes it takes GBH to make a bloke learn.

I'm not proud of what I did to George. Now that the fuzz has disappeared from my brain, I'm getting snapshots of last night in every hangover-heightened detail. I could have killed him. And if I could have killed him in that state, it makes me wonder what else I've done when I'm drunk. Part of me wishes I could just be an arsehole when I'm pissed like everyone else. Why I get the fear is beyond me. But fuck it; I'll go to confession.

'What'll happen to Rob?' asks George.

He's been quiet since we parked. Now his voice seems back to normal. The Nurofen must have kicked in and he's had the chance to swallow enough spit to kill the rawness in his throat. He's been cadging cigarettes off me. He's got one in his gob right now, smoke waiting out through the front window.

I don't care what happens to Rob,' I say. 'It's not his fault.' I don't care.'

George lets the smoke hiss out through his teeth. 'Fuck are you, anyway? I thought you was a private detective.’

‘Investigator,' I say.

'Yeah, shit. Big fuckin' difference, eh? Private investigators beat the shit out of people with cricket bats?’

‘They do if they're pissed off.'

George snorts. Coughs and spits something in the back of my car. 'Aye, you're a private investigator. You work for Morris Tiernan, you're not a PI. You're a bloody hatchet man.'

That's the third time I've been described like that. I didn't like it much the first time. Now it's starting to boil my piss. 'You done bird?' he says. 'I've been in prison.’

‘So you're an ex-con.'

'You ought to be in the police, you're that fuckin' smart. What's your point?’

‘You got a licence?’

‘They don't license.'

'So you're just playing the part,' he says.

I don't like where this is going. I glare at him in the rear view.

'You're not a PI,' he says. And he laughs. Loud. 'Fuckin' hell, you're no more a private investigator than I'm James Bond, man.'

'Shut your mouth, George.'

'You honestly think you're doing good here?'

'I don't have to do good. I just have to do a job.'

'You talked to Alison, man. No, wait, I got it. You got chivalrous because she was sporting a shiner, right?'

'Your mate Rob's a piece of shit,' I say.

'Oh, come on, man. You saw him the other night. She gave as good as she got. And if I know her like I think I know her, she was the one that threw the first punch, and I bet it was nowhere near being over the fuckin' belt, either.'

'That's not true. I was there.'

'And what did you see?'

'I saw a fight.'

'Who started it?'

'I know what I saw.'

'Fuck that, you saw what you wanted to see. And how pissed were you then?'

I twist around in my seat. 'You going to shut up, George?'

He takes another drag on the cadged Embassy and smiles with a swollen lip. It's an ugly sight. 'I'm trying to tell you what's going on here, man. You see what you want to see, you don't realise that you're playing for the wrong team. C'mon, the Tiernans are the good guys? Give your fuckin' head a shake, man.'

I didn't have a choice.'

'Way I see it, you're responsible for what happens to Rob.’

‘Am I fuck.'

'You've as good as set him up. You tell the Tiernans where he is, you're as good as killing him yourself. How's that sit on your conscience?'

'It's none of my business.'

'Course it is,' he says. 'You're as bad as the rest of them. A charva fuckin' gangster playing PI because you're too scared to stand up for yourself.'

My elbow finds his teeth before I know what I've done. George flies back in his seat, hand up over his mouth, swearing in blood bubbles. I turn back around in my seat and stare through the windscreen, my skin itching. Behind me, George is mumbling through broken teeth.

I didn't have a choice,' I say.

And I'm out of the car before George can say anything else.

FIFTY

George. Dickhead. Fucking dickhead. Where does he get off playing the morality card with me? Where the hell does a guy who wanted to kill me and leave me by the side of the road in a ditch find the balls to put his boot in the stirrup and get up on that high horse? Fucking hypocrite.

And there he goes, muddying my thoughts with this bullshit conspiracy theory. Alison Tiernan behind it all, which makes Rob Stokes a scapegoat and dead man walking. She's unhappy with her life and her bastard kid, so she decides to steal from her dad and go on the run. It fits with what she said, but it's the guilt I'm having trouble with.

I've seen battered wives and girlfriends before. I know what they look like and there was something defiant about Alison that didn't fit. Like she was willing me to start in on her. At the time, I thought it was just her way of coping. And thinking of Stokes now, I'm not sure if he was sporting any new wounds. I thought I saw something, but the state I was in, it could have been a trick of the light.

But if Alison's behind it, then I've been fucking up since day one. And Rob Stokes is going to pay for it. Maybe he's just like the rest of us, caught up and in too deep to swim.

I light a cigarette even though I don't want one. The sky's the same colour as the smoke that drifts from my mouth. Some- where I can hear birds chirping and when I check my watch, it's five in the morning. I wonder where the night went, can't remember the last time I had a good night's sleep. My back's all knotted up and jabbing at me. A yawn builds until my ears pop.

Too much to think about right now. I check my mobile for messages. There's a half-dozen from Mo. He's staying at the airport Travelodge, wants me to call him as soon as, or else. A message from Morris, basically the same thing. Where the fuck am I?

I'm right here, boys. No need to get shitty with me.