FIFTY-FOUR

Can't focus, but my hand finds the door and I force it open, stand on trembling legs and Mo's right in my face. He doesn't back off, just looks at me with dull eyes. As my vision comes back, I can see his nostrils flared, the colour in his sunken cheeks.

Then he butts me sharply just above the nose.

A white flash and someone pulls the ground from under me. I go down hard on my arse, my forehead crackling with pain, my mouth hanging open like the stupid bastard I am. I fumble for the side of the car, try to pull myself up, but my head spins too fast. Dizzy as fuck, I can't quite make it. Mo plants a boot in my stomach and I keel forward onto my hands and knees. Before I know it, my gut clenches hard and I spew on the road. Talk about deja vu.

'I owe you that one, Innes,' he says.

I try to blink through the tears, contain the throbbing in my gut long enough to make out what's going on. Across the street, a fat guy has Alison Tiernan by the wrist. She's in her nightie, barefoot and stumbling, screaming with the cracked voice of someone who's been dragged from her sleep. The fat guy hauls open the passenger door of a white Bedford and pushes her in. She kicks and swears, but once that door slams shut, she contents herself with spitting at the window.

'She had a bag packed,' says Mo.

I cough; it hurts. I spit the bad taste in my mouth at the tarmac.

'Stokes is inside,' he says.

It's difficult to focus, but Mo seems relaxed now he got the head butt out of his system. I pull myself to my feet and slump against the Micra, hold my head back to stem the blood from my nose. 'You found him,' I say.

'He were in there,' he says. 'They're dealing with him right now.'

My mouth doesn't work. It's like I'm drunk again, and it's not a good buzz. Rob can't have been that bloody daft to go over to Alison's and warn her Mo was coming. He's not that thick, surely. For all his faults, I never took the guy to be suicidal.

'He got away. I lost him. He's not in there. You're fuckin' lying.'

Mo draws closer, smiling. His hand snakes up to the back of my neck, grips hard and before I know it, I'm being frogmarched across the road. And this bloke, I've taken him before, I could do it again. But the thing with a head butt is that it messes with your motor functions, throws your balance and perspective out of the window. He lets go as we near the front door, standing to one side. I sway, trying to centre; I look at the ground and focus on his twitching feet.

'Well?' he says.

The house smells damp. The odour's enough to make my gut twitch. 'Well, what?'

The left side of Mo's face ticks into a half-smile. For a moment, I see Morris Tiernan there. 'Go on, Innes. You know you want to.' He places a hand on my shoulder. I want to shake it off, but my head's spinning and I need the support.

'I'll leave you to it,' I say.

'Don't be daft. The party's just started.'

'I think I lost my invitation.'

'You're on the guest list, mate.'

Mo pushes the front door, guides me into the hallway. Too gloomy to see anything, like a house long deserted. I want to turn back, but I don't have the energy. Somewhere out of sight, I can hear the sound of muffled sobs. As I get to the end of the hall, I make out a door, closed. The sobbing gets louder as Mo pushes it open. Then the sound cuts short.

And in the dim morning light, I see Rob Stokes. Tied to a wooden kitchen chair that was white before someone started beating him, his pants round his ankles, his face a battered mess. He's been sick down the front of his T-shirt which is ripped open at the navel. His head is down; it looks like he's staring at the reddish brown stain between his legs. A stiff breeze blows through the open window, billowing nets and wafting the stench of shit and vomit my way. I cover my nose with one hand.

'Reeks, don't he?' says the fat guy. He walks over to Stokes and pats him on the head. Stokes jerks to one side, a low painful sound escaping his lips. 'Not surprising, like. He had an accident.'

'More than one,' says another guy from the shadows. I can see the shine of black leather. He's holding a butterfly knife in his right hand, absently working the blade in and out of the twin handles.

'Cal, this is Baz and that's Rossie.'

'Kind of a name's Rossie?' I say. Trying to be hard as. Trying to make aggro conversation when there's ice in my veins.

The guy in the black leather jacket says, 'Kind of a name's Cal?'

Stokes raises his head at the sound of my voice. I catch a glint where I think there's an eye, but the rest is obscured by shadow and blood.

'He was here when you arrived,' I say.

'Yeah, we found him upstairs,' says Mo. 'He were hiding in the fuckin' wardrobe.'

The stupid things you do when you're scared. Acting like Robin Askwith in a Confessions film. Running to your girlfriend when you know she's the reason you're getting fucked in the first place. Taking a job you know is going to end in tears because you're afraid of what'll happen if you don't. Acting the prick with a woman who cares about you, because it's easier than contemplating an honest relationship. Spinning yourself a cunt's yarn to hide the truth.

'Way Sis tells it, he were here all the time,' says Mo. I look across at him. Yeah, he knows. He takes a step towards me. 'The way Sis tells it, he got a phone call and woke her up, started acting all weird.'

Stokes mumbles something. Saliva drips onto his chest, glistening red.

'He went for the cash.' Then Mo turns and shares a giggle with Rossie and Baz. 'And it were sitting there on the fuckin' bed, can you believe it?'

'Priceless,' says Rossie, letting out this laugh that sounds like a horny pig. Baz joins in, laughing through his teeth like someone throttling a snake. It's a proper zoo in here.

I try to smile but my face hurts too much.

'But what I don't get is, who called Rob?'

'Fucked if I know,' I say, but I blurt it out.

Mo pauses, then looks at Stokes. 'Yeah, well, we'll find out, won't we, Rob?'

Stokes doesn't answer but his legs tremble. He shifts position in the chair, sniffs hard.

'I think you better get back to Manchester,' says Mo.

'You think so.'

'Yeah.' His lips are thin. 'Yeah, I think you should go home. You look like you need a good night's sleep, mate.'

Mo slaps me hard on the back and a bolt of pain runs up to the nape of my neck. I flinch, but other than that, I'm rock steady. Too busy staring at Stokes, wondering why he would stick around so long, wondering why he didn't tell me that Alison was in bed next to him and trying not to look too hard at the answers because it would hurt too much.

Yeah. Stokes was there with Alison. And they were getting ready to go when Mo came knocking. Which meant Stokes was delayed somehow. Alison, maybe, digging her heels in, stalling him until Mo came round.

I want to speak to Alison,' I say. 'I've still got some questions for her.'

'Nah, y'alright, Cal. You're done up here. You're finished. Well done. Nowt more to do.'

'Rien a faire,' says Baz.

'Bazza's part French,' says Rossie.

'Yeah, the part that don't wash,' says Mo.

I turn and walk out of the room as the laughter hits its peak, Stokes left half-dead in the middle of it all. Through the hallway, out onto the street. I light an Embassy and draw the smoke deep into my lungs as the speed freak pushes his way into the house. In the passenger seat of the van, Alison watches me with lazy eyes. I watch her straight back.

If she had any sense, she'd be running down the street right now, but she stays put. But then, why should she run? It's worked out exactly the way she planned it.

Alison realised it didn't matter what she did, she was going to get caught. And when Stokes got my phone call, made for the money, that was the kicker. She couldn't trust him to be a willing patsy anymore, so she decided on damage limitation. Mo was coming, she might as well be here when he does, crying rape and making Stokes out to be the bad guy. Any chance I had of saving the dealer was scuppered the moment he went for the money.