'Some of it. Stokes spent a couple stacks.'

'Where's Innes?'

Always asking after that cunt. 'He's with the busies.’

‘You what?'

'He went nuts, smashed up Rossie's van. Got nicked.’

‘Right. Which station?'

I gave him the address. 'Why d'you want to know?’

‘I'll get Clayton up there.’

‘For fuck's — '

'Where's Stokes?' said Dad. 'He's out of the picture.’

‘You kill him?’

‘Nah.'

'Don't kill him. Leave him. Just bring Alison back and we'll have a talk.’

‘Dad — '

'Leave Stokes alone. And get your arse back to Manchester.'

Dad hung up. I put me mobile back in me pocket. Aye, he were losing it. Time were, he'd have a fucker like Stokes buried in five seconds flat. He'd have me cut him to ribbons and scatter what were left to the fuckin' wind. What I'd said to Rossie and Baz in the pub, I meant it. One day, some- body'd come up to us and ask us was I interested in going into business with a professional outfit? And I'd say yeah, but then they'd say, you wanna join up, you gotta do your dad.

And I'd wait in The Wheatsheaf, watch me dad drink his black and smoke his Rothmans, keep meself pumped with whizz and wait until he went to the bogs and then I'd sneak up on the cunt with a claw hammer and batter him until his brains made it hard to swing. And then I'd go out in the bar, hammer at me side and I'd yell at the crowd to come and have a fuckin' go, the king were dead, and I were large and in charge.

But that'd have to wait.

First I had to clean up me sister's fuckin' mess.

FIFTY-SIX

A holding cell and a mattress that cuts you if you don't lay on it right. The smell of antiseptic and whatever they use to kill the fleas the late night drunks bring in. Someone's written shitfuckcunt on the wall, and I can't help but notice they've taken time to chisel it into the brickwork. You'd have thought they'd come up with something profound.

The police arrived thanks to a conscientious Neighbour- hood Watcher, drawn to the nets by the commotion in the street so early in the morning. Apparently a guy going apeshit with a cricket bat isn't a normal occurrence in Heaton, and this grass thought the police should sort it out.

I've gone through it enough since they left me in here. The breathalyser didn't help matters; it showed me way over the limit. Which I probably am. I can't remember the last time I drank something that wasn't alcoholic. So the police get this idea in their heads, here's a guy with a cricket bat demolishing a van with a girl inside, they think it's a domestic. It's probably the way it was reported and I doubt Alison and Mo did anything to dissuade them from that, especially considering there was a bloke choking his last in the house.

If they'd just checked it out. If they'd just seen beyond what was in front of them. If they'd just fucking believed me instead of being the bull-headed pricks they were…

My Nan said, 'If «ifs» and «buts» were berries and nuts, then squirrels would never go hungry.'

And she'd know all about nuts.

Ach, it's probably for the best. If I'd stayed there, I don't know what would have happened. From the look on Baz's face, I'd be cut up and bleeding to death right about now. So there's something to be thankful for. It's his face that's kept me smiling all the time I've been in here. I'd know exactly, but they took my watch.

I wonder how long they're going to keep me in here. I've had no contact for a while now, and fear's started to prick at the back of my mind. They keep me in here much longer, then they think they have something on me. Something's cropped up.

Christ, I hope George hasn't spilled his guts.

I get off the bunk and stop in the middle of the cell. No idea what to do, where to go. Being back in a cage is sending my memory into overdrive. I can't go back to prison. I gave George a bundle to keep his mouth shut.

But then, he's a rat and he's got a survival instinct. And how do I know he didn't lie to me last night?

Because you were beating the shit out of him with a cricket bat, Cal.

Ah, Jesus. That Maxi. Still got blood on it. If George was doped up, or if he was just plain sick of the pain, he'd talk. He talked to me. And I get picked up for a domestic with a cricket bat in the same twenty-four hours; it doesn't take a genius to put it together.

You'd think I'd know better by now.

I haven't been charged, though. They're probably letting me sweat it out in here, get myself worked up so I'll tell them anything rather than go back inside. Once they find out I've got form, they'll throw that in my face. They'll make me feel guilty, they'll bring up Paulo, how I disappointed him. They'll go easy on me if I just cooperate.

'We know you're not to blame here, Cal. You just tell us how you got into this and we'll see what we can do.'

See what we can do. Working for Morris Tiernan, it's like the mark of Cain. Invisible to everyone but the police and fellow criminals. The criminals keep the respect coming, the fear flashing behind their eyes. The police look at it as a beautiful opportunity, a way to make their names. This is one of Tiernan's, this is the one that might roll over. The fucking busies pray for people like me, the ones so scared they'll say anything to keep out of prison, the ones that have that wee snippet of information that'll put the big bosses behind bars. They look at me the way Ness looked at Capone's accountant.

I can't keep thinking about this. It's what they want me to do. I'm innocent until proven otherwise. Everything I did, it was because I had to. I didn't have any other choice. I sit back on the bunk and stare at the cell door.

Donna doesn't want to see me hurt. As if self-preservation wasn't important enough, there's a part of me that doesn't want to disappoint her. Even though I'll probably never see her again.

If the probation services find out about this, I'm recalled. Back inside. And it doesn't matter if I'm guilty or not. Just the appearance of an illegal act is enough to get their knee to jerk.

Hanging out with known criminals, those that put me inside in the first place.

Not cooperating with the Manchester Met on a man- slaughter case in which I'm the prime suspect.

GBH with a GM Maxi cricket bat.

Criminal damage to a van and attempted kidnap.

And all this with a bloodstream that's a hundred per cent proof.

They won't prove half of it, but I deserve my old cell back. I haven't been able to call anyone yet, and I don't know

who I'd call if I got the chance. I don't have a lawyer anymore, and I doubt Paulo would help. Not now. I'm left alone here with no idea what's going on.

Someone's coming up the corridor. The kind of boots a copper wears, the steady, officious sound of someone who knows those footsteps put the shits up people. They stop in front of my cell door. The clatter of the hatch coming down, then keys in the lock.

'Your briefs here,' says a uniform who's built like a cathedral and has the face of a priest.

I don't have a brief.'

The uniform looks startled for a moment. Then he says, 'Well, he's here.'

'You got the wrong cell, officer.'

'You're Innes.'

'Uh-huh.'

'Then your brief's here.'

I get to my feet, brush myself down and follow the copper to a waiting interview room.