Saturday's Child Read online

  SATURDAY’S CHILD

  Ray Banks

  Dedication

  To Anastasia,

  mad but magic, there is no lie in her fire

  Published by Blasted Heath, 2012

  copyright © 2006 Ray Banks

  First published by Polygon, an imprint of Birlinn, 2006

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means without permission of the author.

  Ray Banks has asserted his right under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988 to be identified as the author of this work.

  All the characters in this book are fictitious and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  Cover design by JT Lindroos

  Formatting by Jason G. Anderson

  Visit Ray Banks at:

  www.blastedheath.com

  ISBN (ePub): 978-1-908688-32-3

  Version 2-1-3

  “Saturday’s child works hard for a living.”

  —Traditional poem

  ONE

  THE SATURDAY BOY

  You will be taken to the prison reception.

  Reception made me think of an airy room with a bubbly blonde behind a counter, all smiles and bright eyes. It was a room, that’s where the similarity ended. Badly lit. It smelled vaguely of shit, and I couldn’t place the source. I didn’t mind. I’d get used to it.

  Already conditioning myself.

  You will be allowed to keep some things. These things will become your “property”. You will be asked to sign a form saying that you have seen what is in your bag, and that it has been sealed in front of you.

  They asked if I understood what was happening to me. I stared at the fat guy with the pockmarked skin behind the reception desk. I watched the way his face moved. His cheeks buckled around the sides of his mouth. Before he got a chance to ask me again, I nodded. I understood exactly what was happening to me. I leaned over to sign the form. My wrist ached as I pressed down on the pen. When I set it down, I noticed blue ink on the inside of my hand.

  You may have a bath or a shower.

  I’d already had one that morning. The skin on my face still felt tight, newly shaved.

  You will be given a prison number and told where to sleep. You will be seen by a member of the prison health team. Please tell the health staff if you feel very down or panicky or if you can’t cope with your feelings or worries. This will be treated as medically confidential.

  I went through the examination without complaint. I was fine, I told the doctor. Absolutely fine. I wasn’t panicking. I wasn’t worried. Everything was fine. Because I’d told myself this was inevitable. At twenty, I’d resigned myself to Her Majesty’s pleasure. I’d already gone through the bullshit accusations in my head a long time ago. I’d already spat at the police, kicked off with the duty sergeant, and it had got me this far with a cracked rib (healing) and not much else.

  And, Christ, I didn’t show it, but I was knotted up inside. Scared wasn’t the word. Petrified. Terrified. Stone cold fucking dead on my feet frightened.

  Sometimes it doesn’t matter if you’re innocent or not. Sometimes all that matters is how you do your time.

  I had a maximum of five years to look forward to.

  Thanks to Mo Tiernan.

  1

  INNES

  Always get the client to come to the office. Rule number one. Get them to come to the office or they try to fuck you over. Especially when they’re out of their heads.

  But my client isn’t a client. If he was a client, he wouldn’t have followed me into the gents toilets at a pub called The Denton. He wouldn’t have that Parkinson’s tremble. And his grin wouldn’t be so fucking desperate.

  “You got the wrong Innes, pal,” I say.

  The skinny guy with a face like a rolled-up newspaper shakes his head side to side. He has got the wrong Innes. He’s after my brother, Declan. The brother who’s now out of the city, in rehab, and a shadow of the junkie he once was.

  But try telling that to the quivering psycho in front of me.

  “C’mon, I got nowt. Got coinage, but I’m good for it. You know I’m good for it.” When he opens his mouth, he shows bad teeth. A by-product of the methadone, his gums purple in places. His eyes are clouded up like marbles. That’s the valium, the temazipam. He should be calm, the amount of sedative in his system, but something sharp looms over the haze. Because behind that stare, there’s a million thoughts swirling into one unassailable notion: I’m holding out on him.

  “I don’t have anything, mate. I think there’s been a misunderstanding.” Trying to be diplomatic when my arse is clenching in time to my heartbeat. I start to back away from him. I’m slow, but the movement’s still too fast for him. I’m holding out, and he’s not letting me go without a scuffle. A blade falls into his hand. Short, jagged, looks like a chib. I’ve seen them before. I had one of my own not so long ago.

  I wish Paulo was here. He’d know how to handle this. He’s been working the doors since Moses wore blue jeans. But he’s not here, so I give in. Hands up, show him my palms. Nothing here, mate. Nothing up my sleeve, either. “C’mon, put the knife away, eh?”

  His right hand curls and flexes around the handle, smooth wood, like he’s just jammed a blade into a piece of dowel.

  “Put it away, man.” My voice hardens. “Don’t be a dickhead.”

  He thinks it over and goes for the second option.

  He’s slow with it. One step forward, and I feel myself pull to the side. My right foot digs into his instep. I hold it there, twist hard and watch him lose his way. His foot stays where it is, but his body crashes through the cubicle door behind me.

  There’s a clatter as he goes head first into the toilet. The blade skitters from his hand towards me. I toe it towards the door to the gents as he tries to pull himself up, one hand on the toilet bowl. His head turns, one eye closed. Searching for the knife.

  What now?

  Subdue the bastard. Wash behind his ears. I slip into the cubicle with him, drop to my knees and get a firm grip on the back of his head. There’s no hair to hang onto, but I squeeze my fingers tight against his skull. He feels it, squirms under me.

  I push his face down sharply. It connects, but the muffled crack tells me it wasn’t with water. Blood runs down the porcelain. His body goes into spasm. Tries to pull up, but the back of his head catches the toilet seat, jamming him in place. He spits blood at the wall, screaming he’s gonna kill me, just you fuckin’ wait. The toilet seat rattles in its hinges.

  I use my weight on his head, make sure his face goes under this time. His right arm flails. His back tenses up. Got to keep him under. Just enough so all the fight’s drained out of him. But not too much. I don’t want to kill him.

  The smackhead’s right arm shoots out, elbow catching me full in the cheek. The shock keeps my grip tight, but my head starts buzzing. I can taste blood in my mouth.

  He bubbles with rage just under the surface, grabs air when he can. Keep him held down until my arm is soaking wet, the muscles in my shoulder twitching painfully.

  Then he goes limp.

  About thirty seconds pass before I realise I’m still holding him face down. My fingers loosen on his skull, my knees ready to push up.

  His head flies back, roaring, and I’m on my feet. He coughs, gagging on day-old toilet water. His eyes are screwed shut and there’s a piece of shit on his cheek. When he coughs, he sprays a mixture of piss and blood at me. I grab him under the arms and yank him out of the cubicle. My feet slip on the floor; his start kicking feebly.

  We stumble through the door to the gents, out into the bar. He kicks his legs out at passing tables, rattling ashtrays, spilling pints.

&n
bsp; One bloke grabs his glass, lager slopped into his lap, and yells at me to take it outside.

  “Fuck d’you think I’m trying to do?”

  When we hit the front double doors, I launch him through. He buckles on one knee, tumbles down three steps into the street. Rolls forward onto his stomach, gags again, then spews onto the road. I watch him from the door, shake the water from my arm. Try to massage the knot out of my shoulder.

  He pulls himself to his hands and knees, spits the last of the vomit from his mouth and fixes me with a glare. He’ll be back. But I won’t see him coming.

  Oh yeah, I’ll look forward to that.

  I watch him get to his feet and back off down the road. Fireworks scream through the sky, glowing orange, bonfires raging from Salford to Hulme. A rocket explodes and throws the smackhead’s shadow three ways before he disappears. The smell of smoke in the air makes my eyes water. The stench from my jacket doesn’t help matters.

  In the distance, I can hear kids screaming. Writing their names in the air with sparklers and looting industrial estates for pallets to use as kindling. Hell on earth to commemorate a traitor.

  It’s enough to give a guy a thirst. I spit blood at the street and turn back towards the bar.

  2

  INNES

  Settled in at a corner table, a pint of Stella in front of me. I managed to salvage a few cigarettes from a wet pack of Embassy and I’ve got one of them on the go. The rest are pulped, a stodgy mess of wet paper and tobacco. The cigarette tastes like toilet water, but I still smoke it.

  My shoulder still hurts, but not as much as my mouth.

  I should’ve known better than to meet the client here. He didn’t tell me his name on the phone, but he had that urgent tone I took to mean he needed help. Course, at the time, I didn’t know what kind of help he had in mind.

  Sip my pint, wash the beer around my mouth. The bugger took a good swing at my tooth. I poke around with the tip of my tongue. One of the molars towards the back waggles in the gum. I poke too hard and it starts throbbing. Another drink to numb the pain.

  If he’d been a client, I would’ve charged him extra to get that fixed. And normally, he would’ve paid it. But then normal clients don’t take a swing at me. They get me to snoop on their beloved wife or follow their kids to see what they do nights. That’s what clients want, a personal spy who doesn’t judge. But business is slow, almost dead. That’s why I came here. I must be losing my mind.

  A plump blonde with black roots leans over the bar, giving the landlord an unhealthy dose of cleavage. She grabs a clear drink and spots me looking at her. I look away, but it’s too late. She wanders over, her legs crossing as she walks. She probably thinks it looks sexy. It just looks like she’s pissed.

  I drain half my pint as she slumps onto the seat next to me. She takes a moment to adjust her dress, a black number that probably looked good when she was twenty pounds lighter, but which now clings to her like shit on a blanket. She fumbles with a pack of menthols, puts one between her red lips and lights it with a pink disposable. A few puffs, then she sets the cigarette in my ashtray. The filter’s scarlet where her lips touched it: her lipstick, or her gums are bleeding.

  “My husband’s a bastard,” she says. Shifts her position so I’m pinned in the corner. She takes a drink from her glass. The smell of gin is heavy on her breath when she speaks. “He’s playing around on me.”

  I don’t say anything.

  “I know you,” she says.

  “You know me.” Plenty people know me. Most of the time, I don’t want to know them. But there you go; can’t have it all. “Who am I, then?”

  “You work for Morris Tiernan.”

  My tooth pricks at the gum. I cover it with my tongue for a second to kill the ache. Then I take a drink to get rid of the blood in my mouth. “I don’t work for him.”

  Her eyebrows arch. “I thought you did.”

  “I was working, Tiernan got involved. Doesn’t mean I work for him.”

  “Oh, right.” She closes one eye. Trying to wink, but she’s looks like she’s having a stroke. “I understand.”

  Somewhere in the pub, a jukebox wails out a country standard. Stand by your cheatin’ man, even though he beats the shit out of you and the dog. I don’t want to be here much longer. As long as it takes to finish this pint, then I’m off.

  “He’s a fucker,” she says. I follow her gaze to the landlord. He’s a stocky guy, shirt sleeves rolled up to the elbow revealing two muscular and hairy forearms. From here I can make out blue tattoos, faded over time.

  “That him?” I say.

  “That’s him.”

  The knot in his jaw, the way he looks at his customers. Yeah, the guy’s a fucker. But it’s got nothing to do with me.

  “There’s always marriage counselling,” I say.

  “Too late for that.” She turns to me. The light catches her face, and she looks drunker than I thought. No different to the rest of the wannabe divorcees who’ve accosted me since I got out of prison. Heavy round the hips, sagging up top. Lines around the mouth like the first strikes of a chisel against rotting wood. A sultry look that may have worked at one time, but which has now grown sickly with overuse. These women, they must smell Strangeways on me like a cheap aftershave. The prospect of rough trade, or something far worse.

  She looks me dead in the eyes, says, “How much would something cost, d’you think?”

  “Something?”

  “Something to happen to him.”

  “I don’t follow,” I say. But it’s pretty obvious what she’s after. Sometimes it’s just a case of making them say it.

  “Course you do.”

  I smile, but I don’t mean it. I look back at the landlord. He’s fiddling with the till. “I don’t think you’ve got the money, love.”

  “I can get the money.”

  “And that’s not the kind of thing I do.”

  “Then what do you do?” she says. She squints at me, smoke from her cigarette swirling up into her eyes.

  “What’s your name?”

  “Brenda.”

  “Well, Brenda, you shouldn’t be asking strangers to do over your husband. It isn’t nice. Now, I never met the guy, but he looks like a proper shithead. And I feel for you, I really do. But knocking him off isn’t going to solve anything, no matter how much you’ve had to drink.”

  “I’m not—”

  “Yeah, you are. Tell you what, you sober up and you still feel the same way, you give me a call, alright? We’ll look at some less drastic options that don’t involve GBH.” I write my name and office number down on a beer mat, slide it across the table to her. “Don’t get yourself worked up for nowt. God knows I’m cheap enough, so you have a think about it and get back to me.”

  I down the rest of my pint and get to my feet.

  Brenda looks up at me. Her eyes are watery, her mouth twisted. “You need to help me,” she says.

  “And I will. Just give me a call, okay?”

  She thinks about it, stares at the beer mat. Then she grinds out her cigarette. Her hand is trembling.

  “You okay?” I say.

  “Fuck off,” she says.

  She lights another cigarette as I move away from the table. Staring at the glass in front of her. It’s all fun and games when she’s playing with the idea of killing her husband. But once morality kicks in, she’s deflated. Daft cow. Telling me to fuck off. It’s her right, but I don’t have to like it.

  I pass by the bar. Brenda’s husband gives me the evil eye. I give him one straight back.

  Time I left, anyway. The whole night’s been a bust.

  3

  MO

  “Mo, fuck’s the matter with you?” said Baz.

  I looked up. He were in the middle of summat, but I’d not catched it. He were looking at us, his eyes wide like I were supposed to say summat. He were a fat fuckin’ bastard, were Baz. Big shoulders and a belly like a fuckin’ toddler hanging off him. Didn’t help that he always h
ad his T shirt tucked right in his trackie bottoms.

  “You what?” I said.

  “I were telling you summat, Mo. Rossie, he went and fucked a brasser up Cheetham Hill.”

  “Uh.”

  “Sharone,” he said. “You know Sharone?”

  “She’s a fuckin’ crack whore. I seen her with fuckin’ Columbo, man. He selled her fuckin’ rocks.”

  “Aye,” said Baz. “And Rossie did it.”

  “Fuck’s sake. He wants to get himself to the clinic.”

  “Call him Johnny Nob-Rot, man.”

  “Fuck off.”

  “G’an, call him Johnny Nob-Rot.”

  “You call him Johnny Nob-Rot. I’ll call him Rossie Skankfucker.”

  Baz lapped that up and the vallies kicked in. I smiled. Didn’t laugh, mind. Because even with the vallies, I still didn’t feel like it. Not after the news I just had. I downed the rest of me pint and pulled on Baz. “C’mon.”

  “I still got a half here.”

  “Fuck it. I’m off.”

  Which meant he were giving us a ride. Baz swallowed what he could and we went. I got Baz to drive us over to the Wheatsheaf. He started on with pissing and moaning, but when he clocked the look in my eyes, he said nowt. Baz might’ve been a big bloke, but he knew when I were serious as fuckin’ cancer.

  “I got to go and see Callum Innes tomorrow,” I said when we was in the car.

  “You need snooping done, like?” said Baz.

  “What d’you mean?”

  “Way I hear it, he’s a private eye.”

  “You what?”

  Baz cracked a grin. “Aye, he’s a private eye. Like a fuckin’ detective an’ that.”