Sucker Punch (3 page)

“I don't get why I have to go over,” I say. “It's got nothing to do with me.”

“He's seventeen. I know the lad's mature enough, I could send him out there on his own, but officially, he's underage. He needs someone to go with him.”

“Paulo, I'm not playing chaperone.”

“You don’t have to chaperone nowt, Cal. Liam's driven. He knows he's not going to get many chances like this in his life, and Christ knows I told him exactly how many strings I had to pull to get him considered. So you don't need to keep an eye on him. I don’t expect you to. If Liam fucks this up because he goes out and gets hammered, he knows he'll get a thrashing when he comes back.”

“No pressure then.”

Paulo opens his hands. “Here, he does his best, he'll have done his best. That's all I want.”

“I can't do it, Paulo,” I say. “I'm still on licence.”

“I been counting the days just like you have. Today was the last.”

“Fuck's sake, man, I'm no good with these lads. What do I have in common with Liam except a record? You go with him.”

“I need to take care of this place.”

“I can take—”

“You can't even take care of yourself right now, I'm not going to trust you with my club. Besides, you're not listed staff, Cal. Anything happens, I'll need to be here. And you need a holiday.”

“I don't like holidays.”

“Then don't treat it as a holiday. Treat it like work. You've been saying you're working for me, well, here's your job. And I already bought the tickets, so you can't get out of it.”

“What the fuck am I going to do in LA?”

Paulo's eyes drop to slits, like he's actually thinking about it. “Well, let's see. You're going to look after Liam, pep him up when he needs it, leave him alone when he wants to be left alone, look after all the admin like his pass book and stuff and basically let him do what he needs to do. And while you're keeping out of the way, you're going to go to bars or Universal Studios or Hollywood, eat a burger or a hot dog or some Reese's Pieces and act like a bloody tourist. Pretty much anything you want that'll get you out of this funk you've been in.”

“Why didn't you ask me about this before?”

“Because you would've said no.” Paulo gets up, pushes back his chair. “C'mon, I'll introduce you to Liam.”

I drag a few quick ones off the Embassy before I grind it out and follow Paulo out into the club. He's obviously picked up a few moves from Don Plummer, added a few of his own. Like me not having the chance to turn him down. I promise myself I'll find a way out of it. I'm not well. Got to go to the doctor's tomorrow and get a refill on my script, so I'll get him to conjure up a bogus sick note. My GP's a bastard, but I get the feeling he's corrupt. Because I don't think I'd be able to stand the flight, never mind all the crap I'd have to do in Los Angeles. Apart from my back, which has been murder for months, I'd have to spend time with Liam Grannybasher Wooley.

As soon as I see him, I recognise the lad. He was just a record before, but now his face pops into my memory. A couple of months ago, he'd been a real beast and a bad fighter. Anger issues, not someone you wanted to fuck about with. He had the scally dead-eye to a tee and liked using his forehead instead of his fists.

Now the kid I knew has been stretched to a hair under six foot. His face is long, sallow in the strip light. Liam's sporting a number one and deep shadows under his eyes. As we approach, he's battering the shit out of a heavy bag. For all the force, the bag doesn't move that much.

“Liam,” says Paulo.

Liam laces a couple more rights into the side of the bag before he takes a step back and looks at the pair of us. Gives me the once over and obviously isn't impressed with what he sees. I'm the same, reckon he looks like a thuggish gazelle.

“What's up?” he says.

Paulo points at me. “This is Cal.”

“Y'alright?” says Liam with a twitch of the chin.

“Cal's going with you to the smoker.”

Liam's eyes flash blue just the once. He almost looks happy. “You sorted it?”

“Yeah.”

“Ah, sweet.” Liam pulls off one glove with his teeth, offers me his hand, slick with sweat. I take it, shake it. His is a solid-grip handshake with nothing to prove, a direct contradiction to his eyes. It doesn't sit well with what I know about him. “Nice to meet you, Cal.”

“Yeah,” I say. “You too. Can I have my hand back now?”

I know they're in there. As I pull up outside the Harvester, I notice Baz's pimped-out ride parked up the street. A Vauxhall Nova, Baz is the kind of bloke to spend all his money on a car that's neither fast nor furious. This isn't the country for fast motors, but to Baz it's all Miami waiting to happen. Doesn't matter that the underlighter he's got on the car probably eats away half the battery.

I feel like putting a brick through the windscreen. Stick my hands in my pockets instead. I'm shaking, don't want Mo to see the tremble in my hands. He might think it's got something to do with him. And that's the last thing I want.

The Harvester's the hyena's den. They want to be lions in here, but there's no chance. Skinny, teeth permanently bared in a whisky grimace, the scavengers of Salford come here to drink when they've been barred from all the other pubs. Mo Tiernan's barred because he kicks off, or he deals. Or it's one of his dad's pubs. Time was, Morris Senior ignored Mo's activities as long as they didn't step on his own, but that time's long gone. Last I heard, Mo'd been dealt a paternal beating that puts him way out on his own. Uncle Morris Tiernan, veteran hard bastard, wants nothing to do with his son. He's out of the family and good fucking riddance.

I push open the door, catch a whiff of beer and urine, stale sweat. Under it all, the smell of yeast, throwing me back to the odour in the air when I stepped out of Strangeways. Thought I was free then. I couldn't have been more wrong.

The landlord glances at me as I step into the pub. He's an ex-bare-knuckle bruiser in the old school tradition, had his face mangled this way and that, but his features still cling stubbornly to his skull. That same mule instinct applied to the décor of the place. The landlord keeps most of the windows boarded up, reckons what's the point in replacing the glass? Bastards in here'd just put it through again.

If I hadn't done time, didn't wear it like a fucking badge, I'd be out on my ear right now, makes me wonder how Mo's managed to stay here so long. Probably his old family ties. News doesn't travel that fast when you're pissed out of your face. Not that maintaining a drunk in here would be easy: the pints are so dirty, you'll shit through the eye of a needle for a week straight, end up with an arse like a chewed orange.

It doesn't matter. I'm not here to sup.

Mo Tiernan's sitting with his back to the corner, just like his dad does. The difference is, Morris does it to keep an eye on the place; Mo's just shit scared someone'll stick a knife in his back. But he's trying to throw a don't-fuck-with-me attitude at the rest of the pub, flanked by Baz and Rossie. Two mates, don't have a brain between them. Baz has put on more weight, sitting further back from the table to accommodate his gut. Rossie's wearing a cracked and battered leather jacket. Last time I saw him, that jacket was brand new.

It's still quiet in here. Things won't hot up until last orders, the desperation for another drink pushing grudges to the foreground, fucking people up for good. I make my way over to Mo's table, wishing I had a gun so I could end this thing right now. My hands still in my pockets, I stand in front of him, say: “Mo.”

Mo looks up, his face streaked brown with dried blood, his eyes hooded and the left beginning to swell. He sighs. “Been a while.”

Rossie straightens up in his seat. Baz tries to look intimidating by lighting a cigarette.

“Not that long,” I say. “Saw you a couple hours ago.”

“Yeah.” Shakes his head. “Forgot you was there.”

“I need a word.”

“Nah, I got nowt to talk to you about.”

“What're you doing hanging around Paulo's?”

“You heard us, mate? I got nowt to say to you.”

“What about Paulo?”

“What shit's between me and Paulo, it's between me and Paulo, know what I mean?”

“No,” I say. “I don't.”

Mo takes a sip from his pint, sets the glass back on its beer mat. “You know what I fuckin' mean, Innes.”

“What've you got to sort out with Paulo?”

He looks at me like I just asked him how to spell his name. “Cunt's a fuckin' uppity poof, isn't he? He broke me fuckin' finger, broke me fuckin' nose. Thinks he's a fuckin' saint, know what I mean? Cunt needs a smack, bring him back to the real world.”

“You smack him, he'll smack back. You know that.”

“Yeah, and that's the way of the fuckin' world, innit? Fucker smacks me, I smack him back, there we go. Keep going until one of us gives up. Fuck d'you care anyways?” Mo nabs the cigarette from Baz's mouth, takes a drag off it. “Not like you're his boyfriend, is it?”

“I care because he's a mate,” I say. “And he doesn't need trouble from a fuckin' scally pillhead, Mo.”

“You what?”

Rossie's hand strays to his pocket. Baz watches him. For a couple of hard lads, they've got a great way of telegraphing every move.

I stare at Mo, say: “You want to start something, Rossie?”

Mo taps the table. “Leave it, man.”

“Called you a fuckin' scally, Mo,” says Rossie. “Come in here shouting the fuckin' odds—”

“I'm not shouting.”

“Leave it,” says Mo.

“Yeah, Rossie, leave it. I came to talk to the organ grinder, not his fuckin' monkey.”

Rossie's face twists. “You what? Fuckin' monkey, is it?”

That could be a bad move, but it's a calculated risk, winding him up. Testing the water. Knowing that Mo's not going to start a kick-off in the one pub he can drink in. Besides, knowing Rossie, this is all blustery, chest-puffing bollocks. The bloke's packing a knife, yeah, but he needs the nod to do anything. And Mo's not going to give it to him.

“Fuck you doing, taking the piss, man?” says Mo. “We done all our talking.”

“I'm telling you to leave Paulo alone.”

“That a fuckin' threat?”

“It's a friendly piece of advice.”

“The fuck d'you know about friendly? This is my place, you come in here and you're giving us orders? Fuck gives you the bottle to talk to
me
like that? You know who I am.”

“I know who you were.”

Rossie's hand moves again. I catch it out of the corner of my eye.

“I'm warning you, Rossie-mate. You pull a blade and I'll put your head through that fuckin' wall.” I remove my hands from my pockets. There's sweat on the palms and I hope to God the light doesn't catch it. “I'm not holding anything, alright? Settle down.”

“Fuck's that supposed to mean?” says Mo. “You know who I were?”

“You know what it means.”

“Nah.”

“You still in tight with your old man?” I say.

Mo pauses, still staring at me. He scratches some dried blood from the side of his nose. “So we need a man-to-man, eh? In the bogs, right?”

“Okay.”

He gets up, kicks Baz until the fat bloke moves his chair back.

“Where you going?” says Baz.

“I just said, man, I'm going to the bogs.”

“I wouldn't trust this cunt,” says Rossie.

“Like I fuckin' care. You're not gonna try owt, are you, Innes?”

“You wanted to talk. That's good enough for me.”

“See,” says Mo, holding out his arms, a cracked smile on his face. “He's gonna do nowt. Have a bluey, man. Calm the fuck down.”

And we walk to the gents, Mo still smiling like we're old mates just catching up.

“There y'are, lads. Curse of the prostate, eh?”

There's an old guy in front of the urinal when we step into the toilets. He looks like he's been at it for a while without joy, so I suppose the eye-watering stink in here must be from the other drinkers. One hand spread against the wall to steady himself, the other hanging onto something I don't want to see. Salty-looking stubble takes up most of the guy's face, thickening into a nicotine-stained moustache.

Mo's smile has disappeared. “Eh?”

The old bloke gives us a knocked-out grin before looking down. “Size of a bloody walnut, apparently. Bursting for a piss and it's like a fuckin' drip then that's it.”

“Don't give a shit, mate,” says Mo. “Get out else I'll chuck you out.”

“I won't be long.” The guy sways at the urinal, his bottom lip out in concentration. “Normally takes a few minutes, but that's all I want.”

Mo looks at me, blinks, then glares a cross-hair at the old bloke. “I tell you, I'll give you the count of three before I come over there and put your skull in the pisser, you get me, mate?”

“Here, c'mon, eh? I'm suffering here, mate.” He glances at Mo. “Looks like you know all about suffering, a face like that, eh?”

Mo's arms drop loose at his sides. I step up to the old bloke, lean towards him but keep my eyes averted. “I'd do what he says.”

“Not you an' all.” When he speaks, there's a stink like stale brandy stirred with a cigar.

“Go on, get out,” says Mo.

“Fuckin' hell.” The bloke fumbles with his zip. “Can't even piss in peace these days.”

“Out.”

“I'm going.” The bloke moves from the urinal, his feet going in opposite directions. “Used to be a bloke didn't have to put up with this
shite
. I hope whatever bloke did that to your boat, I hope he finishes the fuckin' job next time.”

Mo watches him leave, his fingers twitching. Even after the door clatters shut, the tension stays with him, knotting him up. “I should've done him.”

I lean against the one working basin, fold my arms. “You think so?”

“Yeah, I fuckin' think so. Mingin' old cunt.”

“What'd you want to talk to me about, Mo?”

He frowns. “You was the one wanted to talk to me.”

“I said what I had to say. Leave Paulo alone.”

“You're in no position to make threats, mate.” He draws a rattled breath through his nose. “You got nowt on us.”

“I'm not threatening you, Mo. I'm asking you.”

Mo flexes his fingers, stares at the back of his hands. He swallows. “It's all over the fuckin' place, innit?”