Sucker Punch (28 page)

I take out a cigarette, light it. I couldn't bring a lighter on the plane going over there, but they weren't so bothered when I was coming back. Pull my jacket tighter and look around, cross back to the front of the club. Up the street, there's a gang of kids on mountain bikes coming this way. Shouting and whooping at each other. As they get nearer, I recognise Ewan. He's on a stolen bike. I say stolen, because his ride's too short for him and it's pink with a white plastic basket on the front. The way he's riding the bike, though, he obviously thinks it's a monster hog.

“Ewan,” I say.

The fat kid grins, rides towards me. Starts circling, then comes to a scraping halt in front of the Lad's Club.

“Where you been?” he says.

“Where's Paulo?”

“Tell you what, give us a ciggie, eh?”

“I'll give you a smack instead. How about that?”

The rest of Ewan's gang stop their bikes. One of them I know. He's a bruiser from the club. The other two look like scally cousins. They can get to fuck. Ewan straddles the bar of his bike and looks hard at me.

“What happened to your ear?” he says.

“What happened to your hairline?”

Even his gang laugh at that one. Ewan's no leader.

“Where you been, smartarse?”

“I've been away,” I say. “Where's Paulo, Ewan?”

Ewan looks at his cronies, sticks his tongue under his bottom lip. He always was a wee prick, this one. “You missed all the fun, man. Paulo's back on the fuckin' sauce.”

“Commercial,” says the bruiser.

I jerk my head at the doors. “What about the club?”

“Ask Paulo about that, man,” says Ewan. “He's the one fucked with the wrong people.”

“Cheers.” I pick up my bag, walk away from them.

“Go pick up your fuckin' boyfriend,” shouts Ewan.

There are some cat calls, smooching noises. The fat balding bastard is still jeering when I hit Regent Road.

The Commercial's a pub pushing into Castlefield. There are plenty of pubs down there, catering for the off city centre drinkers, the new wave of yuppies residing in the canalside apartments, but the Commercial's the only place that looks like a proper pub. It's also decorated with boxing photos, the landlord being in the circuit in his younger days. Back when Paulo used to drink, he was a regular. So regular that he started getting chucked out on a nightly basis. I don't like the idea of Paulo drinking again, especially when I hear it from a scally like Ewan. Because if it's got to Ewan, it means it's out of control. Paulo's been the kind of ex-drunk who'll enjoy a couple of pints now and then, but that's his limit. And he's been good about observing that limit until now.

When I see him in the corner of the pub, I already know the two-pint limit's been thrown out a long time back. Check my watch and it's knocking on six o'clock. There are four empty pint glasses on the table in front of him. And it looks like Paulo's made a sizable dent in his fifth pint. He looks up as the door squeaks closed.

“Cal,” he says. He tries to smile, but it doesn't quite take.

I pull up a chair, drop my bag on the floor. “What happened, mate?”

“No,” he says. “No, you first. I haven't heard from you.”

“Paulo—”

“What happened in the States?” There's a slight sway to his head; he uses his mouth too much when he talks. “Tell me what happened in America. Our boy do good?”

“I tried to call,” I say. “You change the number?”

“Nah, the phone's off. What happened with Liam, man? C'mon, don't keep me in suspense.”

I shake my head.

“He fuck it up?”

“I did.”

Paulo lets out air, gazes into his pint. “I should've gone myself. No offence, Cal, I love you like a son, but I should've gone myself.” He runs his hand over his mouth, his eyes widening. “The kind of shite that's been going on round here, mate … He lost?”

“I'll tell you some other time. It's a long story. What kind of shite?”

“You been to the club?”

“There's a padlock on the doors.”

“Well, y'know, can't leave it open. All kinds of mess in there. Don't want kids looting the place, either …”

“What happened?”

Paulo pushes his pint to one side, leans both elbows on the table. He has to prop his chin up on his hands as he looks at the frosted glass window next to him. “Someone like Mo Tiernan, Cal … Something needs to be done about that lad. He's a mess. Y'know, I thought he was a scally dealer, but he's … just …
messed
up inside. Twisted. Time was, there'd be his dad to keep him in check. But now …”

“Now what?”

“Now he can go burning whatever the fuck he likes,” says Paulo.

“Did you call the police?”

“What'm I going to tell them, Cal? I don't have nowt in the way of proof. I barely got my club. Shit, the damage, man …”

He looks like he's about to start crying. His eyes are red. It could just be the drink, though.

“Go home,” I say.

“I can't go—”

“Go home. I'll deal with it.”

Paulo's not the only one drinking. When I get to the Harvester, that skinny bastard Mo's at the back of the pub with his boyfriends. They're sharing some joke, something that makes Rossie look like he's about to piss himself laughing. Baz, the man-child fat lad, is having trouble holding his drink. Literally. His pint in both mitts like a fucking baby, his right hand a mass of bandages.

Because Baz is the type of daft cunt who thinks it's the petrol in a petrol bomb that burns, not the fumes. Probably stood there holding it with a pained look on his flabby features before he found the nous to hurl it into Paulo's club. He's lucky he didn't fry himself.

On the way over here, I could picture it. It didn't take much imagination. Had to be Mo's idea. A cheap burn like that, Mo was the only one who could've come up with it. It didn't take a mastermind, just the brain of a petty fucking vandal. It was a cowardly scally trick.

“It might not've been Mo,” Paulo said to me before he went home.

But who else was it going to be? Nobody had any grudge against Paulo. Paulo was an institution. He was hard, he was fair, and he was a fucking pillar of the community compared to the Tiernans.

Seeing Baz's hand is the only evidence I need.

I walk over to Mo's table. He doesn’t see me until I reach forward, grab him by the Berghaus and haul him through a forest of empty pint glasses. He's a skinny fucker, but he's still heavier than he looks — it takes three good pulls to drag him over the table and onto the floor. Course, when that happens, Rossie's on his feet with his hand in his jacket. Baz doesn't know what to do. His hand's a mess; he's not going to start throwing punches.

Mo blows beer from his nostrils. It becomes bloody with a well-aimed knock to the face. Still hanging onto his jacket, Mo swaying under, I plant my fist against his nose again. And again. Hitting the same spot, feeling my knuckles ache. Keep at it, push my knee into Mo's chest to make him stay put on the floor. Blood spilling from his nose now, running in a sheet across his shattered left cheek, mingling with the beer, piss and sweat in the carpet. He hasn't had a chance to scream. Makes these yelping sounds, getting quieter as I grind my hand against what's left of the cartilage in his nose, wanting to push it up, into the brain. Kill the fucker. Make sure he doesn't ever get up again.

You hit me, I hit you. You fuck up a man's dreams, I'll fuck you up.

One more punch, one more wet thump against Mo's face and my hand hurts more than I can take. I stand up, use my good hand to steady myself. Let Mo drop to the carpet, watch him curl slowly, his hands cupped over his face. His knees come up to his stomach as he rolls onto his side, this low growling, crying noise escaping him.

I can't move my right hand. Hold it up in a frozen semi-closed fist. I've broken a finger, one of my knuckles. I can't work out which.

Look across at Rossie. He's stuck to the spot. Wants to do something. Thinks maybe he needs the word from Mo. He's not going to get any word. Not unless his sic command is a liquid moan.

“Keep your hands to yourself, Rossie-mate,” I say.

Rossie takes a moment to think it over, then removes his empty hand from his jacket. I didn't think it would work. But being covered in someone else's blood gives a guy authority, it seems. And maybe Rossie and Baz agree with me, that Mo's been cruising for a full-on hiding for a while now.

I turn my attention back to the shaking figure on the carpet.

“Listen to me, Mo.” I aim my foot at his cupped hands, kick them apart. His face is slick with blood, his eyes shining bright blue and scared. “You look at me, and you listen to me, mate. Because this is the last time I'm going to say this. You stay away from Paulo's club. Stay the fuck away. This isn't a friendly warning like the last time, this is a fuckin' promise. Because I see you anywhere near Paulo, near the lads that go to his place, near the club, near
me
, I'm going kill you on sight.”

I kick him in the side, feel something snap. Bring my heel down on the broken rib.

“You hear that alright, Mo? I'm going to kill you. I’ll beat you to death or I'll stab you with a fuckin' knife. Or see if I can get a gun, I'll empty the fuckin' thing in your skull. I will murder you. Don't get any notions otherwise. Your time, you scally fuckin' cunt, is over. You get that? You hearing me alright?”

Mo opens his mouth, his teeth pink. Can't tell if it's a grimace or a grin. I swing my foot at it, anyway, snap his head back. He lies there. Still breathing. For now.

Then I take a few steps back, keep an eye on Baz and Rossie, make sure they don't do anything daft.

And I'm out the door, my right hand burning.

I've fucked my hand. Thinking that all the way back to my flat, my left hand on the steering wheel, but I can't grip with my right; the fingers have frozen into a blood-spattered claw. I rest my wrist on the wheel, feel the throb travel from my knuckles up to my elbow. Use my wrist to keep the steering wheel in position as I wrestle with my prescription, can't get the bottle open. I end up throwing the pills to one side, the brown bottle bouncing into the crack of the passenger seat.

There are things you don't fucking do. What Mo did, you don't do. Probably a laugh to him and his mates, but robbing a man of his dreams isn't something that cracks my face. Paulo's the good guy. He's the guy in the white hat. Might've been sullied at one point, sure as fuck looking grey now, but at one time that hat was pristine.

I pull into the car park, struggle with my bag and the pills and the car door and my flat keys, finally manage to juggle them and get into the block. Up the stairs, my front door key and bag in my left hand. I get into the flat, drop the bag, dump the keys on the table by the door.

Home sweet home. And it's a tip. I realise I've left the telly on. It's muted, and the evening news is on. The presenters wear court clothes. If you look close enough, you can see the dandruff. Grab a towel from the bathroom, hack some ice from the overfrosted freezer and make a cold bandage, try to take down some of the swelling.

It won't work. I know my hand's broken. Went too hard into Mo.

Fuck that, I should've killed him.

Like I should've killed Nelson.

No, I did kill Nelson.

I bring a bottle of vodka back into the living room, sit on the couch and put the bottle on the coffee table. Wrestle with my pills again, finally manage to pop the lid and shake a couple into my mouth, wash them down with a swallow of vodka.

It'll take a while for the pills to kick in. Until then, my hand throbs out a beat.

I need to get to a hospital.

But not yet. First I need to sit. Drink. Get my head muddied.

I press the bridge of my nose with my left hand, catch a whiff of myself. Plane sweat again, damp clothes, Mo's blood. I pull myself off the couch. I need to get cleaned up. I bring the vodka with me into the bathroom. Twist the cold water tap and take off the towel. My knuckles are turning black. I run the cold water over my right hand as long as I can bear it, then replace the towel.

Bony bastard broke my fucking hand. I should've stayed away from Mo in the first place. I should've have talked to him. It might have been Mo and Rossie and Baz with the Thunderbird bottle and rag wicks, but I set the flame.

You don't reason with a pillhead psycho. You don't try. You do what I just did — hit him as hard as you can and run the other way. And you hope you hit him hard enough that the battle's done and so's the fucking war. Hope you put enough force into those blows to make 'em count, put him down and keep him down.

I reach for the vodka. It burns my lips, but the pills are working now.

Mo's not going to give up. If he's got any brains, he'll leave it, but Mo Tiernan doesn't have any brains. If he had brains, he wouldn't have pulled the burn in the first place. Must've known that would get back to me sooner or later.

And why didn't Paulo call the police?

Because he needs to fight his own battles.

When I'm finished, I reach for the towel, catch a glimpse of my reflection in the mirror above the basin. The glimpse turns into a full vacant stare. Blood spots all over my face. A missing earlobe.

Battle on. That's what they say.

I rub the towel over my face, watch the blood smear in the mirror.

Yeah, you battle on.

I grab my mobile from the living room, walk over to the window and see the rain's turned from drizzle to downpour.

Punch in a number and wait.

I'll drive myself to the hospital in a minute. One more thing to do.

“Don? It's Cal. You still need me to do that eviction job for you?”

Set against a backdrop of sweltering heat and extreme racial tensions, the third novel in the Cal Innes series sees Cal become Manchester's most unlikely hero.