It didn't matter. I couldn't help it.

  I parked up and left the bottle under my seat just in case a thirsty student decided to go rogue and put his elbow through the window. I took a couple of extra-strong mints and chased them with antacids because my stomach was giving me gyp again, then I nudged my tie tight and headed for the psychology department. I ended up at the Coupland building, opening the door just as a girl carrying a bag exited the building. She thanked me. I asked her if she knew Lucy Baxter. She didn't. I pushed on inside, where the staff proceeded to be thoroughly unhelpful.

  "I'm sorry, sir, we can't give out that information." The woman looked like she was melting, the fat leaking over her chair and under the desk.

  "I understand that, but this really is an emergency." I tried to think of any brothers or sisters who could have been in accidents, but came up blank. Fact was, we hadn't really talked that much about our respective families. "Her dad is seriously ill. He's in the hospital. I need to contact her as soon as possible."

  The women moved her lips around in a slow circle and blinked behind her glasses. "One moment."

  "Thank you."

  She tapped a few things on the keyboard in front of her. I couldn't see what it was. Then she picked up the phone. Someone picked up at the other end because she said her name and asked for Lucy. There was a pause and then: "That's fine."

  I wished I could see where she was calling. Probably some other office somewhere, but something gnawing at me told me otherwise.

  I took out my mobile and cycled through the contacts until I found LB HOME, then I speed-dialled.

  "Hello, is that Lucy?" said Judith. "Hi, I have a gentleman here who would like to talk to you about your father."

  The tone came back engaged.

  I killed the call, turned around and walked out of the room. I heard Judith sounding confused and irritated behind me. Like I honestly gave a fuck.

  She wasn't the one who'd been lied to.

  27

  On the way to Hulme, I ran red lights and I almost took a couple of kids with me because they thought stepping onto a zebra crossing made them invincible. The woman who shouted after me sounded more like Beale than the lollipop lady she was.

  When I got to Lucy's house, I parked and took a moment to myself. I needed to play this right. If she wasn't at home – really, genuinely not at home – then Judith at the university had put one over on me and good for her. If she was at home, though, then I needed to talk to her and find out what had happened in the meantime. But in order to do that, I needed to be calm and sober and I needed to stay that way until I found out what was what. It was all a matter of control.

  I got out of the car and crossed the road. As I did so, I saw movement in the living room window. Heard someone approaching the door from inside and rolled my shoulders back, ready for whatever turned up.

  It was Josh, arms folded. Behind him, blocking out the hall, was Daz. Beyond them I suspected the other housemate lay in wait, one big flesh wall between me and Lucy. She'd need more than that to keep me out.

  "Y'alright, Josh? Is Lucy in?"

  "No," he said.

  I pulled out my mobile and called Lucy's. It rang through to voicemail. Josh made a move to shut the door on me, but I held up a hand to stop him. "Wait, I need to check the home number." He looked confused. I rang the home number. I could hear the phone ringing. I killed the call. "So it does work then. See, I tried it before and it was engaged."

  "What're you on about?"

  "She's here. I know she's here, Josh, so stop fucking about and let me see her."

  "She doesn't want to see you."

  "Then she needs to tell me that herself."

  "No, she doesn't."

  I stepped up to the front door, got in close to Josh, who only backed up one step. "You want to get hurt, son?"

  "Eh?"

  "I'm asking you if you want to get hurt. You and the rest of them in there. Because you might think you're hard, but you don't know the first thing about it. You haven't lived. A couple of scraps outside a pub in fucking Feltcham or wherever the fuck you came from isn't going to cut it when you come up against experience like me. So let's just say you did your bit, it didn't work, so I get to talk to her."

  He tried to close the door on me. I got between the door and the jamb and shoved it back. You don't try to shut out a door-to-door – we have ways of gaining entry. He backed up even more, this look on his face like he didn't know if he was supposed to take a swing at me. By the time he figured out he should do something, I was already past him and down the hall, shouting Lucy's name.

  "In here." The voice came from the kitchen.

  She stood leaning against the kitchen table, a mug of tea in her hand. The mug read: I COULDN'T GIVE A SHIT ABOUT THE ROYAL WEDDING. She was dressed in a man's rugby shirt that wasn't mine, and a pair of shorts that weren't mine, either. I could hear Josh behind me, shuffling his feet.

  "So what's going on, Lucy?"

  "What do you want?"

  "I wanted to talk to you."

  "I know. You went to the university."

  "Because you lied to me."

  "And if I'd told the truth? We had a deal, Alan. Personal space."

  "Alright, yeah, fine. I'm sorry."

  "You sound it."

  "I am. Honestly." I turned, saw Josh and now Daz, the other roommate, watching us from the hallway. I went over to the door and tried to shut it, but Josh kept one hand splayed on the wood. "Back up, big lad."

  "Josh, it's okay."

  He allowed me to close the door. "How long have you been fucking him, then?"

  "Don't be like that."

  "Oh, you're not fucking him? Have you told him that?"

  "Alan—"

  "Yeah, that's what I thought." I didn't move. If I moved, I didn't think I'd be able to stop myself. "This wasn't the way this was supposed to go."

  "It's not ideal for me, either." She put the mug to her lips. "But you were the one who said it was over."

  "And you were the one said you'd wait."

  She smiled at me as if I was either simple or pre-pubescent. "Come on, Alan. You're not going to be that bloke, are you?"

  "Fuck off."

  Mocking now, the smile turned to a grin: "You're not going to start crying, are you?"

  I wasn't going to cry, no. But I could feel a pain in my throat and I caught myself breathing heavier than usual. I lit a cigarette and puffed three times before I inhaled. "I should fucking kill you," I said, and I meant every word. "I should bash your fucking skull in."

  "Why? Because I cheated on you? By that rationale, your missus should have a good hard pop at you, shouldn't she?"

  I wanted to tell her that I was going to run away with her. That I wanted to take this to the next step, make a go of it, confirm the look she gave me on Friday and make it happen, just me and her, wherever she wanted to go, we'd go and that was it, that was final, that was our future wrought together.

  But I didn't say any of that, because she didn't say anything more to me, and that just about ended it. I was an idiot. I'd been spun a cunt's yarn and I'd believed every word of it. I stared at her, tried to remember what it was that'd grabbed me the first time we met, and I realised what it was – it was the sex, pure and simple.

  "Know what it is? Beale was right. You're rats, the lot of you. Trust you as far as I could shit you. Moment I turn my fuckin' back you're humping the first fifteen out there. And there was me thinking your lot trained their women up better than that."

  She stared at me. Her mouth was open, but she didn't say anything.

  I got closer to her and kept my voice low. "Think you're hot shit now, love, wait until you don't have Josh around. Then you'll get some fuckin' learning."

  She screamed. I turned to see the kitchen door open, but I was already pushing past Josh before he could take in the situation. He made a grab for me, I shoved him back up against the wall and got nose-to-nose with the bastard. "What you looking at, eh?"

  "Get out before you get hurt."

  I pulled him and shoved him back against the wall, then made a move to go.

  "You're welcome to her," I shouted. "You're welcome to the Paki whore, see if I fuckin' care!"

  Even back when I first fucked her in that car park, I knew I should've left well enough alone. Beale was right. There were things you did and things you didn't. I just didn't want to believe him, which was why I kept the two of them apart. Or tried to.

  Something exploded at the back of my head and I took the steps in one stride, my ankle twisting as I landed at the bottom. I turned, one hand up to my head, vision blurred so I only saw the outline of Josh as he rushed me from the house. I heard Lucy screaming something, and then Josh hit me in the ear. I twisted out of his way, ended up doubled and caught between him and the car. He punched me again, hard in the neck, then backed up and kicked me in the gut.

  I had one hand out to protect myself as I slid down the car door. He backed up further. Daz had one hand on Josh's arm now, guiding him back to the house. I watched the pair of them go. Big hero. Big strong Josh. See what happens. He knew it as well as I did. The way she treated me was the way he'd be treated when he'd served his purpose. See how fucking sensitive he was then.

  "Josh!"

  Daz tried to stop him, but Josh turned.

  "Take a good look, mate. Take a good fucking look."

  Yeah, he knew what I was talking about. I smiled wide and spat blood, then I hauled myself up the side of the car and slumped behind the wheel. I took a long swig of whisky and held the bottle up in a toast to Josh, who was still stood in the doorway.

  I started the engine. My phone rang. For a second, I thought it was Lucy calling to shout at me. The display showed an unrecognised number, which meant trouble. I was getting used to it. I took another swig and answered.

  "Yes, Mr Ahmad, what can I do for you?"

  "Mr Slater."

  "What do you want?"

  "My money."

  "Go see Beale."

  "We discussed this."

  "Fuck yourself."

  "That's not particularly constructive."

  I said it again, then: "Fuck do you know about constructive? You trashed my flat."

  "I did nothing of the sort."

  "The blokes you paid off."

  "Who won't like it when I pass that message on. You need to think about your situation, Mr Slater. You need to understand that it isn't just you who stands to be hurt by your intransigence."

  I kept quiet. Threatening my wife now, was it? I let it ride, couldn't work up the indignation. I took to the bottle and upended it. Balls to him. He wasn't having me that easy. Pretended to be all fucking suave and what was he really? Just another dirty Paki in a suit. They were all the same, used thugs to keep their hands clean, but the intention was there. The cunning, too.

  "Mr Slater."

  "You're never going to get that money. Not a single penny. You come near me, I'll take your balls, you understand me?"

  "It won't be me."

  "Oh yeah, I know that. You'll send some scally round to do your dirty work, and I'm supposed to be scared by bailiffs? Fuck off. Fucking amateur hour. You want to do something to me, you do it. You won't get me, prick. You won't get nowt."

  "I'll get—"

  "You'll get fucked."

  I buzzed the window and slung my mobile out onto the street. I revved the engine and blared the horn. I saw Lucy come to the front window.

  "And you can get fucked an' all."

  And I was out of there, drinking all the way.

  28

  When I was young, I thought I'd never make it to thirty. I was that rock and roll. And I tried my best not to make it to thirty-eight that night.

  But I didn't quite manage it.

  I woke up bloody and screaming. When I tried to sit up, I slipped off something hard and hit something harder. Wherever I was, it smelled of piss and last night's whisky. I thought I was going to puke until my gut gurgled. I swallowed painfully and realised I already had at some point. My stomach bubbled with acid. I slumped back against a fitted bench with a blue mattress on it, and blinked through my fingers at institutional green walls.

  I stared at the paint through my fingers. I remembered a scuffle. I remembered someone shouting that they had to grab my legs. I remembered thinking I was going to die. I remembered screaming. The backs of my legs hurt. I rolled up one trouser leg and saw yellow stripped bruises across the calves.

  Police. The duty sergeant. Fat and ginger. Coffee breath. He talked and I didn't listen until he asked me if understood the charges. That was when I vomited.

  I looked down at my shoes. Puke on them. No shoelaces.

  A clatter of metal. At the door, the hatch was down and a puffy face looked at me.

  I looked back at it.

  "You alright?"

  I shook my head.

  "What's the matter with you?"

  I blew air. "Sick."

  The hatch clattered closed. I heard footsteps walking away.

  They picked me up. They'd been looking for me and they found me. I wondered if I was in for a standard drunk or something worse. I rubbed my mouth with the back of my hand and it came away sticky with dehydrated spit. I prayed it was a drunk. It needed to be a drunk. I got up off the floor slowly and stood as still as I could until my head stopped spinning. I put a hand against the wall. My watch showed seven in the morning.

  I remembered Piccadilly station. I remembered a pay phone and I remembered pressing my head against the plastic because it was cold and I was burning up.

  I remembered talking to Cath. Crying. Apologising. But I didn't remember what I'd said to her.

  And then nothing but pain and darkness and now here.

  There was movement outside the cell. I backed up, watched the door. The hatch slid open, that same puffy face regarding me with contempt. Then it was slapped shut and the door opened to reveal a short, portly guy wearing designer glasses and an Alfred E. Neuman T-shirt.

  What, me worry?

  I stared at him. The copper made to shut the door behind him, but he held up a hand. "You feel up to a little fresh air, Mr Slater?"

  I nodded. He led the way. As I passed the uniform, he stepped back as if he was about to sucker punch me, so I recoiled. He laughed. I didn't.

  The short guy seemed to know his way around the station. And the uniforms appeared to leave him alone. "You a lawyer?"

  He glanced back at me. "I'm Mike Hopley, Mr Slater. I'm the duty solicitor. The custody sergeant called me when you sobered up. He's a good one." He opened a fire door with one hand and extracted a pack of Marlboro Lights from his back pocket with the other. "Some of the guys in here would have me talk to you when you're arseholed."

  We stepped out into an enclosed car park. It was cold. I dug around in my pockets for the antacids. Couldn't find them. The solicitor gave me a cigarette and lit it for me. "You haven't got any Rennies, have you?"

  "You have health problems?"

  "Yeah, you could say that."

  He lit a cigarette for himself. "Okay, I'll have a word with the sergeant, see if we can dig some up for you."

  "I'd be surprised." I blew smoke. "Don't think I'm too popular in here. I think I resisted arrest."

  "Yeah, you did." He was smiling. "Resisted quite a bit, as it happens. And they'll ask you about that. What about the money?"

  "What money?"

  "The eleven grand."

  "I closed my bank account."

  "Why?"

  My mouth moved, but nothing came out. I looked at the ground.

  "What's the story, Alan?"

  "I don't know what you mean."

  "Listen, I'm not daft. I've been doing this long enough to get most of what I need to know from first impressions. And what I see here is a man pulled in on a drunk with eleven grand in his wallet. This man also happens to be of great interest to CID. So I'll ask you again, what's the story? Because from where I'm standing, eleven grand and a kick-off at Piccadilly, plus CID attention, means you were doing a runner."

  My mind shut down. I couldn't see. "I don't know what you mean."

  "You tell me or you tell the police. You tell me, I'll be able to advise you. You tell them, you're on your own."

  "I haven't done anything wrong. I got drunk."

  "How about you forget the drunk and disorderly and start thinking about the assault on Leslie Beale?"

  I looked at him. The cigarette was beginning to burn my fingers. I dropped the filter. "That's why CID want to talk to me? They think I did Beale?"

  "Did you?"

  "Why would I do that? Beale's a mate."

  "Then who would?"

  My guts rumbled, lurched and spiked. I closed my eyes for a second.

  "You okay?"

  I waved my hand at him, nodded. "I just need an antacid." I tapped my stomach. "I have gut problems."

  "You want a doctor to look you over? I mean, I can get the interview postponed—"

  "Postponed?"

  "They're waiting for you now."

  I breathed out through my mouth. Hopley recoiled slightly. My breath must've been rank. I had a chance to explain myself. Trouble was, I didn't think Hopley was a hundred percent on the level. He had the look of an ambulance chaser about him. Like any duty brief, he was about as loyal as a stray cat.

  He ditched his cigarette. "Anything you want to tell me before we go in?"

  I shook my head. I didn't need this guy. I was better off on my own.

  "Fair enough."

  Our footsteps echoed as we headed for the interview room. A neat little man in a well-cut suit stood outside. He introduced himself as DC Hart. "If you'd like to go on inside, Detective Sergeant Donkin is waiting for you. I'll just go and fetch some coffee."

  Hopley pushed the door to reveal a bare room apart from one table, four chairs, a panic strip that ran around the room and fluorescent lighting that gave you a headache if you didn't blink every couple of seconds. In one of those chairs was a bloke who could've been Beale's big brother. He was sprawled behind the table, gut hanging over his belt, a roadmap of burst blood vessels lacing his nose and cheeks. He nodded at Hopley, then looked at me. "You're Slater, are you?"

 

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