'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.'

'You're kidding.'

'You never heard then.'

'Nah, I just thought he were a jailbird.'

'He got out,' said Baz. 'Fucker thought he'd set up his own PI business.'

'Fuck does he think he is?'

'Straight, from what I hear.'

'How can he be straight working for a poof like Paulo Gray?'

Baz liked that one. He laughed and I stared out the window some more. A private detective. Wondered if me dad knew about that. Probs. Which were why I had to go and see him.

Fuckin' private detective. Shit. How did that happen? Weren't so long ago the lad were throwing up on himself 'cause he were so scared.

Baz turned up the music, but it were gonna take a lot more than a tune to keep this lad from churning.

We got to the Wheatsheaf. I left Baz in the bar, went through to the lounge and saw me dad. He were in his usual place, right up against the window. He had a pint of the black and he were smoking. His old mates all around the place. Little Frank were crooning out summat about a daft tart called Kathleen. The fuckin' Irish, man, get 'em drunk enough and they'll sing any old shite. Dad liked the bloke, but I knew for a fact Frank liked to cut off cats' heads and leave 'em in people's cars as a joke. Yeah, he were sick in the fuckin' head, you ask me. Lad should've been banged up a long time ago.

But that weren't what I'd come for. I went right up to me dad and stood in front of his table and said, 'I thought you said we was keeping this in the family.'

Dad looked up at us like I were shite. 'I'm not talking about this.'

'You said we was keeping this schtum.'

'We are.'

'So what's this about me going to see Innes?'

'You're going to see him.' Dad screwed his Rothmans into the ashtray and lit another one, sucked half of it down with one draw.

'How's that keeping it in the fuckin' family?' I said.

He pointed at me with his ciggie. 'Watch your fuckin' mouth, Mo. Sit down and show a bit of respect.'

I looked around. People was staring. I wanted to knock a hole in their fuckin' heads. But I didn't. I sat down, said: T thought I were taking care of this.'

'I never said that. That's not going to happen.'

'You promised.'

I promised nowt. You go sniffing about with your scally mates in tow, you'll fuck it up.'

'Dad — '

'Don't «Dad» me, you little prick. Do as you're told. You go round there tomorrow and you tell Innes I want a word. That's all you do. You don't tell him nowt about this, you don't say a fuckin' word, else I'll knock you sideways, you hear me?'

Wanted to tell him to show a bit of respect. Felt my left eye twitch and sting. Shook it out. 'Dad, he's a fuckin' pisshead. You want someone you can trust, know what I mean?'

'Yeah,' he said. 'I want someone I can trust. So do as you're fuckin' told.'

I had plenty I wanted to say; it were boiled up in my head. But I had to swallow it back. I stood up, left the lounge bar and slammed the door as Little Frank went into another song about Galway Bay.

Baz saw us and went, 'Y'alright?'

'Nah, mate,' I said. 'I'm pretty fuckin' far from alright, know what I mean?'

'Uh,' he said. 'Get us a Kronie.'

Baz got the landlord over — a fat lad called Brian — and told him what I wanted.

'Get us a brandy, too,' I said. And walked away from the bar. Slumped behind a table and stuck me hand in me pocket, felt for a couple vallies. Head spinning, and it'd take too long for the beer and brandy to kick in. I needed a helping hand. I popped the vallies and chased them down with the brandy Baz brought over.

Dad were Dad, like. I weren't about to argue with him, even though I wanted to. He said jump, you fuckin' jumped even if you was family. Used to be, he'd brought me up like I was his only, even after me mam fucked off. But these days, there were summat worn, summat frayed at the edges. Like he

were itching to knock me on me arse. And there were nowt worse than getting floored by your own father.

Dad might've been a soft touch with everyone else, but he had a fuckin' blue-veiner for making my life shite.

My head rattles like Stomp in stereo and the Greggs sausage roll I'm trying to eat is burning the roof of my mouth off. I huff and puff, finally spit the pastry onto the road and let the rest of it follow suit out of the window. Watch it jump and splatter under the wheels of the car behind me. Tell myself it was rank anyway.

Round Salford, the morning sun is a disc of yellow in a sky of smoke. Some of last night's bonfires have yet to be extinguished. Now the place looks like a riot's just finished. Footage of Bosnia, Belfast, Baghdad and now North Manchester. The streets are dead; all that's left is the vibe of something exciting.

I drank at home after I left The Denton. It took the best part of a bottle of Vladivar to kill the pain in my cheek. A quick examination in the mirror told me that the smackhead had almost knocked the tooth out of my head. I wish he had. Right now it's hanging by a nerve, throbbing like a bastard. I'd go to the dentist, but I don't have the cash. And it's been that long since I had a check-up, my old dentist is probably pushing up the daisies. Fuck it, I'll soldier on.

I'm on my way to a morning spar with Paulo, so he'll probably do me a favour and knock the tooth out for me. He's good like that. The guy might be pushing fifty, but he's still got a nasty right hook and an uppercut that could floor an elephant.

At this time of the morning, it's a quick drive. But when I pull up outside the club, Paulo's waiting for me with a face like a smacked arse. I check my watch: I'm still half an hour early. I slow the car; wind down the window as he ap- proaches. This can't be good.

'What's up?' I say.

Paulo leans in. 'You've got company.'

'A client?'

'I fuckin' hope not, Cal. And you want to get him out of there before I get back from the paper shop, else you're both on the street, you understand me?'

'Hang on a sec — '

'I want him out. No buts about it.'

Paulo pulls away from the car, points at me, then starts walking towards Regent Road. I park up and get out of the car, chew the inside of my cheek. Company means one of two things. Either a client's in there, or Detective Sergeant Donkin's decided to pop by to fuck me over. Neither of which have made Paulo this edgy before. In fact, not a lot makes Paulo edgy. He's famous round here for being cool as.

Which makes me jittery as fuck.

I push open the double doors to the club, feel a wave of heat across my face. My back starts to sweat. This place was a second home when I got out of Strangeways. Paulo was the guy who got me my parole, stood by me. He saw something in me I couldn't see in myself. Took me to one side, threw me in the club with the rest of the prison-fresh lads and watched us beat the shit out of each other until we'd had enough. I was twenty-two then, it's a couple years on now, and I've worked out plenty of aggression in that time. I might be too old to keep coming back, but Paulo's got plenty of work for me. It's part of my probation that I still attend this place. Two years down and six months to go, then I'm a free man. Until then, I have to pop in and see my PO every couple of weeks. It's hellish. That tiny wee office, sitting there while the skinny prick patronises the hell out of me. He doesn't give a shit, to be honest. The moment he saw me, he saw the crime. And he didn't want to see any further. Which was fair enough. Because when I first saw him, I saw a prick. And I didn't want to see any further.