Me and Paulo talked about setting up the agency, one- horse operation that it is, and it was a joke until people started coming to see me. I don't advertise, but word spreads round here, and most of my clients aren't the type who have the money for a professional outfit. Either that, or they just don't trust the pros. It's got to the point where Paulo's charging me rent on the office.

He's got a cheek. It's really nothing more than a broom cupboard with a desk and two chairs in it. Oh yeah, and a window with a fine view of the bins.

The door's open. I can make out movement in there. Someone gangly, moving about at random.

My stomach turns.

No wonder Paulo didn't want to stay around. It's not the kind of company any ex-con would want to keep, especially one who's straight as a die and intends to stay that way. I blame Brenda for mentioning the name last night. Morris Tiernan's ears must have been burning.

So he's sent his son round to have a word.

Morris Junior, called Mo to avoid confusion. He's a six- foot-four beanpole with all the charm of a liquid cough. Bad skin, worse attitude, shaved head, a natural born scally. When Manchester was mad for it, Mo had his plooky hands full dealing out of a pub opposite the Hacienda. He was minting it then, but had his dad's knack for staying out of any serious trouble. When a couple of kids on mountain bikes let loose with a converted air pistol at the club's bouncers, people knew it was Mo fucking about. One dead, three wounded, and not a single charge the Tiernans' way.

Then Tony Wilson called it a night. Some say he was pushed into it. Too many drugs, too many bad influences, and Madchester was fading fast. The last night the Hacienda was open, when Wilson spread his arms and told the clubbers to loot the place, Mo was first in line. Back then Mo was pilled up and hip. These days he just gets pilled up and fashion can get to fuck.

I make my way across the club floor. Mo doesn't pay social visits. I look around the club for anyone I don't know. It's unlike him to turn up on his own; he's normally got a couple of shellsuits hanging about the place with car aerials in their trackie bottoms. But I don't see anyone. It looks like an average morning.

Step into my office, and he turns at the squeak of the door. His pupils are pinpricks in a sea of blood vessels. This isn't an early morning for him; it's a late night. He holds a bottle of Yop in one hand. When he sees me, he takes a swig, leaves froth on his top lip. It makes him look like a rabid dog.

'Y'alright, Mo?'

He studies me, then points one long finger at my face. 'Pastry,' he says. 'You what?'

The tip of his finger wiggles. 'You got pastry on your face.'

I wipe my cheek with the back of my hand and try to smile. Normally I'd close the door, but I decide to leave it open. If Mo flies in here, I'll need witnesses and an escape route all planned. 'What can I do for you?'

'How you doing, man?' He perches himself on the edge of my desk. His foot taps the floor.

'I'm okay. Hanging in there.'

'It's tough coming out, innit? Even what — two years, wunnit?'

'Two and a half.'

'A lot changes in that time.' He takes another swig from the bottle. He has a long, trimmed fingernail on his pinkie. The bastard wants to be a coke-snorting pimp. His tongue licks away the yellow foam, then he sucks his teeth. I hear you're all straight an' that now.'

'Straight as I can be.'

'You working for Paulo?'

'This and that, yeah.'

'Cause I heard you was like a private eye.' I wouldn't go that far,' I say. 'How far would you go?'

'I've done some work like that, yeah. Word gets around, I'll do some again.'

Mo nods, but it's not an affirmative. More like the DJ in his skull just mixed in a buzzing song. 'Fuckin' hell, I wouldn't have took you for a gumshoe, eh? Things change. Been a while since I seen you. Here, what happened to your brother?'

'Declan's in Edinburgh.'

'How is he?'

'He's clean.'

'That's good. Fuckin' gear, fucks you up. Kudos to the kicker.'

'I'll tell him you said hello.'

'No need. I'll probably see him soon enough.' Mo's lips part into a yellowish grin. 'Once a Mane, always a Mane'

A Leith lad in Manchester is a Mane now. That'll make me Liam Gallagher. I'm not about to correct him, though. My accent was beaten down by the scally tongue a long time ago. I suppose it helps me blend in.

I light a cigarette. Mo's not here for a reunion. The last time we spoke, I called him a daft cunt and butted him sharply just above the nose. I had my reasons. I was younger, stupider and I knew I would have been too scared to do it at a later date. But the way he's sitting there, dancing along to whatever rhythm his head's picked up this time, he's not here to do me over. This is a business call and, from the looks of him, he's not happy about it. 'What's up, Mo?'

His eyes narrow for a split-second, as if he's trying to remember why he's here. Then he licks his bottom lip and says, 'Me dad wants a word.'

'Anything in particular?'

'He just wants a word. Here, don't give us that face, either. He knows you're on the level now.'

Uncle Morris wants a word. That means he'll get a word, whether you want one or not. No questions asked. You're summoned, you go. Else he'll find you.

'Where's he doing business these days?'

'Usual place, mate.'

'Okay,' I say.

Mo gets up off the desk, smiles at me as he walks out of the office. I watch him as he lopes across the club. One of the lads recognises him, looks at me. I close the door and take a seat. Feels like I've just done six rounds; my legs are shaking. I stare at the floor, light an Embassy. Breathe smoke from my nostrils, watch it billow and disappear.

So what now?

A knock at the door. Paulo comes in and looks around the office before he speaks. 'Well?'

I don't look at him. 'It was nothing.'

'You sure? Fucker looked bloody happy with himself.'

'He's Mo Tiernan. He always looks happy with himself. Pills'll do that to you.'

'You about ready?'

I shake my head. 'Can't do it today, Paulo. Got other things to do.'

'Like?'

'Business, mate.'

Paulo watches me leave; I can feel him staring.

The Wheatsheaf is a corn-fed pub just out of town. Too close to the motorway to be anyone's local, but it gets the family day-trippers every Sunday. The kind of pub with mock antiques and a wood-chip play area for the kids. A beer garden, horse brasses and a landlord called Brian West, whose name's on the lease but that's as far as it goes. To those of us in the know, it's The Uncle's office. And if you know that, you're already ears-deep in the shit.

I pop two Nurofen and wash them down with a bottle of warm water. As I pull into the carpark, I see a fat child screaming her way down a slide shaped like an elephant. Her dad, a Pringle sweater with the look of a fortnight father about him, sups a pint of real ale and watches her out the corner of his eye. Sunday drinking. Warm and relaxed, even though the skies are streaked grey and black. Outward respectability when a storm is brewing.

The way the story goes, Morris Tiernan once had a bad debt slit from arsehole to appetite. It happened at The Wheatsheaf. In the men's toilets, right by the novelty condom machine. Someone took a sharpened screwdriver, gutted him. While the guy was bubbling his last bloody breath face down in a urinal, Morris Tiernan bought a round of drinks for a wedding party he didn't know.

And now he wants a word.

I get out of the Micra, dump my final cigarette of the journey and crush it into the gravel until the smoke stops. Take a deep breath, check my watch. It's noon. I spent a while in my car, unable to turn the key in the ignition. My hand shook too much. Thinking that they could call me back to the 'Ways just for talking to this guy.