Homemade abortion, right?

Nah. Didn't kick the bitch hard enough.

And I kept me mouth shut and so did Alison, 'cause if Dad found out it were me what stuck it to her, we'd both be out. Alison's mam was a whore, and her little girl were just the same, but she were still a little girl and Dad always liked her more than he liked me. I must've reminded him of the fuckin' shack-job what spawned us or summat 'cause when I were a kid I used to look at meself in the mirror and I never looked a bit like me dad.

I drunk the brandy right down, like a warm hand on me gut. I'd bought a pack of Rothmans at the Paki shop and I lit one now, got out me seat and went to the bar. Got a pint of Guinness and brought it back to me table. You smoke like The Man, you drink like The Man, you become The Man. Rossie tried to say summat to us, but I ignored him.

Slipped behind me table and took a sip of the black stuff.

This were it. Like I'd ripped me dad's heart out and ate it, wore his skin like a fuckin' suit.

All I'd wanted to do were take the fucker out. That were all. Simple operation. Nobody would've missed Innes. Way I heard it, he had family in Jocksville, but he never talked to them no more.

Maybe Paulo would've said summat.

Fuck, I didn't know no more. It might've been a risk worth taking, like. But then maybe it were the billy and the fuckin' pills mangling me head and not letting us think right. And I had to think right.

But what the fuck, eh? Top and bottom were that because them bottling cunts didn't let us do what I wanted, we lost the bastard. We'd swung by the hotel, I went inside, asked, 'Did Mr Innes check out yet?'

The receptionist said that she couldn't give out that information.

'Nah,' I said. 'I'm a mate of his. We was out last night on the piss and we lost him somewhere in town. I just wanted to make sure he got in alright, know what I mean? I'm his best man. He's getting married. I'm his best man.'

Fuckin' speed.

But she didn't give up nowt.

So we was stuck here. All I could do was wait. Hoped the fucker hadn't spotted us and hoped to fuck he gave us the call when he were supposed to.

The bath water is a notch too hot for comfort, but it feels like it's easing some of the tension away. I'm laying back, my head on a blue flannel, staring at the shower that overhangs the bath. It smells good in here, despite my presence. Donna's bathroom is full of wee wicker baskets overflowing with soap. I'm playing with one shaped like an apple. Give it a sniff, and it's uncanny. Close my eyes, and I'd swear it was the real thing. I half think about taking a bite out of it, but then I'd have to finish it. I don't think I could explain a half-eaten soap.

I can't stay here. I think I've gone the limit with Donna's hospitality, might have even crossed the line with this one, especially considering she dumped me twenty-four hours ago. My clothes are being washed right now and once they're dry and I'm changed, I'll be out that door and back in the game. Maybe pay her or something. I don't know the etiquette. But I can't afford to stay around. My body might be relaxed in the water, but my head's all over the place. Every time I close my eyes I can feel the rain on my face.

Someone's going to get proper fucked for this one, but I have to get out of this bath first.

The aches aren't gone completely, and my back feels twisted out of shape. I don't realise how bad it is until I try to get up and I can't. Panic turns the water ice cold. I try to move my legs. They don't shift, not even a ripple.

Christ. I'm paralysed.

I grab at the side of the bath and try to pull myself out, but the strength has long gone and I drop back, splashing water onto the floor. I've seized up from the waist down. My fingers hurt from gripping the bath and my head starts thumping with a full-on panic attack.

Shit isn't the word.

There's a knock at the bathroom door. 'Cal?’

‘Donna, I…' What the hell am I going to say? 'You okay in there?'

'I don't know,' I say. 'I can't move.' The door clicks. 'No, don't come in. I mean it.’

‘Don't be daft.'

'Can you call someone? Just don't come in.' She pushes open the door and I try to move under some bubbles. She stands there with a weird look on her face. 'Jesus, Donna, what'd I say?'

'It's my flat and you're being a fucking baby. Now can you really not move?'

My voice cracks. 'You think I'd make this up?'

She grabs a large blue towel from the rail and throws it into the bath. 'Cover yourself up. I'll help you out.'

It's a tough job; I'm a dead weight. But we manage, me holding the towel to my waist, her with her hands under my arms. It's the most she's ever touched me, and I feel like asking for dinner and dancing first, but neither look possible with my legs fucked. Thinking that makes my throat hurt and I have to fight back the urge to cry. It's not manly.

We make it to the couch and I drop and adjust myself. I'm still wet from the bath, the couch cover sticking to me. We both let out a long breath at the same time.

'You really can't move,' she says.

'I really can't move.'

She looks me up and down, then leaves the room. I can hear her on the phone, her muffled voice urgent. Thank Christ this happened here. If it had happened on the road, I'd be dead right now.

When she comes back in, she goes into the kitchen and pours us both a stiff drink. She hands me the glass and says, 'Doctor should be here soon.'

I take a drink. 'Thanks, Donna.'

'He says it's probably just temporary, but he wants to take a look himself.’

‘Christ…'

'Hey,' she says. 'How about you drink up? No sense in feeling sorry for yourself.’

‘Look, Donna — '

'Save it,' she says. And takes her drink into another room.

The doctor looks like he should be on the front cover of a Mills & Boon novel, an honest-to-goodness clean-cut poster boy, Dr Kildare without the latent homosexuality. When he walks into the living room, he's in the middle of a conversa- tion with Donna. He stops talking when he sees me sitting on her couch wearing nothing but a towel. I'm glad; this doctor has the plummy voice of another class way higher than mine. When he smiles, he shows the same American teeth Donna does, but they look false. A pair of expensive-looking specs sit on the end of his nose. It's an affectation, I'm sure.

'Callum, right?' he says.

'Yeah.'

'Richard.' He extends his hand. I shake it. He looks back at Donna.

'The waist down, Doctor,' she says. 'Ah.'

He's too gentle to be a bona fide doctor, but he talks like one. I need X-rays. I need to see a specialist. An MRI is mentioned. So are the words 'fracture', 'chiropractor' and

'back brace'. It's enough to put the fear of God, the Devil and all the Nolan sisters into me.

'I'm not saying all this will happen, but you'll need to get checked out thoroughly. We don't take chances with the spine. It could be that you're just bruised and your muscles have just seized up. Or it could be that you've suffered severe spinal damage and you might never walk again.'

'Oh, cheers.'

'I'm just saying «might», Cal. It's not paralysis, I don't think. Not yet. And I don't want to treat this lightly.'

'I don't want you to treat this lightly.'

'You'll need bed rest,' he says, then turns to Donna. She nods and sips her third drink since he walked through the door. 'But you'll also need to take some light exercise. Go for a walk. Don't overdo it.'

'Ah, right. Let me get my trainers on and I'll be out of here,' I say.

He writes a script and reads the drugs off as he's writing them. Ibuprofen, codeine if the pain gets worse. Diazepam. And he peers at me over his glasses as he writes the last one: 'And from what Donna's already told me, you'll need some antidepressants.'