He opened up. I smiled. 'Y'alright, Columbo?'

He didn't look alright. He looked like he were passing a kidney stone.

Me and Baz slumped on Columbo's shit-brown couch. It smelled like someone pissed themselves on there and no- body'd bothered to clean it up. Baz were in the middle of rolling one that'd kill the smell just as soon as he sparked it.

Rossie were outside. He were making a call for us. I had to get him to do it. Them lads, they hear it from me, they might shit it 'cause I'm such a hard cunt. That, or they feel their balls getting bigger and start giving it with the jaw that they're working for Mo Tiernan. That couldn't get out. I weren't that fuckin' stupid — this had to stay under Dad's radar. So I got Rossie to make the call and I were laughing, man.

Baz sparked and I got on that bastard like it were mother's milk. Columbo were doing nowt in the way of trade right now. Too busy giving it some gum flappage about this red-hot dog-fuck porno he borrowed off this lad he did stir with. I didn't want to hear it. We was here to score, not listen to some daft cunt getting hot under the collar 'cause he saw some skank take it up the shitter from an Alsatian. He were talking about this bird licking the dog's balls when I said, 'Here, Columbo, you selling or what?'

Columbo were a fuckin' dwarf, or as good as. Looked like the old bloke on the telly, had a glass eye the same as him. He were the only person I knew who had a glass eye, like. And it used to fascinate us, trying to work out which one were the fake. But now I just got fucked off with him 'cause I knew it were the right eye and Columbo were a cunt about bending your ear about nowt.

I handed Baz the spliff. Columbo pushed out his bottom lip with his tongue. A second there, and I thought the fucker were calling us a spaz. All ready to spring up and cut the cunt's tongue out his head until I realised he were just getting a bit corn out his teeth. His knees cracked when he got up, went to the sideboard. Columbo said, 'How much you want?'

'Eighty notes,' I said.

'Hundred,' said Baz, coughing through the tack smoke.

'You got the extra score?' I asked him.

'Yeah.'

'A hundred, then.'

Columbo mumbled summat under his breath. I didn't catch it, said, 'You what?'

'Nowt,' he said. Columbo slid the sideboard door across, pulled out a big bag of pills and wiped his nose. Made this noise like a slow-draining sink. 'All Bruce, eh?'

'Yeah,' I said. 'Chuck in a couple tammies an' all.'

'You want some Ritalin?'

'Fuck would I do with Ritalin, Columbo?'

'Swallow it,' said Baz, so I taxed the spliff off of him.

'I ain't got ADD, fuckhead,' I said to Baz.

'Nah, Ritalin's like whizz if you ain't got ADD. Give us a couple Ritalin, Columbo.'

Columbo measured out the pills. He kept wiping his nose. Wouldn't surprise us if he'd done a few lines before we came over. And it didn't surprise me that he didn't fuckin' offer it about, either, the tight cunt. I dug the cash out me back pocket, held it out to Baz for him to slap a twenty on there, then I tossed it onto Columbo's coffee table. Columbo looked at the cash and his tongue started roaming his mouth again. He dropped the bag of pills on the table. I went for it before Baz got a chance. 'Fuck's this?'

'Hundred notes,' said Columbo.

'Fack orf, mate. Where's the rest?'

Columbo sighed. 'Mo, you do this — '

'Looking at a pound a pill, ain't we? That don't look like a hundred.'

'You do this every fuckin' time, Mo.' Columbo closed his good eye and shook his head. 'If it weren't a hundred notes' worth, you'd know it, son.'

'Fuck you think you're talking to?'

'I'm talking to Morris Tiernan's son,' he said. 'And I wouldn't fuck you over because of that.'

I gave him a glare, then smiling teeth. 'I'm just messing. You're a good lad, Columbo.'

Rossie came into the room. He were putting his mobile in his pocket.

'We sorted?' I said to him.

Rossie nodded. He were ice cold, even if he did look a twat in that jacket.

'Then we're sorted.' I got off the couch and tucked the baggie of merch in my jacket, kicked Baz's leg until he got up. Took a couple of sharp ones, the fuck was feeling The Warm too much. When we was about to go, I turned around. 'Just one more thing, Columbo.'

'Aye?' He looked sick of my shit.

'You don't fuck me over because I'm Mo Tiernan, not 'cause I'm Morris Tiernan's son. You don't fuck me over 'cause I'll fuckin' cut you up if you even think about it, you hear what I'm saying?'

Columbo just looked at me. I couldn't read him. Didn't matter as long as he got the message.

'Yeah, Mo,' he said. I hear what you're saying.'

'Make sure you fuckin' do,' I said.

And I took the lads and left, went back to Rossie's gaff to prepare for the night's business.

It's not easy driving in Manchester city centre. In fact, it's a pain in the arse. Minicab drivers without fear, bus drivers with more road rage than sense.

So I leave the Micra in the shadow of Victoria Station and pay for an overnighter. I shouldn't be gone that long, but I can't take the chance of the car being towed. That happens, and I might as well be in a wheelchair, the amount of work I could do. Hanover Street's not far from here and the walk'll do me good.

The wind picks up around my waist; I pull my jacket tight. Rain is in the air. And the cold is making my head throb. As I turn the corner, I see the tattoo parlour, a place called Roscoe's. A blue neon sign advertises 'peircings'. The windows are plastered with posters, mostly bands and DJs I've never heard of. One of them has a drawing of a mean-looking Goth holding up a dripping heart. I look for the handle to the front door. It doesn't have one, so I push. A small bell rings somewhere.

An antiseptic smell in the air, the trace of lemon. The floor is covered with linoleum that makes a tacking sound as I walk across it. A couch, coffee table and dirty-looking chair dot the room. A girl sits behind a counter with more band posters stuck to it. Probably the only thing holding it together. The girl looks like she covered her face in glue and headbutted a bag of ball bearings. She's reading a well-thumbed magazine with a bored expression. When she finally looks up, I notice her eyes are purple. It's a little startling.

'Can I help you?' She shows teeth, one of them streaked with a calcium deposit. Something shines in the back of her mouth.

'My name's Callum Innes.'

She blinks. 'You expected?'

I think so. There should have been a call.'

'Uh-huh. Well, straight up the stairs, second door on your right. You can't miss it.' The girl points to a beaded curtain to my right. I nod, rifle through my jacket for my cigarettes. When I pull the pack, she taps a sign with one purple fingernail. 'Health regulations,' she says.

'Oh, right. Sorry.'

'No biggie.'

I part the curtain, feel the strands flick against my head as I pass through. Look to my left, and there's a small room with what looks like doctor's table. In a chair next to it is a guy with a full-on Rod Steiger, stripped to the waist, a roll of fat hanging over his belt. He's leafing through a thick book of tattoo designs, more of which hang on the walls. Celtic bands, swirling multicoloured dragons, flaming Bowie knives. He looks up at me and for a moment, my arse goes into spasm. I blink and see he's wearing opaque contacts. What is it with these people and their fucking eyes?

'You my three-thirty?' he says.

'Nah,' I say. 'I'm here to do some money.'

He runs his tongue over his top teeth. 'Kay. Well, she'll have told you where to go.'

'Yeah. Up the stairs, second door on the right — '

'And straight on till morning,' he says. He smiles, but only for a second. Then he goes back to his book. Yeah, thanks, Peter.