"Never could keep anything from you, Harry. Never was able to kid you."

"Save the nostalgia for when you retire, Gonz. What are you trying to do, make me feel good about myself?" I laughed, bitter. "I don't need you to tell me I'm smart, I know I'm a f.u.c.kwit, otherwise I wouldn't be sitting here talking to you. So cut to the chase. Give me some of that old eight ball boogie."

He stared, squinting, like he wasn't sure I was really me. It was an old trick he had, letting the other person think he was taking them seriously, gaining time while he thought up another lie. I was pretty sure he was about to start spoofing again. He didn't. He told me the truth. It wasn't the whole truth, I found out later, but at least he wasn't lying.

"Ever get bored, Harry? So bored your brain shuts down because it has nothing to do?"

"You were bored, so you decided to come home and f.u.c.k us all up again. Is that it?"

"There's only one place you get that bored. I was there eighteen months, kept my head down, got out eight months early."

"Boo-f.u.c.king-hoo."

He ignored me.

"Stir isn't as bad as people make out. You need to f.u.c.k some fairy early, so no one tries to f.u.c.k you, but you're fed and watered, everything's taken care of. Anything you want you can get, providing you can pay for it." He shrugged. "Seven f.u.c.king tabs got me twenty-six months. There's paedophiles walking the streets, sticky-fingered f.u.c.kers running the country, I'm banged up for a few party favours. The big laugh inside was when they started letting the Provies out. Funny, that was. f.u.c.king hilarious. Worse than psychos, we were."

"I've heard sadder on The Waltons. So, what?"

"When you're bored, Harry, you talk. You'll talk to anyone, even the screws. You'll talk to yourself. Then you get really bored and you start listening, just for a change of pace. And you hear all sorts of mad s.h.i.t on the inside. Most of what's said is c.r.a.p. Wasters pumping themselves up, throwing their weight around, hoping someone'll catch it. Anything anyone tells you when you're inside, it's cell-talk, bulls.h.i.t." He jabbed the air with his cigarette for emphasis. "Unless they're selling it."

"It isn't bulls.h.i.t because they're selling it? Tell it to Ronald McDonald."

"You get to know the score. What's what and who's who. Punters who say f.u.c.k all are the ones in the know. When they say something, it's worth hearing. Worth paying to hear, too."

"And you heard what?"

The wolfish grin flashed.

"What I heard isn't the point. What I didn't say is the point. And what I had to say was worth hearing, only I didn't say anything. So, I'm owed."

"Owed?"

"Owed. And I'm collecting."

"You're putting the bounce on?"

"You watch too many movies."

"Blackmail has a new name now? They call it something different inside?"

"It's an investment, Harry. Like with houses. You don't sell it now because it'll be worth more next year."

"Get away from me, Gonz. You might be contagious."

"Relax, Harry. A couple of days, I'll be gone again."

"You think I'm having you around Ben when you're f.u.c.king around like this? Think again, Gonz. Tomorrow morning you're gone, and if I never see you again it'll be too soon."

"You're in for a cut. I owe you that much."

"You owe me nothing. Because that's all you've ever given me. Nothing."

Dutchie and Mich.e.l.le arrived back at the table, laughing, faces flushed. I went to the bar. When I got back I slipped in beside Mich.e.l.le, as far away from Gonzo as possible. The lights came up soon afterwards and we finished our drinks, shivering when the bouncers opened the front door to allow the night filter through the club. Dutchie dug some tickets out of his back pocket.

"Do us a favour, Gonz." Gonzo was sitting closest to the coat-check cubicle. "Get the jackets, big man."

"Sound. Someone ring a taxi. It's f.u.c.king freezing out there."

"The phone's out by the cubicle," Mich.e.l.le told him.

Gonzo took out his mobile phone, tossed it at me.

"You know all the numbers."

Gave me his own number, in case the cabbie needed to ring back. Fat chance. I tried about six numbers, no joy.

"Bad as the f.u.c.king Blue," Dutchie said. "Never around when you need one."

Gonzo came back excited, wearing my jacket. He handed me the bright orange Puffa.

"You can bury me in that if you want," I told him. "Otherwise, no chance."

"I met two birds checking the coats. They're off for a kebab and I'm buying."

"Cla.s.sy stuff, Gonz. What's that got to do with my jacket?"

"They were laughing at mine, the tarts. Come on, just until we leave the kebab house. I'll pay for your grub. If I haven't pulled by the time we leave you can have it back."

I shrugged. The choice was to let Gonzo wear my jacket or try to rip it off his back, and I was tired. Gonzo started jogging on the spot, his dreads bouncing on his shoulders.

"Yeah yeah yeah."

We left, pausing on the steps outside to watch the entertainment. A girl, puce with embarra.s.sment or rage or a combination of both, was screaming abuse at an older man who was dragging her into a silver-grey Merc SL. It took me a couple of seconds to realise the older guy was Conway. His face was flushed, jabbing a finger at the big bloke who'd been with his daughter inside the club. The big bloke was standing on the steps, hands on hips, like he'd reached the end of a catwalk.

"I'm not telling you again!" Conway's voice was a strangled snarl. "Next time it'll be you in the back of the car! f.u.c.king pervert."

He looked around, trying to work out exactly where the catcalls, the jeering, was coming from. His eyes caught mine. He looked away, came back to check out Gonzo and Dutchie, and got in the car, which roared away down the street.

"What was that all about?" Mich.e.l.le wanted to know.

"Jail-bait," I said. "Still at school, I'd say."

Gonzo clicked his tongue.

"Shame."

The sleet had stopped. The temperature had plummeted. Stars glittered against a clear black sky. Gonzo spotted the girls from the coat check, one wearing thigh-length PVC boots, the other chewing gum and looking bored. He sallied forth.

We piled into a booth in the kebab house and chewed on the plastic food while Gonzo tried to impress the two girls. Their ages combined would hardly have made up his, and they spent the best part of an hour giggling at his efforts. Then, without any visible sign of communication, they stood up and left. Gonzo stared after them, nonplussed.

"Are we right so?" Dutchie asked. Mich.e.l.le was snuggled against him, head on his shoulder, eyes closed.

"Yeah," Gonzo said. "I'll be back in a minute." He winked and tapped his breast pocket. "Just taking a whizz."

He disappeared in the direction of the toilets. Dutchie looked at me.

"He on something?" he asked.

"You sit where you are," Mich.e.l.le ordered without opening her eyes. Dutchie grinned, started reminiscing about chemically inspired mayhem. Twenty minutes pa.s.sed. Eventually Dutchie did the decent thing and went after Gonzo. Thirty seconds later he sprinted back around the corner, face drained.

"Harry!" He sounded choked, breath coming short. My first instinct was that Dutchie had got into a row, that a fight was brewing. Then I caught something in Dutchie's eye that told me there was no fight, that whatever was wrong was very, very wrong. I bolted out of my seat.

The urinals were empty, the stench of ammonia blinding. Dutchie pulled me down the line of cubicles, pushed in the door of the last but one. Gonzo was slumped between bowl and wall, jammed into the narrow s.p.a.ce. Shaking hard, head back, face bathed in sweat. A thin line of blood trickled from one nostril. Concrete settled in my stomach. I pushed past Dutchie into the cubicle, tugging at Gonzo's arm.

"Get up, you f.u.c.ker!" He was heavy, way too heavy, and it took a huge effort to dislodge him. When I finally pulled him loose he flopped forward onto the floor, face down in the p.i.s.s, the sodden toilet paper. The blood mingled with the p.i.s.s. A pink stain ebbed from his face.

"Is he...?"

"How the f.u.c.k would I know?"

"Take his pulse."

"Where the f.u.c.k is his pulse?"

"His wrist!"

"I know it's his f.u.c.king wrist! Where on his wrist?"

"How the f.u.c.k would I know?"

"Jesus!" I groped at Gonzo's wrist but I hadn't the faintest idea of what I was looking for. "Christ sakes, Dutch. Ring a f.u.c.king ambulance!"

I sat on the floor, pulled Gonzo's head onto my midriff, cradling his head. His face was contorted into a rictus, the skin fiery to the touch. I bent my face to his but I couldn't tell whether he was breathing or not. When I slipped my hand inside his shirt to feel for his heartbeat, his chest was clammy with sweat. The heartbeat was there but the party was winding down.

"Alright, Gonz," I whispered. "It's going to be alright. Just hold on."

I didn't believe a word of it but I thought I should say something and I couldn't remember any prayers.

14.

Brady came through the door like it was last orders on Sunday night. If I hadn't had other things on my mind, I might have wondered why it was Brady coming through the toilet door. I might have been surprised that the cavalry turned up so soon, too, and I might have thought it odd that Brady was still on duty. But I had other things on my mind.

The kebab house manager was standing in the doorway, rubbing his hands in a sweaty fret. Brady shouldered him to one side, shoved past Dutchie, got down on one knee. Feeling the side of Gonzo's neck, staring into my eyes, waiting for a pulse. Then he stood up, surveyed the cubicle, not noticing that one knee of his pants was a sodden stain. He rasped: "What're you on, Rigby?"

"Nothing." I pulled Gonzo tight. "Where the f.u.c.k's the ambulance?"

He didn't answer. He hunkered down, rifled through Gonzo's pockets. It didn't take him long to find the plastic wrap. He opened it, tipped a tablet out onto his palm, grimaced.

"How many?"

"I don't f.u.c.king know."

"If he dies and he's dying your name's first on the report, in red f.u.c.king marker. Last time. How many?"

"He said five. Said he wasn't getting a buzz."

Brady looked around as Galway pushed past Dutchie, picking his way between the puddles of urine, deft as a poodle.

"OD," Brady reported. "E, looks like Flats. He's still breathing. Pulse faint. No blockage."

Galway said, like he had a razor under his tongue: "And there was me thinking you were kidding about public toilets." Then, to Brady: "Get him to casualty."

Brady did a double take.

"Me?"

"You. And do it quick-like. I don't want any f.u.c.ker dying on my watch."

"What about the medics? The ambulance?"

"No ambulance, they're both out at a pile-up on the motorway. Some p.r.i.c.k jumped the reservation, ploughed into a Renault coming on. A kid went through the p.r.i.c.k's windscreen, still in his safety seat. What the f.u.c.k a kid is doing up at this hour."

Brady still looked dubious.

"You want me to take him? In the squad?"

"Do it fast or there'll be no point doing it at all."

Brady squared his shoulders.

"I'm taking no f.u.c.ker to Casualty in the squad. What if he kicks it?"

"Christ." Galway looked down at Gonzo, sour. "Alright, put him in the car. I'll take him." He nodded at me. "You take that f.u.c.ker down the station. Book him on suspicion, possession, resisting arrest, whatever takes your fancy. Just don't let him out of your sight until I get back."

"f.u.c.k you," I said, clutching Gonzo tight. I was feeling a pull, a bond, that I wasn't even sure had anything to do with Gonzo. "I'm going to the hospital."

Galway poked Gonzo's leg with the toe of his hi-shine shoe. He popped a mint under his tongue, worked it around his cheek.

"One more word, you'll be going to the hospital and know f.u.c.k all about it."