‘Who is this?’ My brain was still befuddled.
‘You said there was twenty quid in it. Bring the dosh, I’ll tell you his name.’
‘Now?’
‘Yeah, Chorlton Street Bus Station.’ Click.
I longed to crawl back under the covers. Instead, I splashed water on my face, pulled on yesterday’s clothes, left a note for Ray and went out into the night.
Once outside, a tremor of excitement enlivened me. This was more like it; the beginning of a trail. The night was cool, still. Dew on the car. Orange street-lamps lit empty roads. I passed maybe a handful of cars on the way to town. No queues, no crazy drivers, just the way I like it. I stopped at a cashpoint and got my hands on some real money.
Parking at Chorlton Street was no problem. The coach station was a glorified bus shelter, several aisles under a roof. Gloomy even on the best days. That night it looked positively menacing. Any excitement I’d had drained away. I felt the familiar clenching in my belly, buzzing in my ears. That distorted face, spittle on his lips. My own voice, squeaky with fear, begging. The knife shaking in his hand. I fought to regain control over my breathing, in and out, slow deep breaths. Dragged into my mind a picture of calm and peace. The visualisation exercise that the therapist had taught me. After a couple of minutes, I was capable of getting out of the car.
Blue Eyes was sitting alone on a bench by the shuttered ticket office, a can of Pils in his hand. I sat down beside him. ‘Hello.’ I kept my voice steady.
‘You got the dosh?’
‘Yes.’ I handed over two tenners. He grunted.
‘Bloke called JB He’s seen that lad.’
‘Martin Hobbs?’
‘Yeah. He recognised the photo. He put him up for a bit.’
‘Where can I find JB?’
‘He’s squatting.’ He took a swig from the can. ‘One of those old warehouses off Great Ancoats, back of Piccadilly, somewhere round there.’ It wasn’t exactly precise information.
‘How did you find him?’
‘He was on the ramp, same time as me.’
‘On the ramp?’
‘Station approach.’ He said it derisively. His blue eyes were bloodshot now. He looked pale, ill.
A sound of drunken singing carried over from the side street. Leader of the Pack. Someone was trying for harmonies.
‘How’ll I recognise him?’
‘Lanky bloke, half-caste, wears a flat cap, got a dog.’
‘How old?’
‘I dunno.’ He was irritated, drank from the can again. ‘Twenty, twenty-one?’ He stood up and drained the can, tossed it down.
‘Where will you go now?’ I asked.
‘What’s it to you?’ He walked away.
