Jordan Hughes came to with a start. Someone was smacking metal against metal, again and again. He thought he was in his cell. Was it kicking off somewhere on the wing? He sat up, head ducked to avoid the bunk above, but found himself in a cramped and airless room. The table beside the bed was littered with empty cans. So was the floor. The vodka bottle – also empty – lay among them. A crushed burger carton and the remains of a pizza, still in its box. He thought the topping looked a bit mushy, until he realized it was vomit.
So, I’m in that bedsit, he thought. In my clothes. He rubbed the sides of his face, trying to get his brain working. He knew he had fallen behind on his prescription, but he could hardly wander into the nearest doctor’s and ask for more. The things only made him feel like shit, anyway. He’d do without. The sound outside continued. There was a window to his left and he pulled the flimsy curtain back. Some sand monkey was in the alley working at the inside of huge cooking pot with what must have been a metal spoon. Sticky chunks of stuff were dropping into an open bin. Balanced precariously beside him were several drums of cooking oil. The rear of the building had a large silver pipe running up its wall. Curry house, he thought.
As he let the curtain fall back, he realized his knuckles were grazed, and the wrist felt tender. He wondered if he’d punched a face or a wall. Or both. What the fuck happened? His trainers were on the floor beside the bed, and they were covered in mud.
Mud?
Where did I go? The only places he could think of in the city centre where you could end up muddy were the little bits of park, like the area of grass beside Canal Street. Or the canal tow paths.
He got to his feet and picked his way through the debris on the floor to the mirror above the little sink. Looking down, he saw the thing was full to the overflow with orange-tinged liquid. He hoped it was Irn-Bru or Lucozade, but knew it was piss. He could smell its faint tang. There was a cut above his right eyebrow and, now he’d seen the wound, he realized the skin around it felt tight.
He looked about the room once more. What happened? He started counting the cans, but stopped at the eighteenth. How did I get hold of this stuff? Did I rob it? Hard to imagine sneaking that number of cans out under a coat. Coat. Maybe that would hold some clues.
He found it on the floor behind the threadbare armchair, cowering like a miserable dog. Picking it up by the collar, he held it at arm’s length and started checking the pockets. The first thing he found was a woman’s purse. He opened the flap and there, mounted behind a Perspex panel, was an NHS identity card. Andrea Wheeler. Probably in her fifties, long dark hair and a kindly face. Memory flash: him crashing a fist into it.
So that’s where the money came from. One part of the jigsaw was in place.
He closed his eyes and tried to remember what he’d got up to. He’d started the evening off by downing a good chunk of the vodka. Later, he’d realized he needed food. He remembered heading out the flat, light-headed with hunger. The nurse: did he come across her soon after? Yeah, that was it. He’d been going through the bins at the back of the Smithfield Market. She’d tottered round the corner, probably looking for a place to piss. Hadn’t expected him to step out of the shadows.
Pocketful of cash, he’d caught a bus to the city centre. Jumped off outside a chippy next to the Circus Tavern. Now that was a pub you could depend on. Probably still be serving pints centuries from now. And the Grey Horse Inn next to it. Couple of drinks in them and another in the Joseph Holt’s place on the corner, The Old Monkey. Dead cheap in there. Chatted to an old boy wearing a fat gold chain. United supporter. They’d had a whisky or two.
Then what?
He stood perfectly still. Come on, he demanded of his previous self. The one who’d been in charge at that point. But the memories were keeping themselves out of sight. All he had was a big expanse of nothing.
In the other pocket was a mobile phone. Girly case to it. Sequins and glitter. He pressed the side button and it came on, inner box asking for a password. Top of the screen was the O2 logo. Beside that was a battery indicator. Almost empty. He noticed the time: eight minutes to twelve. Then he saw the date: the sixteenth.
No.
Two days had gone by. Two entire fucking days.
Could that be right? He sensed it was. He’d lost similar segments of his life before once he started boozing.
In the little pocket on the upper sleeve, he found some balled-up foil. Really? He straightened it out, found a few specks of powder. Dabbed at a couple and touched his tongue. Speed. No wonder two days had gone down the pan. Where the fuck did I get that?
His stomach announced itself with an enormous rumble. More like a peal of thunder. It tailed off, to be replaced by an intense feeling of emptiness. Wondering how long he’d gone without food, he sat in the armchair and cupped his head in his palms. What a total wanker to have gone into the city centre in that state. What if the Old Bill had taken an interest?
He let out a groan and leaned his head back. The base of his brain throbbed. Something else was in his coat, digging into his back. He reached round. The inside pocket was stuffed full with bits of paper and card. He slid one out: a flyer for Cindy’s Casino, Whitworth Street. He knew it was owned by Anthony Brown. He had others. One for Idaho Jack’s Late Club on Peter Street. M’s Place on Princess Street. Then one for a place called Brouhaha on the Rochdale Road. Had he been to these places? Why had he collected flyers for them? There was only one explanation he could think of: they were other businesses owned by Anthony Brown.
Sometimes it frightened him how much he wanted to find that man. And kill him.