According to Simon And Garfunkel, the words of the prophets are written on the subway walls. According to the subway walls, Gaz drank piss on Ordsall common.

I light another cigarette and check my watch. Donkey's already past being late. I'd be worried, only I know he's just doing it to hack me off. Same as the location. Donkey's got a proper hard-on for the cloak and dagger routine. The more dramatic, the better.

So I wait here in a subway in the middle of the night, happy for the fact that I'm not getting rained on, but grating about everything else. I smoke until my lungs crackle and I read the graffiti, mobile numbers for fat slags and teenage drinking habits.

There's the sound of an engine idling, then choking out. A car door slams shut.

I take a long drag, try to calm myself down. The cold's making me shiver, and knowing Donkey, he'll take it for fear. And the last thing I want is for that bastard to believe he's in control.

I can hear flat feet slapping against concrete, the rasp of heavy breathing. Donkey's not the fittest bloke in the world. It takes him a while to reach me.

"Innes."

I recognize his Amber Leaf growl and his Strangeways cigs, stick thin. He's got one on the go at the moment; it looks tiny in that gaping mouth as he steps out from the gloom. He bunches up the sides of his nasty tan leather jacket, tries pulling them over his gut. Even though it's cold, I can make out wee beads of sweat on his eyebrow ridge.

I smile as best I can through chattering teeth. "All right?"

"Been waiting long?"

"Only since the time you said."

He coughs a laugh and something hard smacks against the back of his throat. "I like making you wait."

"I know you do, Donkey."

His face freezes. He hates that nickname more than salad. "You what?"

"What's this about?" I say.

"You call me that again, I'll make you piss blood."

"You didn't hear right."

"I mean it. You're warned." He spits out his toothpick ciggie. "You stand warned."

Donkey's fists spasm. That barrel chest of his heaves in the dim light. I can't resist a smile. He's such a child.

"Yeah, I stand warned. What's this about?"

Donkey runs his tongue over his teeth, cocks his head. He's still checking me out, wondering if I'm really the man for the job. Like he has a choice.

"A favour," he says.

"Charity."

"Nah, a favour. Which you're gonna do."

"I'm clean."

"What about your brother?"

"He's back home. He's on the programme."

And there's that laugh again, like someone kicking a pig. "Jesus, Innes. Don't tell me you sent a smackhead to Edinburgh to clean up."

"He's fine."

"He's probably in a fuckin' coffin." Donkey pretends to wipe tears from his eyes. "Honestly, Innes, you do make me snuffle at times."

"What's your fuckin' deal, Donkey?"

As soon as the words spill out, I know I should've left it, been the bigger man. Donkey takes a step forward, slams massive palms against my chest and I go off-balance for a second, grabbing at the subway wall. I slip and dunk my hand in what I hope is a puddle of rainwater.

Looking up at him, I realise I've bitten through the filter of my cigarette. I pull the strands from my lips and toss them, spit tobacco-laced gob at his feet.

"You were warned," he says.

"Yeah, I was warned."

"You gonna to listen to me now?"

I pull myself slowly to my feet, wipe my sodden hand on my trousers and look at him. Yeah, he's in control now. I fumble out another Embassy, screw it into my mouth. "This better be good, Detective."

***

 On the surface of it, the job's easy enough.

Detective Sergeant Donkin, seen one too many episodes of The Sweeney. Too much of a liability to keep on the force, too young to pension off. So they stick him in a paperclip position and hope that does it.

But Donkey's hungry in the way only the greedy get. He's sick of cow-towing to fast-track inspectors, wants a little cheese with his bacon. So he stuck a pin in a file, pulled out Jimmy Ghosh, one of Joel Anwar's lads. Ghosh is pretty much a penny bag dealer, so if he has his collar gripped, it's no big deal. But Donkey wants the numbers. And he wants good quality photos of our boy in action. Close-ups, so he can make out the faces.

The way he tells it, he'll slap a charge on our boy and get him to spill about Anwar. That's the way Donkey works. That's certainly the way he used to work with Declan, nicked him when he was cold turkey and sweated him until he'd get enough to nail a part-time dealer. Declan became a known grass, got so nobody would sell to him. But a good junkie knows how to score, even if he is a virtual shut-in.

       As I'm driving up Cheetham Hill Road, I realise it stinks like yesterday's shite. Donkey's about as straight as a Chinese noodle but he's paying five hundred notes for a roll of film and I can't afford to be picky. Paulo's after the office rent, and I don't want to piss him off. If he can break my nose in the ring and not mean it, I dread to think what he'll do if I'm in the red. So I justify and I rationalise, even though my mouth goes dry just thinking about it.

I arrive at Ghosh's stamping ground and the streets look darker than before. There's a reason Donkey won't come down here when he can just send me. A fat, white copper sticks out like a sore thumb, especially one who's a proud paid-up member of the BNP. I pass a bunch of young lads, trying to keep my speed up. If I slow down for a second, they're on their guard.

I push The Stones into the tape player, keep one eye on it. The other week, the bastard chewed up my only copy of London Calling.

So far, so good.

Ghosh is difficult to miss. He's built like a brick shithouse and he's playing the dealer bit to the hilt. He's talking with two guys I don't recognise. One looks like a streak of piss, but the other's a killer whale in a puffer jacket.

I cut the lights, make sure I get a good vantage point, turn down the music until it's barely audible. The camera's a Nikon. Donna got it for me a couple of Christmases ago. It took me that long to work out how to use the thing, but I'm efficient enough to get a few decent shots out of it.

Business is slow tonight. Ghosh spends most of his time jawing with his two mates. Whenever he gets himself a punter, I snipe. So far, he's had six of them: all men, all of them on the skids. It's just what I expected.

But around four in the morning, I get a glimpse of a Merc at the end of the street. It purrs up to Ghosh, sits there with its engine running. I zoom in, focus, get a snap of the driver. He's in his fifties, dressed in what looks like a tracksuit, unshaven. I get the feeling I've seen him somewhere before, but I can't place where. At the moment, though, he's camera fodder.

Jimmy's mates take a step back from the car, keep a lookout as Ghosh plants his hands in his pockets. Framing the pair of them in one shot is tricky: the driver keeps moving out of focus. He's not used to this situation, keeps looking down the street, wants to get this over with as soon as possible. And Ghosh isn't making it easy for him.

I'm snapping towards the end of the film when the skinny lad turns and clocks me. He elbows his podgy mate. Skinny says something to Ghosh, who looks my way. The Merc growls and squeals a little as it takes off.

Time to roll. I twist the ignition and the engine catches into a coughing fit. I keep my foot down, trying to breathe some life into the car, but it's no good. I'm fighting a losing battle.

Ghosh does a runner, but his two mates are pelting towards me.

I toss the camera under the seat. It lands heavily, then bounces out of sight. I pray it's not broken.

A final roar and then the engine rattles into silence, just as the skinny guy reaches my window.

I stare straight ahead. Close my eyes for a second. My heart's beating a little too hard, my hands are shaking. I turn off the music, take a deep breath.

The skinny guy taps on my window, peers in. He's got eyes like lumps of wet coal.

I roll down the window. "All right, lads?"

"What you doing?"

"What's the story?"

"You a peeper?"

"No offence, lads, but I'm not like that."

"Then what's the story, mate? What's with the peeping?"

"Fuckin' Macintyre Investigates…"

"I wasn't peeping. Tell you the truth, the wife threw me out tonight. I needed a drive to think things through."

Fat Lad glances into the car. "You're travelling light."

"What can I say? She didn't give me time to pack. It was one of those fights, man."

"Get out the car," says Skinny.

I do as he says, anything to keep their attention away from the camera.

There's the snick of a Stanley blade; I catch a glimpse of it. Before I know it, my hands are in front and I'm backing away.

"Hey now, lads. Let's not get too physical, eh?"

That's when Fat Lad slams his open hand against the side of my head. I twist, smack the roof of the car. A fist in the side rips the wind out of me. I hit the ground wheezing.

They watch me spit blood at the tarmac. There's no hurry; I'm not going anywhere. Especially when Skinny plants his foot in my ribs, keeps kicking until I'm curled round his leg. I grit my teeth, bear down.

A man's got to pick his fights. Two on one isn't my idea of short odds, especially when Fat Lad's out of my weight class. But I can't go down and stay down. Not yet. Not when they've got another round in them.

Fat Lad breaks it up with a heel to the back of my knee. I jerk out of the way and hold up a hand.

"Okay, fellas. You've made your point."

I get dragged to my feet and pushed against the car. I can't focus, but I'm guessing it's Fat Lad holding me there.

Skinny gives me a cock-eyed look to go with his lopsided grin.

"I see you again, I'll cut your fuckin' throat for you, you understand? I don't care if you're the busies, if you're the papers, if you're the fuckin' Pope. I'll cut you from arse to appetite."

I nod and blink back tears. Fat Lad loosens me a little and I feel like slumping forward, but Skinny whips the Stanley blade across my face quick and hard. I yell and grab my cheek. Fat Lad gives me a last fist in the stomach and I'm back on the ground, winded and bleeding.

"Now fuck off."

I feel Fat Lad gob a good one against my back and they leave, sniggering to each other, doing that bling-bling big-balled saunter.

Me, I just lie there, hold my face and try not to cry.

***

 Donkey stops by the office a few days later, takes one look at me and snorts.

"Cut yourself shaving?"

I toss him the photos. He looks at them and grins.

"Where's my money?"

He digs out an envelope stuffed with twenties and chucks it onto my desk. I don't touch it.

"So what's the deal with the snaps?"

"I told you," he says.

"It's not Jimmy Ghosh. You've got enough to rustle him any time you want. If it's about me getting a good kicking, then you should have done it yourself, saved time and money."

Donkey looks up at me. "I never credited you with brains before, Innes."

"I have hidden depths."

He takes out a photo of the guy in the Merc. "Regular as clockwork," he says.

"Him?"

"You know him?"

"He's familiar."

"Your brother's not the only one with a smack habit, Innes."

I feel myself bristle.

"This boy, this nobody, he's kept it on the Q.T. for years. Trouble is, he's jumped on this corruption bandwagon, reckons he can pick out the rotten apples."

"I get it," I say. "Now why didn't you tell me?"

"Because I like fucking with you, Innes. Simple as."

I nod and smile, grab a cigarette and light it up. "You like being a prick is more like it."

He grins. "A man's got to stick to his strengths."

"So you're just greasing the wheel."

Donkey tucks the photos into his inside pocket and his top lip twitches. "You know your problem, Innes? You've always got to have the moral fuckin' high ground. You're fine when it's about putting away a dealer, but switch it to an addict and you're a bloody Samaritan."

"I like to know what I'm getting into, Detective."

"Bullshit. I reckon your mug brother's made you soft in the head." He taps his temple and stares at me with glistening piggy eyes. "You want to sort your priorities out, or I'll do it for you."

"I'll see you later, Donkey."

He holds up one finger. "I'll let that one slide."

"You do that."

"I'll be in touch, Innes. Give Declan my best."

He opens the door and leaves it open as he walks off across the club. I stand in the doorway to make sure he leaves. There's the noise of a dozen guys smacking seven shades out of each other. Paulo's yelling at some kid to keep his chin up. The kid's not doing too well. He gets belted time and again, his gloves covering his face until one blow sends him off his feet and he goes sprawling onto the canvas. Then he starts crying. Paulo shakes his head and looks at me.

I shrug. I know how he feels.

Closing the door, I limp over to my desk and pick up the envelope. I flick ash from my cigarette and open it up. As I count it, I realise the bastard's shorted me. Not much, but just enough to boil my piss. Donkey's trademark fuck-you.

I ease myself into my seat slowly. I'm bruised all up one side, I can't walk properly and my face looks like a purple cauliflower. Part of me reckons I'd be better off back inside. But then, if Donkey didn't have me around, he'd be on Declan's back.

I put the cash to one side and phone the other soft touch in the family.

Copyright(c) 2003 by Ray Banks