Sucker Punch Read Online Free Page A

to the odour in the air when I stepped out of Strangeways. Thought I was free then. I couldn't have been more wrong.
    The landlord glances at me as I step into the pub. He's an ex-bare-knuckle bruiser in the old school tradition, had his face mangled this way and that, but his features still cling stubbornly to his skull. That same mule instinct applied to the décor of the place. The landlord keeps most of the windows boarded up, reckons what's the point in replacing the glass? Bastards in here'd just put it through again.
    If I hadn't done time, didn't wear it like a fucking badge, I'd be out on my ear right now, makes me wonder how Mo's managed to stay here so long. Probably his old family ties. News doesn't travel that fast when you're pissed out of your face. Not that maintaining a drunk in here would be easy: the pints are so dirty, you'll shit through the eye of a needle for a week straight, end up with an arse like a chewed orange.
    It doesn't matter. I'm not here to sup.
    Mo Tiernan's sitting with his back to the corner, just like his dad does. The difference is, Morris does it to keep an eye on the place; Mo's just shit scared someone'll stick a knife in his back. But he's trying to throw a don't-fuck-with-me attitude at the rest of the pub, flanked by Baz and Rossie. Two mates, don't have a brain between them. Baz has put on more weight, sitting further back from the table to accommodate his gut. Rossie's wearing a cracked and battered leather jacket. Last time I saw him, that jacket was brand new.
    It's still quiet in here. Things won't hot up until last orders, the desperation for another drink pushing grudges to the foreground, fucking people up for good. I make my way over to Mo's table, wishing I had a gun so I could end this thing right now. My hands still in my pockets, I stand in front of him, say: “Mo.”
    Mo looks up, his face streaked brown with dried blood, his eyes hooded and the left beginning to swell. He sighs. “Been a while.”
    Rossie straightens up in his seat. Baz tries to look intimidating by lighting a cigarette.
    “Not that long,” I say. “Saw you a couple hours ago.”
    “Yeah.” Shakes his head. “Forgot you was there.”
    “I need a word.”
    “Nah, I got nowt to talk to you about.”
    “What're you doing hanging around Paulo's?”
    “You heard us, mate? I got nowt to say to you.”
    “What about Paulo?”
    “What shit's between me and Paulo, it's between me and Paulo, know what I mean?”
    “No,” I say. “I don't.”
    Mo takes a sip from his pint, sets the glass back on its beer mat. “You know what I fuckin' mean, Innes.”
    “What've you got to sort out with Paulo?”
    He looks at me like I just asked him how to spell his name. “Cunt's a fuckin' uppity poof, isn't he? He broke me fuckin' finger, broke me fuckin' nose. Thinks he's a fuckin' saint, know what I mean? Cunt needs a smack, bring him back to the real world.”
    “You smack him, he'll smack back. You know that.”
    “Yeah, and that's the way of the fuckin' world, innit? Fucker smacks me, I smack him back, there we go. Keep going until one of us gives up. Fuck d'you care anyways?” Mo nabs the cigarette from Baz's mouth, takes a drag off it. “Not like you're his boyfriend, is it?”
    “I care because he's a mate,” I say. “And he doesn't need trouble from a fuckin' scally pillhead, Mo.”
    “You what?”
    Rossie's hand strays to his pocket. Baz watches him. For a couple of hard lads, they've got a great way of telegraphing every move.
    I stare at Mo, say: “You want to start something, Rossie?”
    Mo taps the table. “Leave it, man.”
    “Called you a fuckin' scally, Mo,” says Rossie. “Come in here shouting the fuckin' odds—”
    “I'm not shouting.”
    “Leave it,” says Mo.
    “Yeah, Rossie, leave it. I came to talk to the organ grinder, not his fuckin' monkey.”
    Rossie's face twists. “You what? Fuckin' monkey, is it?”
    That could be a bad move, but it's a calculated risk,