Authors: Gerard Brennan
"I think I might have some straws. Do you want me to make you a drink? You can sip it where you lie."
"That's a great idea. Thanks for looking after me."
Louise bent down and caressed his cheek. He could smell perfume off her wrist. He didn't recognise the brand. She had warm hands.
"I wish I could do more for you, Stephen."
"Feel free to give me a gentle massage." He smiled at her and winked.
Louise tilted her head and an impish grin spread across her face. "Okay, big lad. And I tell you what. If you can get yourself turned around before eleven, I'll give this massage a very happy ending."
She laughed the dirtiest laugh Stephen had ever heard. A sound he could get used to.
###
Dermot Kelly tugged on his black leather driving gloves and flopped into the black C-Class Mercedes parked on the Falls Road. He gunned the engine and fiddled with the radio.
The Boys are Back in Town
by Thin Lizzy played on a classic rock station. He cranked the volume and flipped down the sun visor. His reflection smiled back at him in the little vanity mirror.
"He looks like you," he told his reflection. "Hardly any of her in him at all."
His reflection nodded in agreement, grin widening.
"I just hope he got my brains as well."
The reflection chuckled back at him and he flipped the visor up into place. He pulled the Mercedes out onto the Falls Road and cruised towards the city centre. The sparse weeknight traffic allowed him to travel at tourist speed. Old landmarks twanged his nostalgia. The Beehive, the Celtic Supporters Club, the Sinn Fein offices sporting the famous Bobby Sands mural and the Chinese takeaway unfortunately named the Shatt Inn. He'd never been able to order a curry chip from them.
He murmured to himself, "I can't believe you actually missed this place."
What he remembered as the old Falls Swimmers had been reconstructed into a new, bigger, plastic-walled leisure centre. Set against the old, grubby redbrick buildings it shared the road with, it stood out like a hooker at a nunnery. Backlit panels of green, blue and pink Perspex screamed for attention in the summer night.
He slowed almost to a stop and gave the place a good eyeball. Lucky for him he did. Not far up ahead, a spanking white PSNI land rover rolled to a halt at the traffic lights on Northumberland Street. It indicated right, to travel up the Falls Road. Towards Dermot and his stolen Mercedes.
He turned left onto North Howard Street.
What the fuck?
he thought.
North Howard Street ran from the Falls Road directly onto the Shankill Road. Before he'd left Belfast, the road had been blocked by a huge, graffiti-covered security gate to keep the Catholics away from the Protestants and reduce sectarian unrest by making it less convenient. He'd planned to dump the car on the dead-end street and run, but was delighted to find the blue security gate was gone. The Peace Process at work. He could get used to this new Northern Ireland. He took the Shankill into the city centre and made it to Linenhall Street without another cop-scare.
Thursday night was traditionally the busy night on Belfast's unofficial Red Light District. Late night shopping drew in the farmer's wives from rural Antrim into the city. The farmers on taxi duty left the wives to work away and took their Toyota four-wheel-drives to Linenhall Street. Under the pretence of reading the paper at one of the city centre pubs, they picked up a young lady of the night for a fifteen minute fling. The hookers made a bomb on fuck-a-farmer night. But on a Monday night the street just didn't have that same buzz. Dermot passed only one other kerb-crawling vehicle; a Renault Espace family wagon with a ‘baby on board' sign hanging in the back window. The driver hung out his rolled down window and spoke to a huge woman with a thick black perm and a short lycra skirt. The devoted family man, bargain hunting.
Dermot pulled in ahead of the seven-seater. He looked out of the tinted window at a blonde in her late twenties wearing a long leather coat. Her attire wasn't completely necessary in the cool summer night, but the effect stunned. A little something for the Buffy the Vampire Slayer fans. She slinked towards the Merc, the sway of her hips exaggerated to compensate for the heavy leather framing her thin body. Dermot licked his lips and pressed a button by the gear stick. The electric window opened with a hummingbird drone. He waited for her to hunker down to eyelevel.
"What can I get for two-fifty and a Mars bar?" he asked.
The Buffy clone shook her head. "You are a wanker, Dermot."
He loved that London accent. Nobody swore better than a Cockney bird.
"Slow night, then, Emily?"
"Bloody useless. Where'd you get the motor?"
"Didn't have the taxi fare on me, so I tossed some aul doll out of it on the Dublin Road. It's shit hot. I'll have to dump it soon."
"Pity. Take me for a spin before you do, will you? I want to get off me plates for a bit."
"Hop in."
Dermot navigated the luxury car up Linenhall Street and onto the Ormeau Road via Ormeau Avenue. He fancied a tour of Belfast to see what had changed. So he took University Street, past Queen's University and went on a loop of the city. Around the university area, students roamed in packs, causing traffic obstructions and getting thrown out of pubs for disorderly behaviour. They came in all shapes and sizes. Long gone were the days of long woollen coats, dashing scarves and little round glasses. Some clumped along in chunky S&M boots, dragging leather and black denim clad bodies along in a faux-depression fugue. Others skipped by in their mismatched converse, blue jeans frayed at the cuffs and hands hidden under long cardigan sleeves. Others still swaggered in GAA tracksuit tops to advertise their sporting prowess, county allegiance and Catholic upbringing. And there were more. Too many cliques to count. None of them carried books.
Emily snapped him out of his people watching.
"My arse is warm. Are these seats heated?"
Dermot slipped a hand inside her coat and squeezed bare thigh. "No, that's the effect I have on any woman I spend a little time with. Thought you'd be used to it by now."
"Yeah, love. You're fucking hilarious, you are."
"It's the way I tell ‘em."
She snuffed at that. "So did you visit the ex?"
"Aye. Didn't go just as smooth as I'd have hoped."
"What happened, then?"
"Sort of went downhill when I floored her fuck-buddy."
He told her about the one minute plea and Joe's decision to take his number.
"You think he'll phone you, then?" she asked.
"Aye, it's a dead cert. Nobody could resist getting to know their long lost father."
"And do you think we'll get anything from it?"
Dermot recalled the look of Louise's house. Cheap laminate flooring and the standard clearance-reduction leather suite. Two-year-old TV and painted-over embossed wallpaper. He'd noticed the new PVC windows, but every house on the street had them, along with a matching door and a new two-foot wall around the tiny front yard. They'd obviously been paid for in some regeneration scheme. She had fuck all squared in a box.
"We'll not get much off her, no. But like I said, she has a fellah. I'll see what I can find out about him when Joe gets in touch with me. He might be worth a few bob."
"I knew it was a waste of time coming over to this fucking place. We're no better off than we were in London, Dermot."
"Other than the fact that we're not in danger of getting our heads handed to us by pissed off gangsters, you mean?"
"It would have blown over," Emily said.
"London crime syndicates do not allow things to blow over. They kill people. That's how they get rich, powerful and feared. Their path to success is littered with dead Irish thieves and mutilated whores. But if you want to go back and take your chances, be my fucking guest!"
Emily rolled her eyes and turned away from Dermot. She looked out the window at the unimpressive Belfast architecture. Dermot wiped his lips with a gloved hand, momentarily enjoying the leathery smell. He counted to ten in his head before talking.
"Look, Emily, if we work together we can do well here. But we need to be on the same page. Forget London. It's been bled dry anyway. Too many people are sticking their fingers in that pie. There are opportunities here though. The IRA and UVF don't have the place carved up between them anymore. We can get in on the ground floor. But it's going to take some barrel-scraping and patience. Can you understand that?"
Another tut. He fought the urge to grab a handful of her wavy, blonde hair and bash her pretty face into the window. He needed her professional talents to keep them in bread and butter until he'd got to work on a few things.
"I don't think huffing is going to help either of us. For what it's worth, I'm sorry," he said.
Sorry I need you, you dirty, stinking whore,
he thought.
She turned to him, her pointy jaw set and her little head tilted. Her body language emanated skank attitude. "Whatever."
"We should dump this car. We've pushed our luck long enough."
Emily glanced out the window, onto the street and then looked about the car's luxurious interior. He could read the longing in her eyes. "Think you'll ever own one of these?"
"One for each of us. Silver for me, red for you. They'll make nice Sunday cars."
"You are full of shit."
"That's why you love me though."
She smiled at him. "Yeah, well, it's not your money, is it?"
"Not yet, baby. Not yet."
###
meat @ dville prk. 10 mins. need 2 tlk. gang stuff.
Liam felt queasy after reading the text from Wee Danny. He hesitated before replying.
ok
Nothing else came to mind. He hit send. His heart banged loud in his ears. Gang stuff? Liam considered phoning the Fegan twins and asking them to go with him in case he needed backup. He decided against it when he realised it might be construed as a sign of fear.
In the kitchen, he found some chocolate Pop Tarts at the back of the larder. He popped them in the toaster and fetched his trainers from the living room while they warmed up. Blood rushed to his head as he bent at the waist to tie his laces. The toaster kerchunked and he hurried back into the kitchen to fetch his breakfast before it cooled. He wrapped the sugar-packed treats in some kitchen roll and ate them on the move.
The sun beat down on the street, hot enough to melt tar. Kids ran about like stray pups in shorts, bumping into each other, screaming and falling over. One young girl swung around a lamppost on a length of blue rope. She sang the chorus of
Mickey Marley's Roundabout
in a woeful R&B vibrato. Liam, an ex-choirboy, cringed as he approached her. A car horn blasted as she swept out into its path. The little girl, around seven years old, gave the driver two fingers and resumed her suicidal spiral-swing. The driver trundled on, braking every couple of metres to avoid kamikaze kids nipping out from between gaps in the line of cars parked on the kerb. Liam crossed the road to avoid getting bowled over by the girl on the rope.
Wee Danny waited with Joe at the gates of Dunville Park. Liam instantly felt less nervous. Joe wouldn't let Wee Danny start another fight. As he crossed the road he saw why the boys chose to stand at the gates. The park teemed with sun-reddening kids and stressed parents. The squawks and whoops would melt your head.
"Not a lot of privacy here, eh?" Liam said.
Joe shrugged. "Where else can we go?"
Liam nodded to the empty bus shelter a stone's throw from the gates. He wanted to sit down.
"Aye, come on then," Joe said.
Liam took his seat and the other two stood in front of him. Wee Danny lit a cigarette.
"You're pulling them like a dentist pulling teeth, Danny," Liam said.
Wee Danny scrunched up his face. "You what?"
"One at a time!" Liam waggled his eyebrows, expecting a chuckle. Wee Danny squinted at him. "Ach, just give us one, will you?"
They enjoyed their first few puffs in silence.
"So, what's the craic, boys?" Liam asked.