Wee Rockets (30 page)

"Well, give me a shout if you can't find what you're after," the man said – though he meant,
I've got my eye on you.

Liam shuffled about the shop for another minute, checking price tags and humming along to the radio, then left Lifestyle Sports empty-handed. The Fegan twins and the rest of the gang loitered about the car park of the Park Centre shopping complex. Situated on the Donegal Road, near the St James area of West Belfast, the complex was within walking distance of Beechmount. Or running distance, depending on your intentions. Liam had a new plan.

"What about you, lads?"

Eddie Fegan spoke for the rest of the gang. "Dead on, Liam. What's the craic here then?"

"I've another move planned. Did you bring me down that hoodie?"

Matt pulled a green and white striped sweater from a Tesco carrier bag and tossed it to Liam. He shrugged out of his Adidas tracksuit top and pulled the borrowed hoodie on over his T-shirt.

"Your cousin doesn't do subtle, does he?"

"He's a buck-mad Hoops fan," Matt said. "But sure, it's a disguise."

"So, what's the plan?" Ginger Mickey asked.

"Did you ever see that show,
Supermarket Sweep
?"

"Aye, our ma loves that shite," Eddie said. "You run around the shop throwing beans and biscuits and all that craic into your trolley until the time runs out. I could chin thon poof of a presenter. He does my head in."

"Well, I reckon we could have our own wee
Supermarket Sweep
. Except we'll call ours
Sports Shop Sweep
. Just follow my lead."

They fell in behind Liam and moved as one. He led them to the side door. Earlier, he'd scoped it out and noticed the pretty-boy security guard looked a bit softer than the skinhead Rottweiler-man they had on the front. They breezed past the useless bastard with their hoods drawn up and the guy acted like he hadn't even noticed them. Probably afraid he might get his hands dirty or his hair messed up. The gang stormed through the centre and the shoppers parted in front of them like scuttling pigeons on a city footpath. Liam savoured the feeling of power coursing through him. The general leading his army of bad bastards through a defeated country. They were fucking untouchable.

Within sight of the sports shop he turned to face them, walking backwards to maintain momentum. "Okay, I'll distract the man behind the till and the twins will keep an eye out for the security guards. The rest of you grab as much shit as you can carry. Stay the fuck away from the sale racks. We're lifting the in-season stuff only."

They flooded the shop, whooping and howling like lunatics as they spread out. Liam lifted a snooker cue from a display stand and charged at the wide-eyed shop assistant. He swung the cue like a baseball bat and clunked the prick with the fat end. The guy folded up and disappeared behind the counter. Liam laughed and rounded the counter. He came down hard with a couple of sledgehammer swings and made sure the fucker laid still.

The till looked pretty simple. A number pad and a bunch of symbols. Liam mashed a few random buttons and the till drawer popped open. Stuffing two handfuls of cash into his pockets, he looked across the shop. The boys were doing great. "Twenty seconds left. Hurry the fuck up."

He laid a few more wallops into the man at his feet and cheered himself on. The shaft of the cue cracked. Blood coated the cellophane on the business end. Two more whacks and the cue snapped in half. He waved the thin end in the air. "Five, four, three, two, one. Right, get out to fuck."

They flocked together and piled out of the shop. Security tags set off the alarm system as they passed through the sensors. Heads turned, but nobody moved to stop them. Too much sense. Liam led the charge with the broken cue held out in front of him. He glanced over his shoulder and saw they'd lost some of the clothes, leaving a multicoloured trail in their wake. It didn't matter, what he'd lifted from the till and what clothes they held onto would add up to their largest score to date.

"Out the front door. Anybody tries to grab you, hit them and keep running. Then scatter!"

All that stood between the gang and the automatic doors was the Rottweiler security guard. The mad bastard hunkered down a little and spread out his tree trunk arms as if he would catch all seven of them at once. Liam didn't give doubt time to flourish. He sped up.

"Get out of the way, dickhead!"

The guard shook his head.

Within kicking distance, Liam lashed out with the cue. The jagged wood cut across the security guard's cheek. Skin parted like a straining zipper. The guard didn't seem to notice. He grabbed Liam's head and hugged it to his chest like a goalkeeper with a football. Half suffocated and fearing that his brain would pop out the top of his skull, Liam tried to hit the guard with the broken cue and grapple the python-thick arms with his free hand. A couple of hour-long seconds later Liam felt his new claustrophobic world tilt. The pressure on his head and neck disappeared. Unseen hands pulled at his striped hoodie and dragged him backwards. He blinked away tears and cleared his vision. Matt, Eddie and Ginger Mickey fought with the guard. The big man tried to restrain them with armlocks and bad language. His opponents worked together, unrestricted by laws of reasonable force and professional ethics. They scratched, bit, spat and attempted to gouge.

Liam charged into the fray. "Come on, lads!"

The two Franks and Kev might have been right behind him. He didn't know. Tunnel vision cut out all distractions. He shoved Matt Fegan out of his path, aimed the shaft and lunged forward.

The security guard doubled over and gasped a huge breath. Liam stumbled backwards. He looked down at his hand. Empty. The big fellah straightened and patted the area around the shaft jutting from his stomach. A patch of crimson on his white shirt blossomed out from the wound. He held his bloody palms out to Liam and paled. The circling Rockets drifted back. Eyes bulged. Nobody made a sound.

Then a passing group of Millies let rip with a chorus of ear-piercing shrieks. They scattered in all directions, some charging deeper into the centre, some sprinting back out to the car park. All of them screaming for help.

Liam pushed his panic way down deep. Crammed it on top of his guilt and fear. "We're fucked if we don't split. Wake up, lads."

"
He's
fucked, Liam," Ginger Mickey said.

"It's just a wee gash. He'll be fine."

The guard toppled backwards, bashing his head on the tiled floor. Some of the boys hissed in empathy.

"He's definitely fucked, Liam."

"Stop using my name, Mickey. Come on. The peelers will be here soon."

Kev Watson pointed a shaking skeletal finger at the unconscious man. "There'll be prints on that cue, man."

"See you and that
CSI
bullshit?" Liam hesitated for a second. "Ah, fuck. Fine."

Liam stood above the guard, placed a foot on his barrel chest and gripped the smooth wood. "Remember that movie,
King Arthur
? No?" He waited for someone to laugh or smile. Nothing. "Jesus, you cunts are a barrel of laughs."

"Come on, Liam." Kev said. "I think I can hear sirens."

"Right, right. Fuck's sake." He gritted his teeth and wrenched the shaft from the wound. It came far easier than he'd expected and he almost lost his balance. He raised a hand to his hood to keep it in place. CCTV cameras in the West were usually out of focus or out of film, but there was no point tempting fate. "Okay, let's get the fuck out of here."

###

Stephen's thumb hovered over the green button on his mobile. He'd scrolled to a contact labelled 'scumbag'; the number Joe had given him for Liam Greene. He shook his head and pushed the red button instead.
Wise up,
he thought.
Are you going to just call him and invite him to meet you for a kneecapping?
He set the mobile down on the arm of his sofa and gazed up at his framed poster of Tony Jaa, Bruce Lee's modern day replacement.

In truth, now that he had his target lined up, he had no idea what to do. It had all been about the chase. About hunting down the wee fuckers responsible for so much hurt. About making a difference to his community. It became something else as he thought about the reality of street justice.

An anonymous call to the PSNI would be least messy. But what would come of it? Would the wee bastard tout on the rest of his gang under interrogation? Would it end in a satisfying conviction? Would they learn anything from a few years in a young offenders centre? No. None of that balanced up with the weight of the gang's crimes.

They needed to be dealt with in the only language they understood. And Stephen needed to know he could mete out the punishment in cold blood. Revenge on the football pitch when temper, adrenaline and testosterone whooshed through the veins was easy. But to drag a fourteen-year-old into an alley... and there was more at stake than a two match ban.

And that kind of penalty sent out the wrong signals. Journalists and politicians would have a field day. It had paramilitary punishment beating written all over it. That wouldn't help his community. And if the wrong people got wind of the maverick vigilante's identity, it wouldn't help him.

For once in his life, he had to keep a cool head on and find a subtle way to deal with his problems.

And Liam Greene wasn't the only problem.

He phoned Louise.

"What about you, big lad?"

Louise's boisterous greeting tugged at the corners of his mouth. "Hiya, love. You up to anything exciting?"

"Nah, I came off the early shift a couple of hours ago and had nothing more exciting planned than tidying Joe's room."

"Can he not tidy it himself?"

"Are you joking? He can barely keep his arse clean."

"That's a thought I could live without."

"Sorry. So what's on your mind?"

"Why do you ask?"

"Usually you just text me to tell me your coming over." She paused for a second. "Wait a minute. Is this a break up call? Fuck me, that's the kind of thing you do face-to-face after you hit your twenties."

"Um."

"It is, isn't it?"

It should have been, but now that the time had come it seemed like the last thing he wanted to do. "No, this isn't a break up call." And having said it, it felt right.

"So why the pause? Are you just losing your bottle? I don't need you hanging around me just because you're afraid I might shout at you."

"No, it's not that." So what was it? She'd led him to the Rockets. What else did he need from her?

"Well?"

"I just wanted to tell you... I... I... really like you, Louise."

Silence swelled for an agonising five seconds, and then a genuine giggle broke the tension.

"And I... I... think you're a fucking weirdo," Louise said. "But I like you too. Hang tight. I'm coming around to yours. Have you condoms or will I pick some up on the way?"

###

Joe curled his fists to stop himself biting his nails. The heater in the stolen five-door Fiesta pumped out cooked air.

"Can you turn off the heat?"

His da twiddled a couple of knobs on the dashboard. It seemed to make little difference. Joe thought about opening the window but didn't want to risk getting snapped at. Since he'd picked him and Wee Danny up, his da had been quiet and unsmiling. Wee Danny had asked for some music from the backseat and gotten no response. Now they were parked on a road near Queen's University, though Joe had no idea where. He'd never been in this part of the city. Hadn't thought he ever would.

His da stared out the window at a little supermarket. A squat man with thinning white hair wearing a checked shirt manned the shop floor. A student-type wandered up the aisle counting coins in the palm of his hand. It looked like he was the only customer. He left without buying anything.

"Okay, boys. Time to see what you've got. Joe, you're the wheels man tonight. Daniel, you're coming with me."

"It's Danny."

"It's nothing at all until this is over."

Joe thought about making a
Reservoir Dogs
reference, but chickened out. "I don't know about driving. I've no idea where I'm going."