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Authors: Gerard Brennan

Wee Rockets (31 page)

BOOK: Wee Rockets
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His da pointed out the front windscreen. "That way until I tell you different."

"What am I going to do?" Wee Danny asked.

"Wave this about." Joe's da handed Wee Danny a rusty hatchet. "I'll do the talking."

"Okay, Dermot." Wee Danny didn't ask any questions, though if he was anything like Joe, a million of them must have been whizzing through his head. His da wasn't exactly dishing out the details.

"Right, let's go."

As they jumped out of the car, Joe shifted himself over the handbrake to sit behind the wheel. He pulled the seat forward slightly and fastened his seatbelt. Then he unfastened it. He wondered if he should be ready to hop out of the car if his help was needed or if he should stay with the car no matter what. He fastened the seatbelt again. His da and Wee Danny crossed the road and headed directly for the shop. They covered their faces at the front door, his da slipping on sunglasses and pulling a Liverpool FC scarf up over his nose and mouth, Wee Danny drawing his hood up.

Joe watched as the shopkeeper almost leapt out of his skin. Wee Danny waved his axe and Joe's da whipped a pistol out from his jacket. Joe felt his mouth dry up.
A gun
. His da was waving a gun in some poor fucker's face. He'd expected a knife or a baton or something a little less hardcore, but he'd underestimated the situation.

The shopkeeper nodded and held both hands up, begging for calm. Wee Danny really got into his role. He swiped the chewing gum stand off the counter with his hatchet and the white-haired man bounced back into the cigarette display. Joe's da pulled a bin liner from his pocket and slapped it down on the counter. He jabbed his pistol at the cigarettes and the till. The shopkeeper swiped the bag off the counter and shook it open. He tried to straight-arm the cigarettes on the top shelf into the bag but they scattered in all directions, most of them landing on the floor. Wee Danny hacked a lump out of the counter top and the shopkeeper dropped to his knees to scoop up the errant fags.

Wee Danny looked up at Joe's da, probably seeking approval. The big man clapped Wee Danny's shoulder with his free hand.

And then the shopkeeper sprang to his feet with a luminous-green baseball bat in his hands.

Joe's heart skipped a beat at the thought of seeing his da shoot someone. The smaller man drew back and put his whole body into a murderous swing. Joe's da skipped back and shoved Wee Danny forward. Into the arc of the bat.

It connected with Wee Danny's skull. Joe's best mate flopped sideways. He hit the big shop window and slid down it, like a boneless corpse. The shopkeeper dropped his bat and wiped his hands down the front of his checked shirt. Joe's da stepped over Wee Danny and clocked the stunned man with the butt of his gun. Blood sprayed and the guy went down cupping his broken nose in his hands. Joe's da tapped a button on the till and the drawer popped open. He grabbed a handful of cash and bolted.

Leaving Wee Danny in a heap on the floor.

Joe's da yanked open the car door and clambered into the passenger seat.

"Fuck. I think he's hit his silent alarm, Joe. Go, go, go!"

"We can't leave Wee Danny behind."

"Didn't you hear me? There'll be peelers all over the place in minutes. Drive!"

"What about Wee Danny?"

"He'll be okay."

"He might be dead. Was he still breathing?"

"Forget about him, Joe! We have to get the fuck out of here! NOW!"

"But he's a mate."

"He's expendable. You're all expendable."

Joe shook his head. "So you would have left me behind, too? Fuck you!"

His da pulled back a fist and Joe flinched. "Okay, okay." He peeled out into the road, missing a private taxi by inches. Their car lit up like a dance floor as the angered taxi driver flashed his high beams and laid on his horn.

"Fuck me, Joe. Open your eyes. I taught you better than this."

"Fuck yourself, you bastard!" Joe's voice cracked and spittle flew. Rage burned red hot in his cheeks. He gripped the steering wheel and wished for the strength to rip it off its column and wrap it around his da's neck.

"Just keep her between the lines, will you?"

"Why didn't you shoot the fucking shopkeeper? What did you have to throw Wee Danny at him for?"

"The gun's not loaded."

"What?"

"I wasn't going to shoot someone over a few packs of fags and a day's takings. What do you think I am?"

"A yellow cunt."

"Watch your mouth, son."

"Don't you dare call me son, you spineless bastard! You're not supposed to ditch your mates. I shouldn't have left him behind."

"Look, I know you're upset, but Wee Danny will be fine. Young fellahs like him have concrete skulls. He'll maybe get three years in a borstal and his record will be scrubbed clean when he turns eighteen. It's too late for us to do anything for him now."

"I can still do
something
for him,
Dermot
."

Joe yanked the steering wheel to the left and mounted the kerb. Dermot shrieked as he slammed into the passenger door window. Joe homed in on a huge, red postbox cemented into the footpath.

Dermot scrambled for his seatbelt when he realised Joe's intention. "Fuck. Stop."

Joe screamed like a madman. The car hit the postbox. Its bonnet crimped. Joe's seatbelt locked and catapulted him back into his seat. Dermot collided with the dashboard and the windshield. The car pivoted around the sturdy postbox and skittered out onto the road. It came to a rest across both lanes. Joe fought to pull air into his winded lungs. Dermot groaned; alive, but barely conscious. Joe unbuckled his seatbelt and shouldered his door open. He wobbled away from the wreckage on Bambi legs.

"Were you driving that car?"

Joe squinted at the source of the question. A young woman, struggling with a Cairn Terrier trying to choke itself on its own lead, studied him in the orange haze from an overhead streetlight.

"No, Missus. I was in the back. I'm lucky to be alive."

"What about the driver?"

"He's still in there. I'm going to find a phone box."

The dog lady instantly lost interest in Joe and crept towards the car. She probably wanted a good story to bring home. Why stop and chat to a dazed teen when there might be a maimed victim impaled on his steering column and bleeding to death? Joe did his best to steady his gait. He could do without any unwanted attention and the inevitable joyrider accusations. He glanced over his shoulder and saw that some cars had stopped on either side of the buckled Fiesta and the occupants were out to investigate. He'd slipped away in the nick of time. Dermot was probably good and fucked though. The thought of it spurred him on. He made his way back towards the shop. Back towards Wee Danny.

Minutes later he could see the twirling blue lights from a cop car. Rather than stand at a distance looking guilty, he closed in on the scene and melded in with the growing crowd of onlookers. If anybody noticed his shaking legs and chattering teeth they made no indication of it. He could see Wee Danny still in the same spot Dermot had left him. A young peeler stood at the door, barring access and throwing the occasional glance at the downed teenager. The shopkeeper wasn't in sight. They'd probably taken him out the back to make a statement.

An ambulance wailed and wove through the scant traffic and Joe felt relief flood his body. They wouldn't bother with the siren if they were picking up a corpse. Joe stood around to watch the paramedics bundle his mate onto a gurney. Wee Danny pawed at the air once and then lay still, but it was enough to satisfy Joe.

Chapter 15
 

Paul wound a strand of Emily's blonde hair around his index finger. They sat in the back of the red Clio, pink-skinned, and breathless. He noticed that she furrowed her brow a little and glanced at his hand.

"Sorry," Paul said. "Is that annoying you?"

"Not at all, darling. But you shouldn't care if it is. You're paying me, remember?"

Paul kissed her nectarine-smooth cheek. "That's no reason to take you for granted. I feel happier now than I have in years. I'd say this has been the healthiest relationship I've ever had. No mind games, no second guessing, no stress. Just sex with a stunningly beautiful woman."

He thought that her eyes might have softened for a second, but she blinked and the business look returned. "You Irish and your silver tongues. You'd give a girl silly ideas."

"Do you want to go for a bite to eat? My treat?"

Emily sighed. "Paul, have you been watching
Pretty Woman
or something? Let me help you distinguish Hollywood from real life. I'm not a whore with a heart of gold. I'm not looking for a knight in shining armour to rescue me. I'm not praying for a way off the street. I'm a prostitute and I make good money. More than you, probably. I have no intention of complicating a good life by hooking up with a client. No matter how charming he is."

"But we're agreed that I am indeed charming? That's a good firm basis to start the negotiations from."

"This isn't a negotiation, Paul. I don't want to date you."

"What if I let you pay your own way? You couldn't really call that a date. More like a business meeting."

"Pay my own way? Now you're really dreaming."

"Okay, why don't we go to McDonalds? That's as far from romance as you could get."

"Full marks for persistence, but the answer is still no."

Paul pecked her on the lips. The smell of her leather jacket danced in his nostrils. He kissed her again, and she responded, slow and tender. Their front teeth scraped together and their tongues slid over each other. Paul ran a hand from Emily's cheek, to her neck, to her shoulder, to her breast.

She broke the kiss and whispered into his ear. "No freebies, darling."

Paul nodded. "Will you give me a special rate for an all-nighter?"

"There's you getting all Richard Gere again."

"Seriously. Will you stay with me tonight?"

"Why?"

"I'd like to fall asleep after a long, slow shag, wrapped up with a sweaty sex machine."

"Sweaty?"

"Glistening, then."

"And what if you wake up in the morning and your house has been ransacked? You don't know me from Adam."

"I've nothing much worth stealing, to be honest. A budget brand widescreen TV and some integrated kitchen appliances. Unless there's big money in Fisher Price toys, it wouldn't be worth your while."

"It'll be expensive."

"I can afford half your hourly rate for eight hours."

"Most of which you intend to sleep through, yeah?"

"Yeah."

"All right, then, you silly bugger. You have a deal."

"Great, we'll pick up a big pizza on the way home. That'll be dinner and breakfast sorted."

"What's with you and food? Are you trying to fatten me up?"

"Nope, just making sure you don't run out of energy."

They zipped and buckled their way back to respectability and climbed into the front of the car. Paul's chest thudded and his groin tingled at the prospect of a whole night with Emily. They pulled out of the empty dockside car park and made their way to the city.

"Do you need to stop anywhere for an overnight bag?" Paul asked.

She patted the black leather handbag on her lap. "I travel light."

They drove on in comfortable silence until Emily's handbag began playing a generic dance beat. She apologised, probably more so for the crappy ringtone than the interruption itself, and fished her phone out of the bag.

"Hello? Yeah, I'm with a client... You what? Fuck... What about Joe?" Her mouth dropped open. "The little shit! What for...? Right, right, sorry. I'll see what I can do... Just off the Stranmillis Road... Okay... Calm down, all right? I'll phone you back in a bit."

"That didn't sound like good news."

"No, it wasn't, darling. My friend got himself into a bit of a mess. I'm going to have to help him out."

BOOK: Wee Rockets
12.37Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
ads

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