Wee Rockets (39 page)

The whole gang fell silent. Liam had them all climbing right up his hole. They were afraid to laugh at him.

"I'm only slagging, Liam."

Liam didn't drop the hard man glare.

"Seriously," Joe said. "I wouldn't touch your ma with yours."

Liam stared for another few seconds, then chuckled. "All right, mate. Fair's fair."

The music returned to cover up the iffy atmosphere. Joe just had to sit tight until the E worked its magic. Then he could have a quiet word with Liam and be done with the whole business. He lit a fag for something to do, then another off the butt, then another. Then Frankie Devlin leapt off the sofa and stepped up onto the coffee table. He waved his arms about and shrugged his shoulders in what was technically a dance. Most of the others laughed and cheered him on. Fra Collins simply gave him a thumbs up and closed his eyes again. It'd take a stick of dynamite in the arsehole to get that one going.

Then they were all up, jigging and jerking, except Fra and Joe. But Joe didn't have Fra's excuse. He forced himself to get off the sofa and act like the other lunatics. Trying to play the loved up clubber was not easy. He felt like he had lead in his shoes and his joints seemed to be stiffening, making movement awkward and laborious. And he didn't think his eyes were wide enough. Fuck all he could do about it though. So he threw his limbs about and hoped the others were too involved in their own bliss to notice his discomfort.

From the corner of his eye, he saw Liam slip off into the kitchen. Nobody else seemed to notice. Joe left the jittering loons to it and followed the fat bastard. He found him bent over the kitchen worktop with a piece of stripy plastic straw jammed up his nose. His eyes rolled about in his head. He snorted a line of fine white powder before acknowledging Joe.

"Why did you come here, Joe?"

"I want us to be mates again."

"I don't believe that for one second."

"Okay, then. I wanted to make sure I wouldn't come to harm."

"You think I would do something to you?"

"You're not the only one hearing things on the grapevine. The twins are loyal, but they've got big mouths. Half the hoods in Beechmount know about the Park Centre thing. That's some body count you're racking up."

Liam rubbed his nose and sniffed. "I told them all to keep it quiet. What can you do? But there's no proof I did it, so why worry?"

"Yeah, you're right. Unless the security guard's family find out who you are and arrange a wee meeting."

"Are you threatening me?"

"Not at all. Just looking out for you. Remember I tried to warn you about McVeigh? Same thing."

"Except he hasn't done fuck all, has he?"

"Not directly, no."

Liam shook his head and got to work chopping and lining the coke with a video rental card. "You're just trying to melt my head. But it's not working."

"I heard that there's a lot of bad ecstasy coming out of Poleglass these days. Lot of kids in comas or dead. Now, if someone wanted rid of you, they could arrange for you to pick up a bag of that bad E. Am I right?"

Liam snorted another line. His smile stretched like a clown's. "Whatever."

"Some of that shit is cut with rat poison and bleach. If the dealer gets the mix wrong..." Joe wrapped his hands around his own throat. He let his tongue hang over his lip and made choking noises.

"Stop that."

"What's wrong, Liam? Worried you got a bad batch?"

"You took one too."

"Take a good look at me, mate. Do I look like I'm coming up? I flushed the pill."

"Doesn't prove they're bad. You can't know they're bad."

Joe nodded slowly. "That's true. I can't know. Those tabs are probably perfectly fine."

Liam's shoulders dropped in visible relief.

"But if the rat poison and bleach got into your system another way, the autopsy guy would match it with the ecstasy in your blood and come up with a cause of death. How did you enjoy that cake, by the way? And the Dr Pepper? Wash it all down for you all right?"

Liam dropped his plastic straw and card on the countertop and squared up to Joe. "What the fuck did you do?"

"Ach, maybe I'm just fucking with you." He laid a palm on Liam's shoulder. "Or maybe I'm looking out for number one."

Joe moved his hand from Liam's shoulder to grab his ear. He punched him in the stomach then rammed the side of his head against the countertop. Liam's eyelids fluttered. Still gripping the ear, Joe jerked him back and bashed his head off the black glossy surface. Liam's legs buckled. He shoved the fat fucker's head against the cupboard door. As Liam slid to the floor, Joe kicked the other side of his head for good measure.

The music in the living room kept the commotion from reaching the other Rockets' ears. Joe knelt by Liam's side. He popped the three E tabs he'd palmed earlier into his fat mouth then pinched his nose shut and pressed a palm to his lips. But the old trick didn't work. The subject probably had to be conscious.

"Fuck it, I've done enough."

Dissolving slowly in his mouth, the tabs might not be enough to cause an overdose, but the sweet rat poison from the cake and powdered bleach mixed into the Dr Pepper would work its magic. If Liam didn't die, he'd certainly be off the street for a long time. Joe decided to leave it at that. Give the wanker a chance for old time's sake. He rejoined the chaos in the living room. A minute later he slipped out the front door. The Rockets would find their fearless leader passed out or dead from a drug OD. Maybe it'd make them think about changing their ways.

But probably not.

###

Dermot staggered along the footpath. The pain from his beating lit up his nerve endings as the last of his adrenaline drained away. He smiled.

"You're a survivor, mate." His own voice sounded alien, but he drew comfort from the words.

Ahead, a group of students on their way to some pub or club parted before him. He lurched through the ragged guard of honour. One of the girls gasped, but none of them offered to help. They had their own problems. Dermot didn't give a fuck. He'd been battered half to death, and he'd never felt so alive.

But he'd come to the end of his affair with Belfast. The ginger prick and his wee mate had more reason than ever to kill him. And with that treacherous bitch Emily on their side, the squat wasn't safe anymore. But before he could go anywhere, he needed to pick up his cash stash. Then he'd be on the first bus to Dublin. And after that... he'd have to wait and see.

His conscience nagged at him a little over knocking Louise out. Such a rotten way to end things. He'd actually enjoyed catching up with her. But at the end of the day, he had to look out for number one. No chance of her forgiving him for waving a broken bottle in her face and then whacking her skull off a table.

He spat a huge crimson glob onto the pavement outside his squat. His appearance would draw a lot of nervous looks on the bus but it'd be unwise to waste time getting cleaned up. He needed to keep moving.

Climbing the stairs to the bedroom generated a fresh surge of pain. It crackled through his body like an electric shock. He fought through it but had to stand still at the top for half a minute until a wave of dizziness passed. As he stood there, he thought about Joe.

The bastard had too much of his ma's temper in him. He'd felt more than physical pain after they'd crashed into the postbox. His own son had betrayed him over a street runt. Left him to be scooped by the peelers. Dermot would never forget that. You should be able to rely on flesh and blood. Family should stick together. After all, he'd tried to include Joe in his budding empire. Mutually beneficial though it may have been, at least he'd been willing to pass on his wisdom while using him to get what he wanted. But he wouldn't make a mistake like that again. One less tie to the stinking city of Belfast.

He collected his cash and bundled some clothes into a holdall. After a quick root through Emily's stuff he found some painkillers. He popped four in his mouth and crunched them to dust, hoping they'd kick in quicker. The chemical taste turned his stomach, but he soldiered on. He half-stumbled down the stairs and opened the front door.

A silver Ford Ka idled at the kerb. Behind the wheel of the little city car sat an expensively suited ogre with slicked back hair. His left arm was trussed up in a sling. The driver's window slid open with an electric whir. Essex Boy, Tony Walsh extended his good arm through the opening. A sawn-off shotgun glared at Dermot.

"A little birdie told me I could find you here, sunshine. Thought I'd call by to see you."

"Ach, shite."

The muzzle flashed and thunder boomed. Dermot was blown back into the squat. Gut shot. He writhed on the uncarpeted hallway floor. Then Tony stood over him. He had the urge to plead, but the fire in his belly burned away the words on his tongue. He stared into the twin black circles of the shotgun. Tony bent at the waist and pushed the muzzle into Dermot's mouth.

"You shouldn't have played with the big boys, you sneaky Irish cunt."

Thunder rolled. And then it was over.

Epilogue

Joe woke up to the rattle, clatter and hiss of his ma cooking breakfast. The smell of frying sausages wafted up the stairs. His mouth watered. He rolled out of bed and pulled on his trackies and a Celtic top. After a long, spine-tingling piss, he shambled down the stairs.

"Morning, Joe."

McVeigh sat in the armchair, drinking from Joe's Manchester United mug.

"Did you stay the night
again
?" Joe asked.

McVeigh nodded. The right side of his face sported a fading scar. Joe could almost admit to himself that it suited the bastard.

"Where's my ma?"

"She's in the kitchen, son."

He didn't like McVeigh calling him son. Not one bit. But he bit back a nasty response.

His ma bustled in carrying a plate stacked with sausages and bacon. No bread. Not even soda.

"Oh! Morning, Joe. Didn't know you'd surfaced. You looking a wee fry too?"

"I got up when I smelt the food." He looked pointedly at McVeigh's plate. "Is there any left?"

"Of course. I'd not let you go without. Stephen doesn't eat bread, so there's extra soda and taty bread as well."

She disappeared back into the kitchen and got to work with the frying pan. McVeigh forked a sausage and ate half in one bite. Joe thought the ginger bastard looked far too comfortable. He spoke through a mouthful of semi-chewed sausage.

"So it looks like I'll be moving in with your ma."

"What?"

"Aye, I'm going to take her out for dinner tonight and ask her. What we went through the other month with your scumbag da made me realise how much I like her. Well, love her, really."

McVeigh unleashed a big dopey chortle.

"Are you winding me up?" Joe asked.

"Not at all. I'm deadly serious. Going to ask her to move into mine. But I'll move in here if she'd prefer."

Joe sat on the sofa before his legs could betray him. "Why are you telling me this?"

"Because, when she comes home to tell you about the idea, I don't want you giving her that hard-done-by face you always use. I want you to tell her you think it's a great idea."

"Why would I do that?"

"Because you owe me. Your da's gone. Liam Greene isn't, though, is he? He's still knocking about Beechmount."

"But he's not dealing or nothing. I've checked up on him."

"Aye, right." McVeigh sneered. "But even if he's not, it won't be long before he's back at it. I should've known you wouldn't deliver. Too much Dermot Kelly in you."

Joe sprang off the sofa. "Shut your mouth, you ginger cunt." Aware his ma wasn't far away, he hissed the words. And by some act of God, he stopped himself from swinging a dig at the big prick.

McVeigh reddened. "And that'll be one of the first rules I'll lay down when you're living under my roof. No cursing. And then, no smoking, no drinking, no drugs, no mates around after ten and
no lip
."

"I can't believe this shit."