Authors: Gerard Brennan
He scooped the door key from Sinead's tiny knock-off Louis Vuitton handbag and stormed out. Sinead cursed after him, drunk and affronted. He stopped on the doorstep when he realised he'd forgotten to put on a coat. Sinead's voice penetrated the PVC door with perfect clarity. It wasn't safe to go back inside. He jogged to keep himself warm.
His footsteps clip-clopped a steady beat. The terraced houses streamed by on either side. It was peaceful but unsettling to jog through Beechmount at such a quiet hour. The familiar orange glow from the streetlights held comfort but the eerie quiet of sleeping neighbours and house parties still under control whispered wicked potential. His eyes flitted to the shadowed alley at the end of Amcomri Street. The security fence swung open on new and silent hinges. He imagined the Wee Rockets skulking out of sight amongst the wheelie bins, but didn't have the stupidity to run blindly in and challenge them. There'd be no grannies out and about at this time. He ran past with an almost clear conscience.
Taxis sailed up and down the Falls Road. The kebab shop, the Chinese takeaway and the pizzeria pulled in the scant few who'd left the pubs around Broadway early. Harsh fluorescents behind the massive streaked windows highlighted the slack faces of the people too drunk or tired to see the rest of the night through. The footpath remained puke and piss free for the time being. Paul felt comfortable in his stride. The park was in sight. Then a single-tone horn heralded an exhausted engine. He stopped too quickly and his knee barked at him; an old football injury rearing its head.
Stephen McVeigh's square, ginger scone was the first thing Paul saw, then he zoomed out to take in the shitbox he was driving; an old Escort runabout. He shook his head when the passenger door opened. A pathetic toot from the asthmatic horn insisted. He jumped in, the smell of old engine oil wrinkling his nose.
"What are you driving, McVeigh?"
"Never mind. Are you out looking for Wee Danny?"
"Yeah, have you seen him?"
"Earlier on I followed him to Dunville Park. He's been there with a crowd of young hoods all night."
"You've been driving about in this thing all night? Are you mental? You'll get carbon monoxide poisoning."
"Shush."
Paul shot a stern glance at his teammate. He needn't have bothered. McVeigh's attention was on the green iron gates of Dunville Park. The big man forced his car on another few yards. He U-turned on the Falls Road and mounted the kerb. The car rocked on its chassis like a busted mechanical rodeo bull. The old Escort was not the most efficient tool for espionage. Paul said as much to McVeigh.
"I want them to see me."
"Why?"
"It'll freak them out. Put them under pressure."
"And if they aren't the Rockets?"
"They are."
Still McVeigh stared at the secured park entrance but through the passenger window. Paul fidgeted with the glovebox in front of him, aware that he obstructed McVeigh's view. The catch-release button wouldn't move. He rapped the plastic with his knuckles.
"Here, this is broke, Stephen."
"The car cost me forty quid. You get what you pay for."
"I could probably force it open if you're curious. Never know what you might find."
"Leave it be."
"What's wrong with you, humpy-hole?"
"Just stop picking at my car and keep your eyes open for that scumbag brother of yours."
"Why are you so sure my brother's a scumbag? He's from a good family."
McVeigh snorted. Paul curled a fist but left it in his lap.
Wanker,
he thought.
"Paul, look, here they come."
###
Liam almost choked. He couldn't help but laugh as he ran down the Falls Road. They headed towards the relative safety of Beechmount's narrow streets. He carried the severed wing-mirror under his arm like a rugby ball. Joe ran ahead of him, taking full advantage of his ostrich legs. He whipped an extending car aerial through the air like a Burberry-clad Zorro. Wee Danny ran alongside Liam holding the other wing mirror. The wee shit yelped something at him but the thud of his heart and the thundering footsteps of the other Rockets blocked out the sound. He could taste the pastie bap he'd eaten at dinner. A cider burp added to the dizzying experience.
"Shut up and keep running, Danny." The words probably didn't reach Wee Danny's ears but Liam reckoned the sentiment was plainly read off his face. They ran on.
Behind them, the big ginger wannabe vigilante yelled threats. Liam didn't dare glance over his shoulder to see how close McVeigh was, but his voice got smaller and smaller. The Rockets followed Joe onto Beechmount Avenue, up Beechmount Parade and toward the grounds of Corpus Christi College. The clambering school of hoods scaled the outer wall easily and collapsed in a heap on the grass edging the staff car park. Again they were in the open but had a good vantage point to scope out oncoming threats. McVeigh couldn't be seen. The prick had given up.
The buzz in the air raised hackles and smiles. Liam almost felt like sharing the bag of grass in his zipped tracksuit pocket. He pulled out a twenty deck of Lambert & Butler cigarettes instead. Everyone but Wee Danny dipped in. He already sucked on a lit fag like a carpet monkey on a fat nipple. His was the only face not smiling. Liam knew and relished the cause of Wee Danny's anxiety but played dumb for a laugh.
"What's up, Danny?"
Wee Danny waved his wing-mirror at Liam. "Our Paul was in the passenger seat. He looked right at me when I pulled this off the car. You want to have seen the look on his face. I'm fucked."
Liam looked at his own souvenir from their planned attack. His wing-mirror had popped right off the driver side of McVeigh's old Escort. Access to his reflection came in handy. He could tell he'd control of his smirk before looking at Wee Danny again. Joe's idea to scare the shit out of McVeigh for stalking them had been a good one before Liam knew Wee Paul Gibson was in the car. Now that Wee Danny was in the shit, it'd been elevated to a dream come true.
"Shit one. So what're you going to do?"
"I'll have to take a hiding. Joe, can I stay at yours tonight?"
Joe nodded.
"Do you mean to tell me Danny Gibson is afraid of someone?" Liam asked.
"You don't have to sound so pleased about it, dickhead."
"Sorry, Danny, I didn't mean it like that. I just thought you were fearless. He's just your brother, like. It's not as if he'll kneecap you."
"Are you trying to wind me up? I'll shove this fucking wing-mirror up your hole."
"Ach, mate. Take it easy."
Joe stood up. "Liam's right, Danny. He's acting a dick, but no more than usual. You're just taking him too seriously. It's Liam for fuck's sake! Just slag him back and have a laugh."
Wee Danny mumbled something into his chest and Liam grinned. Finally, he was under the wee shite's skin, and this time Joe had stood up for Liam. Liam couldn't wait until Wee Danny showed up at the next carryout with bruises from his brother's fists on display. He'd really get on the wee boy's nerves then.
"Is there much cider left?" Joe asked the crowd.
A few of them held up plastic bottles. Not much at all.
Fuck it
, thought Liam. "I have something to lighten the mood." He drew the bag of grass from his pocket, gunslinger style, and threw it at Wee Danny. It bounced off his chest and he caught it with a reflex snatch. Liam winked at the shocked Rockets. "What are you waiting for, Frodo? Skin up!"
Everybody but Wee Danny cheered.
###
Louise sipped on the fresh cup of tea. Her eyes stung, begging for sleep. Her shoulders slumped under the weight of her suspicions. The hard kitchen chair gave her pins and needles in her buttocks. If she'd waited for Joe on the sofa she'd have fallen asleep in a second. The wooden chair in her cold kitchen offered no comfort to snuggle into. The wee bastard wasn't going to sneak in past her if she could help it.
She lit a cigarette to go with her tea. Her mind drifted back to the time her insomniac ritual first developed. Dermot's swarthy skin and tightly curled, black shock of hair flashed vividly in her mind. His sly, tight-lipped smile bobbed to the surface and enhanced her pain. He frequently appeared in her thoughts when she was alone and at her most tired and emotionally vulnerable. But this felt different. A cruel déjà vu. History repeating beyond her control. She couldn't count the times Dermot had kept her up, waiting and wondering. Twelve years since he left and the bastard still had the power to drag fingernails down the blackboard of her heart. Even the day they first met twisted her emotions inside out. She thought about that day, still unsure if it was a fond memory or the prelude to a waking nightmare.
He'd barged into the bakery and threw a brown paper bag over the counter. Louise had jumped at the sudden intrusion. The tall man with broad shoulders and a bad haircut curled his moustached lip in a sneer.
"Peelers are coming, love. Hide that bag of blow for me. They've searched me on the street five times this month and there's too much in there to claim personal use."
The cops didn't come into Beechmount to scoop small time drug dealers off the street in 1993. This man had done more than sell a wee bit of blow to justify such reckless action by the RUC. They wanted to arrest Mister Tall, Dark and Kind of Good Looking for anything they could pin on him. What he'd confess to after a night of hospitality in Castlereagh Police Station would be the real reason they wanted him.
"Why should I? I don't know you from Adam."
"Dermot Kelly. Now fucking hide it and act cool. They're nearly here."
Louise picked the little brown bag up off the floor and buried it in a basket of treacle scones on a flour-dusted shelf behind the counter. She stuffed one of the bakery's white paper bags with large sausage rolls and handed it to Dermot.
"That's two quid, mister," she said as the cops entered the premises.
The first one through the door bore the disapproving glare of a Free Presbyterian at a mixed religion wedding. A smaller, younger peeler traced the first one's footsteps. He looked excited. His eyebrows twitched as his eyes tried to take in every corner of the shop. Neither of them removed their hats. They intended official business.
"Well hello there, Officers Montgomery and McAllister," Dermot Kelly said. "You two in here for a wee salad bap or something? Always pinned you as burger men. You have that healthy, well fed look about you."
"Mister Kelly," the older cop said. "We have reason to believe you have been dealing drugs in this area. Please step outside."
"Officer Montgomery, I think you have been misinformed."
"Constable Montgomery."
"Sorry,
Cunt
-stable."
Constable Montgomery wrinkled his nose in contempt. "Step outside now, Mister Kelly."
"No, I don't think I should."
"We'll pull you in for resisting." Constable McAllister's young voice bounced up and down in pitch with an enthusiasm only matched by the urgency of his darting eyes.
Dermot laughed. "I don't remember you telling me I'm under arrest. I have rights, you know."
McAllister stepped forward but Montgomery placed a firm hand on the younger man's chest.
"You're right, Mister Kelly. We haven't arrested you. But in the interest of saving everybody's time, perhaps you could cooperate with us. If you're not guilty you have nothing to hide. Prove it and we won't have to go through the channels to make this official."
"What happened to innocent until proven guilty?" Dermot asked.
"You've been watching too many Hill Street Blues repeats, Kelly," McAllister said. Montgomery chuckled but patted his colleague on the shoulder.
Calm down, son
, the older cop said without speaking.
"I don't wish to cooperate with you,
Cunt
-stables. Please get the fuck out of my face."
Louise gasped at Dermot's language. Montgomery looked at her for the first time. She almost flinched. The cop seemed to sense this and his face softened.
"Sorry to have involved you in this, miss," he said. "We'll get out of here shortly." He turned his attention back on Dermot. "And I'll be seeing you again, very soon, Mister Kelly."