Wee Rockets (8 page)

And another.

And others.

And now Joe lay on his bed, weighed down with guilt and the dizzying effect of the sleeping pill. He wondered if he would die in his unnatural sleep. He thought about his father meeting him at the gates of hell. He prayed for forgiveness. He freaked out when he couldn't remember the last line of the Hail Mary. He gave up consciousness and surrendered himself to nightmares.

###

Louise needed something stronger than a cup of tea. She'd stopped keeping alcohol in the house the day she came home to find Joe drinking her vodka straight from the bottle. After the fight she wished she'd stashed a quarter-bottle in the toilet cistern, like Dermot used to. She wanted to talk to Joe about how she felt, but couldn't understand her conflicting emotions well enough to tell
herself
how she felt. A drink could simplify things. Her friend, Karen, didn't drink on Sundays. Ever. There was no point phoning her. But Louise phoned her and got invited around for a cup of coffee. Louise impolitely declined. She'd mend that fence later on in the week.

For the first time in her life, she went to a pub on her own.

She took a deep breath before pushing open the front door of Busby's, the Manchester United supporters' bar at the top of Broadway. Nobody turned in their seats to evaluate her. Celtic were playing Rangers. The widescreen TV at the other end of the bar held everyone's attention, including the barman's. Louise cleared her throat three times before she could wet her whistle. The vodka and lime burned her throat the first time. The others treated her just fine. When the match finished two nil to Celtic, Louise joined the clientele in a chorus of
You'll Never Walk Alone
and relished every syllable.

When a young man with ginger hair offered to buy her another vodka and lime, she accepted his offer. She asked him where she'd seen him before and he told her his name and that he lived in Beechmount.

Stephen McVeigh.

Not much of a looker, but he sure could listen.

Stephen wanted a cup of coffee. Louise's haphazard kitchen yielded none. He settled for tea and closed the cupboard doors gently. He poked about in the fridge for breakfast while the kettle boiled. She didn't have much in. His body needed something healthy to tackle the ridiculous amount of alcohol she'd coaxed him into drinking. His eyes skipped past the fatty sausages on the bottom shelf. The best he could come up with was a large pot of natural yoghurt closing in on its best before date. He rescued a spoon from the kitchen sink and stirred the lumpy mass until the watery puddle at the top disappeared. The first spoonful met his tongue with approval. He gulped down the rest of the yoghurt before the kettle clicked and popped some hardening bread into the toaster for Louise.

After the night they'd had together it was the least he could do for her. Besides, he didn't want to leave until her son had seen him.

You have to know your enemy.

Wee Paul gave up Joe's address without a second thought; probably to shift focus off his little brother. Stephen was happy to take the information, but he wouldn't take it easy on Wee Paul's brother. After Joe, Wee Danny would be the next target. Then the fat kid.

Bite off the head and the body will die.

Stephen was almost certain that Joe ran the gang, but Wee Danny and the fat kid had displayed leadership qualities when he'd encountered them.

Take no risks.

But Joe had to be the first. Beautiful Lady Luck had smiled on Stephen when he finally plucked up the nerve to visit Joe's house. He'd parked at the far end of the street in case his Escort's engine alerted Joe and gave him time to run away or hide. It was to be a questioning only, but Joe wouldn't know that.

Before he'd closed his blue car's red door, a peroxide blonde stormed out of Joe's place with a face on her like a smacked arse. She moved fast and with purpose. Stephen followed her. She obviously knew Joe – was probably his ma – and looked pretty pissed off. Hopefully she was pissed off at a wayward son and was hoping to find sympathy somewhere.

Not only did Stephen get to insinuate his way into his enemy's closest family member, but he got to watch the Celtic match, get pissed and have a great shag. Lady Luck. What a doll.

He carried two mugs of tea in one hand and a saucer piled with buttered toast in the other. He used his knee to nudge open the door to Louise's bedroom. She sat up and almost smiled.

"You're still here." Stephen detected surprise in her voice. Low self esteem. Too easy.

"Of course I am."

"Don't you have to work today?"

"Nah, I take an extra week off before the July fortnight. Most sites are winding down during the second week of July and it's a boring time for a joiner."

Louise nodded at the plate in his hand. "You're not a chef then?"

He laughed. "I thought you'd like some breakfast. Toast was all I could think of. I ate your yoghurt by the way."

"Thanks. Toast is perfect." She hesitated. Then, "Did you meet Joe down there?"

"No sign of him. I guess he's still in bed. Teenagers sleep a lot."

"Aye, you're probably right."

He passed her one of the mugs and the toast. He didn't sit down on the bed with her. She didn't ask him to.

"Do you want me to go and check his room?" Stephen asked.

"Jesus Christ! No I do not."

"Okay, take it easy. I was just asking."

"How would you feel in his shoes?"

"After everything you told me about him last night, I can't believe you still want to protect him."

Louise looked away. "He's still my son."

Stephen nodded and took a sip from his mug. It did little for him but remind him he wanted a cup of coffee.

"Okay, Louise. Sorry if I've upset you."

"You haven't. It's just... Oh God, I still..."

"It's all right. Look, you probably need some time to sort your head out."
And I need a coffee and a shower,
he thought. "You have my number. Text me later if you'd like me to come around with a Chinese and a DVD."

"Thanks, Stephen. You've been really great."

"And you blew my mind."

Louise blushed and Stephen knew he'd be back that night. He'd see Joe then.

###

The sound of the front door closing woke him. Joe rolled out of bed and pulled back his curtains. The familiar, square, ginger head, bobbing away from his house, filtered through his slitted eyes, fought for significance in his abused brain and sprang his paranoia from its chemical cage. Stephen McVeigh knew where he lived. The bastard had come to complain about what they'd done to his piece-of-shit car. He listened out for the sound of his ma bolting up the stairs to get to work on round two.

Silence.

Maybe she couldn't even bring herself to dish out another hiding. He'd disgusted her so much that she couldn't see the point. He didn't know if he found relief or despair in the idea.

The sleeping pill had kept Joe under for almost twelve hours. He woke up in the early hours of Monday morning with a muzzy head and a dry mouth. He could see no sense in getting up at that time, so he'd taken a second pill from the bathroom and smoked cigarettes until the drug worked its magic. It took at least an hour before he felt anything resembling calm and another hour to actually fall asleep. He'd filled that time trying to prepare a speech for his mother, begging her forgiveness.

If he'd come up with anything he'd lost it by the time he woke up again.

His stomach growled.

Whatever his ma had in store for him, he couldn't stay in his room and starve. He changed into fresh clothes and left his room. On the way past his mother's bedroom he heard the shifting of bedsprings. But he hadn't heard her get back into bed after McVeigh left. Every stair in the house creaked. How could she have gotten back up them without making a noise?

In the kitchen, something seemed off. Joe couldn't put his finger on it, but he didn't feel comfortable. He put it down to the drugs, both prescription and otherwise, and looked in the fridge. An unopened packet of sausages sat on the bottom shelf. He flicked on the deep fat fryer. When the little red light clicked on, he punctured the sausages with a fork and threw all eight of them into the bubbling oil. The crackle-pop of cooking fat set his stomach off on another thunderstorm grumble.

While his breakfast cooked, he leaned against the kitchen worktop and sipped on a pint glass of tap water. He thought about the direction his life was headed in. It was time to whip up the handbrake and pull a one-eighty. Fuck what the rest of the gang thought of him. If his mother ever found out about the muggings she wouldn't stop at a boot in the balls and a kick in the face. She'd either disown him or phone someone who'd happily shoot out his knees in the name of some dissident group.

He decided to hook up with Wee Danny as soon as he could and let him know first. Then he'd get the rest of the gang together for a bit of a session; blow only, to keep the mood calm. He'd tell them he was handing the gang over to Wee Danny and moving on to something bigger. Telling them he wanted to go straight wasn't an option. They'd think he'd turned yellow. Then he'd think of something to make it right between him and his ma.

First things first. He ate six of the sausages and left two on a plate for his ma to heat up for her breakfast. Then he phoned Wee Danny and spent ten minutes coaxing him out of his bed. They met at the shop.

"You got fags?" Joe asked.

"Yeah."

"Good. Let's dander then. I don't feel like standing about."

Wee Danny nodded and they made their way along Beechmount Avenue, smoking and spitting between sentences.

"You look a bit fucked up," Wee Danny said.

"Aye, I know. Did your Paul hit you a dig?"

Wee Danny shook his head. "No, but he said he'd kill me if he found out for sure I was robbing grannies. And I believe him."

"Shit. What makes him think you might be?"

"That wanker, McVeigh."

"Fuck! He was at my house this morning. Bet it was your Paul who told him where I live."

"Don't worry." Danny said. "He hasn't any proof."

"Still. It's not like he's a cop. Vigilantes don't need to follow rules."

"He's not a vigilante either, Joe. He's just a wanker."

"A big wanker who could snap my neck like a pencil."

"Did you lose your balls in that fight with your ma?"

Joe thumped Wee Danny's shoulder. Wee Danny stumbled onto the road.

"Jesus, Joe! Sorry. But there was no call for that."

"You got off lightly. So, come on. What are we going to do?"

"I think we'll have to lay low for a while. Tell the others that someone's watching us and we need to take a break."

"How do you think they'll react?"

"Who gives a fuck? It's your gang, Joe.
You
call the shots."

"But I don't want it anymore. I was planning on telling you it was yours now."

"Hah! Fucked if I want it anymore, mate. Far too risky."

They'd wandered out onto the Falls Road. Joe had no idea where they were headed, but he seemed to be leading.

"I'm just thinking," Joe said. "What if we just handed the gang over to Liam? You know he'd snatch up the chance to be the boss man."

"And what? Keep quiet until Stephen catches him?"

"Might be the best way for us to keep our noses clean."

Wee Danny shook his head. "No, that's too fly. I can't stand Liam, but he's still a mate. And the other lads don't deserve that. We should tell him everything, but let him know he can take on the gang if he wants to risk it. Stupid bastard will still want to do it, but he might be a bit more careful."

"Ach, I suppose you're right."

"Of course I am."

They'd gotten as far as the crossroads where the Grosvenor Road and the Springfield Road met the Falls Road. Four sets of traffic lights kept hospital and motorway traffic chaos to a minimum.