Wee Rockets Read online

  "Fuck," Liam said. "He's following us."

  "Ah balls," Four-Eyes said. "We're in the. Shit now."

  "There'll be enough of a crowd outside City Hall to get lost in. Just keep moving."

  Four-Eyes struggled to speak through rasping breath. "Easy. For. You. To say."

  "Are you having an asthma attack?"

  "Think. So."

  "Fuck!" If the cop scooped Four-Eyes it might allow Liam to escape, but there was the long-term to think about too. Could Tommy be trusted to keep his mouth shut?

  "Can't. Breathe."

  Liam looked at Four-Eyes. The asthmatic weed squinted back at him, pale-faced and panicky-eyed. Liam would have to help him. He linked arms with the lighter boy and pulled him along. Ahead, the pedestrian crossing on Wellington Place went from little green man to little red man. The four lanes of traffic got moving again. This made Liam's escape plan a little trickier.

  "We can make this," Liam said.

  Four-Eyes had worked his little grey inhaler out of his hip pocket. He tried to guide it to his mouth on the move, but as Liam jerked him into a sprint, he fumbled it and it bounced away from him. He croaked a barely audible protest and tried to resist against Liam's pull. Liam ignored him and charged on, sights set on the other side of the road.

  Car horns blasted. Tyres screeched. Metal crimped. Glass shattered. Tommy Four-Eyes wriggled out of Liam's grasp. Liam reached the other side of the footpath. He didn't look back. But he knew he'd never forget the thud, the splat or the screams of the front row witness. A skinny Goth girl shrieked on the pavement where she had been waiting for the little green man; a spatter of blood beaded on her pale face. Tommy's blood. He was all done.

  Liam barged past the Goth girl and ran on.

  ###

  Joe scratched his head as he stared at the framed Bruce Lee poster hung over the fireplace in McVeigh's living room. Bruce stared back, fire in his eyes, sneer on his face, his bare chest slick with sweat.

  "Do you like Bruce Lee?" Stephen asked.

  Joe turned to him, glanced at his ma standing too close to the ginger prick, and shrugged. "Don't know. Never seen any of his stuff."

  McVeigh blinked as if he'd been slapped. "Seriously?"

  Joe shrugged again and looked away. "I don't like movies with subtitles. If I wanted to read I'd buy a book."

  "You can watch the dubbed version on DVD."

  "And listen to a bunch of Brit poofs shouting hi-yah? No thanks."

  "Joe!" his ma said.

  "Sorry, I mean English homosexuals."

  His ma tutted.

  McVeigh smiled. "But Enter the Dragon was an American pro... Ach, you know what? Never mind. Different strokes for different folks, I suppose." The smile faded quickly. "Will we eat?"

  McVeigh had invited them over to his place for their dinner. His ma had insisted that Joe go and make an effort to get on with her new fellah. Joe hadn't put up too much resistance. Scoping out McVeigh's house suited his needs. His da's plan could only benefit from it.

  "What did you make?" Joe's ma asked.

  "A phone call." McVeigh chuckled at his own joke. "Pizza arrived fifteen minutes ago. I stuck it in the oven to keep it warm."

  "Oh, we love pizza. Don't we, Joe?"

  "Aye, it's all right."

  "Great," McVeigh said. "Sit down there and I'll bring it in. You don't mind eating in the living room, do you? I never bought a table for this place. Seemed silly to have one for just one person."

  "Me and Joe are well used to eating in the living room. But keep the telly off or you'll not get a word out of this one."

  Joe rolled his eyes and flopped down on the couch. McVeigh disappeared into the kitchen and got to work on banging cupboard doors and rattling his cutlery drawer. Joe looked at his ma, still standing in the middle of the Spartan living room. She jerked her thumb towards the ceiling.

  "Sit up straight, you." She whispered through clenched teeth. "You're making the place look untidy."

  Joe whispered back. "Ach, wise up, ma."

  "I'm serious. He's invited us into his home."

  "So he should be trying to impress us. Not the other way around." But he straightened himself up to keep her quiet. "Happy?"

  "Thank you. He invited both of us because he just wants to make things a little less awkward between the two of you." She glanced at the door leading to the kitchen, then sat beside Joe. She dropped her volume to a mouse's whisper. "And I think he's worried about your father coming back. He keeps asking me questions about Dermot, as if he's fishing to see if I still have feelings for the bastard. It's kind of sweet that he's a bit nervous. Will you try to be nice to him? For me?"

  Joe opened his mouth to answer but McVeigh swept into the room. He held the pizza box like a tray. Three plates and three glasses balanced on top and he had a bottle of Coke tucked under his arm.

  "Grub's up," McVeigh said.

  "All that clattering to find three plates?" Joe's ma smiled, the tip of her tongue pinched between her front teeth. "What are you like?"

  McVeigh smiled at her. "I had to wash the glasses. They'd gotten a bit dusty."

  Dusty? Joe thought. Fucking hell!

  McVeigh handed out the plates and flipped open the pizza box. He took a newspaper from under the cushion on the armchair and laid it out on the middle of the wooden floor. The pizza went on top of this. Joe decided to drop a pizza slice on the floor to see what McVeigh would do. But as he reached for the double pepperoni, Eminem began a rant from his pocket. He stood up and fumbled for his phone, noting his ma's scowl.

  "Who is it?" she asked.

  Joe glanced at the screen. "Liam Greene."

  She tutted. "I don't like that wee lad."

  Joe shrugged. "I'll just be a minute." He turned to McVeigh. "Keep me a piece."

  "No promises." McVeigh's smile didn't match his cold eyes.

  Joe took the call on McVeigh's front doorstep. "What?"

  "Joe. Jesus Christ. I fucked up."

  Liam's tone stiffened Joe's spine. "What is it?"

  "Four-Eyes. He let go of me. On the road. Fuck, fuck, fuck." Liam let loose a creepy, unsettling moan. "Oh, God."

  "Liam, what's going on?"

  "Tommy Murray's dead, Joe. Dead as fuck. And it's my fucking fault."

  ###

  Paul frowned at the Renault Clio. Sinead danced around the six-month-old demonstration model, smiling, cooing and generally sinking all hopes of getting a decent deal on the little red motor.

  "Oh, Paul, it's gorgeous. Look at the colour of it. Lipstick red!"

  Paul glanced at the car salesman and grimaced. The salesman winked knowingly and smiled. His clean-shaven face beamed confidence.

  "Renault call this flame red, sir."

  "Wow, sounds manly and dashing. I don't need to be ashamed to drive it. That's a plus."

  The salesman didn't acknowledge Paul's sarcasm. Paul wanted to strangle him with his red silk tie. They'd gone in to look for a Peugeot 307. The guy said they'd none in, but they had a near perfect 2006 Clio for just an extra grand or three. Sinead's ears pricked up then and Paul knew he could kiss the idea of a black 307 goodbye.

  He looked at the little Clio. Attractive enough with its new, sleek body design, but it looked a bit on the small side. Like a shrunken Megane. It might be easier for Sinead to park it, but would there be enough room for a week's groceries in the boot? And what kind of horsepower did these little things have?

  "Is there much poke in it?" Paul asked.

  "This model has sixty-eight horses under the bonnet, sir. That's not bad for a five-door diesel in this class. And its light body makes it seem closer to seventy-five anyway."

  "The slowest 307 has ninety horses."

  Sinead did the salesman's job for him, with considerably less aplomb. "Who cares about that crap? This one's cute."

  "It's small."

  "It's compact, Paul. I don't like big cars anyway. You know that."

  And of course the salesman got his stan
dard line in. "I should tell you there's another couple coming for a second look at this tonight. These demo models always go fast."

  Sinead widened her eyes, jutted her chin and upturned her palms. What the fuck are you waiting for?

  "Can you give us a minute?" Paul asked.

  "Of course. I'll be inside doing some paperwork."

  The salesman turned to slink off and Paul had to suppress a strong urge to bury a foot in his hole. He looked at Sinead and shook his head.

  "What?" she asked.

  "You're not exactly playing it cool here."

  "You heard him. There's another couple coming."

  "There's always another couple!"

  "Keep your voice down." She tilted her head. "So are you going to buy this one?"

  "It's a lot more than I wanted to spend."

  "So add another year to the finance deal. Come on. We deserve to have something nice."

  "307s are nice."

  "Ach, they're clunky. This one's cute."

  "It's a girl's car."

  "Catch yourself on. There's no such thing as girl's cars. Just cars."

  "Says you."

  "Paul. I want this car. Don't I deserve nice things?"

  He felt his face screw up. "I give you everything you want."

  "Don't give me that look, Paul Gibson. I hate that huffy face. If you didn't think I was worth the effort you shouldn't have bothered. I only gave you a son." And she folded her arms, having dealt her ace in the hole.

  "You wreck my head sometimes, wee girl."

  Her scowling face softened. "Ah, you love me really. So are you going to get it?"

  Half an hour, a credit check and four signatures later, they left the Boucher Road branch of Charles Hurst in a flame red Renault Clio. Paul drove, Sinead's only concession in the whole deal. He had to admit, it handled pretty well.

  They called to Paul's ma's house first, to show it off. He tooted the horn but nobody came to the door. Irritated, he shut off the engine and used his own key to let himself and Sinead in. The house seemed too quiet. He couldn't remember the last time he'd arrived to find the television off. And at twenty past six he'd have expected Danny to be sitting on the arm of the sofa waiting for the opening credits of The Simpsons to roll.

  "Stick the kettle on, Sinead. I'll go and see if anyone's upstairs."

  He found Danny lying on his bed. A familiar musky scent hung in the air, fighting for dominance over pubescent body odour and dirty sock smell. Danny sat on his unmade bed with an ashtray between his feet. He didn't even attempt to hide the joint roaches when he registered his older brother's presence. Paul knew something was wrong.

  "What's up, kid?" He tried to keep his voice upbeat. "You turned Bob Marley on me? You know that shite is bad for you."

  "Sure I could be hit by a bus tomorrow. Ask Tommy Murray about that."

  "What? Where's ma and da? Did something happen?"

  "They've gone to Tommy's parents' place. Wanted to see if they could do anything for them."

  "Why?"

  Danny slow-blinked at his brother. "You haven't heard, then?"

  "Would I be asking why if I'd heard? What's going on, Danny?"

  "Tommy got killed in town today. Run over by a Citybus."

  "Fuck off! Your mate with the thick glasses? Jesus."

  Paul sat down beside his brother and squeezed him awkwardly around the shoulders with one arm. His little brother shuddered. He felt like a knotted muscle, ready to spasm.

  "Are you okay, kid?"

  "No. I'm freaking out. Couldn't even go with ma and da. I didn't think I could handle talking to Tommy's family. Nobody my age has ever died before. It's not right."

  Paul had no idea how to comfort Danny. Truth be told, he felt freaked out too. Tommy Four-Eyes, fourteen and dead? He'd barely started living.

  "You got any more blow on you, Danny? I could do with a toke."

  ###

  Dermot dragged himself out of the bath. With a towel wrapped around his hips, he went to the makeshift bedroom and found Emily in a black bra and thong. She had one foot propped up on the box-spring bed base they'd been sleeping on since breaking into their squat. She bent at the waist and rubbed some moisturising lotion onto her raised leg. From behind, Dermot enjoyed the jiggle of her beautifully round ass as she worked both hands up and down her toned calf. He grabbed a handful and squeezed.

  "Hands off the merchandise," Emily said. She looked over her shoulder at him, one eyebrow cocked.

  Dermot twitched in his towel. He held both hands in the air, as if ordered by a cop, then pushed his crotch against her. "Look, no hands."

  She pushed back and hot blood rushed to his groin. He groaned as she wiggled. "You like that, big boy?"

  "You know I do." He bent over her and cupped her breasts in his hands.

  "Hmmm, me too. Pity I'm late for work." She circled her hips, grinding into him.

  "What?" He felt his towel come loose. It would have fallen to the floor but they'd pinned it between them. "Can't you leave it another hour? It's just gone seven."

  She moaned softly. "But we need the money, honey. You said so yourself."

  He peeled back the cups of her bra, freeing her stiffening nipples. "Take the night off. I'll make some real cash soon." He brushed his fingertips over her pink buds.

  "Really?" Her thumbs hooked into the waistband of her thong. She slid it halfway down her hips. "Because I could do with an early night."

  He'd have agreed to marry her under these circumstances. "Oh fuck. Yes, really. Take the week off. We'll be rolling in it soon."

  "Are you going to see your old fence tomorrow?" The thong inched down a little further.

  "Yes, yes, yes." He broke contact for a millisecond to whip the towel from between them. He threw it against the wall and shoved his hips forward again.

  Another inch. "Promise?"

  "Promise! Now come on."

  The thong slid down her thighs and came to rest around her ankles. As she stepped out of them, Dermot fell to his knees and pushed her legs apart. He ran his hands up and down her inner legs. The thin film of lotion she'd rubbed into her skin lubricated his massage. He rose slowly, kissing and licking the back of her thighs. He stopped just short of her swollen clitoris. The muscles in her thighs tensed as she anticipated his moist tongue. Not yet. He worked his way back down her thighs and she groaned. Part pleasure, part agony. He kissed and nibbled the backs of her knees. Then he worked his way back up, pausing for an instant just before the summit. She shuddered in anticipation and he gave her what she wanted. When she was ready, she went to her knees and bent over the bed base. He slid into her from behind and the race towards climax was on. Moaning and thrusting backwards, Emily won, but only just. Dermot bent forward and kissed the back of her neck. She sighed.

  "I should be paying you, Dermot."

  "I need a smoke."

  "Spark one up for me, darling."

  He reached for his clothes pile and went into the pocket of his jeans. His phone fell out as he took out the box of fags. The screen displayed the missed call message. He hadn't even heard the ringer go off.

  "I got a call from Joe," he said.

  "I thought I heard something. I assumed it was you ringing my bell."

  He grinned and gently slapped her backside, before retrieving his towel from the floor. Emily flopped back on the bed base and spread her arms in a Jesus pose, comfortable in her orgasm-pink nudity. Dermot checked his voicemail. Joe had left him a message.

  "Da, listen, I called you for a chat. Something mad happened today. One of my mates... a guy I went to school and chummed about the streets with... he's dead. I... I don't know when you planned to meet me again, but it'd be good to get wasted with you. Your stories might help me forget about this. I don't want to think about Tommy. It's too... I don't know, sad? Scary, maybe? Whatever. Will you call me when you have time?"

  Dermot thumbed the red button and lay down beside Emily. She rolled onto her side and threw a leg over h
im. He could feel her breasts squished against his upper arm.

  "What are you smiling at, Dermot?"

  "That was Joe."

  "And?"

  "One of his mates died."

  "Okay. And that makes you happy because...?"

  "Because Joe called me to talk about it. He trusts me already. Isn't that sweet?"

  "Sure. Whatever you say. So what do you want to do tonight?"

  "I think I should phone Joe."

  "What about me? I'm taking the night off."

  "Well, I got what I wanted from you." He shrugged, relishing the feel of her breasts moving with his arm. "I don't care what you do."

  "You wanker!" She rolled away and sat at the end of the bed base with her back to him.

  "What's the matter? Storming out no fun without clothes?"

  "Fuck off."

  "Emily, for God's sake. I was just messing about. I was thinking you could come with me to meet Joe."

  Her tense shoulders dropped a little. "Really?"

  Dermot enjoyed the contours of her back, highlighted by the bare forty-watt bulb hanging from the ceiling. "Yeah, really. Maybe you could wear your little denim skirt with the ‘fuck me' boots. That'd cheer any fourteen-year-old up."

  Chapter 10

  Joe could smell Emily on his skin. She'd hugged him when his da introduced her and he'd tingled all over with chest-thudding excitement. She looked like a model for FHM or Maxim. Classier than a porn star, but only just. Cleavage, thighs, blonde hair and brown skin. He couldn't believe his da had a girlfriend like her. Nor could he believe that she was sitting on the sofa in his own living room. She slumped back, knees slightly parted, and Joe fought to keep his eyes from popping out of his head. His ma would kill him if she caught him trying to look up a guest's skirt. Besides, he could feel that threatening warmth in his boxers and would have been mortified to pitch a tent in her company.

  Joe imagined his ma was less impressed with Emily. She'd offered that tight-lipped politeness usually reserved for teachers complaining about him on Parent Teacher Night. He guessed she didn't approve of the knee-length leather boots. Whatever she thought of the girl, his ma didn't give his da the satisfaction of acting annoyed.