Wee Rockets Read online

  "Fuck me, Mister Kelly. I near shit myself."

  "Sorry, couldn't resist. Danny isn't it? Joe told me you wanted to meet me. Hope I haven't started off on the wrong foot."

  "Ach, no. I can take a bit of banter."

  "Good man yourself. How's you, Joe?"

  "All right. Bit of a shitty day, like."

  "Oh aye?"

  "Yeah. It was Tommy's funeral today."

  "Shite. You never said. I'd have come along."

  "Sure you never knew the guy. No point you getting depressed about him. Anyway, I want to forget about it now. Figured if you hadn't been, we wouldn't have to bring it up."

  "Say no more, Joe. So, Danny, what did you boys want to talk to me about? Joe was his usual cagey self on the phone earlier. Maybe you can enlighten me?"

  Danny looked up and down the street. "There's an awful lot of people about here. Can we go somewhere?"

  "There's a bowling alley not far from here. Not the most private place in the world, but the rumble and clatter makes it hard to listen in on someone's conversation."

  "What do you think, Joe?" Danny asked.

  "Sounds sweet. But I've never been bowling before."

  "It's a piece of piss, son. Good enough craic too."

  "Cool," Danny said. "Let's go."

  Before Dermot had left for London, the Superbowl on Clarence Street had still been in its childhood. On entering it for the first time in over a decade he found that the years had not been kind to the entertainment complex. A pair of bouncers hovered by the door, their manner cold and no nonsense. Threadbare industrial carpet added little comfort to the hall. A wall of dated arcade machines flickered, flashed, wailed and blared. Kids cursed at them as they pumped pound coins into the hungry slots. A long-haired, bearded man propped himself up at the customer service desk with his back to the public. His interest had been hijacked by the rack of maroon and cream bowling shoes sorted by size. He dangled a small pair by the laces as he gave great thought as to which slot best suited them. The only notable change since Dermot's last visit was the lighting on the alleys. The uneven laminate-floored lanes glowed a hazy blue. The scoreboards proclaimed them modern glow-in-the-dark lanes. Dermot thought they looked like they'd been lit by bug zappers.

  "This place is class," Danny said, without an ounce of sarcasm. "All futuristic and all."

  "Yeah," Joe said. "Let's get started."

  The bearded weirdo hooked them up with freshly deodorised, ill-fitting alley shoes and brought them to their lane. Dermot paid for Joe and Danny and offered to get them a drink from the bar.

  "Just a Coke, please," Joe said.

  "Want me to put a wee vodka in it?"

  "Ah, yeah. That'd be cracking."

  "Same for you, Danny?"

  "Yes, please, Mister Kelly."

  "Look, kid. If we're going to have a wee drink and a chat tonight, you'll have to stop calling me that. If you can't use my first name, call me mate or something. Mister Kelly makes me feel like your maths teacher."

  "Okay... mate."

  Dermot paid the extortionate price for a pint of beer in a plastic glass and two vodka and Cokes. He checked out the blue felt pool table on his way back to the lane. Two men in their twenties played for fun. He hoped he could find someone to challenge for drinks after the bowling. Either that or he was going home sober.

  He sat the drinks on the little table beside the ball return. Joe gave him a fag.

  "Thanks a million," Danny said.

  "No worries." Dermot raised his plastic glass. "Sláinte, lads."

  They slurped on their drinks and puffed on their fags.

  Dermot tapped ash into a foil ashtray. "So, we're in relative privacy. What's the story?"

  Danny did the talking. "Me and Joe had to abandon a profitable gig we had going when we got word of outside interest. We've been out of pocket since then. Joe tells me that you're the type of person who knows how to make a few quid. So we were wondering; do you have anything going at the minute that we could help you with?"

  "You're asking me for a job?"

  "Well, yeah. I'm too young to work in McDonalds and my ma doesn't give me fuck all. I need money for fags and cider."

  Dermot admired the little squirt's ballsy attitude. He slipped into negotiation mode. "Well, if Joe's vouching for you, that's good enough for me. So consider this interview a success. Next we need to talk about terms and conditions."

  "What do you mean?" Joe asked.

  "He's talking money, mate," Danny said. "What do you think is fair, Dermot?"

  "Well, most crews operate a profit sharing arrangement, usually based on individual experience and reputation. But you guys are still wet behind the ears, and a bit of a business risk. I think we'll need to go with a standard payment per job over a probationary period."

  "How much and for how long?"

  "You don't mess around, do you, Danny? Let's start with thirty quid a job for at least six weeks and see where we go after that."

  "Thirty sounds a bit low, Dermot. How about fifty?"

  "Thirty-five."

  "Forty."

  Dermot winked at the wee man. "You got it, mate. You drive a hard bargain." He paused for a few seconds to sip on his pint. "Of course, if I'm paying out eighty quid every time we do a job together, I'll have to make sure it's worth my while too. We can't afford to fanny about with stealing car radios or shoplifting, lads."

  "We're up for anything," Danny said.

  "I bet you are. Are you two free the night after tomorrow?"

  They nodded in unison. Danny licked his lips, like a dog anticipating a juicy steak.

  "Great stuff. I've just the thing to see what you two are made of. But for now, let's do some bowling, eh?"

  ###

  Paul stretched out on the double bed, moaning with pleasure as his joints popped and cracked. You just couldn't beat a Monday morning lie in. He rolled over, determined to stay wrapped up warm and cosy until noon. He drifted towards unconsciousness then jolted when his mobile went off. Its factory preset ringtone chirped as it vibrated on the flatpack bedside cabinet. He snatched it up and pressed it to his ear.

  "What is it?"

  "Are you in bed?" Sinead's voice jabbed his eardrum.

  "Aye. What do you want?"

  "Well, isn't it well for you? Force your family out of the house so you can bunk work and sleep all day. And here's me minding our son all by myself."

  "Aye, I'm sure your mother hasn't helped you one bit. I suppose you sat in the whole weekend, afraid to ask her to babysit her only grandchild. Dead on, babe. I feel for you. Now, what do you want?"

  "God, you're so cold-hearted. I'm phoning to see if you want to sort things out. All of this can't be good for Wee Owen."

  "You're talking as if I booted you out. You left of your own accord. So we'll talk when I get over the pain you caused me by walking out with my son." He yawned. "I reckon I'll be in the right emotional place to tackle this in about a week. Chat to you then, okay?" He disconnected the call and turned off the phone.

  But the bitch was determined to keep him awake. His landline squawked for attention and burying his head under the pillow didn't help. He tramped down the stairs in T-shirt and boxers and whipped the phone's jack out of its socket. It was too little too late for now, but it'd be one less possible wake up call on Tuesday morning. He went to the living room and flopped onto the sofa. At least he could get back to his stack of unwatched DVDs.

  After Kung Fu Hustle he zapped a microwave burger and chomped it down. He snacked on crisps during Land of the Dead. To lighten the mood he decided on an Adam Sandler flick. He vetoed Big Daddy and went for Mister Deeds. By the time those credits rolled it was almost dinnertime. He stood, stretched and purred like a fat tomcat. He'd lounged long enough. Time to groom.

  He swayed gently in the shower as rivulets of steaming water encased his body. Nobody rapped the door, called for him to hurry up or ran the cold water tap in the kitchen. He practically slept on his feet
. His mind flashed with images of his night with Buffy the Vampire Slayer. Classy ones. Black and white, like an artsy French soft-porn flick. Her white thighs and black leather coat. Black pouting lips and wavy white hair.

  He needed to see her again.

  Rather than throw some clothes on and speed down to Linenhall Street like every part of his being screamed at him to do, Paul forced himself to take his time and build the anticipation. In any case, he had no idea what time a prostitute started her workday at. It wasn't even a sure thing that she'd be working that night. But fuck it, he'd take the chance. He shaved, clipped his toenails, moisturised the bags under his eyes, doused himself in Calvin Klein aftershave and flossed his teeth. Dressed in his FCUK boxer shorts, Diesel jeans and Ben Sherman shirt, he felt smoother than a waxed James Bond. In fact, there was a good chance Buffy would fall in love with him and he'd sweep her off for an adventure, True Romance style. But at the very least, he'd have a cracking shag.

  By seven o'clock, Paul sat in his reclaimed Renault Clio. He parked at the stretch of kerb he'd picked Buffy up from the previous Thursday. The engine idled and he listened to a biographical piece about Sinead O'Connor on BBC Radio Ulster. It lasted half an hour, and not much longer after it ended, the girl he'd waited to see strode around the corner. She moved with MTV attitude, energetic and placing each footstep to an internal rhythm. She snapped back her head to whip an errant blonde wave out of her face. Paul wondered how much it would cost for a striptease to Aerosmith's Crazy.

  She spotted his car and went straight to the open driver side window.

  "All right, darling?" She leant into the car and kissed his cheek. "You waiting on me?"

  "Aye."

  "Aw. Ain't you sweet?" Just like last time, Paul's heart went giddy-up as she crossed his path to get to the passenger door.

  "Hiya," he said as she settled into her seat.

  "There's something different in here."

  "Oh, I changed the seat covers."

  "Yes you did. And the plain black is a lot more masculine. I miss the Betty Boop air freshener though. I love that little slut."

  Paul grinned at her. "I've had a bit of a clear out. Here and at home. It's been... refreshing."

  "Good for you. What you going to do when she comes crawling back?"

  "You don't miss much, do you?"

  "I've seen it all, darling. I could write a book."

  "They say everyone has a good book in them."

  "Why haven't they written them then? I'll tell you why. Because they're full of shit. Wankers."

  "I love your accent."

  "Yeah, I get that a lot here. So what we going to do tonight?"

  Paul cleared his throat and took a deep breath. "Do you want to go to the pictures?"

  "You what?"

  "You know... the cinema?"

  "Yes, I know you meant the cinema. But I think you're a little confused. You don't have to take me out on a date. Did you forget how this works?"

  "I've been watching movies on my own all day. I'd like to watch something new and then talk about it with somebody afterwards. I'll pay you your usual hourly rate. Then afterwards, maybe we can do what we did last time?"

  Buffy studied his face, as if she expected him to burst into laughter. Her blue eyes stared right into his soul. He held her gaze, desperate for her to take him seriously. Finally she nodded.

  "Sounds great to me, darling."

  Paul rubbed his hands together before pulling out onto the road. "Fucking sweet."

  He asked Buffy to pick the film and she went for a Wayans Brothers comedy. Something ridiculous about a midget posing as a baby. Chewing gum for the brain. They got a seat in the back row and snuggled into each other. Buffy threaded her arm into his and rested her head on his shoulder. Paul felt seventeen again. The opening credits rolled.

  "This is probably going to be a piece of shit, you know?" Paul said, whispering into her ear.

  "Yeah, I know. But I wasn't in the mood for anything too intellectual."

  "Well, you struck gold with this one. I bet it's ninety minutes of fart and dick jokes."

  "Do you want to leave?" It wasn't a snarky question. Her voice was sincere.

  "Not at all. I'm here with a stunner like you. I'm happier than a pig in shite."

  She sighed theatrically. "Shakespeare wouldn't be in it."

  As predicted, the film pumped out vulgar jokes and an idiotic plot. Paul found himself enjoying it. Sitting with Buffy, he didn't feel the need to suppress the laughter that came naturally from time to time. He didn't fear her judgement. Occasionally, they glanced at each other and rolled their eyes. She didn't have a problem with the adolescent crudity the Wayans had built a franchise upon. No doubt, she'd encountered a lot worse.

  The film reached its third act and Paul got a little fidgety. The jokes had been played out a little too long, and he knew exactly where the plot was going. He shifted in his seat for the millionth time. Buffy patted his thigh.

  "All right, darling?"

  "Aye. Just a wee bit bored."

  She ran her hand up and down his thigh, inching closer to his crotch with every length. "Oh, yeah? Can't have you complaining of boredom on me customer survey. I'll have to do something to enhance your experience."

  Paul pushed his hips forward as Buffy's hand brushed against his erection.

  She bit his earlobe. "I think I know what you need."

  Paul whimpered a little as she inched down his zip, popped his button and sank her hand into his jeans. She hooked her fingers into the waistband of his boxers and pulled it down. He sprang out of confinement. With a panicked side-to-side glance he determined that they were the only ones in the back row, reducing the odds of him being done for indecent exposure.

  Buffy wrapped her hand around his shaft and worked her wrist with brain-swelling slowness. Paul tuned out the movie soundtrack, melted into his seat and closed his eyes; a Cheshire Cat grin spread from ear to ear.

  Chapter 14

  Liam ran his fingers along the rack of football tops. They swung back and forth on their hangers like a lazy wave. The feel of the shiny material sent a shiver down his spine. Celtic, Man United, Liverpool, Arsenal, Chelsea... all the top teams in every size. And only a few footsteps from the shop door.

  "Can I help you, son?"

  Liam shook his head, dismissing the man behind the till. "I'm just looking."

  "Well, give me a shout if you can't find what you're after," the man said – though he meant, I've got my eye on you.

  Liam shuffled about the shop for another minute, checking price tags and humming along to the radio, then left Lifestyle Sports empty-handed. The Fegan twins and the rest of the gang loitered about the car park of the Park Centre shopping complex. Situated on the Donegal Road, near the St James area of West Belfast, the complex was within walking distance of Beechmount. Or running distance, depending on your intentions. Liam had a new plan.

  "What about you, lads?"

  Eddie Fegan spoke for the rest of the gang. "Dead on, Liam. What's the craic here then?"

  "I've another move planned. Did you bring me down that hoodie?"

  Matt pulled a green and white striped sweater from a Tesco carrier bag and tossed it to Liam. He shrugged out of his Adidas tracksuit top and pulled the borrowed hoodie on over his T-shirt.

  "Your cousin doesn't do subtle, does he?"

  "He's a buck-mad Hoops fan," Matt said. "But sure, it's a disguise."

  "So, what's the plan?" Ginger Mickey asked.

  "Did you ever see that show, Supermarket Sweep?"

  "Aye, our ma loves that shite," Eddie said. "You run around the shop throwing beans and biscuits and all that craic into your trolley until the time runs out. I could chin thon poof of a presenter. He does my head in."

  "Well, I reckon we could have our own wee Supermarket Sweep. Except we'll call ours Sports Shop Sweep. Just follow my lead."

  They fell in behind Liam and moved as one. He led them to the side door. Earlier, he'd
scoped it out and noticed the pretty-boy security guard looked a bit softer than the skinhead Rottweiler-man they had on the front. They breezed past the useless bastard with their hoods drawn up and the guy acted like he hadn't even noticed them. Probably afraid he might get his hands dirty or his hair messed up. The gang stormed through the centre and the shoppers parted in front of them like scuttling pigeons on a city footpath. Liam savoured the feeling of power coursing through him. The general leading his army of bad bastards through a defeated country. They were fucking untouchable.

  Within sight of the sports shop he turned to face them, walking backwards to maintain momentum. "Okay, I'll distract the man behind the till and the twins will keep an eye out for the security guards. The rest of you grab as much shit as you can carry. Stay the fuck away from the sale racks. We're lifting the in-season stuff only."

  They flooded the shop, whooping and howling like lunatics as they spread out. Liam lifted a snooker cue from a display stand and charged at the wide-eyed shop assistant. He swung the cue like a baseball bat and clunked the prick with the fat end. The guy folded up and disappeared behind the counter. Liam laughed and rounded the counter. He came down hard with a couple of sledgehammer swings and made sure the fucker laid still.

  The till looked pretty simple. A number pad and a bunch of symbols. Liam mashed a few random buttons and the till drawer popped open. Stuffing two handfuls of cash into his pockets, he looked across the shop. The boys were doing great. "Twenty seconds left. Hurry the fuck up."

  He laid a few more wallops into the man at his feet and cheered himself on. The shaft of the cue cracked. Blood coated the cellophane on the business end. Two more whacks and the cue snapped in half. He waved the thin end in the air. "Five, four, three, two, one. Right, get out to fuck."

  They flocked together and piled out of the shop. Security tags set off the alarm system as they passed through the sensors. Heads turned, but nobody moved to stop them. Too much sense. Liam led the charge with the broken cue held out in front of him. He glanced over his shoulder and saw they'd lost some of the clothes, leaving a multicoloured trail in their wake. It didn't matter, what he'd lifted from the till and what clothes they held onto would add up to their largest score to date.