Wee Rockets Page 8

  He reeled himself in and forced his brain to slow down. Baby steps, he thought. Don't get ahead of yourself. Think this all through.

  "I'm going to have to think about this," Liam said.

  "Do what you want," Wee Danny said. "We're out and that's that. If you want to pick up and carry on, fine. If not, the rest of them can sort it out amongst themselves."

  "Right, but don't tell the others until I've decided. Don't want them getting big ideas if they think there's an opening."

  "Like Danny said, we're out, Liam. It'll be up to you to get in touch with the others and let them know what's going on."

  "So what are you two going to do instead? Sit and scratch your balls?"

  "Don't worry about us," Joe said. "We've some ideas. But it's all hush-hush until that ginger freak stops sniffing about. For now, we're probably just going to lay low. Get pissed, get a couple of birds and enjoy the summer. That sort of thing."

  "Aye? Well, good luck with that. Let me know how it works out for you."

  Joe gave him a tight-lipped smile. Wee Danny lit another fag. Liam didn't reprimand him for not offering them around again. They stood in silence for a few seconds, none of them knowing what to say before parting company.

  Then a thought struck Liam. "Joe, does this mean we're not going to hang about with each other any more?"

  Joe shook his head. "No. We're still mates, like. We'll meet for a carryout on the weekends like normal. Then you and the boys can fill me and Danny in on your adventures."

  "Aye, okay." Liam didn't feel a hundred percent convinced that things would work out that way. He felt like he should say goodbye or tell Joe it'd been nice knowing him, but didn't know how to say it without sounding soft or gay.

  He flicked his fag butt onto the road and exhaled his final lungful through his nose. He looked up to Joe, shielding his eyes from the high sun with his hand, and then down at Wee Danny. It didn't look like they had much to say. Up to him to fill the gap as usual.

  "Well, then. I suppose I'll smell you two fruits later. I'm away home to wake my ma up and see if I can get my lunch."

  It'd have to do.

  Chapter 6

  Joe pulled Wee Danny's head off his shoulders and whipped him with his own spine. Blood pixels gushed from the ragged wound. Joe had set up the PS2 in the living room, taking advantage of the bigger, louder TV while his ma worked her Tuesday shift. He played Wee Danny at a two-player beat ‘em up. Joe loved the button-mashing martial arts games. You could lose yourself in them, concentrating on timing and finesse, or you could go at it half-tilt and have a bit of craic with player two. Another round, and Joe laid into Wee Danny with a seven hit combination.

  "You're shit at this today," Joe said.

  "I can't concentrate."

  "Why not?"

  "I don't know. I just haven't felt right since we were talking to Liam earlier. That fat fucker gets on every nerve in my body. It's probably pissing me off that we've just handed him a meal ticket."

  Joe thumbed a four-button sequence and knocked Wee Danny from one side of the screen to the other. "Sure we both agreed it was stupid for the two of us to risk running with them."

  "I know, I know. But I still feel like we're losing out. And Fat Boy is laughing at us."

  "So fucking what if he is? It's only Liam, Danny. He's always been a dickhead."

  "Fuck's sake! Get up you useless bastard!" Wee Danny pounded on the joypad and spoke through clenched teeth. "Then why do you always protect him?"

  "Because he's a mate! Now quit yapping and put up a fight here. I'm bored of kicking your arse."

  "It's a stupid fucking game anyway."

  Joe had heard enough about Liam Greene and the Rockets. They could get a record deal as the next big rap crew for all he cared. As long as his kneecaps were still intact, he was happy. He'd more important things on his mind, and Wee Danny should know that. They'd talked enough the night before.

  "So, what do you think I should do about my dad?"

  Danny hit pause on the game, dropped his joypad and reached into his pocket for his fags. "I had a think about this after you left my place last night. I reckon you should phone him."

  Joe accepted a fag and lit up. "Really? Why?"

  "Well, you're going to lose out on a whole lot of cash now that you've handed over the Rockets. And your dad's missed loads of birthdays and Christmases. The way I see it, he owes you big time. You'll not get a penny if you don't get in touch."

  "What if he hasn't got any money?"

  "Then you only phone him once. You're in a position to call all the shots. He's the one in the wrong."

  "Fuck. You're right."

  "Of course I'm right."

  Joe thought for a few seconds. "What am I going to say to him though?"

  "Well, big lad. What's the craic? Do you have much money?"

  "Aye. That might need a bit of work."

  Wee Danny shrugged. "Do we have to keep playing this?"

  "What else is there to do?"

  "I've got some E tabs. Want to try them?"

  Joe sucked air in through his teeth. "Jesus, I don't know Danny. I've never taken that stuff before. Why'd you even get them? You should try and save some money, now that we're not earning."

  "You need to get with the times, mate. Sure an E is cheaper than a twenty deck of fags these days. I bought a couple of Mitsubishis because they're selling grass for thirty quid an eighth this week. Fuck that."

  "But Ecstasy's a nightclub drug. There's no point doing it here."

  "I've got some of our Paul's old CDs with me. Come on, we can have our own wee rave."

  Joe narrowed his eyes. "So long as you don't want me to slow dance."

  "Fuck off, you fruit."

  Joe stroked his moustache. He wasn't sure. A bit of blow was one thing, but Ecstasy still held its place as a Class A. The same league as cocaine and heroin. He shook his head to scatter his doubts. It was only a pill. "Ach, fuck it. Okay. But we may go up to my room. The stereo down here is shit."

  "Dead on. We should neck the pills right now though. They take about half an hour to kick in according to the dealer. If you want, that'd be enough time to cook a pizza or something. I'm not sure if they give you the munchies or not, but there's no point starving if they do."

  "Good thinking. We should drink shitloads of water too."

  "Yeah, that's right." Wee Danny dug into his pocket and pulled out a little cellophane bag containing two aspirin-like pills. He handed one to Joe and dry-swallowed the other.

  Joe shuddered. "I'm having a drink with mine."

  In the kitchen, Wee Danny laid twenty fish fingers side-by-side on a baking tray while Joe inwardly talked himself into swallowing the pill, now floating in a mouthful of tap water. While Wee Danny tried to figure out the oven, Joe blessed himself and gulped. They had another few rounds on the PS2 while they waited on the food and the first signs of a buzz. Half an hour later, stomachs full, they carried water up the stairs in pint glasses and milk bottles.

  Joe opened his bedroom window while Wee Danny fed three of Paul's discs to the sound system. Noise from the street invaded the room. Loud kids and louder parents. Beeping horns and revving engines. Sounds of the summer. Wee Danny cranked the volume knob. Aphex Twin knocked the dust off Joe's speakers. Old school mind-fuck. The bass line rattled Joe's fillings.

  "Is it warm in here?" Joe asked.

  Wee Danny shrugged. "We might be coming up."

  "Cool."

  Joe sat on his bed and tried to imitate the beat from the techno track in a combination of foot-stomping and knee-slapping. He couldn't keep up. But his jeans felt good. He ran his hands up and down the blue material from his knees to his hips and his scalp tightened in a pleasure shiver. He dug hypersensitive fingertips into his thighs and smiled. Then something important occurred to him. He needed to share it.

  "See if I ever think about topping myself, Danny; will you slap me?"

  Wee Danny blinked. "What?"

 
"You have to slap me if I ever want to kill myself."

  "How will I know?"

  Joe shrugged and flopped back on his bed. "I'll probably offer you a big bag of dirty mags."

  "If you ever give me a pile of porn, I'll kiss you."

  "Well, that's the end of that then. No fucking way I'm risking it now."

  Wee Danny's laughter crackled in Joe's ears. Joe sat up. His legs shook but he liked the sensation. He watched Wee Danny's jaw work as if he'd a mouthful of Hubba Bubba bubblegum.

  "Seriously, though," Joe said, "I don't want to die."

  Wee Danny swayed from side-to-side in the middle of the bedroom like a metronome with a rubber needle. He took a deep breath, puffing out his chest then deflating it with a whooshing noise. "Me neither."

  "I'm glad."

  "I'm kind of excited."

  "What about?"

  "I don't know." Wee Danny laughed again.

  "Your laugh sounds brilliant."

  "So does yours."

  "I'm not laughing."

  "And I'm not singing."

  "What?"

  Wee Danny shrugged and slumped. Shrugged and slumped. Nodded his head and tapped his feet. "This tune is brilliant."

  Joe stood up and danced. "I'm going to phone my da."

  Wee Danny nodded in approval.

  "And I'm going to ask him to meet me."

  Wee Danny smiled.

  "And I'll tell him I missed him, even though I never knew him."

  "Joe, mate, that's beautiful."

  Joe flinched as Wee Danny charged at him. But it was okay. His little friend wrapped little arms around him and squeezed. Joe looked down on his dandruff-speckled suede head.

  "Your heart is out of sync with the music," Wee Danny said.

  "Out of sync? What's that mean?"

  "Do you never listen to the music teacher?"

  "No. Should I?"

  "You should listen to everyone... no... everything."

  Joe stroked the crown of Wee Danny's head then gently pushed him back. "Where's my phone?"

  "I don't know. Try your pocket."

  "Pockets can't talk."

  "Stop melting my head." Wee Danny tried to sound tough but his goofy grin betrayed him.

  "Will you turn off the stereo? I'll not be able to concentrate if I want to dance."

  "Can we put it back on after?"

  Joe nodded and Wee Danny danced his way to the sound system. He hit the power button and Joe almost felt the music stop, like it had cloaked him. Coddled him. And he could hear the kids and the cars from the street again. But those sounds offered their own comfort too. Joe whipped the phone from his hip pocket and the scrap of paper with his da's number on it from his back pocket. He dialled.

  "Oh shit, Danny, it's ringing."

  ###

  Dermot stalked the city centre car park, noting the wonderful variety in colour, class and engine capacity. Security wasn't much of an issue here. A dozen signs, nailed to the low wooden-fenced perimeter, shirked responsibility for damage to or loss of vehicles. A curmudgeon manned the MDF-walled ticket booth. Smashed CCTV cameras nestled in graffiti-coated concrete pillars. The pillars supported a motorway flyover which threw a shadowed chill over the parking bays. The cars sat abandoned and unsupervised in tidy rows. His for the taking; like sweeties from a child.

  He'd spent the day trekking around Belfast City. He wanted to familiarise himself with the old whore sporting her EU funded facelift and discovered an abused city screaming for attention. Look, we've taken away the barriers and the watchtowers. Everything is squeaky clean and bombscare free. Don't be afraid anymore. Spend your money here. The Guinness tastes just as good as it does in Dublin. I promise. And Dermot knew he'd come home in the nick of time. New opportunities begged to be reaped.

  His phone vibrated in his pocket. A mystery caller. He smiled, knowing full well only a handful of people had his number, and only one of those hadn't given him one in return.

  "Dermot Kelly speaking. Can I help you?"

  "Um, Da... Der..." Some unintelligible muttering followed before the caller finally identified himself. "It's Joe."

  "Joe! Good man yourself. I'm glad you called. What's the craic?"

  "Just... you know... the usual, like."

  "Unfortunately, I don't know enough about you to know what the usual is. But we'll put that right, eh? Or are you phoning me to tell me to fuck away off?"

  "Yeah... I mean, no... I mean..." Joe tutted. "Can we meet? For a burger or... something?"

  "You sound a little jittery, Joe. Are you okay?"

  "Yeah, sweet." His voice went up an octave. "Dead on, like. I'm just a bit nervous, I suppose."

  "Oh, right." Dermot didn't want to miss his chance at getting on the boy's good side. So he didn't tell him it sounded like he could do with taking it a little easier on the E-numbers. Kids hyped up on food additives melted his head. "So, we shouldn't waste any more time. Are you free tonight?"

  "Tonight? Yeah! I can meet you at the McDonalds by the Kennedy Centre. It's only two minutes away from here in a black taxi. I love McDonalds. Especially Big Macs. They..."

  "Okay, Joe. Save some of that energy for later. I have to get a few things sorted out today, so I better nip on. But save your taxi fare. I'll pick you up, all right?"

  Joe paused for an instant. "I don't know if my ma would be too keen on that."

  "I'll not come to the door. Just listen out for a horn."

  "What'll you be driving?"

  "Don't know yet. That's one of the things I'll be sorting out today. I'll swing by some time around eight. Okay?"

  "Yeah, great."

  "Seeya later then, son."

  Dermot pocketed his phone and turned his attention back to the neatly lined cars. Halfway down one of the rows sat an old Vauxhall Astra Mark II in red. The joyride of choice from his misspent youth. A time before electronic immobilisers and sensitive alarms. His intention that morning had been to scope out some new hunting grounds, but nostalgia's siren call beckoned. It'd make for a nice, low-risk buzz. He patted his light tracksuit top, feeling for the tools of his trade stashed in the lining. Seconds later, he jammed the flat-head screwdriver into the Astra's driver's door lock and twisted. The button popped and he slipped into the car. He cracked the ignition barrel and hotwired the engine. The old man in the ticket booth didn't so much as raise his head from his newspaper. Dermot flipped open the glovebox and found the little credit card-sized parking ticket. Rather than create a scene by busting through the yellow and black striped rising barrier, he paid the three pound tariff and cruised out onto Corporation Square.

  The familiar driving position and handling took him back. He could almost hear the laughter of four passengers anticipating the next handbrake turn on the Monagh Bypass. Flashes of reverse doughnuts and games of chicken with Citybus drivers set his heart beating double-time and turned his stomach in the old combination of fear and excitement. Headlights flashing and car horns blaring. Engines revving and tyres screeching. Burning rubber and exhaust fumes in the air. Skinny youths rattling against each other like bottles in a milk crate. Then a frantic shag with a wide-eyed Millie in the backseat before burning out the disposable motor.

  Great times.

  He'd give anything to get that life back. A simpler time when anything he needed seemed to fall into his lap. No scrabbling for a few quid to keep afloat. No wondering where he might be sleeping after outstaying another welcome. No looking over his shoulder. No sleepless nights in squats. Although chaotic, his youth had always enjoyed a sense of security. Hoods like him belonged to West Belfast. They made up an integral part of the pecking order and as such, they would always find a maternal comfort on the streets. He'd taken that for granted until it was whipped out from under him by the peelers and the IRA. They'd left him with a choice. Run and hide or die.

  He'd fled to Scotland on the ferry, hiding amongst an army of Glasgow Rangers fans on their way to an Old Firm match. Over a couple of years he worked his
way down the island as a non-person, afraid to claim benefits and leave a paper trail, until he finally settled in London. Always two burglaries away from living on the street, he slept in hostels and flats between tenants. Emily eventually provided his first home for five years.

  Her pimp had beaten her pretty bad and Dermot, a longstanding customer, had charged her a small fee to knock the shit out of him. She got a little more value for her money than either of them expected when the pimp's skull cracked open on a kerbstone leaving him severely brain damaged.

  Dermot took the job as her live-in bodyguard and occasional fuck-buddy. Because Emily learned from her mistakes, Dermot never enjoyed pimp status. His payment for driving her to gigs and dishing out the hairy eyeball to overenthusiastic drunks was food and shelter at Emily's flat in Hackney. Emily didn't pay him a cut of her earnings, so Dermot continued to burgle houses and steal cars for currency. But without the added pressure of providing his own accommodation, life became a lot easier.

  Of course, he managed to fuck things up again by getting on the wrong side of some London gangsters.

  Emily had landed an easy number. A strip, a lap dance and a hand job, dressed as a prison guard at a coming home party for an aging Essex Boy. Tony Walsh, a big bear of a man, had just done a stretch of bird for armed robbery. Fifteen years of his life gone, and his mates celebrated the fact by throwing him a party and paying for a stripper. Not much of a consolation.

  When the time came for Emily to jump out of a large cardboard cake Tony had cheered and laughed with the rest of them. He made all the right noises in all the right places, right up until she took him to the cellar of the little pub for his private treat. At that point, Emily later told Dermot, he'd gone to pieces and opted for a hug and a chat rather than the more erotic option. He wanted to talk about his son, who'd been buying crack cocaine from the Yardies. Ilford used to be a much nicer place before Tony left his two-year-old boy to pay his debt to society. But the Jamaican drug dealers had invaded the streets like vermin and little Jonnie Walsh had gotten familiar with the crack pipe.