The Point

by Brennan , Gerard

  ‘The Point is top stuff. Engaging from the start, the characters are loveable, the story is strong and the pace never lets up’

  Adrian McKinty author of Fifty Grand

  ‘What a joy of a novel … The ending is pitch perfect with a Mexican stand off that is Northern Ireland to it’s complex core’

  Ken Bruen author of Blitz

  ‘It needs to be said that Gerard Brennan’s The Point is terrific . . . Scorchingly funny, black humour at its finest and the most inventive car theft ever!’

  Arlene Hunt author of The Chosen

  ‘The Point is the real deal - the writing is razor sharp, the characters engaging, the ending a blast. From start to finish it’s true Northern Noir, crafted with style and wit’

  Brian McGilloway author of Little Girl Lost

  ‘Noir from Norn Iron! A lean slice of grindhouse from Belfast’s new crime hack’

  Wayne Simmons author of Drop Dead Gorgeous

  The Point

  Gerard Brennan

  Pulp Press

  For more information please visit

  www.pulppress.co.uk

  © Gerard Brennan 2011

  All rights reserved

  No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, without the prior permission in writing of the publisher, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

  First published in Great Britain by Pulp Press

  ISBN-13: 9781908544032

  Pulp Press

  12 Little Western Street, Hove, BN3 1AG, UK

  Pulp Press titles are distributed by Indepenpress Publishing Limited

  A catalogue record of this book is available from the British Library

  Cover image: Abigail Horn

  Model: Miss Kitty Peels

  Cover design: Jacqueline Abromeit

  For Michelle, Mya, Jack and Oscar.

  Brian Morgan

  Brian Morgan woke up in a bath. He wasn’t sure whose. His breath stank and his head hurt. The usual hangover from hell.

  He patted his shirt pocket. No cigarettes. Just some encrusted vomit. He sighed, wiped his hand on the leg of his jeans then hauled himself out of the bath. With the very tips of his fingers he unbuttoned his shirt and let it drop to the floor.

  The kitchen. His brain stuttered to a start as he filled and turned on the kettle. An image of him sinking half-price tequila slammers at The M Club flickered behind his eyes.

  Heartburn climbed the walls of Brian’s throat. His insides felt as if they’d been scraped out and he’d a gap in his stomach that only fried food and a gallon of sugary tea would fill. Every nerve in his body twanged and his heart raced.

  Another mental jolt. He’d chugged beer from a four pint pitcher then performed a hip hop interpretation of an Irish jig on a dancer’s podium.

  He turned away from the kettle and held his head over the sink. Dry heaved. Wished for a good puke but it didn’t come. He ran the cold water and splashed his face. The kettle bubbled, grumbled then clicked. Brian made himself a cuppa, took it into the living room and collapsed onto the sofa.

  The early morning sun cut a direct path through the room. Floating dust particles danced in and out of the beam. The golden light bounced a glare off the dead TV screen and threw back his reflection. He wasn’t too impressed with it. His unruly hair spiralled out in tangled coils. The dull reflective surface did little for his ghostly complexion.

  He reached for the remote control on the arm of the sofa. Found a little note taped to it. It read:

  “Hi Brian,

  Last night was fun. You were fun. But that’s as far as I see it going. Let yourself out when you’re ready.

  Katie xox”

  Brian hauled himself off the sofa. He stuffed the note in his pocket and went to the fireplace. Lifted an ornament then a book as if to examine them for clues. He checked his watch and scooped the telephone from a little table by the door. Then he fished the note back out of his pocket.

  “Hiya,” Brian said. “She’s not here. No. She just left me a note. Told me to let myself out when I wake up and not to bother coming back.”

  His brother’s voice crackled from the other end.

  “Did you shag her?”

  “No. Maybe. I’m not sure. I woke up in the bath, like.”

  Brian flopped onto the armchair and flicked on the TV. He lifted an ashtray from the phone table and rummaged through it for cigarette butts.

  Paul Morgan

  Paul laughed into his mobile phone as he strutted along the Falls Road. He stopped to light a cigarette one-handed, and took the opportunity to check himself out in a shop window. Winked at his own reflection.

  “Ach, for God’s sake, wee bro,” he said. “That girl was a gift. I knew I should have went for her myself. You always drop the easy ball.” He sighed theatrically. “I’ll meet you at the flat later, all right?”

  Brian let one of his quiet pauses swell. Then; “I’m not sure where I am here, Paul. Might take me a while getting my bearings.”

  “She lives three streets away from us. You’ll find your way.”

  Paul hung up and used his slender fingers to twiddle with his carefully spiked hair. He was just about to wink at himself again when a shove from behind squashed his face into the window pane.

  “What the fuck?” Paul said.

  Paul’s whole body shimmied from side to side. He dropped his cigarette and struggled against an unknown force. Gasped for air. His face hit the window again. Oh, Jesus Christ, I’m going to go through this glass. The iron grip from a huge hand squeezed down on his neck.

  “Get off me, you bastard.”

  A troll-like voice rumbled in Paul’s ear.

  “Watch your language.”

  “You’re killing me, man.” Paul pulled a breath through his narrowing windpipe. “What’s the problem?”

  “Mad Mickey wants a word.”

  “Ah, no.” His voice wheezed like a perforated accordion. “What kind of mood is he in?”

  “He’s mad.”

  “Ach, shite.”

  Paul’s kidneys seared as he took what felt like a hammer blow to the small of his back. He crumpled to the ground.

  “I told you to watch your language.”

  Paul rolled onto his back and caught a glimpse of a caveman in a suit standing over him. The big guy reached down and flipped Paul onto his stomach then heaved him up by his shirt collar and the waistband of his jeans. Paul was hauled towards a black van parked at the kerb and bundled inside. The van door slammed shut behind him.

  The back of the van was carpeted and illuminated by black light and lava lamps. On his hands and knees, Paul could feel the ridges of the van’s iron floor under the rough carpet. The worn fibres reeked of spilled bong water. Paul pushed himself onto his knees.

  Mad Mickey sat cross-legged on a beanbag. He was dressed in his usual green fatigues and a Rastafarian hat. Paul licked his lips as Mad Mickey toked hard on a huge joint. Freshened up the stink a little. The forty-year-old hippy with a mean streak exhaled then nodded at Paul.

  “Hiya, Mickey. What about you?”

  Mad Mickey spoke gently, as if a pain in his throat was bothering him.

  “I’m feeling disappointed.”

  “Sorry to hear that.”

  “I’m disappointed with you, Paul.”

  “I’m very sorry to hear that.”

  Mad Mickey stared at Paul. Paul turned his palms up.

  “So, why are you disappointed with me, Mickey?”

  Mad Mickey heaved a large automatic pistol from a shoulder-holster concealed by his green
fatigue jacket. He waggled it at Paul.

  “Don’t play the innocent, son. It’s insulting.”

  Paul held his hands above his head. He felt a trickle of cold sweat roll down his spine.

  “I only borrowed the money, Mickey. I was going to pay you back.”

  Paul lowered one hand and slowly reached into his pocket. Mad Mickey chambered a round. Paul drew out a brown envelope. He tossed it to Mad Mickey. The hippy-gangster, gun in hand and joint pinched between his lips, opened the flap one-handed, peeked inside and nodded.

  “Since you’re a family friend, and because you haven’t spent any of this, I’ll give you a whole week to get out of Belfast.” Mad Mickey raised his voice. “Dave. See my friend out, will you?”

  The van door squeaked behind Paul as it was yanked open. He almost choked as the suited caveman grabbed him by the collar and dumped him onto the street.

  Brother Hoods

  Brian had made it back to his own ground floor flat. He half-dozed on his battered sofa, a half-empty bottle of flat cider jammed between his legs. His eyes shuttered open as the doorbell chimed.

  “Top of the morning to you, Mr Morgan!”

  Brian jolted out of his warm cider-buzz. It was Paul’s usual greeting, yelled through the letterbox.

  Brian struggled with the warped door, managed to haul it open, and smiled at Paul. “It’s afternoon, big bro, but sure...”

  Paul’s hair sat perfectly in fashionable spikes. Blessed as he was with a tall, lean frame, the older brother made the naff, knock-off Firetrap shirt he wore look good. Brian ran a hand through his own unmanageable mane, and wondered what kind of gel Paul used and why the whole genetics thing was so hit and miss. A few extra inches of height wouldn’t have done Brian any harm.

  Arms full and straining against the weight of his bounty, Paul pushed past Brian and went straight to the kitchen. Brian stood back as Paul reorganised the scant edible items in the filthy fridge, and filled it up with tins of Carlsberg Special Brew; rocket fuel for the homeless. Brian smiled, even though his stomach lurched a little.

  When the beer was tucked away, minus two tins, Brian and Paul sat in the living room and drank warm, syrupy Special Brew.

  “I called you hours ago,” Brian said “What kept you?”

  Paul rubbed the small of his back. “Long story, our fellah. What’s the craic with you?”

  “Fuck all. Cheers for grabbing the beer and fags.”

  They banged back a couple of gulps of piss-warm rocket fuel, almost racing.

  Paul belched then said: “I need help with a job or two.”

  “What kind of job?”

  “I have to do a few houses over the next few weeks.”

  “Robbing?”

  “No, I mean painting and decorating.” Paul crimped his face. “What are you like?”

  “I thought we’d agreed to give that shite up. Try and figure out some other angles.”

  “I know, I know. You want to do victimless crime. Wee insurance scams and all. But they take too long. And I’m not talking about robbing real people. Just a few student houses.”

  Brian frowned.

  “Ach, come on, wee bro! I need to get some funds together. Fast. So, for fuck’s sake, can I get an answer today?”

  “What’s the rush?”

  Paul looked around the room. “Look, I’ve been biting my tongue for a while now. I just don’t think this place is good enough for us. We should move.”

  “The flat’s fine.”

  “Fuck fine.”

  “Maybe it could do with a Hoover, but...”

  “It could do with a hand grenade.”

  “We can’t afford anything better in Belfast, Paul.”

  Paul tapped his nose then pointed at Brian. “Exactly! So let’s move.”

  “From Belfast? Where to?”

  “Warrenpoint. Remember we used to go there when we were kids?”

  “The Point?”

  “Yeah, The Point. Remember the ice cream, the amusements, the pier? Ma happy; Da less drunk than usual. Crisps and coke in the pub. Football on the pebble beach. Weren’t you always asking Ma for money to windsurf? You could finally have a go at that now. Sure the place was heaven.” Paul’s face spread slowly in a wide grin. “And, you know, sleepy wee town like that? A couple of sharp Belfast boys could make a penny or two off the local yokels.”

  Brian drained his beer then crushed the can. He held his tongue and tried to think. The cogs and gears refused to spin. Paul put an arm around his brother’s shoulders and led him to the fridge.

  “Look,” Paul said. “Let’s have another drink, and I’ll explain why this is the best idea we’ve ever had.”

  Rachel O’Hare

  Rachel O’Hare took a deep breath. She didn’t believe counting to ten was going to calm her down, but she gave it a shot. On the count of seven, she gave up. Her mistake was looking at him while she mentally ticked off the numbers. She should have closed her eyes.

  “Sean, drop the scolded puppy look, okay? You don’t have the charm needed to pull it off.”

  “But, Rachel...”

  “But, Rachel nothing. We’re done. Deal with it.”

  “Deal with it? We’ve been going out for months. This is so out of the blue.”

  Rachel closed her eyes and started counting again. She nibbled on her tongue in an effort to keep it at bay. But then Sean sniffed. One of those big, watery, about-to-cry-me-a-river snuffles. It was too much.

  “Out of the blue? I caught you cheating on me, Sean.”

  She studied his expression in the greenish glow cast by the Toyota Celica’s instrument panel. His lower lip jutted and the corners of his mouth drooped. He sniffed again and his face seemed to crumple in on itself. Barely restrained tears glistened in his eyes. Rachel remained unimpressed. In fact, she was a little disgusted by his weakness.

  A shitty chill-out dance mix whispered through the custom sound system. Rachel violently jabbed the standby button.

  “Hey, take it easy, Rachel. That’s a new radio.”

  “You weren’t so concerned about your precious car when Sheena Magee’s stilettos were drumming off the glove box. You didn’t even wipe her footprints off it, you stupid eejit.”

  Sean looked away from her, aiming for a chastised expression.

  “Maybe if you didn’t keep me waiting,” Sean said, “I wouldn’t have to go elsewhere.”

  Big mistake.

  “Oh, so it’s my fault, is it?”

  “Well, I’d hardly describe myself as sexually satisfied, you know? I mean, it’s been three months. You’re a good looking bird and all, but a man has needs and I’ve never gotten so much as a handjob off you.”

  Rachel pushed the car’s cigarette lighter in. Sean handed her a pack of smokes. She pulled one out, but didn’t thank him.

  “You have needs? Needs? Well, Sean, do you know what I need? I need to know that the fellah I’m seeing isn’t going to run to some blonde skank every time he feels a bit horny. I need to know that I’m not going to pick up an STD because you can’t keep your little willy in your boxers. I need somebody I can trust. And, just for the record, I’d have been happy to drop my knickers months ago. But there’s this new concept you might have heard of. Foreplay? Ring any bells? Because I’ll tell you something; with your sloppy, lager-tasting kisses, and your clumsy fumbling meat-hooks, you sure as hell weren’t ringing my bell.”

  “That’s below the belt.” He smirked, squinted a little. There was no humour in the expression.

  Rachel felt her lungs constrict. She’d seen that look before. Usually before some poor bastard got the fat end of a pool cue wrapped around their head over a welched bet or spilt pint. He’d not hit her before but she was sure he’d come close to it in the past. Usually when she got lippy with him. Had she gone too far this time? The idea that he might actually swing one of those callused fists at her took hold. The world slowed down.

  The lighter popped. Rachel tugged it from its socket.
<
br />   Aiming for a nipple, she pressed the red hot lighter against Sean’s shirt pocket. The heated coils burnt straight through the blue checked fabric and Sean screamed as it made contact with his flesh. He grabbed Rachel’s wrist and yanked. She dropped the lighter in his lap. Sean jerked and bounced on his seat. He grabbed the lighter at the wrong end and dropped it again. Whining, he sucked on the burnt fingers of his right hand and managed to snag the plastic knob with his left. He jammed it back in its socket. Eyes wide, he turned to Rachel and took his hand from his mouth.

  “What the hell are you at, you mad psycho-bitch?”

  Rachel shrugged. “I don’t know.”

  “Get out of the car.”

  Rachel nodded. “Yeah, I probably shouldn’t ask you for a lift home.”

  She stepped out of the black Celica and eased the door shut. Then she allowed herself a smile. Burning Sean with the lighter was not a nice thing to do. But, God, it’d felt so good. Rachel put Sean and the seafront car park behind her. She wondered if she’d ever meet a decent bloke in Warrenpoint. Her track record with car-loving, townie imbeciles didn’t offer much hope.

  First Job

  Paul’s heart raced with anticipation. The time had come. Saturday night, and the brothers were walking around the narrow streets of the Holy Lands. Brian wore a baggy hooded top and an old pair of jeans. Paul had traded in his usual leather reefer jacket for a tatty long overcoat. It covered his knock-off designer labels, instantly gave him that student look he desired and concealed his trusty crowbar. The boys also carried a blue plastic bag each. Each one contained a three litre bottle of cider.

  “Cairo Street. Let’s do this,” Paul said.

  Brian just nodded. Paul reckoned nerves were eating at his partner. Good. It’d make him more careful. Paul set the pace and they made their way slowly down the orange-lit street.