The Point

by Brennan , Gerard

  It was half an hour until midnight. Paul expected to find most of the houses in the area empty. Cairo Street was pretty run down, which meant forced entry should be easy. Rusty hinges and worn locks were commonplace around these parts. At the weekend, most of the university students went home to their parents. As they got fed and watered for free, Paul was happy to take advantage of the easy targets they’d left behind.

  “So, which one?” Brian asked.

  “This one.” Paul stopped dead in his tracks and turned to his right. He walked up to the front door of number 45 and grabbed the knocker. Then he pummelled the door as if it had spilled his pint.

  “What the fuck are you doing?” Brian’s voice hissed low but carried a panicked urgency that tickled Paul.

  “Relax, son. Expert at work here.”

  “You’re a fucking looper. We’ll get lifted.”

  “For what?” Paul attacked the door again. Brian fidgeted beside him but didn’t threaten to run off or ask any more questions. Paul was quite impressed with his little brother so far.

  “Nobody home,” Paul said. “Follow me.”

  They sauntered to the bottom of the street and Brian followed Paul into the alleyway that ran along the back of the terrace block. Paul counted under his breath as they passed a number of tall wooden gates set in a dirty brick wall.

  “This is the one,” Paul said.

  “What would you have done if someone answered the door?”

  “What do you think the bottles of cider are for?”

  “To calm my nerves.”

  Paul laughed and shook his head. Brian was a hoot, even when he wasn’t trying.

  “No, you stupid bollocks,” Paul said. “If Jimmy Student had answered the door I’d have asked him if the party had started. He’d tell me there was no party and I’d realise I’m on the wrong street, apologise and be on my way. The carry outs are props. It’s a new thing I’m trying. Genius, right?”

  “And why didn’t you explain that earlier?”

  “I thought it would be funnier this way.”

  “Prick.”

  “Brian?”

  “What?”

  “It was funnier this way.”

  Brian shook his head as Paul reached into a ragged slit in the lining of his long coat. He pulled out the black crowbar. Guessing where the deadbolt might be, he pushed the flat end into the gate’s frame. Moonlight glinted off the broken shards of glass cemented onto the top of the wall. Climbing was out of the question.

  A creak and a snap broke the relative city silence as the old weatherworn wood of the gate gave up and opened. They stepped into the backyard and Paul wrinkled his nose in disgust.

  “Look at that pile of bin bags, Brian. These fucking students live like animals. No respect for property at all.”

  Brian didn’t offer his opinion. Instead he closed the gate and wedged some of the black plastic bags against it to stop it from swinging open again. The little improvisation impressed Paul, but he didn’t mention it. He wanted to get moving on the next stage. This part was always a lottery. If the occupants had left the key in the opposite side of the door they’d made Paul’s life a lot easier. If not, they were stuck. He didn’t want to put in the kitchen window and run the risk of being cut to shreds on the way through it.

  Paul peered into the keyhole and was disappointed to find it empty. He stood up and kicked the door in frustration. And it swung open. The rotted frame didn’t have much fight in it.

  “That was cool,” Brian said.

  Paul nodded and let his brother believe that his good luck was calculated. They entered the house. The kitchen looked no better than the yard. Plates with remnants of food stuck to them were stacked to precarious heights at the edge of the sink. The bin overflowed with pizza boxes and empty beer tins. The stench of sour milk filled the air.

  “Tell me this house was abandoned, Paul. I refuse to believe human beings could live like this.”

  Paul opened the fridge and a new symphony of stink greeted him. He looked at a milk carton on one of the filthy shelves. It had the name Mary written on it.

  “This milk is still in date,” Paul said. “Someone actually lives here.”

  “Jesus Christ. Let’s get this over with.”

  Rumbled

  The brothers rummaged about in a messy but feminine bedroom. Ruffled pink bedclothes. Bras and panties scattered about. Pretty-boy actors stared down from crinkled posters. Brian moved fast, eager to get the fuck out and start drinking. His big bro didn’t seem to feel the same sense of urgency. Paul hooked a pink pair of panties off the floor. He stretched the waistband catapult-style and flicked them at Brian.

  “I’ve met whores with cleaner knickers,” Paul said.

  “I’m sure you...”

  The unmistakable screech of rusted hinges opening cut across Brian’s remark. Brian and Paul stiffened with alarm. They stared at each other for a moment.

  Brian broke their stasis. “Shit!”

  Paul reached into his coat. “Come on. Put this on.”

  He whipped out a paramilitary-style balaclava and threw it to Brian then pulled down the fold of his woollen balaclava to cover his face.

  Brian wrestled with the itchy knitted mask. It smelt musty, interfered with his breathing and itched his skin. Now he could add claustrophobia to the feast of emotions tying his stomach in knots. Paul thundered down the stairs in the loudest possible way.

  “Who’s there?” A girl’s voice. It sounded a little booze-slurred. Brian hoped she was alone.

  The girl froze at the bottom of the stairs. She was dressed in Saturday night clubbing gear. Fake tan, short skirt, low-cut top, but most importantly, on her own. She didn’t move as Paul clattered into her. Paul cursed and she screamed. Out of instinct, Brian reached down and grabbed her hands to help her up. She kicked up and out. A high heel slammed into Brian’s thigh, dangerously close to his balls. He let go of her and stumbled backwards.

  “Hey, Mary,” Paul said. “Settle yourself.”

  Mary crab-crawled away from Paul. “Oh Jesus, how do you know my name?”

  An easy deduction. The milk told them that somebody in the house was called Mary. The clothes in the wardrobes told them only one girl lived there.

  “The IRA knows a lot about you, wee girl,” Paul said. “You better stop what you’re doing.”

  “What are you talking about?” she asked.

  Brian felt awful. She would piss herself if Paul kept this up.

  “Let’s go, Max,” Brian said. Paul, quick-witted as usual, caught on instantly.

  “I told you not to use my real name, Travis,” he said. Voice threatening, he turned on Mary. “Don’t even think about calling the peelers, Mary. We know where you live.”

  Paul ran to the front door, yanked it open and, after a quick look up and down the street, pulled off the balaclava and stepped out the door into the night. Brian paused, looked down at Mary and felt powerless. He wanted to comfort her, but had no idea how to do it without making things worse. A few seconds later, he followed Paul out into the night.

  Brotherly Love

  Paul, no longer wearing his mask, waited for Brian on the footpath outside number 45. Brian stepped out and tugged off his balaclava. His face rippled with a snarl. He stalked towards Paul.

  “Not here, bro. We’ll talk back at the flat.”

  “What the hell was that, Paul?”

  “Just come on.”

  At the flat, Paul backed into the living room with his hands raised. Brian shoved him and he fell into the armchair.

  “What the fuck was that for?” Paul asked.

  “You know what it was for.”

  “Ach, fuck off. Maybe if she thought the IRA was really watching her she’d make the effort to do a dish or two. You saw the state of that place.”

  “You were out of order.”

  “Look, Brian, you can’t worry about something like that if we’re going to do this. You’re not so naive to think that getting rob
bed wasn’t going to upset her, are you?”

  “But at least she wouldn’t have been worrying about her life being under threat.”

  “Oh, really? Wake up, Brian. Ninety percent of these students move out after being robbed, to safer, cleaner houses, because they fear a return visit. We probably did her a favour.”

  “Ninety percent? Did I ever tell you that fifty-seven percent of all statistics are made up on the spot?”

  “A joke? Good for you.” Paul looked his brother up and down. “Listen, whether you believe it or not, if we rob that place again in a few weeks, there’ll be a different name on the milk in the fridge.”

  “I just think you went too far with the IRA thing, okay?”

  “Well, I’m sorry, but I was trying to save you from another kick in the swingers. I’d have thought you’d be grateful.”

  “She missed my balls.”

  “Aye, well you didn’t give her much of a target.”

  Brian made a you’re-so-funny face.

  “Look, Brian, I’m trying to help you here, earn you a bit of money. You know I’m looking out for you, don’t you? You’re my wee bro. The most important person in my life.”

  Brian stood still. Looked down at his big brother. Paul waited patiently. He was used to his brother’s thoughtful gaps. Knew there was no rushing him when he took a moment of quiet.

  “Ach, for fuck’s sake,” Brian said. “Are we going to crack open this cider or what?”

  All Apologies

  Brian sort of coasted along as Paul dragged him through a cluster of burglaries over five nights. The other jobs passed without any real incident and they ended up with a neat bundle of cash and some phones and laptops Paul’s fence would be able to give them a few quid for. He should have been happy. But the girl from the first job niggled at him. Poor Mary. She’d been frightened half to death by Paul’s act, and Brian couldn’t get her face out of his mind. He had to do something for her, but the best he could come up with seemed so fucking stupid.

  Still, it was better than nothing.

  He slid a little white envelope through the letterbox in the door of 45, Cairo Street and beat a hasty retreat.

  As he bustled down Botanic Avenue he tried to imagine Mary’s reaction to what he’d just posted.

  ***

  Mary picks the postcard up from the doormat. The picture on the front is a red-faced cartoon, the word SORRY emblazoned across the top. Mary flips the card over. It says:

  “There was a mix-up. You’ve nothing to fear from the IRA. The Army Council sends its apologies.”

  Mary looks confused but maybe, just maybe, a little relieved as well.

  The Union

  Paul and Brian sat at a table under a poster advertising ‘Pound-a-Pint’ night. A half-full pint stood in front of each of them. Paul thought about how well a couple of half-price tequilas would go down. He tried to wait patiently while Brian studied a list written on a spiral-bound notebook. His attempt was short-lived.

  “Those fake student cards were a real money saver. One of your sharper moments, eh, kid?”

  Brian glanced up at him, a slight scowl giving away his irritation at being distracted. “Aye, yeah.” He glanced down at his list again. “Can you get the loan of a van? I’ve too much stuff to carry onto a bus to Warrenpoint.”

  “You won’t need that much. The house we’re renting is furnished.”

  “We need a van. If we can’t borrow one, they’re not that expensive to hire.”

  “That’s a waste of money.”

  “I don’t ask for much, Paul, but I don’t want to lug my stuff about on public transport. So think.”

  Brian took a huge slug from his beer. Paul smiled as a little firework went off in his brain.

  “Actually,” Paul said. “I do know a man with a van. And he owes me a favour.”

  “Great. We’ll leave as soon as you can get it, then. Okay?”

  “Aye, that’d probably be for the best.”

  A Final Fuck-You

  Paul wore a hood and baseball cap. It was a slight deviation from his usually dapper high street attire, but it was a necessary and functional one. He’d been spying on Mad Mickey as the hippy-gangster conducted some business on the street. And, since the hoodie and baseball cap were staples of the Lower Falls dress code, a slight drop in standards made it much easier for him to blend in to the background.

  Dave, the suited caveman, leant against the front of Mad Mickey’s van and sucked on a cigarette. The faint rumble of the diesel engine told Paul the keys were in the ignition.

  Very sloppy, Dave.

  Paul used stealth and blind-spots to negotiate his way to the van. He curled his fingers under the door handle and took a heartbeat to compose himself. If he couldn’t do this in one fluid motion he was fucked.

  You’re slick, kid. Just go for it.

  Paul jerked open the van door and hopped in. Dave barely had time to register the shift in suspension. Paul cranked it into reverse and Dave toppled as his support was whipped away. Mad Mickey stood, mouth agape, as Paul flew past and gave him the finger.

  On the Couch

  Rachel rummaged through the magazines scattered across the coffee table. She picked a grubby back issue of The Ulster Tattler, a magazine about cars, a current issue of Chat and returned to the squeaky waiting room bench. Ah, the Newry and Mourne Health and Social Services Trust. If you were skirting the boundaries of mental health problems, then the fliers and posters tacked to the pastel green walls would transport you direct to Cloud Cuckoo Land. Eating disorders, self-harm, suicidal tendencies; the mines in the field of the delicate young adult psyche.

  As always, Rachel’s counsellor was running behind schedule. Half an hour past her appointment time and still no sign of life. She flipped through the magazines for another 10 minutes then tossed them back onto the unruly stack of glossies. The receptionist watched her from behind a Perspex panel, eyebrow raised. Rachel tried to make contact.

  “Excuse me, is Patrice going to be much longer? Only, if I knew she’d be another half hour I could pop out for a cup of tea and a scone.”

  The receptionist frowned.

  “I could bring you back a scone too,” Rachel said.

  “Patrice is running a little late.”

  “Well, yes. That’s pretty evident, since I should be on my way home by now. But I’m asking if it’s likely that she’ll be occupied long enough for me to skip over to The Corn Dolly.”

  “It’s hard to tell,” the receptionist said. “And I wouldn’t want to interrupt her. Could be harmful for the, um...”

  “Patient?”

  “Client.”

  Rachel flashed a saccharine smile. “I’ll just wait here then, shall I?”

  “Yes, please.”

  The receptionist nodded and went back to her Marian Keyes novel; Rachel’s Holiday, of course. Chance would be a fine thing, Rachel thought.

  For the next 10 minutes, Rachel sat bolt upright with her arms folded and fixed her gaze on the receptionist. Every time the snooty bitch looked up from her paperback, Rachel gave her the crazy eyes. It passed the time. Finally, Patrice bustled into the waiting room and called Rachel’s name. Rachel, the only ‘client’ in the waiting room looked from left to right and then at Patrice.

  “Is Rachel O’Hare here?” Patrice asked the waiting masses again.

  Rachel waved. “Yes, I’m over here.”

  Patrice squinted over the rim of her rectangular specs and nodded. “Ah, yes. There you are. Follow me, please, Rachel.”

  Patrice turned on her sturdy heel and stormed off in a matronly fashion. Very befitting of her physical attributes. Some call it a healthy build. Rachel thought of her as strapping. She could imagine her buxom form squeezed into a mead-stained, low-cut dress designed to keep the medieval patrons of the inn happy. But Patrice was not a serving wench in this life. She was a counsellor. But not just any counsellor: she was the worst counsellor Rachel had ever had the misfortune to meet.

&
nbsp; Patrice stood by her desk until Rachel wriggled her bum into the comfy cushioned chair and crossed her ankles. Patrice nodded and settled into her own seat. She leant forward and planted her elbows onto her paper-strewn desk then tented her fingers. Rachel sighed.

  “Sorry I kept you waiting, Rachel.” It was said as a matter of form with no real conviction.

  “Maybe we should make my appointment an hour later next time. Might put you under less pressure.”

  “Out of the question.”

  “Yeah?”

  “Absolutely.”

  “Right. Well, it’s just that you’ve been an hour late for my last three appointments. Stands to reason the same will happen again next time.”

  “Not at all.”

  Rachel drew her eyebrows together and pursed her lips. She knew it was an immature, petulant expression, but she couldn’t help it. Patrice tilted her head.

  “So how have we been?”

  “I’ve been just peachy, thank you,” Rachel said.

  “That sounds promising. Any self-harming?”

  “What? No.”

  “You seem surprised that I would ask you.”

  “Because I’ve never self-harmed before. Why would I start now?”

  Patrice eyed her suspiciously then flipped through her file. “Really? I’m sure I remember an incident involving a Stanley blade.”

  “There was a Stanley blade incident, but I harmed someone else, not me.”

  Patrice looked blankly into the space above Rachel’s head.

  Rachel rolled her eyes. “Fourteen-year-old boy tried to mug me in Warrenpoint with a Stanley knife. I kicked him in the crotch, relieved him of the weapon and slashed his clothes. I broke his skin in a number of places. Nothing deep, but technically GBH and the kid’s barrister tried to claim unreasonable force.”

  “You slashed a 14-year-old?”

  “In fairness, he was armed and almost six feet tall. I didn’t ask him to produce ID. I just protected myself. Adrenaline sent me a wee bit loopy and I tried to teach him a lesson. He wasn’t hurt or anything.”

  “Must have been quite traumatic for him, though.”