The Point

by Brennan , Gerard

  “Bit intense for you, Paul?”

  Paul looked to Charlie again. He’d stopped struggling against the ropes and cable-ties. His eyes were closed and his breathing slowed. A bloody mucus bubble expanded and contracted in his nostril.

  Paul shrugged. “Depends what he did, I suppose.”

  “Ten out of ten, Paul. Good man.”

  Thank God, Paul thought. And, Jesus, please keep me out of that chair.

  Charlie’s nose-bubble popped as he snuffed a deep breath and coughed into his gag. Paul was sure he would choke but poor Charlie managed to clear his airway and swallow whatever had clogged it.

  “So what did he do?”

  “Charlie here has run up a bit of a debt. He’s a gambler who never learned when to hold or fold ’em.”

  “Big money?”

  “Very big. And he’s been avoiding me for a few months now. Couldn’t let it go on.”

  Paul shifted in his seat and cleared his throat. “You, um... you going to kill him?”

  O’Rourke chuckled; the dry rumble of a boulder rolled from a tomb entrance. “I haven’t decided. On one hand, killing him means writing off a bad debt. But it also sends out a strong message to other weasels with bad ideas brewing.” He narrowed his eyes. “Why don’t you decide, Paul?”

  “What?”

  “You decide. Should Charlie here live or die?”

  Paul tilted his beer to his lips and took a slow sip. His mind raced. Obviously, O’Rourke had hauled him in here to test his mettle, but killing some poor bastard with a gambling problem? It was too hardcore. Paul decided straight out that he wouldn’t suggest Charlie die. What he needed to do was come up with a good reason to keep the guy alive. He set his tin between his legs and resisted the urge to rub his sweaty palms on his T-shirt. Be cool, be cool, be cool.

  “Here’s the thing,” Paul said, impressed that he spoke without squeaking. “There’s no real gain for you if Charlie dies. Like you said, a dead Charlie is a bad debt written off. You also said killing him sends out a strong message. I disagree. Who’s going to spread this message? Me? Don’t think so. At this stage I’m implicated in the murder, so blabbing about it will only get me scooped. You’re not going to chat about it either, are you? Will Charlie? Not unless he goes through a medium.”

  O’Rourke pinned Paul to his seat with a steady, unflinching gaze.

  Paul continued. “So let him go this time, under the proviso that for every additional week he avoids payment, you’re taking a toe, then a finger, then an ankle... you get where I’m going, like.”

  “I’d say Charlie will be very grateful that you’re arguing his corner,” O’Rourke said.

  “Arguing his corner? Pfft. Fuck that. I’m looking out for you. This Charlie fellah doesn’t mean anything to me. He’s just some eejit who got himself into a mess.”

  “Really?”

  Paul stood slowly. He turned in a half-circle and threw a kick from his hip. His shin crashed into Charlie’s chest. Charlie toppled backwards in his chair and cracked the back of his head on O’Rourke’s carpeted floor. Paul rounded the toppled heap and soccer-kicked Charlie’s skull. He pulled it slightly on contact, but Charlie’s unconscious head whipped to the side. Paul spat on him.

  “When he wakes up, tell him he’ll get a lot worse if he runs to the cops on either of us.”

  “I’ll do that, Paul.”

  “Did you want me for anything else, Mister O’Rourke?”

  “I told you. Call me Richard.”

  “Anything else, Richard?”

  “No, Paul. I’ll call you later. I’ve some new addresses for you. Bigger payers.”

  Another raise, Paul thought. “Okay, Richard. That’ll do well.”

  Paul gave poor Charlie another glance on the way out. His chest rose and fell steadily. Paul kept the relief from his face. You’re lucky I’m a clever bastard, Charlie. Very lucky.

  A Lead

  Mad Mickey shifted his arse cheeks but it did no good. He just couldn’t find a comfortable spot on the wall in front of the house on his favourite corner. It was too cold, too hard, too high. He missed his van. Couldn’t wait until he got it back. Until then, he’d have to put up with pins and needles in his hole.

  Big Dave sucked hard on a fag as he ambled up to Mad Mickey. He looked like he might be smiling though, in fairness, it was hard to tell. With the big wide jaw and sloping forehead, Dave was a man who always looked angry, even at the best of times.

  “They found your van,” Dave said.

  “Yeah, where?”

  “Just outside Newry.”

  “So we know where he is, then.”

  “Well, we know he’s somewhere near Newry. He’ll not have burned it in his own back garden, though.”

  Mad Mickey lit a spliff. “He burned it?”

  “Afraid so.”

  “Fucker.” Mad Mickey puffed on his joint and held the smoke in his lungs until it burned. He coughed out a cloud of brownish-bluish smoke. “Okay, it’s a start. Get in touch with anybody who owes us a favour in the surrounding towns. We’ll catch him yet.”

  And then I’ll set fire to his balls.

  The Chinese Connection

  The bell above the door sounded a gentle ping as Paul pushed it open. A friendly face greeted them at the counter of the Welcome Inn Oriental takeaway. The man was Chinese but his accent pure Belfast. Paul hoped he wasn’t an Antrim Road Triad. Brian followed behind Paul. He slurped on a huge ice cream cone he’d bought on the way to the takeaway.

  “Can I help you?”

  “I’m here to pick up something for Mr O’Rourke.”

  “Who?”

  Paul sighed for dramatic effect and pulled a piece of paper from his coat pocket. He unfolded it slowly and cleared his throat before he read from it.

  “The Welcome Inn Oriental Takeaway, collect six-hundred quid from Jimmy Ching.”

  “Oh, that Mr O’Rourke?” Ching said. “I told him to fuck off last month. I have my own protection. I don’t need his.”

  “Look mate,” Paul said. “You’re on the list, pay the fucking money and let me get on my way.”

  “Get out of my establishment.” He reached under the counter and pulled back a meat cleaver. In one swift motion he sank it into the counter top with a deep thud. His hand disappeared again and came back with another one. “I have a blade for each of your heads.”

  Paul and Ching locked into a stare. He didn’t think the guy was bluffing. He’d kill the two of them without a second thought. Paul’s mind went blank but he didn’t break eye contact. Inspiration would have to hit him soon.

  Then, Brian stepped past Paul and threw his ice cream. It hit Ching in the face, blinding and distracting him. He dropped his cleaver as his hands went to his face.

  Paul vaulted the counter, stood on the dropped cleaver and pushed Ching backwards. Ching slammed into the wall. Paul could see Brian climb over the counter in his peripheral. Brian grunted as he yanked the first cleaver from the counter top. He tapped Paul’s shoulder and Paul turned to be greeted by a death stare from his little brother. Paul shrugged and returned his attention to Ching.

  “You should probably hand over the money, mate, or me and my partner will get to work on you with these cleavers.”

  The shell-shocked man pointed towards the till. Paul hit the sale button and the drawer popped open. He slowly, deliberately counted six-hundred from the pile of twenties. This done, with a smile, he scooped out two-hundred in ten pound notes.

  “I’m taking a little extra for the trouble you caused, mate. Next time, just hand over the money.”

  The Chinese man nodded and waved them away. He’d been bluffing. They’d scared the poor guy shitless. Paul was relieved to see it. It meant less chance of a comeback. The guy had a cracking poker face but no backbone. He screamed when Paul raised the cleaver and faked an attack.

  Brian fidgeted awkwardly at Paul’s side, not at home in the situation.

  “Where’s your CCTV video?” Paul as
ked.

  Ching pointed to a shelf under the counter. Paul ejected the tape and pocketed it.

  The bell above the door pinged as they left.

  Brian pulled ahead of Paul with a jerky strut. The older brother had to jog to catch up. He grabbed him by the elbow on the corner of the block and dragged him to a halt.

  “Jesus, bro,” Paul said. “That was brilliant! You’re the man! You moved like lightning there. Where did that come from?”

  Brian screwed up his face like he was still trying to figure out what had just happened. “I threw my ice cream at him,” he said.

  “What can I say, bro? I’ll buy you another one.”

  “Another one? No. That’s not...”

  “But can you see now how you’re made for this shit?”

  Brian’s confused expression gave way to a snarl. He grabbed a handful of Paul’s shirt and pulled him close.

  “No, I am not made for this. I feel sick. Why didn’t you tell me you were there to collect, you fucking wanker?”

  Paul held his hands up. Brian let go of Paul’s shirt and rubbed his stomach. He hesitated before speaking again.

  “You know, when you said we were going straight, I believed you. What kind of a mug am I?”

  “Ach, come on, bro. You don’t really want to lift wood for the rest of your life, do you?”

  “Why not? It’s an honest job. And I’m making more money off that than I ever did robbing houses. It’s stress free and I feel good about myself. So fuck you. I don’t want to follow your lead anymore.”

  “Follow my lead? What are you talking about? We’re partners.”

  “The fuck we are. I’ve always been your lackey; your back up. Fuck that shite. You’ll get me banged up or killed, you selfish fuck.”

  “What’s got into you? That bitch, Rachel? You letting some skank get between us?”

  “Call her a skank again. See what happens.”

  “Why? You in love?” He smirked at Brian then panicked when he didn’t respond. “Wait. She’s not up the duff, is she?”

  Brian spat at Paul’s feet. “Fuck you, bro.”

  Brian marched away. Paul yelled after him: “Come on, wee bro. Is she pregnant or what?”

  Brian marched on.

  Ex, Bogs and Rock and Roll

  Brian nodded his head in time to the bass drum. Headrush, a local band, cranked out a killer Thin Lizzy riff with gusto. The singer sounded nothing like Phil Lynott, but he rocked the vocal line in his own way. A cigarette-ravaged blues whisper that scaled octaves like a Sherpa skipping up the Mourne Mountains. The guitars were tight and the drummer mean. Brian could feel the bass line in his ribcage. The semi-pro musicians really took themselves seriously around these parts, and these guys worked extra hard.

  Brian and Rachel sat in a booth with an excellent view of the slightly raised platform the five piece band had been crammed on to. They were completely at ease in their adopted local bar, Cearnogs. Brian, who’d failed Irish language along with most of his other GCSEs, had asked Rachel what the bar’s name translated into. She’d rolled her eyes and smiled. “It doesn’t mean anything, babe. The owner just thought it sounded Irish.”

  Whatever the origins of the name, Brian enjoyed his surroundings. He buzzed on a feel-good high. Every so often Rachel squeezed his hand. Conversation was impossible in the all-consuming noise, but that was okay too. They were forced to sit quiet, enjoy the drink and soak up the vibe-fest of tunes.

  Rachel was the cool kind of chick that insisted on buying her share of the drinks on a night out. She even went to the bar to order them herself. And when the band took its break it was her round. He watched her denim-encased backside sway as she cut through the crowds to reach the bar. She made his heart go giddy-up.

  While he waited for Rachel, he scanned the pub and he noticed a tough-looking guy at another table giving him the hairy eyeball. Brian nodded at him. The gesture wasn’t returned. The guy just continued to stare.

  Rachel arrived back in record time and blocked Brian’s view of the eyeballer. She clunked two whiskey tumblers onto the table. Then she picked a rolled up scrap of paper from her mouth and waved it at Brian.

  “That pretty wee barmaid gave me her number!” she said.

  “Seriously?” Thoughts of the eyeballer were instantly shunted aside. “I notice you took it.”

  “Yeah. I thought we could maybe see if she’d be into a threesome.”

  “Really?”

  “Sure. I’d have to try her out on my own a few times, though. Would you mind? I mean, it’s not cheating if I tell you about it.”

  Brian could actually feel his inner conflict plough furrows across his forehead.

  Rachel laughed. “I’m messing with you. Jesus. You’re too easy.”

  Brian shook his head but smiled a little.

  “So she didn’t give you her number?”

  “Oh, she did. I just took it to be polite, though. Still, she’s a stunner isn’t she? Good to know I appeal to more than one demographic.”

  Brian raised his glass and waited for Rachel to do the same.

  “To demographics and hot lesbians.”

  Rachel winked at him. “Sláinte!”

  They threw back their drinks. Brian sucked in a deep breath and whooped as the slow burn warmed his chest from the inside out. Rachel took hers like a seasoned pro.

  “Powerful,” Brian said. “Here, babe. Do you know that guy over there? The grumpy-looking fellah in the pinstriped shirt?”

  Brian jutted his chin towards the eyeballer and, sure enough, the guy was looking back at them. Brian caught his eye and nodded to him, but he looked away and took a sip from his bottle of beer.

  “Ah, shit.” Rachel said.

  And then it all became clear. “Ah. He’s an ex, then.”

  “Yeah. That’s Sean.”

  “Think he’d try to start something?”

  Rachel shook her head, but didn’t look entirely convinced.

  “Well,” Brian said, “if he wants trouble, I’ll handle it. Don’t worry.”

  Rachel gave him a look. She knew fine well that Brian was no fighter.

  Sean moved off out of sight a few seconds later. There was a tangible sense of relief at the table. The night was going well and they both wanted it to continue that way.

  The band came off their break and kicked off with a sizzling version of Sabbath’s War Pigs that had Brian bouncing on his seat. Possibly a little too much bouncing. As the track ended he made his way to the gents.

  The urinals were all occupied so he took a stall. He emptied his bladder with a long, luxurious stream that seemed to come from his toes. Then, because he felt like being nice, he closed the lid and flushed. He’d just tugged his fly shut and turned when the boy in the pinstriped shirt from the bar stepped into his path. Brian evaluated him: a little taller; a little broader; a lot drunker. The urinal-hoggers had left and they were alone.

  “Can I help you...?”

  “We need to talk, boy,” Sean said.

  “No we don’t, Sean.” Brian held up placatory hands. “I’m having a great night, and I don’t want any silly business messing it up.”

  Sean got right up into Brian’s face. Then he ripped open his shirt to reveal an ugly burn just above his nipple. A perfect circle about the size of a ten pence piece with a crusty green layer of scab. Brian wrinkled his nose.

  “Rachel’s insane,” Sean said.

  “That’s disgusting, mate. You need help.”

  “No, you do, Curly Bap. Rachel did this to me!”

  Then the door to the toilets swung open and suddenly Sean was sent flying, almost knocking Brian over. Faster than Brian could react, Paul pounded Sean into the cubicle door. It juddered open and Paul rammed him into the cubicle. The impact cracked the toilet roll dispenser. Sean shrieked.

  Paul slapped him about. “What’s your problem, mate?”

  “What the fuck?” Brian said. “Jesus, Paul. Wait, it’s all right.”

  Sean, daz
ed and confused, tried to salvage some pride. “I’ll kill you, you square-headed Frankie bastard.”

  Paul kicked Sean between the legs. As Sean bent forward, Paul punched the side of his head. The townie went down and stayed down.

  “Paul!”

  Paul looked at Brian. “What?”

  “Jesus, this is some day. Between this and the Chinese I’m choking on an ulcer here.” He rubbed his stomach. “Have you not traumatised me enough today?”

  “What can I say, bro? He was right up in your face. I thought I was looking out for you.”

  Brian frowned. Paul chuckled and glanced at Sean’s prone figure.

  “And what the fuck were you doing here, anyway, Paul?”

  “I was lurking at the bar, trying to work up the nerve to come over and apologise for earlier. I got worried when I spotted that header follow you in here.”

  “Oh.” Brian didn’t know what else to say.

  “He was melting your head, wasn’t he?” Paul said.

  “Aye, he was. But I don’t think he was going to hit me, like.”

  “Better safe than sorry. Let’s go get a drink, eh?”

  “Yeah, just wait a second.”

  “Why?”

  “I haven’t washed my hands yet.” Brian looked from Sean to Paul. “You should wash yours, too.”

  Round Table Meeting

  Rachel linked arms with Brian, craving his body heat in the midnight chill. Paul hung back with some slapper he’d picked up at last orders. The dirty bitch was welcome to the creep. At least she’d keep him occupied and away from her and Brian.

  “Wasn’t that a cracker of a night?” Brian said.

  “Yeah, it was class,” she said.

  “And it’s not over yet.”

  Normally, Rachel wasn’t one for all-night partying, but she was caught up in Brian’s party-boy energy. It was contagious. Brian’s eyes gleamed feral in the orange fluorescent street-glow as he smiled wildly. His unkempt curls added to his animalistic image. She wondered if he would ever straighten up and fly right, but wasn’t sure if she wanted him to. The undomesticated thing was half the appeal.

  “Here, Brian!”