by Nicky Black
‘Jesus, a lass could die of thirst!’ Margy’s hands sat on her wide hips and Nicola, jolted back to reality, quickly reached under the table. She took a bottle of vodka from her bag and poured it into her glass of lemonade under the table, making sure the barman couldn’t see. She passed the vodka under the table to Margy, who took it with a sincere expression. ‘You are the best friend in the fucking world,’ she said to Nicola, who smiled, the vodka warming her, her spirits rising as she relaxed into her night out, surrounded by the people she couldn’t live without.
The band started ‘Whiskey in the Jar’, and women were on their feet already. Big women with sparkly tops and white, bruised legs; little women with teeth missing. Nicola felt the brown eyes of the man at the bar on her. She knew he was watching and she liked it.
Micky pulled his black jacket around him as the night air took on a chill. It was ten o’clock and the club was filling up with people taking advantage of the free entry before ten-thirty. He sniffed often, eyes like a hawk’s, not missing a trick. He looked like a human Titanic, the long dimple in his chin curving aggressively like an exclamation mark.
‘Jeez, look at this lot,’ said Stevie, Micky’s door mate for the night. Micky braced himself as about eight lads wearing pink Afro wigs approached them.
‘No stags, mate, sorry,’ said Micky to the lad at the head of the group.
‘Ah, well this isn’t a stag night, see,’ the lad replied, ‘it’s a divorce night. My mate Alan here –’
‘– Do I need to say it again?’ said Micky, not looking at him, but keeping his eyes on the rest of the group. Stevie stepped up next to him. An ex-boxer like Micky, Stevie always found himself at the beck and call of the better of the two fighters. Everyone knew Micky could still knock a bloke out with one punch.
‘Let us in, you fucking twat!’ shouted a drunken skinhead from the back.
‘Please?’ said Alan the divorcee to Micky, pleading with his hands, ‘we’re not that drunk. Honest, guv.’
‘Listen, lover boy,’ said Micky, getting close to Alan, ‘you seem like a sensible bloke. Now take your mates up the road to Legends or something, or you’ll not be getting another wife anytime soon, right?’
Alan looked around at his friends.
‘I’ll count to ten,’ said Micky and stepped back.
‘Haway lads, looks shite anyway,’ said Alan. They all hesitated.
‘In my head,’ added Micky.
Alan began rounding everyone up. As they started moving on, the skinhead turned on his heels and headed back to Micky. ‘Who do you think you are, eh?’ He stood about three feet away from Micky, pointing at him, spitting out the words. Alan pulled at his friend’s T-shirt, sensing what was to come. ‘Think you’re a fucking hard man? Well, I know people, me, who are fucking harder than you, you fucking lardy….’ Micky’s head rammed into his face. A couple of girls waiting in the queue squealed as blood gushed from the skinhead’s nose and he fell to his knees. Micky took a handkerchief from his top pocket and wiped his forehead. Alan dragged his friend away.
‘There’s CCTV!’ he shouted at Micky, pointing to the camera up high on the side of the building, ‘I’ll get the police!’
‘Aye, whatever,’ Micky said to himself.
Stevie was handing out bits of paper to the girls in the queue who were clinging to each other. ‘First drink’s on the house, lasses,’ he said as he ushered them inside.
‘As soon as Mooney gets here, I’m off,’ said Micky, composing himself.
‘Alright for some,’ said Stevie. It pissed him off that Micky seemed able to pick and choose where and when he worked. They were still equals in his mind, but it was obvious that Micky was being primed by Tiger to move up the syndicate into a more senior position. Still, the boss knew best. Micky sniffed once more. He couldn’t be arsed with the jealousy and the ‘team dynamics’. He just wanted to make money so his kids didn’t grow up wanting for basics. And Nicola. She’d get a nice house off Valley Park with a dishwasher and a walk-in shower. He would make sure she was better off with him than with anyone else. It was just taking longer than he thought.
Micky was under no illusion. Nicola was out of his league, but she loved him – she’d married him, given birth to his kids. She was ten years his junior, and even better looking than eleven years ago when they met. Her body was still shapely, slim at the waist but ample around the tits and arse, just how he liked it. Now thirty-seven, Micky had piled on the weight. He had always been stocky and muscular, and he worked out constantly at Tiger’s gym, but the years of steroids and protein enhancers had taken their toll. His hair was gone, his eyes shrunken. He was mammoth, but he liked it that way. It made him threatening, and threatened people did what they were told and didn’t question his opinions and make him feel stupid. Nothing made him more angry than being made to feel stupid.
By the time Mooney got to the club, it was almost ten-thirty. ‘Where the fuck have you been?’ Micky towered over him.
‘Down the Quayside, load of footballers in, sold a mint.’ Mooney was his usual twitchy self. At barely five feet tall, he couldn’t control the ticks that ravaged his pock-marked face. His head was a mop of curly, greying black hair, greasy and uncombed, and his blue eyes bulged like those of a newly hatched chick. There was a smell of dampness about him. He repulsed women and he hated every last one of them for it.
‘Should’ve seen all the s-sluts throwing themselves at them.’ Mooney jogged on the spot, completely hyper.
‘Well, there’s plenty more sluts inside. And here, don’t come out till you’ve taken at least five hundred.’
‘Yes, boss.’ Mooney’s face lit up at being offered a club again, rather than the second-rate pubs and bars that were his usual haunts. He saluted Micky and winked at Stevie as he went in the door. Stevie flared his nostrils as if he had smelled something rancid.
‘Right, I’m off,’ said Micky.
‘So I’m on me own, then?’
Micky gave Stevie a look that told him to back off as he hailed down a passing taxi.
‘Tiger’s sending someone over,’ he announced as he slid into the back seat of the cab.
The driver sat upright. ‘Alright, Micky lad,’ he said, but Micky couldn’t be doing with pleasantries. He’d been getting more and more itchy to get back to Nicola over the past hour.
‘Valley Park,’ he ordered and, knowing when to stay quiet, the driver pulled off.
Micky called Nicola’s mobile. He called again, and then again. She hated that phone, and he hated that she never took it out with her. That was the whole point of the damn things. He could feel the anger bubbling in his chest. She’d looked stunning earlier. It had taken every inch of control he’d had not to rip her face off so no one else would look at it. She’d be the best looking bird in that pub by far, and if she was pissed, her lard-arse mate would have her up dancing and the blokes would be thinking their luck was in.
The queue of taxis heading around town was dense. He could have walked quicker. He covered his mouth with his hand, breathing deeply to fight off the frustration. He closed his eyes and phoned her number again. He’d ram that fucking phone down her throat if she didn’t answer this time.
Lee soaked up this long-lost haunt from his past. The upholstery was a soft green now, rather than the tan-coloured leather of the 1980s. He could remember sinking his fingers into the cracks of the leather and pulling out the stuffing while his dad moaned about people leaving green crisps in the ashtrays. Frank had brought him here for his first pint on his sixteenth birthday. You didn’t wait until you were eighteen on Valley Park. Sixteen years later he was in the same bar, staring at a woman as she danced to ‘The Irish Rover’. He watched her hips move. She spun around on one foot, propelling herself with the other, her hands above her head. His eyes burned from lack of blinking. She stood out somehow, her skin too clear, her eyes too bright, her smile too white. Like him, she seemed out of place here – dare he say it, too good for the place.
Margy peered suspiciously at Lee over her glass. This could go one way or the other, and she hoped it wasn’t the other. Although she would happily see Nicola free of that dickhead husband of hers, she also knew how much danger something like this could put her in. Just the fact that someone else was looking at her like that could throw Micky into a frenzy, and Margy knew what he was capable of. She looked to Mark, wondering if he’d noticed the silent flirtation, but he sat straight and unmoving, his eyes piercing something in the near distance. She followed his gaze to the bar, and nudged Nicola gently. They all stared at the back of his fiery red head. Tyrone Woods.
Nicola put her hand on Mark’s arm but he was up and out of his seat, not noticing Kim’s drink falling to the floor. It was a few seconds before Tyrone sensed the breath on the back of his neck. He turned, started, and tried to take a step back, but was hemmed in by men wanting their drinks, their women waiting thirstily at their tables.
‘A word,’ said Mark, his fists tight at his sides.
Tyrone wiped his young, lipless mouth, his eyes darting around the room. ‘Nar, you’re alright,’ he said tensely in a drawling Derry accent.
‘Still gonna do it?’ Mark said in Tyrone’s ear. ‘Still gonna lie for the filth?’
Tyrone’s tiny blue eyes were normally daggers, a warning to stay the hell away. But the boldness Mark was used to in this boy was gone. Like Mark, he was jumpy and frightened. Tyrone’s eyes shot towards the exit, but Mark put his head in the way of any gaze that wasn’t directed into his own face.
Lee, sitting just a few feet away, noticed the change in atmosphere. The red-haired kid at the bar looked scared out of his wits, and Nicola and her two companions no longer smiled and laughed and drank their vodka. They sat huddled together, watching, finding comfort in each other’s hands.
Nicola watched in alarm as she saw Tyrone’s brother, Gerry, emerge from the men’s toilets and stride towards his brother and Mark. His long, bandy legs, round shoulders and hawklike face gave him a grizzly, cartoon-like appearance. Gerry Woods was ugly, and he had a reputation for not stopping until his opponent was either unconscious or dead.
‘Back off, cunt.’ Gerry’s hand pushed at Mark’s chest, forcing him backwards into the drink of the toothless, grinning old drunkard. Nicola was there in a flash, despite Margy’s attempts to keep her in her seat. Mark pushed her to one side, but Nicola stood her ground and looked up at Gerry with narrowed eyes, pointing a warning finger at him over Mark’s protective arm.
‘You lay one finger on him, and my husband will kill you.’ On Mark’s persistent orders she went back to her seat reluctantly and glared at Tyrone’s anxious face. Tyrone Woods, barely seventeen, not a millimetre of his face free of a freckle, and the key witness in the prosecution. Next week he would swear under oath that Mark sold him ecstasy and cocaine, and offered him heroin out the back of the youth centre where Mark used to volunteer on Wednesday and Friday nights.
Gerry seized Mark’s T-shirt at the neck and threw him back against the bar. ‘Don’t be messing with witnesses now, Mr Redmond. Might add a few years to your sentence.’
‘I just wanted a word, mate,’ said Mark, struggling to keep his cool.
Gerry’s body forced Mark’s back against the ledge of the bar until his breath caught in his throat. He swallowed some vomit but showed no emotion.
‘I am not.....your mate,’ said Gerry, his Irish accent even thicker than his brother’s. He pointed to Tyrone who stood quietly at the bar, smoking, his eyes on his pint. ‘Leave him alone, or I’ll fucking waste you before they can bang you up.’
Lee looked at Nicola, biting her nails. She stole a look back at him and, realising he was scrutinising the situation, took her fingers away from her mouth. She sighed, feeling calmer, safer. No way would Gerry Woods dare hurt Micky Kelly’s brother-in-law. Was he off his head?
The song came to an abrupt end and the band announced they were taking a fifteen-minute break which was met with humorous moaning and booing from the rest of the customers, unaware of the rising conflict.
‘We’ll see you next Friday then, mate,’ said Gerry, letting go of Mark’s T-shirt as people’s attention turned from the band to the bar. ‘Now we’d like to enjoy our beer, so fuck off.’ He pushed Mark back once more for effect before making his way back to his little brother. Mark wiped his T-shirt and looked over at his sister’s worried face. He felt the humiliation burn his neck and began to sense the world crushing in on him from all sides. He’d never been able to fight, but he could run. Fast. There was nowhere to run this time except all the way to jail, a jail full of men like Gerry Woods. The searing heat reached his cheeks: his ears pounded, his eyes filled with seething water. He moved slowly to the middle of the room, his veins bursting. He raised his voice above the chattering drinkers.
‘What they got on you, Tyrone, eh? What they paying you?’
Gerry slammed his pint down on the bar and turned slowly like a witch at Halloween.
Silence fell on the pub and all eyes turned towards Mark.
‘I never thought they’d turn you, mate,’ Mark continued, ‘Never thought they’d turn you into a FUCKING LIAR.’
Gerry lunged and Mark was round the back of the bar in seconds, the landlord holding two pints above his head. They were soon knocked out of his hands as Gerry got round the other side, staggering, and slipping on the wet floor.
‘Come on, lads, take it outside!’ pleaded the landlord.
There was chaos. Women were screaming, men shouting. Lee jumped off his bar stool, but the alcohol and rush of adrenalin made him sway and lose his footing. He fell to the floor and someone ran into him, knocking him onto his back. He told himself to get a grip, but he felt completely useless. He stood up with the help of the landlord and got his bearings. He looked around him. Nicola was on her feet, not knowing where to put herself. Margy had one arm protectively around Kim and the other hand firmly grasping her drink. Mark, knowing that going outside would be the end of him, ran circles around the pub, leaping over chairs and dodging Gerry at every turn. Lee searched his pockets for his mobile, found it, but heard fresh screaming before he could get a hold of it. He caught the glint of Gerry’s weapon and instinct took over.
He was behind him before he knew it and had Gerry in an armlock and on the floor a second later. He wrestled the knife out of his hands and it fell onto the sticky carpet. A hand snatched it before he could get a grip of it himself, and he looked up to see Nicola holding the knife, then the boot hit his face and he was flying backwards. He rolled over and crouched on his hands and knees, blood and spit falling to the floor. He blinked up to see Tyrone, his adolescent body in a fighting stance, but his pink face riddled with terror. Lee coughed and turned his head, the noise around him blotted out with pain. He blinked, trying to focus. He could see the toothless old man at the bar behind him, one hand held to his chest, the other outstretched as he burst into ‘Danny Boy’. Ahead of him, Mark was on the floor in a ball, being kicked to shreds by Gerry, Nicola throwing herself at Gerry, knife in hand, but being tossed to the floor every time. To his right, the landlord, Scotty, stood by the singing old man with a baseball bat.
The band’s singer got hold of Tyrone and had his arms up behind his back in a jiffy. Lee recognised the move, and an ex-copper, when he saw one. Gerry, hearing Tyrone’s cries for help, gave Mark one last kick and strode towards his brother. Lee grabbed the baseball bat from Scotty and stood between the two siblings, the blood from his nose running into his mouth. Gerry scoffed, and Lee held up
the bat in defence while Nicola stood next to the crumpled Mark, the knife hanging by her side.
Mark saw his opportunity and snatched the knife from her hand. He staggered to his feet. Tyrone shouted a warning to his brother as Mark lurched up behind Gerry, who turned around to face him. Gerry felt the edge of the knife penetrate his shirt and break the skin of his belly before Mark hesitated at Nicola’s screams. The pub had completely emptied out. Only the toothless, old man remained, sniggering through wet lips. ‘You’re fucked, Redmond,’ said Gerry, breathing heavily.
Nicola heard her voice in her head, but her lips remained frozen, her screams silenced by fear. Don’t do anything stupid.
Mark teetered, his eyes bloodshot, his face dripping with sweat and blood, his ribs shattered. His hand tightened around the knife. Just one thrust. ‘If I’m going down, I might as well take out one of you while I’m at it.’ He spoke through gritted teeth, the knife pointed at Gerry’s liver.