Comet

by Andie J Fessey

  Ron waited until she had made her way from the car, to where he stood.

  She opened the rear door and he dragged two of the large kegs from the back seat, placing them onto the ground at his feet.

  “You’re a good ‘un Jackie Love, one of the best,” he said, kneeling to grab the two kegs by their handles, raising them both over his shoulders.

  “Aye Lads!” Jackie called, to the men erecting the tables, “give Tarzan here a hand, before he puts his back out or summat!”

  Several of the men busy with bringing chairs from the various houses, to place around the trestle tables, rushed to Jackie’s waiting car.

  “Bloody hell Jackie love!” Billy Swan exclaimed, catching sight of the various drinks held within the confines of the vehicle.

  “It looks like you’ve brought half yer cellar with yer!”

  “Are you complaining Billy?” Jackie asked smiling, leaning against the wing of the car, lighting a cigarette.

  “Am I buggery!” he answered, as he and the other men, begun unloading her car of the generous gifts she bestowed upon them.

  A few miles away in the grey edifice in Bootle, O’Leary sat in his office, staring solemnly through the replacement windows, at the river lay beyond the docks.

  Until his silent thoughts, became interrupted by a light knock at the door.

  “Come in,” he growled, without turning his gaze from the window.

  The door pushed open, Brendan shuffling in sideways crablike, holding carefully onto a tray containing a large mug of tea and a plate of biscuits.

  “I thought you might like these Boss,” he said quietly, though his shrill voice still grated on O’Leary’s nerves.

  “What?” O’Leary replied, turning to face him, “oh, right, put them on the desk Bren.”

  Carefully placing them on the desk, Brendan sat at the seat opposite.

  “What is it?” O’Leary asked, taking hold of the mug.

  “Are you alright Boss?” Brendan asked.

  “What?”

  “Are you alright? It’s just, you’ve been really quiet the last couple of days and, well, well I’ve been worried.”

  O’Leary stared intently into his eyes.

  Worried? He’s bloody reason to be. There’s no way I can keep them all on now. No government work, no new premises, so I can’t go for those big contracts. I’ll end up having to sell half of the bloody vans. God knows how long I can keep it from the missus. And the bloody police are sniffing around even more!

  “Everything is fine,” he lied, placing the mug on the desk, his gaze remaining at his employee, “have the police been around again?”

  “Yeah, getting a bit worried about it now to be honest Boss, as that Constable Robinson has it in his mind, I was there.”

  “Well, you were bloody there,” O’Leary replied.

  “I know, but I was only in the cab!” Brendan replied squealing, “Tony and that McCluskie fella were the ones who gave the Welsh lad the hiding!”

  “Calm down you bloody fool,” O’Leary admonished, “you haven’t said anything have you? You’ve an alibi, haven’t you?”

  “Well, yes but…”

  “No buts about it then, just stick to the story and they’ll soon bugger off.”

  “I hope so Boss, I get nervous whenever they arrive.”

  “You get nervous? You? You get nervous?” O’Leary exclaimed.

  Brendan nodded.

  “How bloody nervous do think I feel then! The warehouse still has those rails we stole from the railway line the other month, there’s half a bloody ship yard worth of gear we swiped from the docks which we have no chance of shifting any time soon, due to those Corpy bastards going back on the deal over the new premises, and there’s still half of bleeding Saint John’s Church roof leaning up against the far wall!”

  “And you’re bloody nervous?!” He spat the words out, his face taking on its normal red, angry countenance.

  Brendan recoiled at the outburst, attempting to squeeze his vast bulk further into the seat.

  Before O’Leary could continue his verbal onslaught, he became interrupted by the jarring ringing of the telephone located on his desk.

  He continued to stare at Brendan, whilst answering it.

  “O’Leary Metal Merchants, Corey speaking.”

  Moving his own gaze away from O’Leary’s, Brendan concentrated on the plate of untouched biscuits.

  “Oh, hello love, what’s up? Yea I know you did. Are they okay? Cost a bloody fortune those pair do. Sorry love, it slipped out. So, the pair of them are…what did you just say?”

  He stared at Brendan, whose gaze remained upon the plate of biscuits, though making no attempt to touch them.

  “Alright love. Did he say where? Where?! Yea love, I know it. I know it well. Thanks love. Yea, I’ll see you later.”

  Slowly placing the receiver back into its cradle, he looked at Brendan, a smile forming upon his face.

  “Well, well, well, looks like today may not be all bad news after all.”

  “What? Where? Why’s that Boss?” Brendan asked, looking up.

  “That was the wife on the phone.”

  “Oh, how she is she?”

  “Who cares how she is? Shut up and listen, will you?”

  Brendan nodded his head, his gaze returning to the plate.

  “The wife’s been to the vets, with that pair of pampered mutts of hers. Got chatting to that bloody expensive vet whilst she was there,” O’Leary said, “and found out something, which has made my bloody day.”

  Brendan cautiously looked up at him, waiting for him to finish.

  O’Leary smiled.

  “I know where that bloody horse is.”

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  “Why can’t we go Mam?” the lad asked, wiping the moist mucus from his snivelling nose, upon the back of his forearm.

  He stood near the kitchen door, in his rough cotton shorts and vest.

  “Because your Ma said so that’s why, so don’t bloody ask again,” the large man said, from his position on his chair, leaning forward, before loudly breaking wind.

  “Better out than in eh, our Ian?”

  Ian, his eldest child, sat on the edge of the old brown sofa, absently picking at a loose patch of cloth on it.

  “I don’t want to go anyway,” Nicola said, looking through the grime encrusted window, “it’s not our street and I can think of other things to be doing.”

  “But, there’ll be loads of food and stuff.”

  “What’s wrong with the food your Mother makes yer?” His Father asked, giving a swipe to the back of the boy’s head with his hand.

  “Oww, no need for that Dah!” The boy exclaimed, moving from his Father’s reach, rubbing at the back of his head.

  “I’ll tell you, if there’s any bloody need for it or not, you cheeky bugger,” his Father said.

  Walking across the room, the boy rubbed his head frowning, when his older brother swiped him with his own hand.

  “Oww, what did you do that for?” He said, in tears, his brother’s slap, considerably harder than his Fathers.

  “That’s for giving yer old man back chat and if you don’t piss off out and play or something, you’ll get another one alright?” His brother replied, raising his hand back feigning a swipe, as his younger sibling ran from the room.

  “Whatcha do that for, our Ian” His Mother said, walking into the parlour, cups of tea in her hands.

  “Here you go luv,” she said, passing one of the cups to her husband, busy picking wax from his ear.

  “Cheers Love,” he said, taking the cup from her hand, placing it onto the arm of the thread bare, worn chair.

  “Ah, he was asking for it Mam, turning into a right spotty Herbert he is,” Ian replied, leaning back on the couch, “had seven types of crap beaten out of him, by a brat half his size.”

  “Do you want a cuppa son?” she asked him.

  “Aye, go ahead Mam, I wouldn’t say no.”

  �
��Good result at the court, eh lad?” His Father asked.

  Leaning further back against the couch, Ian took a packet of cigarettes from his pocket, leaning forward and offering the packet to his Father.

  “Cheers lad.”

  “Never had anything on me, did they?”

  Nodding his head, his Father lit the cigarette.

  “Good lad,” he said, “close call though, eh?”

  “Yup,” his son replied, lighting his own cigarette.

  Walking in with another cup, his Mother passed it to him.

  “Give us one of them Ian son, will yer?” she said, sitting on the couch next to him.

  He passed her a cigarette, that she lit immediately.

  “So, where’d you put the stuff son?” His Mother asked, taking a long drag.

  “Now that’d be telling, wouldn’t it?” He said, placing his foot upon his knee, to tie the laces on his boot.

  “It’s yer Ma yer talking to our Ian, what’s she gonna do, grass you up to the Rozzers?”

  “Don’t be daft, I didn’t mean that Dah,” Ian said, “but what if one of the Rozzers, asks ma summat when she’s out at the shops? She might slip up.”

  “’Ere,” His Mother interrupted, “I’m still in the same room as yer, yer know.”

  “Sorry Ma,” Ian said, flicking ash from his cigarette onto the bare wooden floor, “but, the old Bill can be crafty swine at times.”

  “Not crafty enough, to pin that job on you though eh our Ian?” His Father asked, proud his son had gotten one over on the police.

  “Is it alright, if I get meself a sugar butty mam?” Maurice asked, poking his head around the door, his eyes staring at his brother, taking a large gulp from his cup.

  “Not, until you’ve had yer hair done Maurice,” his Mother replied, placing her cup on the dusty wooden floor and making her way to the kitchen.

  “Arrr Mam, please,” he pleaded.

  “Get yer arse in the kitchen now, before I take me bloody belt to yer!” His Father instructed.

  Entering the room, he walked cautiously to the kitchen, ensuring he kept his distance from both his older brother and his Father, lest they strike out at him.

  The doorframe, stood absent of any door, it being thrown in the front garden months ago, finally giving up the ghost after being slammed, so many times over the years.

  “Got nits again ‘ave yer? Dirty little sod!” Ian shouted.

  “Make him shut up Mam,” Maurice asked, reaching his Mother, stood next to a worktop full of clutter.

  “Stop being such a bloody baby, our Maurice,” she said, rummaging through the clutter, “now, where on earth did I put that blasted comb?”

  “Arrr Mam not the comb, can’t I just wash me ‘ead in the sink or summat?”

  “No, you bloody can’t,” she replied, crossing to the tiny wooden table against the wall of the kitchen, pulling out one of the two mismatched chairs next to it.

  “Sit down,” she instructed him, a look in her eyes promising him a harsh punishment, if he did not comply.

  Slowly, he walked to the table, his eyes not leaving the harsh looking metal comb held in her hands.

  “Stop dawdling and get yer backside here, before I drag it myself.”

  Sitting, he braced himself as his Mother leant over him, combing through his dirty hair, scraping the comb firmly as it caught hold of the lice, clearly seen jumping around his head.

  “Oww!” He cried.

  “Shut up, or I’ll come in there and give yer summat to cry about!” His Father called.

  He sat grimacing, as the metal comb tugged through his unruly hair, pulling out tats in addition to head-lice.

  “Ouch! Mam, that hurts!” He cried.

  “Stop crying out, for Peters sake and grow a bloody pair will you lad!” His Father called from the other room.

  “It hurts!” Maurice cried, the comb dragging and catching his scalp.

  “Shurrup!” Nicola called from the front room.

  “Stop acting like a girl!”

  “Oi, you’re next!” her Mother shouted.

  “I’m bloody not,” Nicola replied, “me Dah wants me to go to the shop for him.”

  “Are yer?” her Father asked, from the confines of his chair.

  “Didn’t you want me, to go get the Echo or summat?” his daughter asked.

  He thought for a moment before answering, confused as to whether he had.

  “Alright then, go fetch us the Echo from the corner shop, do you want anything our Ian?” He asked his son, leaning against the couch and blowing rings of smoke into the air.

  “I think I’ll be fine for fags for a while,” he said followed by a short, harsh laugh.

  His Father, laughing along, looked at him with a knowing look and smile.

  “But, grab us a couple of boxes of matches Nicola,” Ian said, “and tell that old sod Turney behind the counter, I said to put it on me slate alright?”

  “Alright our Ian, I will do,” Nicola replied, rushing into the hallway to grab her coat, lain upon the floor amidst other clothing strewn there by her family.

  Stood near the doorway leading into the front room, she caught snippets of the conversation, between her brother and Father.

  “So, how many did you get away with?”

  “The whole bleeding van load Dah.”

  “Bloody hell our Ian, well done lad.”

  “Aye, gonna make a tidy packet when we sell them packets, if you know what I’m saying Dah?”

  “I do that son, but where did yer stash ‘em?”

  “You know the old Edwards building?”

  “The one in Riversdale road?”

  “That’s the one, just looks like a large wall from Crosby road, no windows just that stupid old sign.”

  “That should have been bombed by the Nazis that place, bloody eyesore.”

  Listening intently, Nicola stared from the doorway at their overgrown garden.

  Pieces of metal, wood, rags and refuse scattered everywhere.

  Some of their neighbours complained to the Corpy, because of the rats seen running around amongst the filth and detritus. Until, her Father threw some of the dead ones into old Mrs Rafferty’s front garden one night, placing the blame on her.

  “Aye,” her brother’s voice said, from the confines of their front room, “bloody good job it wasn’t though.”

  Quietly edging her way to the doorway, careful not to make a sound, Nicola pressed herself against the hallway wall.

  “Been stood empty for years,” her Father said, “no use for business or anything, being stuck at the end of that poxy little cul-de-sac, you couldn’t get a bloody wagon or anything down there.”

  “But, dear dah,” Ian replied, “you can get a van full of ciggies down there, right up to the broken front door!”

  “Have you gone for my bloody paper or what girl?” Her Father’s voice called, still laughing along with her brother.

  “Just going now dah,” she replied, making her way from the front door and walking along their rubbish strewn path.

  She ran to the shop, stood at one of the corners of Rawson road.

  The shop was empty, save for the elderly man stood behind the counter, engrossed in the paper lay open on the counter before him.

  Looking up at her he grunted, before returning his gaze back to the paper, not noticing her picking up a handful of boiled sweets from a tray, dropping them into her pocket whilst she approached.

  “Alright Turney,” she asked, reaching the counter.

  “It’s Mr Turney, to the likes of you Nicola Nelson,” he replied, “you should have more respect for your elders.”

  “Yea, whatever,” she replied, “me Dah wants his Echo and our Ian wants two, I mean three boxes of matches.”

  “I don’t know about selling matches to a young un like you,” he replied, satring at her suspiciously, “and I’m not about to get me collar felt.”

  “Why? It’s not against the law or anything is it? Anyways, just g
ive me the paper and the matches, before I have to go tell our Ian you said you wouldn’t serve me and he can shove it up his arse.”

  “I said no such thing and mind your language!”

  “But, our Ian doesn’t know that does he? I’ll tell him, you said he could stick it up his arse and,” she continued, “you whistled at me, when I was bending over.”

  His face glowing red, he stood up to grab a copy of the daily newspaper and three boxes of matches, before throwing them on the counter.

  “You can’t go around saying things like that, not even as a joke,” he said, “you should be ashamed of yourself.”

  “Should I be?” She asked, picking up the paper and matches, dropping them into one of her pockets, “maybe, I’ll save that one for another time eh?”

  “You will do no such thing, now that will be six…”

  “Our Ian said to put it on his slate,” she said, striding to the doorway, before stopping and turning to face him.

  “Oh,” she said, “and Turney.”

  “What?” He asked, still troubled and flustered.

  “You’ve got a face like an old woman’s cushion left outside for cats to pee on, so yer can stick it up yer arse!” She shouted, running out into the road.

  Quickly rushing back to their house, she stopped only when reaching the end of their path, secreting one of the packets of matches behind a piece of rubble lay strewn there.

  Entering the house, she encountered a sea of raised voices.

  “Tell him to stop Mam!”

  “Ahh, piss off you cry baby!”

  “Shut up our Ian!”

  “Make me, fat boy!”

  Entering the front room, she found Maurice standing in the middle of the room, redder faced than normal, trying his best not to cry in front of his brother and parents.

  “What’s going on?” She asked, walking into the room and passing the two boxes of matches to her older brother.

  “Cheers our Nic,” he said, “that little Herbert has been whining on, because our Mam nicked him with the nit comb. You don’t have any dolls he can play with do yer?”

  “Shut it! I’m not an ‘Erbert and I don’t play with dolls!”

  “Stop bleeding crying then,” Nicola said, swiping him hard over the back of his head with the rolled-up newspaper, before making her way to her Father.