Wee Rockets

by Gerard Brennan

  This had been kept secret from Tony by his family and his gangster friends. They didn't want him to have to think about it in jail, and knew he'd prefer to deal with it himself when he got back on the street, rather than have one of the other Essex Boys lay down the law. Once Tony wiped out a couple of the main dealers in the area he could book Jonnie into rehab and life would resume.

  But Tony was scared.

  He confessed all to the pretty blonde in the prison screw uniform. The thought of going back inside for the sake of a few Yardie scumbags chilled him to his core. And if he was completely honest with himself, he blamed his son and not the dealers. Why should he have to take such a risk because of his son's weakness? Couldn't he just retire in peace? He still had money stashed from the robberies he hadn't been caught for. He could afford to just drift away from the lifestyle.

  Emily could smell money. She told Tony that she might have the solution to his problems and gave him her number. He would phone her the next day to talk about a price.

  Dermot listened to Emily's idea as he drove her home from the party.

  "Are you nuts?" he asked.

  "What's wrong with you?"

  "I've never killed anyone in my life. What made you think I'd be up for this?"

  "It's not like you'd be killing real people, Dermot. They're Yardies. Those wankers are always shooting each other in the back. It won't even make the papers."

  Dermot shook his head. "It's not about getting caught, you stupid bitch. It's about knowing whether or not I'm capable of murder."

  "Stupid bitch? Listen to me, you Paddy cunt. This is a golden opportunity staring us right in the face and you're not going to pussy out. I can't make a living on my back for the rest of my life, Dermot. We need to start working some better angles. This is a good start."

  "Do you know what the going rate for a hit is these days?"

  Emily shrugged.

  "I'll be lucky to get seven grand a dealer. Seven grand! We'll hardly be set for life on that."

  "And when was the last time you had seven grand, Dermot? Burglary and car theft hasn't exactly been lucrative, has it? With seven grand you could buy into something bigger."

  "What, like drugs? So I can get shot too? Sounds like a great plan, Emily. Tell me, why did it take you so long to come up with the answer to our prayers?"

  "You've got no balls."

  "Ach, fuck off."

  The heat of their discussion materialised as condensation on the car windows. Emily drew circles on her side with an index finger. "If I can get him to offer ten grand a hit, will you consider it?"

  Dermot flicked on the demister. It rattled to life and droned. "How many hits are we talking about exactly?"

  "He said a couple, so probably two or three."

  "Well, which is it?"

  "We'll say two for argument's sake. That's twenty grand for one night's work. Would you think about it?"

  Dermot drummed his fingers on the steering wheel. "What if we could get the twenty grand without risking my neck?"

  Emily narrowed her eyes. "How?"

  "Well he's hardly going to ask us to bring him their heads on a plate, is he?"

  "Obviously not, but I'm sure he'll have some way of finding out they're dead. These gangster boys all have eyes and ears on the street. He's not going to pay us on our word."

  "We could buy off the dealers. Offer them a few grand to move on and get their underlings to feed back rumours that they're short a few Jamaicans."

  "You're a right dumb berk sometimes, Dermot." With a violent swipe of her palm she rubbed out the circles she'd just drawn. "Do you know how much money a drug dealer can make in a nice area like Ilford? You can bet they have regular customers and the cops in their pockets. Why would they give that up for a few grand?"

  "Maybe we could subcontract? Pay some youth to do them both for ten and keep the other ten."

  "Or you could do the fucking job and we can have twenty."

  "Fuck's sake!" Dermot rolled to a stop at the traffic lights on Morning Lane. They'd be home soon and he didn't want to continue the discussion all night. "All right, I'll think about it."

  Emily put her hand on his crotch and squeezed gently. "There you go, love. You've got a pair after all." Then she flashed him a victory smile, knowing full well that the thinking was done and Dermot would do the business.

  The next day, Big Tony called and agreed to Emily's price. Twenty grand for two dead Yardie drug dealers, to be paid after the job. Dermot and Emily met him at the pub from the night before. Big Tony gave them a time and a place to find the targets and warned Dermot not to fuck up.

  Thursday night and outside the Liquid Bar, a nightclub on Ilford's High Road, a black BMW 5 Series idled by the kerb. Dermot knew that his targets, Death Man and Powerful, two twenty-something black men of Jamaican heritage, sat inside waiting for customers. Every Thursday night they set up shop in the same place until the Liquid Bar doormen started their shift at eleven.

  Dermot watched them from an inconspicuous Peugeot 106. The little blue-faced clock on the dashboard read ten o'clock. He still had time to make his move, but it trickled away at an alarming rate. He pulled the Snub-Nose .38 from his coat pocket. The little five-shooter sat comfortable in his hand. Small but reassuringly heavy. Emily had suggested a machine gun but Dermot told her to wise up. They were dealing in real life and a bullet from a pistol killed as effectively as a bullet from a semi-automatic rifle. Machine guns were for movies. Professionals used easily concealable weapons. Emily hadn't been anywhere near as impressed with him as she should have been.

  Death Man and Powerful opened their doors and stepped out of the BMW. Big Tony's physical descriptions had been on the money. Death Man, the taller of the two, sported a thick shock of ropey dreadlocks, held back by a Jamaican flag bandanna. He wore a baggy black T-shirt with a white Moschino logo and a pair of urban camouflage combats. Powerful's round belly and gorilla chest pushed against the fabric of a canary yellow hoodie with an AK47 assault rifle in silhouette printed on it. His jeans could have accommodated a baby elephant. The peak of a red baseball cap shaded his eyes. They lit a couple of conical joints and spoke to each other over the roof of the car.

  Dermot swallowed a huge gulp of air. Time to move. He bounced out of his car and started across the street towards them. He'd intended to close the distance to point blank range but he lost his nerve and pulled the trigger.

  The gunshot echoed in the street. The BMW's rear driver-side window shattered. Death Man, the closest to Dermot, spun on his heel. His finger-splayed hands went to his head. Powerful danced backwards and yelled something. The words were lost as Dermot squeezed off the other four rounds.

  Bang. Bang. Bang. Bang. The gun bucked in his hand as he strode with his arm locked out in front of him.

  Then silence.

  Time froze. Dermot waited for the Yardies to topple over. They didn't.

  "You shot my car, white boy." Powerful said.

  "Why'd you want to shoot his car, man?" Death Man said.

  "Ah, balls." Dermot said.

  He'd missed them both. Not even a flesh wound. But he'd fucked up their car.

  "Come here, boy," Powerful said.

  Dermot backed away. "Sorry, fellahs. I didn't mean that. Mistaken identity, you know?"

  Death Man yanked up the hem of his T-shirt and whipped a chrome handgun from his waistband. Compared to Dermot's it looked like a hand-cannon. A real Dirty Harry effort.

  "Get your pasty ass over here before I shoot you in the face."

  Dermot raised his hands and shuffled forward. He held the empty .38 by the trigger guard, pinched between his thumb and index finger, to show he didn't intend to use it. His stomach tried to climb out through his throat.

  "I don't know you," Death Man said.

  "Like I said, mistaken identity. I got you mixed up with some other guys."

  "Because we're black?" Powerful asked. "You racist?"

  "No, mate. I'm Irish."

&n
bsp; Death Man flashed pearl white teeth. "Funny guy. But you're full of shit. Why did you try to kill us?"

  Dermot sensed a way out. He jumped on it. "I can tell you who hired me. If you let me walk away."

  Death Man glanced at Powerful, who shrugged. Dermot felt sweat from his armpits roll down his sides. He considered praying and realised he'd never been more scared.

  "Okay then," Death Man said, "I'll bite. Tell us who wants to kill us."

  "Actually, rather than tell you who, how about I lead you to him?"

  "What, you don't trust us, white boy?"

  Dermot said nothing, determined to choose life by not saying something stupid.

  "We'll have to take your car, then," Death Man said. "Powerful's is fucked."

  The big guy in the red cap growled. "What are you driving?"

  Dermot pointed to the little blue 106 a hundred yards down the road. The Yardies seemed to be at a loss for words for a couple of seconds.

  Death Man found his voice first. "If anybody sees me in that thing, I'll cut off your thumbs."

  Powerful drove and Death Man sat in the backseat with Dermot. The hand-cannon glowed orange each time they passed a streetlight. As if Dermot needed more awareness of its presence. It distracted him from his co-piloting duties.

  "Turn right here."

  "There's no right, white boy."

  "Shit, I mean left."

  Powerful growled. "Wake up, boy. And give me more warning next time. I don't know this road."

  "We're almost there anyway. Just pull into the leisure centre car park up ahead. He'll be in a black Saab."

  Death Man nudged him in the ribs with an elbow. "You stay in the car until we've dealt with this Tony Walsh guy."

  Dermot nodded. "He should be on his own. You'll have no problems."

  Powerful parked the 106 close to the car park entrance. Big Tony's car occupied a space close to the metal shutters covering the centre's front door. The 106 shuddered to a halt and Powerful killed the lights. Death Man stepped out of the car and swaggered towards the Saab. He held his chrome .44 Magnum look-alike behind his back. Dermot shuddered as the dreadlocked Yardie thumbed back the heavy hammer. He braced himself for the gunfire, planning to flee the car as soon as the first bullet flew. Then the passenger door of the Saab flapped open. An aging skinhead jumped out. He brandished a sawn-off. Big Tony, the sneaky double-crossing fucker, never had any intention of paying Dermot. It was a set up. Probably to complicate a police investigation or prevent a gang war. And Dermot was the disposable nobody.

  Powerful screamed. The sudden high-pitched blast left Dermot's ears ringing. It took a second to register the fat Yardie's panicked babbling.

  "... the fuck's happening, white boy? What're we going to do?"

  Dermot didn't answer. He looked beyond Powerful's big frightened face and out onto the Mexican stand off. The skinhead baby-stepped towards Death Man, talking though pinched lips. The Yardie stood his ground, the big revolver still gripped behind his back. The skinhead waved his sawn-off at him. Death Man shook his head. The Saab's driver door popped open. Big Tony, receding hair slicked back, unfolded to his full height and wheeled on the Jamaican. He rested his arms on the roof of his black luxury car, as if he needed help to support the huge automatic pistol he held in a double-handed grip.

  Death Man finally produced his weapon. He pointed and fired at Big Tony. The Essex Boy disappeared behind the car. The Yardie turned to the skinhead. Too late. The sawn-off went boom. Death Man died. His body flew backwards, his torso torn apart by the heavy blast. Powerful screamed again.

  "Desmond! No, man!"

  Dermot reached through the gap between the front seats and shook Powerful. "Start the fucking car!"

  "That fuck killed Desmond."

  "And we're next. Go!"

  The sawn-off toting skinhead glanced at the 106 and then tried to peer over the roof of the Saab, looking for Tony. Powerful fumbled with the keys. Dermot's heart almost stopped when the engine fired up. The 106's tyres screeched as Powerful sank the boot. They were going to make it. Then Powerful U-turned; towards the skinhead. Towards the other barrel of the shotgun.

  "What the fuck are you doing? He'll kill us!"

  Powerful didn't answer. Dermot ducked down. He heard the shotgun blast. Glass from the shattered windscreen rained down on him. Then the crash impact threw him forward to the melody of metal crimping. He bounced off the seats in front and landed in the foot-well. He clambered back up to a sitting position and surveyed the carnage.

  The skinhead lay facedown on the Peugeot's bonnet, his legs crushed between the little car's bumper and the passenger door of the heavy Saab. If he was lucky enough to live he'd never walk again. Powerful would never breathe again. He'd taken the sawn-off's full brunt. Dermot couldn't look at the pulpy mess wearing a singed, pellet-riddled baseball cap. He opened his door and toppled out of the backseat. The calm night sky belied the scene of brutal chaos. A night breeze danced across the empty car park, kicking up empty crisp packets and blue plastic bags. Dermot wobbled on shaking legs as his adrenaline deserted him.

  The Peugeot's one litre engine had stalled, but Dermot didn't want to leave it behind. There was too much physical evidence in there to tie him to the killings. Fingerprints, hair, skin cells. It could all be used these days, and Dermot's record hardly gleamed. England or not, it wouldn't be too hard to dig up his history from the Northern Ireland Office. He'd have to move Powerful and see if he could get it running.

  The drug dealer hit the tarmac like a big sack of shit when Dermot pulled open the driver's door. The meaty flump raised the bile in Dermot's stomach but he was thankful he didn't have to touch him. Rather than climb over the dead man, he scooted around the back of the car and crawled in through the passenger side. The car started on the third try. Dermot could have cried with relief. He sat back in the blood-soaked seat, closed his eyes and pushed his hands through his curly hair.

  Somebody moaned.

  Dermot's eyes snapped open and he sat up in the seat. The skinhead still lay unmoving on the bonnet. That left either one of the dead Yardies or Big Tony as the source of sound. The Saab rocked on its suspension. Big Tony then. Dermot could hear the wounded man curse under his heavy breath. He popped the 106 into reverse. Big Tony's blood-slicked hand appeared. It struggled to find purchase on the Saab's roof. Dermot stomped on the accelerator. The 106 separated from the Saab and the skinhead flopped to the ground. Tony's head and shoulders emerged from his side of the stationary car. Dermot caught the muzzle flash from the automatic in his peripheral as he swept the car around one hundred and eighty degrees. Gunshots roared like thunder. Dermot sank low in the seat and drove on. He hit the road sideways and peeled off as fast as a punished 106 can ever be.

  He'd watched for the Saab all the way back to Hackney in his rear-view mirror. But Tony must have let him go to clean up his own part in the mess. The dead skinhead would tie his gang to the Yardie hit and he'd probably needed hospital treatment. Dermot hadn't seen where the Essex Boy had taken the .44 calibre bullet, but catching one of those anywhere couldn't be good for you.

  After picking up Emily, and firing a thousand I-told-you-so faces at her, he'd left the 106 in a bad neighbourhood with the keys in the ignition. They'd driven to Liverpool in a stolen delivery van and blagged their way onto a ferry. And Belfast welcomed him with open legs.

  Chapter 7

  Louise forced a smile for her son's benefit. Things had been awful between them for the last few days and it was time to be more positive. He'd just told her about his plans to meet Dermot that night.

  "Well, what do you think?" Joe asked again.

  She didn't want to take away from the excitement so obvious on his face. He'd just found his father, and Dermot seemed keen to get to know him. Knowing Dermot, it would probably end in tears, but it might not. And she had to allow Joe to enjoy that possibility. So she swallowed her pride and lied to her son.

  "I'm delighted for you, Joe. I really am.
What are you two going to do tonight, then?"

  "Don't know yet. We're having a Mickey Dee's first. I suppose we'll just see where things go from there."

  "Well, I hope it's a good night."

  Joe nodded and smiled. He opened his mouth as if to speak then breathed out a soft sigh. He smiled again.

  Louise wracked her brain for a change of subject. Something to extend the pleasant atmosphere between them.

  "So what did you do today?"

  "Not much. Wee Danny came over and we hung about here. He's away on home now."

  "Did you eat anything?"

  "Nothing much. Grilled some fish fingers."

  "Do you want something to keep you going until later? Dermot... Your daddy won't be here for another few hours."

  Joe's smile broadened. "Yeah, that'd be great."

  "And maybe we could watch a DVD or something. We haven't done anything like that in ages."

  "Do we have any we'd both like?"

  "Stephen left a few films here last night." She watched Joe's face carefully. It didn't even twitch. "I'd my eyes closed for half of the scary one so I could watch it again if you like the look of it. Your choice. I'll get some food on and you get the DVD player going."

  "Deal."

  From the kitchen, Louise could hear Joe hum a happy tune as he shuffled through the DVDs. Guilt washed over her. Sometimes his height and attitude made it hard to remember his age. He was still a child and she needed to make more of an effort to give him the kind of attention a boy his age needed.

  She toasted some soda farls and heated baked beans in the microwave. An old faithful, quick and easy. They sat on the sofa, plates on their laps and steaming mugs of tea with a packet of biscuits on a tray between them. Joe wolfed his beans down before the end of the film's opening credits then ripped open the digestive biscuits. He dunked them into his tea two at a time. The boy had hollow legs.

  During a slow scene in the film Joe turned to Louise and cleared his throat. "Ma?"

  "Yes?"

  "Do you think you'll see Stephen McVeigh again?"

  "Probably. He's seems like a nice guy. Do you mind?"