"Out the front door. Anybody tries to grab you, hit them and keep running. Then scatter!"
All that stood between the gang and the automatic doors was the Rottweiler security guard. The mad bastard hunkered down a little and spread out his tree trunk arms as if he would catch all seven of them at once. Liam didn't give doubt time to flourish. He sped up.
"Get out of the way, dickhead!"
The guard shook his head.
Within kicking distance, Liam lashed out with the cue. The jagged wood cut across the security guard's cheek. Skin parted like a straining zipper. The guard didn't seem to notice. He grabbed Liam's head and hugged it to his chest like a goalkeeper with a football. Half suffocated and fearing that his brain would pop out the top of his skull, Liam tried to hit the guard with the broken cue and grapple the python-thick arms with his free hand. A couple of hour-long seconds later Liam felt his new claustrophobic world tilt. The pressure on his head and neck disappeared. Unseen hands pulled at his striped hoodie and dragged him backwards. He blinked away tears and cleared his vision. Matt, Eddie and Ginger Mickey fought with the guard. The big man tried to restrain them with armlocks and bad language. His opponents worked together, unrestricted by laws of reasonable force and professional ethics. They scratched, bit, spat and attempted to gouge.
Liam charged into the fray. "Come on, lads!"
The two Franks and Kev might have been right behind him. He didn't know. Tunnel vision cut out all distractions. He shoved Matt Fegan out of his path, aimed the shaft and lunged forward.
The security guard doubled over and gasped a huge breath. Liam stumbled backwards. He looked down at his hand. Empty. The big fellah straightened and patted the area around the shaft jutting from his stomach. A patch of crimson on his white shirt blossomed out from the wound. He held his bloody palms out to Liam and paled. The circling Rockets drifted back. Eyes bulged. Nobody made a sound.
Then a passing group of Millies let rip with a chorus of ear-piercing shrieks. They scattered in all directions, some charging deeper into the centre, some sprinting back out to the car park. All of them screaming for help.
Liam pushed his panic way down deep. Crammed it on top of his guilt and fear. "We're fucked if we don't split. Wake up, lads."
"He's fucked, Liam," Ginger Mickey said.
"It's just a wee gash. He'll be fine."
The guard toppled backwards, bashing his head on the tiled floor. Some of the boys hissed in empathy.
"He's definitely fucked, Liam."
"Stop using my name, Mickey. Come on. The peelers will be here soon."
Kev Watson pointed a shaking skeletal finger at the unconscious man. "There'll be prints on that cue, man."
"See you and that CSI bullshit?" Liam hesitated for a second. "Ah, fuck. Fine."
Liam stood above the guard, placed a foot on his barrel chest and gripped the smooth wood. "Remember that movie, King Arthur? No?" He waited for someone to laugh or smile. Nothing. "Jesus, you cunts are a barrel of laughs."
"Come on, Liam." Kev said. "I think I can hear sirens."
"Right, right. Fuck's sake." He gritted his teeth and wrenched the shaft from the wound. It came far easier than he'd expected and he almost lost his balance. He raised a hand to his hood to keep it in place. CCTV cameras in the West were usually out of focus or out of film, but there was no point tempting fate. "Okay, let's get the fuck out of here."
###
Stephen's thumb hovered over the green button on his mobile. He'd scrolled to a contact labelled 'scumbag'; the number Joe had given him for Liam Greene. He shook his head and pushed the red button instead. Wise up, he thought. Are you going to just call him and invite him to meet you for a kneecapping? He set the mobile down on the arm of his sofa and gazed up at his framed poster of Tony Jaa, Bruce Lee's modern day replacement.
In truth, now that he had his target lined up, he had no idea what to do. It had all been about the chase. About hunting down the wee fuckers responsible for so much hurt. About making a difference to his community. It became something else as he thought about the reality of street justice.
An anonymous call to the PSNI would be least messy. But what would come of it? Would the wee bastard tout on the rest of his gang under interrogation? Would it end in a satisfying conviction? Would they learn anything from a few years in a young offenders centre? No. None of that balanced up with the weight of the gang's crimes.
They needed to be dealt with in the only language they understood. And Stephen needed to know he could mete out the punishment in cold blood. Revenge on the football pitch when temper, adrenaline and testosterone whooshed through the veins was easy. But to drag a fourteen-year-old into an alley... and there was more at stake than a two match ban.
And that kind of penalty sent out the wrong signals. Journalists and politicians would have a field day. It had paramilitary punishment beating written all over it. That wouldn't help his community. And if the wrong people got wind of the maverick vigilante's identity, it wouldn't help him.
For once in his life, he had to keep a cool head on and find a subtle way to deal with his problems.
And Liam Greene wasn't the only problem.
He phoned Louise.
"What about you, big lad?"
Louise's boisterous greeting tugged at the corners of his mouth. "Hiya, love. You up to anything exciting?"
"Nah, I came off the early shift a couple of hours ago and had nothing more exciting planned than tidying Joe's room."
"Can he not tidy it himself?"
"Are you joking? He can barely keep his arse clean."
"That's a thought I could live without."
"Sorry. So what's on your mind?"
"Why do you ask?"
"Usually you just text me to tell me your coming over." She paused for a second. "Wait a minute. Is this a break up call? Fuck me, that's the kind of thing you do face-to-face after you hit your twenties."
"Um."
"It is, isn't it?"
It should have been, but now that the time had come it seemed like the last thing he wanted to do. "No, this isn't a break up call." And having said it, it felt right.
"So why the pause? Are you just losing your bottle? I don't need you hanging around me just because you're afraid I might shout at you."
"No, it's not that." So what was it? She'd led him to the Rockets. What else did he need from her?
"Well?"
"I just wanted to tell you... I... I... really like you, Louise."
Silence swelled for an agonising five seconds, and then a genuine giggle broke the tension.
"And I... I... think you're a fucking weirdo," Louise said. "But I like you too. Hang tight. I'm coming around to yours. Have you condoms or will I pick some up on the way?"
###
Joe curled his fists to stop himself biting his nails. The heater in the stolen five-door Fiesta pumped out cooked air.
"Can you turn off the heat?"
His da twiddled a couple of knobs on the dashboard. It seemed to make little difference. Joe thought about opening the window but didn't want to risk getting snapped at. Since he'd picked him and Wee Danny up, his da had been quiet and unsmiling. Wee Danny had asked for some music from the backseat and gotten no response. Now they were parked on a road near Queen's University, though Joe had no idea where. He'd never been in this part of the city. Hadn't thought he ever would.
His da stared out the window at a little supermarket. A squat man with thinning white hair wearing a checked shirt manned the shop floor. A student-type wandered up the aisle counting coins in the palm of his hand. It looked like he was the only customer. He left without buying anything.
"Okay, boys. Time to see what you've got. Joe, you're the wheels man tonight. Daniel, you're coming with me."
"It's Danny."
"It's nothing at all until this is over."
Joe thought about making a Reservoir Dogs reference, but chickened out. "I don't know about driving. I've no idea where I'm go
ing."
His da pointed out the front windscreen. "That way until I tell you different."
"What am I going to do?" Wee Danny asked.
"Wave this about." Joe's da handed Wee Danny a rusty hatchet. "I'll do the talking."
"Okay, Dermot." Wee Danny didn't ask any questions, though if he was anything like Joe, a million of them must have been whizzing through his head. His da wasn't exactly dishing out the details.
"Right, let's go."
As they jumped out of the car, Joe shifted himself over the handbrake to sit behind the wheel. He pulled the seat forward slightly and fastened his seatbelt. Then he unfastened it. He wondered if he should be ready to hop out of the car if his help was needed or if he should stay with the car no matter what. He fastened the seatbelt again. His da and Wee Danny crossed the road and headed directly for the shop. They covered their faces at the front door, his da slipping on sunglasses and pulling a Liverpool FC scarf up over his nose and mouth, Wee Danny drawing his hood up.
Joe watched as the shopkeeper almost leapt out of his skin. Wee Danny waved his axe and Joe's da whipped a pistol out from his jacket. Joe felt his mouth dry up. A gun. His da was waving a gun in some poor fucker's face. He'd expected a knife or a baton or something a little less hardcore, but he'd underestimated the situation.
The shopkeeper nodded and held both hands up, begging for calm. Wee Danny really got into his role. He swiped the chewing gum stand off the counter with his hatchet and the white-haired man bounced back into the cigarette display. Joe's da pulled a bin liner from his pocket and slapped it down on the counter. He jabbed his pistol at the cigarettes and the till. The shopkeeper swiped the bag off the counter and shook it open. He tried to straight-arm the cigarettes on the top shelf into the bag but they scattered in all directions, most of them landing on the floor. Wee Danny hacked a lump out of the counter top and the shopkeeper dropped to his knees to scoop up the errant fags.
Wee Danny looked up at Joe's da, probably seeking approval. The big man clapped Wee Danny's shoulder with his free hand.
And then the shopkeeper sprang to his feet with a luminous-green baseball bat in his hands.
Joe's heart skipped a beat at the thought of seeing his da shoot someone. The smaller man drew back and put his whole body into a murderous swing. Joe's da skipped back and shoved Wee Danny forward. Into the arc of the bat.
It connected with Wee Danny's skull. Joe's best mate flopped sideways. He hit the big shop window and slid down it, like a boneless corpse. The shopkeeper dropped his bat and wiped his hands down the front of his checked shirt. Joe's da stepped over Wee Danny and clocked the stunned man with the butt of his gun. Blood sprayed and the guy went down cupping his broken nose in his hands. Joe's da tapped a button on the till and the drawer popped open. He grabbed a handful of cash and bolted.
Leaving Wee Danny in a heap on the floor.
Joe's da yanked open the car door and clambered into the passenger seat.
"Fuck. I think he's hit his silent alarm, Joe. Go, go, go!"
"We can't leave Wee Danny behind."
"Didn't you hear me? There'll be peelers all over the place in minutes. Drive!"
"What about Wee Danny?"
"He'll be okay."
"He might be dead. Was he still breathing?"
"Forget about him, Joe! We have to get the fuck out of here! NOW!"
"But he's a mate."
"He's expendable. You're all expendable."
Joe shook his head. "So you would have left me behind, too? Fuck you!"
His da pulled back a fist and Joe flinched. "Okay, okay." He peeled out into the road, missing a private taxi by inches. Their car lit up like a dance floor as the angered taxi driver flashed his high beams and laid on his horn.
"Fuck me, Joe. Open your eyes. I taught you better than this."
"Fuck yourself, you bastard!" Joe's voice cracked and spittle flew. Rage burned red hot in his cheeks. He gripped the steering wheel and wished for the strength to rip it off its column and wrap it around his da's neck.
"Just keep her between the lines, will you?"
"Why didn't you shoot the fucking shopkeeper? What did you have to throw Wee Danny at him for?"
"The gun's not loaded."
"What?"
"I wasn't going to shoot someone over a few packs of fags and a day's takings. What do you think I am?"
"A yellow cunt."
"Watch your mouth, son."
"Don't you dare call me son, you spineless bastard! You're not supposed to ditch your mates. I shouldn't have left him behind."
"Look, I know you're upset, but Wee Danny will be fine. Young fellahs like him have concrete skulls. He'll maybe get three years in a borstal and his record will be scrubbed clean when he turns eighteen. It's too late for us to do anything for him now."
"I can still do something for him, Dermot."
Joe yanked the steering wheel to the left and mounted the kerb. Dermot shrieked as he slammed into the passenger door window. Joe homed in on a huge, red postbox cemented into the footpath.
Dermot scrambled for his seatbelt when he realised Joe's intention. "Fuck. Stop."
Joe screamed like a madman. The car hit the postbox. Its bonnet crimped. Joe's seatbelt locked and catapulted him back into his seat. Dermot collided with the dashboard and the windshield. The car pivoted around the sturdy postbox and skittered out onto the road. It came to a rest across both lanes. Joe fought to pull air into his winded lungs. Dermot groaned; alive, but barely conscious. Joe unbuckled his seatbelt and shouldered his door open. He wobbled away from the wreckage on Bambi legs.
"Were you driving that car?"
Joe squinted at the source of the question. A young woman, struggling with a Cairn Terrier trying to choke itself on its own lead, studied him in the orange haze from an overhead streetlight.
"No, Missus. I was in the back. I'm lucky to be alive."
"What about the driver?"
"He's still in there. I'm going to find a phone box."
The dog lady instantly lost interest in Joe and crept towards the car. She probably wanted a good story to bring home. Why stop and chat to a dazed teen when there might be a maimed victim impaled on his steering column and bleeding to death? Joe did his best to steady his gait. He could do without any unwanted attention and the inevitable joyrider accusations. He glanced over his shoulder and saw that some cars had stopped on either side of the buckled Fiesta and the occupants were out to investigate. He'd slipped away in the nick of time. Dermot was probably good and fucked though. The thought of it spurred him on. He made his way back towards the shop. Back towards Wee Danny.
Minutes later he could see the twirling blue lights from a cop car. Rather than stand at a distance looking guilty, he closed in on the scene and melded in with the growing crowd of onlookers. If anybody noticed his shaking legs and chattering teeth they made no indication of it. He could see Wee Danny still in the same spot Dermot had left him. A young peeler stood at the door, barring access and throwing the occasional glance at the downed teenager. The shopkeeper wasn't in sight. They'd probably taken him out the back to make a statement.
An ambulance wailed and wove through the scant traffic and Joe felt relief flood his body. They wouldn't bother with the siren if they were picking up a corpse. Joe stood around to watch the paramedics bundle his mate onto a gurney. Wee Danny pawed at the air once and then lay still, but it was enough to satisfy Joe.
Chapter 15
Paul wound a strand of Emily's blonde hair around his index finger. They sat in the back of the red Clio, pink-skinned, and breathless. He noticed that she furrowed her brow a little and glanced at his hand.
"Sorry," Paul said. "Is that annoying you?"
"Not at all, darling. But you shouldn't care if it is. You're paying me, remember?"
Paul kissed her nectarine-smooth cheek. "That's no reason to take you for granted. I feel happier now than I have in years. I'd say this has been the healthiest relationship I've
ever had. No mind games, no second guessing, no stress. Just sex with a stunningly beautiful woman."
He thought that her eyes might have softened for a second, but she blinked and the business look returned. "You Irish and your silver tongues. You'd give a girl silly ideas."
"Do you want to go for a bite to eat? My treat?"
Emily sighed. "Paul, have you been watching Pretty Woman or something? Let me help you distinguish Hollywood from real life. I'm not a whore with a heart of gold. I'm not looking for a knight in shining armour to rescue me. I'm not praying for a way off the street. I'm a prostitute and I make good money. More than you, probably. I have no intention of complicating a good life by hooking up with a client. No matter how charming he is."
"But we're agreed that I am indeed charming? That's a good firm basis to start the negotiations from."
"This isn't a negotiation, Paul. I don't want to date you."
"What if I let you pay your own way? You couldn't really call that a date. More like a business meeting."
"Pay my own way? Now you're really dreaming."
"Okay, why don't we go to McDonalds? That's as far from romance as you could get."
"Full marks for persistence, but the answer is still no."
Paul pecked her on the lips. The smell of her leather jacket danced in his nostrils. He kissed her again, and she responded, slow and tender. Their front teeth scraped together and their tongues slid over each other. Paul ran a hand from Emily's cheek, to her neck, to her shoulder, to her breast.
She broke the kiss and whispered into his ear. "No freebies, darling."
Paul nodded. "Will you give me a special rate for an all-nighter?"
"There's you getting all Richard Gere again."
"Seriously. Will you stay with me tonight?"
"Why?"
"I'd like to fall asleep after a long, slow shag, wrapped up with a sweaty sex machine."
"Sweaty?"
"Glistening, then."
"And what if you wake up in the morning and your house has been ransacked? You don't know me from Adam."
"I've nothing much worth stealing, to be honest. A budget brand widescreen TV and some integrated kitchen appliances. Unless there's big money in Fisher Price toys, it wouldn't be worth your while."
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