Now though, Billy Nelson had marched back from killing the Taliban and had set all the fire alarms off, and the newspapers were having a collective orgasm and pointing fingers at the Loyalist paramilitaries who’d dirtied their fingers on occasions with some serious right-wing nutjobs. The chief constable – or chief cunt as Martin liked to call him – had been all over the television looking a bit too serious and promising to crack down on those responsible. That was a coded message for ‘grass these fuckers or we’ll be all over the wrongdoers in this city’.
‘Perfect, fuckin’ perfect,’ he said out loud, prompting his minder and comrade from the Troubles to look up from his football magazine.
‘Did ye say something, Jackie?’
Martin looked round at him, annoyed. ‘Aye, I fuckin’ did, but I was speaking to someone intelligent . . . Me! So go back to your fuckin’ comic or eat a banana or something.’ He leaned back in his chair again.
The Peelers had been as good as their word and were all over his and everyone else’s business. This was how it always was; there was peace then some pain in the arse would come along and screw it all up, and how it was presented to the citizens all depended on what action was taken. As far as Martin was concerned, Nelson and his team would have to fuck off out of Belfast or they’d get a big fat fire escape for the worms in their thick fucking heads. ‘Cunts!’
His minder looked up again from his magazine, saw Martin give him the look that said ‘shut the fuck up’ and went back to reading about his beloved Glasgow Rangers.
Martin knew what had to be done – it was simple and just like the old days when there was a bit of tension in the ranks. Nelson would be pulled in, told that he was on a red card and he’d have to leave Belfast or take what came next. That order would apply equally to his team, who could be buried in the same grave if they wanted to take it on. The word would be quietly passed along to PSNI HQ that the problem had been sorted, then eventually it would all settle down again. They could live happily ever after. The world would soon forget a few shirtlifters and immigrants, and they could all get on with the rest of their lives till the next daft bastard came along and gave everyone a headache in the arse. He turned to the minder and told him to find Nelson and haul him in. Conscious or unconscious – it didn’t really matter.
Billy Nelson sipped the cold Guinness, looking round the pub for faces – friendly or otherwise. His experience of the Troubles plus the Middle East had made him instinctively sniff the air for warning signs everywhere he went. The run-down old boozer near the city centre was on its last legs, only attracting the odd loyal pensioner who remembered it in its heyday and the punters who liked the fact it was next door to the bookies. Nelson’s head hurt after a night and a half with the boys that had dehydrated his brain to a raw thumping engine trying to beat its way out of his skull. He doubted the rest of the team would be up and about before it was dark again, but the army had taught him to take the pain and just get on with it. They’d had a good score with a bit of dope, and he’d managed to pull his first woman since getting kicked out of the regiment.
The regiment – every time he thought about it he wanted to break something. He gulped the second half of the Guinness in one go then signalled the barman to fill her up.
‘You got a thirst there, son?’ the barman said routinely.
Nelson looked up at the man on the other side of the bar. About five stone overweight and the wrong side of the half-century. He guessed the fat bastard had never been beyond the edges of Belfast in his life. ‘Why you asking?’ Nelson issued the question through tight lips. There was no smile to go with the reply, and his look dared the barman to make a smart-arsed return of serve. The older man had seen his share of headcases over the years and knew by heart all the warning signs in the man opposite.
‘No reason. I’ll just get your beer.’ He shrugged and got on with it.
Nelson nodded, disappointed that there was no challenge from the man. His head started to ease halfway through the second pint, and he ordered one of the sandwiches that looked like it had been dried under a sunlamp for a few hours. After two bites he decided to stick to the beer.
He saw the two apes come in and scan the bar. There was no way they were looking for any of the undead reading their racing sections, and it took him about two seconds to work out they were either there to settle something with the barman or him. He could see their tattoos in the mirror and knew what kind of men they were – big, thick and violent. He had a good view and decided not to bother with any sudden movements till he was sure he knew what it was about.
The apes spotted him and moved towards the bar with that strange waddle exhibited by weightlifters with overdeveloped thighs. They stood behind him and gave him the look via the bar mirror. He nodded but didn’t bother turning round.
‘You alright there, boys? You look like you might know me, but I certainly don’t know you. Now state your business and let me get on enjoying this beer or go and stare at someone else.’
He knew enough to work out that if they’d come to hurt him, it would have started already. Someone was delivering a message, so he could afford to take the piss. In any case they were big but wouldn’t be that dainty on their feet, and Billy Nelson was very fucking fast when it was needed.
‘Jackie wants to see you, young man,’ mumbled the larger of the two primates.
Nelson relaxed at the name and hoped this was the call he’d been waiting for. All those years ago it had been Jackie Martin who’d told him he was heading for the Army and not a Loyalist paramilitary unit. He was the man who’d seen the young Nelson’s potential and what he might achieve for the cause in the future.
‘That’s fine with me, boys. Just let me finish this beer and I’ll be right with you.’
He took his time and let them wait, knowing they were pissed that he had the balls to sit there and sip his beer when a man like Jackie Martin was waiting. They thought he was a smart-arse and hoped Jackie would give them the nod to soften him up a bit.
Nelson paid for his beer and they walked outside to a two-year-old Beamer. One of them climbed in behind the wheel and the other squeezed in the back. Nelson decided to keep winding them up; he pulled out his cigarettes and took as much time as he could with the ceremony of lighting one up before jumping in. Their faces were set in seriously fucked-off expressions, but that was a result as far as he was concerned.
They made the short drive up the Shankill and stopped outside the pub that Martin used as an unofficial office. Nelson knew the place well – it held its share of secrets from the Troubles, and the rumours were that one or two suspect touts had walked in the front only to be carried out the back.
Martin was in the small back room that stank of old beer and a general lack of hygiene. He had his feet up on the battered old table that served as his desk. Nelson thought he looked in good shape – he was clearly still lifting some serious iron, and he’d never been shy about steroids in the past, though the last thing a violent psycho like Jackie Martin needed was a dose of steroids making him even more unstable. The story went that he could have been in the Guinness Book of Records for the number of road-rage incidents he’d kicked off without any help from the other driver.
‘Billy boy, it’s been a long time, and you look a right fuckin’ handful now. All that hard graft in the regiment did you no harm.’
Martin nodded at the only other seat in the room. Nelson sat down, felt it sway and wondered if it would collapse under his weight, but he decided it wasn’t the time to complain about the furniture. The escorts were behind him, one each side of the door.
‘How’s it going, Jackie? You look like you’re still hitting the weights and not changed a bit. How’s business now we’re all at peace here?’
Martin studied the younger man and realised that he’d been right all those years ago. This boy was hard core, but more than that he was sharp – most men sweated their guts out when they sat in that chair, wondering whether Martin was happy or p
issed off with them. But Nelson never turned a hair and just sat there with a cocky half-smile on his face, as if everything in the garden smelt of fucking roses. He’d only been in the place two minutes and he was getting under Martin’s skin. The older man wondered whether the boy was a complete nutjob or just hadn’t worked out that he was up a very large creek with no sign of a paddle. He decided to dispense with the sweet talk and get straight to the point before he lost it and did Nelson there and then.
‘Billy, you’ve not been back that long but sad to say you’ve caused waves – big bad bastard waves. I thought you’d have been smart enough to stay low, get acquainted with the city again and in time you’d get on a payroll then earn a bit.’
Martin’s face darkened as he went on, and Nelson realised this was not what he wanted to hear. Too bad, he thought, but he still didn’t give a fuck, though he regretted pissing off Pinky and Perky, who were hovering somewhere behind him; that might have been a mistake as Martin was definitely not about to make him vice-chairman of the board.
‘What’s the problem, Jackie?’ he asked. ‘I’ve not interfered with any of your business – at least not to my knowledge.’
Martin pushed himself up from the table and leaned over it, his face tightening and unable to control it – but then he never could. Nelson didn’t move a muscle and kept eye contact, which sent Martin’s soaring blood pressure up another ten points. He looked at his minders, who stared into negative space in case he lost it with them as well. ‘Do you hear that, boys?’ he said. They continued staring into space. ‘Billy here doesn’t know what the fuckin’ problem is.’
A small white fleck of saliva bubbled from the corner of his mouth as he walked round the table, and he just became angrier when Nelson kept his cool as if they were discussing the best place to get a Chinese. He sat on the edge of the table and tried not to wade into the smart-arse and crack his skull – he had enough problems without a body to get rid of.
‘I’ll tell you what the problem is, Billy,’ he said. ‘Everything was going fine: business excellent, problems zero – or close to fuckin’ zero. Then you decided to hand out a yellow card to a member of Osama Bin Laden’s fan club. Correct?’
Nelson kept eye contact. ‘Not quite, Jackie.’
Martin had had enough. He grabbed the younger man’s jaw with his right hand and pushed his face as close in as he could; he’d seen Tony Soprano do this a couple of times and liked it as a move.
‘You’ve come back to this city and started a war against the outsiders. The Peelers are all over us – not just me but a lot of serious people. Where the fuck do you think you are?’ He stepped back, cooling down and controlling his breathing again. He sat back behind the table – saw Nelson straighten his jacket. At least he’d dropped the smirk. ‘Well?’
Nelson rubbed the marks on his cheeks but kept eye contact. ‘I’m sorry. I hate these fuckers and didn’t realise I was causing a problem for anyone’s business. No one got in touch with me; that would have helped. I thought the plan was that I’d come back and be of use to someone, but nothing seemed to happen.’ He felt a dull pain in his gut and wondered again if he was landing an ulcer. During his time in Helmand he’d had constant discomfort in his stomach, but that wasn’t unusual in combat zones. Drinking Guinness in the morning was probably off the menu for him.
Martin had calmed down and told the shorter of the apes – Robby – to go and fetch a couple of beers.
‘The world’s changed a wee bit, Billy, and Belfast has changed a big fuckin’ bit. You’ve seen it. You left here when it was a war zone and that’s gone, apart from a few nutters who’ve nothing else to do but throw bricks at the Peelers because someone took the Union Jack down. The truth is that to the good people on the mainland, that fuckin’ flag pish represents a wish that Northern Ireland would drift away into the Atlantic and sink.’
The drinks arrived and Robby the ape pushed one in front of Nelson then took up his position at the door again. Martin gulped down half the beer in one.
‘I’ll tell you what’s going to happen,’ he said. ‘There’s a red card out on you if you stay here, and that’s a done deal. You’re a hard fucker no doubt, and you might try and fight it, but eventually you’ll go down. You know that?’ He waited for a response.
‘I know that. Just trying to think where I’ll go though.’
Nelson had given up the smart-alec pose. Martin nodded, pleased that he had control of the situation. ‘Look, I pointed you at the Army, and with your talents it would be a waste just to leave you at the side of the road or see the back of you.’
Nelson saw a door opening – what could have been the day he died turning round again.
‘The business we run is expanding, and we do a lot of trade with the mainland in working girls and dope. We’ve got good links into Glasgow but there’s a demand now from the east, but no one from our side’s in Edinburgh. As far as the others here are concerned you’ve been kicked out, but that doesn’t stop you earning once you settle down. How does that sound?’
Nelson was smart enough to know that not being killed was a reasonable deal, and he was pissed off with the new Belfast anyway. ‘Sounds fine to me, and I appreciate it.’ He was lying, but so what?
Martin looked pleased with himself. ‘Take that daft fuckin’ team of yours with you, because there’s a bullet in the nut for them as well if they hang around. It has to be this way, and then we can pass a message to the Peelers to go back to harassing the poor fuckin’ motorists.’
He sat back and spread his arms like Tony Soprano. Nelson smiled and thought what a tosser Martin was – but if it put some money on the table he’d settle for it.
He leaned over and shook the man’s hand then got up to leave, noticing the look of disappointment on the faces of Robby and his pal. He winked at them and watched their expressions twitch just a bit as he walked to the door.
‘One more thing . . .’ Martin dropped the tone of his voice to very fucking serious. ‘When you’re over there you’ll eventually get noticed by the law – that’s just part of the game. Don’t be a fuckin’ cowboy. You’re one of us, so act like it. Phone me tomorrow and I’ll get you set up with a bit of cash to get started. All you need to do after that is use your specialist skills to cut us out a business over there. I’m counting on you.’
A few minutes later Nelson was walking down the Shankill towards the city and pulling on a cigarette. He shook his head at what had just been said: you’re one of us, so act like it. ‘Jesus, he thinks he’s an example to other men!’ Nelson murmured to himself. He pulled up his collar and started thinking about an exit strategy before someone changed their mind and gave him permanent rest, then he called his team and told them where to meet and that he wasn’t taking any excuses.
They sat trying to take it in and there was a bit of panic that Nelson had to calm. ‘We’re not getting nutted,’ he told them. ‘It was on the cards, but the man has given us a chance. The trouble is that you boys don’t think there’s life outside Belfast.’ He looked round the faces of the young men who saw Nelson as the only one that could think for them. On their own they were daft enough to stay in the city and take a long nap in a landfill site.
‘We’ll set up on the mainland; the man has even said he’ll give us a leg-up with money so we don’t need to sell the Big Issue to survive.’ The boys nodded and looked to him as their saviour, even though he’d been the mad fuck who’d put them where they were in the first place.
‘So that’s it. We’re on our way, we’ve to set up a market over the east side and make a good bit of a life for ourselves. There’s one thing though; the man thinks we’re finished with the fuckin’ Muslims, queers and the like – well he can go and take a fuck on that one. As far as I’m concerned if we want to hand out a bit of a lesson, well that’s fine by me. You okay with that?’
The boys were with him.
5
Nelson crawled out of bed, shivering in the cold morning air. He pulled on a
woollen sweater and walked over to the window, cursing the sight of the streaming rain blurring his outlook.
‘Some view,’ he muttered. There wasn’t much to see apart from the identikit concrete building opposite.
He tiptoed over the freezing tiles to what passed for a kitchen, opened a fresh pack of untipped cigarettes, fired one up and promised himself again that he’d stop – but not just yet. His cough compounded his throbbing headache, and he spat into the kitchen sink, not bothering to rinse out the foamy stain. His face twisted at the feel of the sticky coating of dirt on the floor, unwashed since they had moved in, as he switched on the heating and kettle. He smiled as the memories of the previous night’s antics came back to him in fragments, like partial images on shards of glass that gradually coalesced into a hazy image. The main thing was that he was pretty sure he hadn’t made an arse of himself and that the rest of the boys had behaved as far as they could.
They’d gone into Edinburgh city centre and spent the night trawling the George Street bars trying to pull some ‘decent office females’ as Nelson liked to label them, but their crude Belfast patter had only worked on one woman. The problem was that she was on her own, severely pissed, and looked like she’d escaped from a chuckle wagon and was still on the run. They’d decided to give her a miss and went on to lose a few notes at the casino. The bouncers had looked less than happy at the four drunks arriving at the door, and under normal circumstances they would have turned them around and given them a boot in the arse to help them on their way. If anything, though, the doormen were realists, and the Belfast accents and something in Nelson’s eyes had told them it might not be a battle worth fighting, so they had let them in.
The four men had had a laugh and could afford the loss at the tables. The main thing Nelson was sure of was that there had been no trouble, which was vital, as he was trying to stay under the radar of the local police. He knew it couldn’t last forever, but the longer they could build the business without hassle the better. He wanted, and planned to get, into a position where he could step back then let the mugs take the risks on his behalf. Just like that fat fucker Jackie Martin, he thought.
Evidence of Death Page 4