Nine Inches

by Colin Bateman

  Every time I moaned, Joe glanced back at me and rolled his eyes.

  ‘A couple of broken ribs,’ he said. ‘You don’t hear me complaining.’

  ‘It’s sore. I don’t think they even X-rayed me. I probably have internal bleeding and ruptured kidneys.’

  ‘You’re fine,’ said Joe.

  ‘And you would know?’

  ‘I’m a butcher. I know more about anatomy than any six trauma teams combined.’

  ‘Yeah, cow anatomy. And dead ones at that.’

  ‘They did X-ray you,’ said Trish. She looked at Joe. ‘Is this it?’

  ‘Aye,’ said Joe, ‘pull up there on the left.’

  We were just off the Shankill, on Crimea Street. Joe got out, then leaned back in and said he would only be a minute. He went up to a front door and knocked. It opened, and he disappeared inside. Trish glanced back at me.

  ‘I’m scared.’

  ‘I’ll be fine.’

  ‘For Bobby.’

  She reached back and put her hand on my leg. I had the revolver resting in my hand on the other leg. I had managed to retrieve it from the glove compartment. The money and the drugs were still snug in the boot. As bargaining tools, they had proved worthless. When this was all over, I would have to find a charity to donate the money to. Or maybe charity would begin at home. I wasn’t sure what to do with the coke. I could distribute it to the homeless. It wouldn’t put a roof over their heads, but they probably wouldn’t give a shit.

  ‘I know you want to do this,’ said Patricia, ‘and I know in your head you blame yourself and you probably think you’re the brains of this bunch, but if you’ve any sense left in you at all, you’ll lead from the rear.’

  ‘That was always my intention.’

  ‘Good.’ She stroked my leg. ‘We’ve seen all shades of shit together, Dan Starkey, haven’t we?’

  ‘We have.’

  ‘But no one has ever described you as a man of action.’

  ‘Inaction is how I prefer it.’

  ‘I know. It’s how I like you.’

  ‘It’s how you love me.’

  ‘Don’t push it.’

  She smiled. I put my hand over hers and squeezed gently.

  ‘Trish. Don’t get your hopes up. We’ll do our best, but he might already—’

  ‘Don’t. This glass is half full.’

  ‘Okay. Absolutely.’

  The passenger door opened and Joe got in. He was carrying a Nike sports bag.

  ‘It’s always good to have a sponsor,’ I said.

  Joe ignored me. ‘Let’s go,’ he said.

  We parked initially about a hundred metres down from the old Methodist church, on the opposite side of the road. It gave us a decent view of it in between the steady rhythm of the wiper blades. After ten minutes, Maxi pulled in just in front of us. He opened the back door of his car and took out doubled-up Tesco bags containing something heavy. He walked up to our car and climbed in the back beside me. He placed the bag at his feet.

  ‘Okay?’ Joe asked.

  ‘Okay.’

  The snooker hall was open and appeared to be doing steady business. In the thirty minutes we waited there, there were always two guys in the doorway, smoking. Not always the same guys, but always two of them.

  ‘Got to presume they’re armed,’ said Joe.

  ‘They do about ten minutes each, then switch,’ said Maxi.

  ‘Be good not to get four at the same time.’

  ‘Be good not to get any of them.’

  ‘They need distracting,’ said Joe.

  We all nodded. With the exception of Trish, who said, ‘I could do that.’

  I said, ‘No way.’

  ‘I could, absolutely.’

  ‘I mean, I don’t want you involved.’

  ‘Dan, I’m here, I’m here for Bobby, I will do what I have to do to get him back.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘What sort of distraction?’ asked Maxi.

  ‘I could undo a couple of buttons, ask them to give me a terror tour of the Shankill.’

  ‘No,’ I said.

  ‘Three, then.’ She swivelled in her seat and undid them. I’d seen it all before, but I was still looking. Maxi was looking too, and nodding. Joe, who probably had a better view than either of us, glanced once, reddened slightly and then kept his eyes on the church. ‘I’ll go up and ask them to take me inside and show me the finer points of snooker.’

  ‘No,’ I said.

  ‘It’s not enough,’ said Joe.

  ‘I can’t go topless,’ said Trish, ‘I need the support.’

  ‘No,’ said Joe, ‘we need something to draw them out.’

  ‘Three buttons and a flat tyre, then,’ said Trish.

  ‘Not enough,’ said Joe.

  ‘You need to crash it,’ said Maxi, ‘and get hysterical.’

  ‘Comes naturally,’ I said.

  She looked at me. ‘You wish.’

  Joe smirked and looked away.

  Maxi had other things on his mind. He said, ‘You up to it?’

  Trish nodded.

  ‘Okay. We transfer to my car. You take this one round the block. You see thon lamppost? You run her into that hard enough to set the alarm off and do some damage. They’ll come running and we’ll be in. Can you handle that?’

  ‘Perfect,’ said Trish.

  He looked round us all. We were all in.

  We took a few minutes to slip out, one by one, to reconvene in Maxi’s car. I was the last to go. I said to Trish, ‘This is mental.’

  ‘It usually is,’ she said.

  I leaned across to kiss her. She kissed me back. It was passionate. We finished. We looked into each other’s eyes.

  ‘Love you,’ I said.

  ‘I know,’ she said.

  We left it with a smile, as it should be.

  I got out and did my best to saunter casually to Maxi’s Volvo. A brief glance towards the church, and I was in.

  As I closed the door, Trish drove past.

  Maxi started the engine and pulled out. We eased past the church and parked about fifteen metres beyond it, facing away but giving us a partial view of the doors and vestibule through the rain-speckled left-hand side mirror.

  ‘Okay,’ said Maxi. ‘This is it. Dan, you’ve been here before, you know what the set-up is. Joe, we go right from the entrance, up a set of stairs. There’s a hall with two guards at the end of it. Armed. Beyond is the Millers, don’t know if they’re carrying or not. Room behind them is where they’ll have Bobby, if they have him. If they’re having a go at him, and they run to form, Detective Inspector Springer, pride of the force, will be in there interviewing him with pliers.’

  Joe nodded. ‘And if they don’t have him?’

  ‘Then we’ll have a lot of apologising to do to the dead folk.’

  ‘You’re killing them?’ I asked.

  Maxi looked at me. ‘We’re not a fucking debating society, Dan.’

  ‘I know, but . . .’

  ‘But nothing.’

  Maxi lifted the Tesco bag from the passenger seat. From within he withdrew what appeared to be a sawn-off shotgun. He showed it to Joe.

  ‘Twelve-gauge Beretta. Three in the magazine, one ready to pop.’

  Joe unzipped his Nike bag. He withdrew a revolver not dissimilar to mine. He showed it to Maxi. ‘Mateba semi-automatic, takes a .357 Magnum cartridge, six shots.’

  I showed my weapon, and turned it over, looking for the maker’s mark. I couldn’t find one.

  Maxi took it off me and examined it. ‘Smith and Wesson,’ he concluded. ‘Replica.’

  ‘Rep . . .’

  ‘Exactly. If you pull the trigger, don’t forget to say bang.’

  ‘Fuck,’ I said.

  ‘Probably for the best,’ said Maxi.

  ‘You concentrate on the boy,’ said Joe, ‘we’ll worry about the rest.’

  ‘Like a wide receiver,’ I said.

  ‘No,’ said Joe, ‘nothing
like a wide receiver. You halfwit.’

  Trish’s car passed us.

  ‘Ready,’ said Joe.

  ‘Ready,’ said Maxi.

  ‘Ready,’ I said, though I was precisely the opposite.

  ‘What the fuck is she doing?’ asked Joe.

  I turned. Trish had driven past the lamppost, and pulled one side of her car up on to the footpath, but facing away from her target.

  ‘Did she just overshoot?’ asked Maxi.

  We were perplexed, and then the coin dropped.

  ‘She’s going to reverse into it,’ I said.

  ‘Why the fuck would she do that?’

  I laughed. They looked at me.

  ‘What’s so funny?’ Joe asked.

  ‘She is. Even now, this traumatic time, she’s thinking about her good looks. She’s going to reverse in so she doesn’t set the airbag off. She doesn’t want it to break her nose.’

  Maxi laughed too. ‘Women,’ he said.

  ‘Women,’ agreed Joe. ‘I’m well rid.’ He checked the mirror. He looked from Maxi to me, then said: ‘Tell her.’

  I called Trish. She answered on the first ring. ‘Go for it, gorgeous,’ I said.

  ‘Yes, boss,’ she replied. ‘And good luck.’

  She cut the line. My heart was thumping madly. I had been through a lot of strange, dangerous adventures in my time, but I had never purposely involved Patricia in them. It did not feel good. She was doing this for someone she hardly knew, a tearaway, a dealer, and a snotty teenager to boot. She had a heart of gold, except when it came to me.

  I turned in the back seat. Trish’s reverse lights were on; even with the rain and the traffic, I could hear her revving the engine.

  ‘Why is she revving the engine?’ Maxi asked.

  ‘Just floor the fucker,’ said Joe.

  And then she did.

  The car leapt backwards with engine roaring and wheels spinning and whacked into the lamppost with a huge amount of force. The post remained standing, but the lamp at the top shattered. The car boot flew open. The rear window smashed, spraying glass everywhere. The alarm began to reverberate. Trish kept revving that engine. Passers-by lowered their umbrellas to watch, and then battled to stop them from being blown inside out. We turned to the church – the two hoods on duty were looking across. One took a step down on to the pavement. The other stayed where he was.

  ‘Go on . . . move . . . move,’ Maxi whispered.

  Patricia was climbing out. She seemed to stumble, then fell to her knees. I couldn’t be sure if she was hurt or acting. The alarm continued to sound. The rain was driving sideways, and the wind was whipping up bits of paper, which were swirling around her. There was an awful lot of it; the crash must have crushed the rubbish bin attached to the lamppost.

  People began to rush towards her.

  Towards her . . . and past her.

  ‘What the fuck . . .’ I said.

  The people of the Shankill were literally dropping their umbrellas, and running around the car. Vehicles began to stop. Drivers jumped out and joined everyone else charging about like headless chickens. They were all ignoring Trish. They were jumping up and down, up and down, as if they were taking part in some bizarre flashmob dance extravaganza. They reached up into the air, grabbing, grabbing and grabbing.

  And then a piece of the paper slapped into our back window. And the Queen’s damp face on a twenty-pound note stared in at us.

  ‘Oh, Christ,’ I said.

  Patricia’s crash had been powerful enough to tear a gash in the boot, which also ripped open the bin bag full of cash, and the wind did the rest.

  It was raining money.

  Miller money.

  ‘We’re on,’ said Maxi.

  I turned to see the hoods darting through the abandoned cars to join in the paper chase. Snooker players were spilling out of the church after them and shops on either side of the road were emptying. It was turning into a huge scrum, a melee of greed and good fortune. Through it all Trish remained on her knees, completely ignored, and I had a desperate urge to run to her instead of into the church.

  But I couldn’t.

  She would have killed me.

  Maxi was out of the car. Joe followed. They paid no attention to the money. They held their guns at their sides, parallel to their legs. I scrambled out after them, my useless revolver held similarly and pointlessly.

  I followed as they weaved effortlessly through the throng. Maxi stepped into the vestibule first, bringing his gun up as he did, and led the way up the stairs, which were only wide enough to go single file. Maxi went second, while I brought up the rear, bravely guarding for assault from behind. The steps were old-church wooden, and loud. Before we were a third of the way up, the guard who’d been reading the Sun on my last visit appeared at the top. He had a newspaper tucked under his elbow. I don’t know if he was there because he’d heard us or because he’d been alerted to the commotion outside. Whatever – he was not expecting what he now encountered: he came to a dead stop, his mouth opened, and he began to paw at the interior of his zip black jacket.

  And that was as far as he got.

  Maxi fired once, straight into his chest, and the Sun man shot backwards, hitting the ground before the sound had finished reverberating in the confined space. Maxi stepped over him and continued on. As Joe passed, he leant down and punched him once, hard in the face, to make sure he didn’t try to get up. I looked down at his fluttering eyes and his bubbled bloody breath and also swept past. The table at the end was abandoned and the door behind open. Maxi and Joe charged along and took up positions on either side of the entrance. As far as I knew, Joe had been in the UVF, which was hardly renowned for training its killers in the etiquette of storming enemy fortresses, or indeed anything beyond saluting the flag and kneecapping, but he seemed to know what he was doing. Two shots sounded through the open door, and I hit the deck.

  ‘Stay there,’ Maxi hissed. I did as I was told. Maxi looked at Joe, nodded, and they turned into the doorway at the same time, guns raised and shooting. The noise was incredible, the air caustic; when there was a momentary lull, I scrambled forward on hands and knees and peered through the opening. The second of the guards was face down, his T-shirt a bloody mess. Rab was on his back; there was blood pumping out of his throat; his whole body was juddering. Maxi and Joe were already at the other door, in similar positions.

  ‘Windy?’ Maxi called out. ‘You in there?’

  ‘What’s it to you?’ Windy yelled back.

  ‘It’s Maxi McDowell. You killed my wife.’

  ‘Prove it!’

  ‘Don’t need to.’

  ‘Windy . . .’ said Joe. ‘It’s Joe Martin. Joe the Butcher.’

  ‘I know you, Joe. This is none of your business.’

  ‘You have my boy.’

  ‘Your boy?’

  ‘He works for me. You let him go.’

  ‘Yeah, balls I will.’

  Maxi calmly began to reload his gun.

  ‘Don’t be stupid, Windy,’ said Joe. ‘Your brother needs help, he’s not going to get it while you’re in there.’

  ‘My brother is dead, I saw him shot.’

  ‘No he’s not, but he soon will be.’

  ‘Rab? Rab!’ Windy called. ‘Can you hear me?’

  ‘He’s shot in the throat,’ said Joe. ‘He can’t talk, but he’s still breathing, I can see it. C’mon, Windy, let the boy go.’

  Joe began to reload as well. I moved up beside him at the door. Almost the only sound was the frantic gasping coming from Rab. Somewhere in the background there were sirens. Surprise and bravado had got us this far. Now Maxi and Joe were stuck with the knowledge that the first of them through the door would almost certainly be shot. But there was a cold determination about the both of them. Maxi had nothing left to lose. His wife was dead. The man in the next room was responsible for it. Joe’s motives were obscure but possibly even more admirable. He was sacrificing his own life for a relative stranger, for nothing mor
e than good.

  And then there was a sound from the next room, a clump of something heavy falling.

  Maxi looked at Joe, and Joe back at Maxi, and they both looked at me. I shrugged my classic shrug.

  ‘Windy?’ Joe called.

  ‘Windy’s dead,’ came the response.

  Unmistakably: Bobby.

  I stepped around Maxi. He tried to stop me, but I walked straight through the door, and a fraction of a second later they came after me, one on either side, and there was a sight we would never forget.

  Windy was face down on the floor, blood from three gaping wounds haemorrhaging out of his back and spraying the room like a garden sprinkler. Bobby was standing over him, in his gore-spattered stripy apron. He was grinning through swollen lips, three front teeth missing, and a butcher’s knife dripping in his hand. His other hand was clutching a chair for support. At the base of the chair there were three teeth that very probably matched the gap in his frightening smile.

  ‘I gutted the fucker!’ Bobby cried. ‘I gutted the fucker!’

  51

  ‘Poor wee skitter,’ the doctor said. ‘That must’ve hurt like hell.’

  He was a burly man in his fifties; if he’d worked through the bad-olds, then a few missing teeth and an interesting pattern of cigarette burns on the palms of Bobby’s hands hardly qualified as major trauma.

  ‘Never mind him,’ I said. ‘Can you give me something? My head’s busting.’

  He declined.

  Bobby had been shifted up from Casualty to the Royal Belfast Hospital for Sick Children, on the grounds of the RVH, for which he just about qualified. It was an open ward, and full; lots of baldy-headed kids insatiably curious about the new arrival and his connection to the police milling about wanting to ask him questions. They had a lot of questions. When they couldn’t ask Bobby, they asked me. They might have asked Maxi, or Joe, if they’d been able to find them.

  Maxi had been resigned to the fact that he would be arrested; he didn’t care. It was Joe who persuaded, cajoled and finally dragged him away by arguing that they had to finish their work. Springer had fled down the fire escape. He had as much to do with Bobby’s kidnapping and Maxi’s wife’s murder as the Millers. So they went looking for him, and that left me with toothless Bobby and four corpses for all of about five seconds, until the cops came storming up the stairs, armed to the teeth and screaming at us to put our hands up. So I did, but Bobby said, ‘I can’t, I’ll fall over,’ and it was all the funnier because he was pasted in blood. We started giggling, and we could hardly stop, and the cops looked at us like we were mental.