Wee Rockets

by Gerard Brennan

  Joe crushed his empty. "We'll see about that."

  The beer went down easy and Dermot couldn't help but admire how well Joe held his drink. At fourteen he'd been a Two-Can-Dan, but then, the beer was probably a lot stronger in those days. The boy didn't get his resistance to alcohol from Louise anyway. A fact Dermot was happy to exploit during their time together. Many a night he would get her drunk on generous measures of vodka and slip out for a night on the tear without her ever knowing. She'd always assumed he'd been as drunk as her and passed out on the sofa too. He'd never bothered to correct her. He never knew how easy he'd had it with her until he left. But then, that's what they all say.

  As the pile of crushed empties at their feet grew, Dermot felt safe enough to ask about Louise. "Did your ma tell you much about me?"

  "No. Not a thing. But like, I never asked."

  "You didn't miss me then?"

  "I didn't know you. Couldn't remember you ever being there. How could I miss you?"

  Dermot lit two cigarettes and passed one to Joe. The boy made a good point.

  "You would have remembered me though," Joe said. "Did you miss me?"

  Dermot's beer-numbed brain tried to think of a way to steer the conversation back to Louise. In the meantime, his mouth worked on Joe's question. "Of course I did. But I'd no choice but to leave. I'd hoped your ma would have explained it to you."

  "Maybe she thought you would have phoned me some time, or something."

  "Joe." Dermot wrapped an arm around his son's neck and pulled him in close. "You're right. I've no excuse for being such a shit." He kissed Joe's baseball cap and released him from the tender chokehold. "But I'm here now. And I want to make things good between us. Will you give me a chance?"

  Joe straightened up his cap. "If you do something for me."

  "What?"

  "Tell me why you left."

  The daylight had crept away, but the full moon above bounced enough light to colour the sky midnight blue. Even the stars managed to make their presence known, a rare treat for the city below. Dermot met Joe's unwavering stare. The boy barely fidgeted at all. "Okay, Joe." He didn't risk calling him son. "You deserve the truth."

  Joe sat up straight on the bench and turned a little towards Dermot. He pulled two fags from his own deck and gave one to Dermot. He lit up off the butt of his last smoke. "Fire away."

  "I'll keep this as short as I can. Want to finish talking before the beer runs out, you know?" He reached for another couple of cans. "I asked you earlier about anti-social behaviour. You were cagey, which is always a dead giveaway. It means you're as guilty of it as I was throughout my teens. We always know our own, eh? So yeah, I used to be a hood. Stole cars, broke into houses, dealt some drugs, snatched money wherever I could get it. You know the score, don't you?"

  Joe nodded.

  "Well, the older I got, the worse I got. Or the better I got, depending on your point of view. I'd built up a reputation as the maddest bastard on the Falls Road. Really there were madder and tougher than me, but I'd never have admitted that. I let my friends talk me up and never spoiled a good rumour with the truth. I figured the more respected and feared I became, the less I'd have to do to stay on top. Unfortunately, that kind of reputation can also earn the wrong kind of attention. It wasn't long before the Provos put word out that they wanted my kneecaps."

  "And that's when you left?"

  Dermot snorted. "Not at all. I figured the Provos were a little afraid of me too. Otherwise they'd have just done me instead of laying on the scare tactics. Nah, I went ahead and did what I always did, all the time feeling more and more untouchable. My trouble started when the RUC lifted me for dealing ecstasy from a stolen Vauxhall Nova in the middle of Beechmount. This was before the Peace Process kicked in and cops would have been safer in Beirut. They fairly caught me by surprise. Jumped out of an unmarked car between customers and bundled me into the boot. I thought it was the Ra until we arrived at Castlereagh Police Station. For the first time they had real evidence on me. Videotaped the dealing I'd done that night, got one of my customers to tout on me, took my prints off the car. I wasn't looking at a huge sentence, but they offered me an easy way out and I'd have been a mug not to take it."

  Joe nodded. "I think I know what you're going to say."

  "Yeah, some things never change, do they? They took me on as a tout. Turned out I wasn't the big shot I'd started believing I was. They wanted to get to a cousin of mine. Seanie Kelly, the IRA bomber. I'd been picked as a convenient stepping stone and made their job easier by being a sloppy hood. Anyone else would have gotten a tenner for each snippet of information. They got me for free."

  "Shit, you had to set up your own cousin?" Joe leaned a little closer.

  "Well I never liked the bastard. Spoke to him the odd time at weddings and funerals, but he knew what I was and I knew what he thought of that. In hindsight, he might have been part of the reason I'd never been kneecapped, but I didn't have any misplaced loyalty for him. So I helped Special Branch gather information and evidence and they scooped him. Charged him with a list of terrorist offences as long as the Lagan. He got life. A big deal at the time, but sure, he got out early under the Good Friday Agreement."

  "So you got caught touting on your cousin and left, then. Makes sense."

  "Well, not straight away. I'd provided them with enough info that they didn't need me as a witness, so I hadn't blown my cover. The peelers still had some use for me."

  "How many Provos did you help put away?"

  "Six. And I made things difficult for at least three others. A messy business."

  Joe sat back on the bench. He seemed to be piecing things together in his drunk mind. "So when your identity got out you had to disappear." He spoke slowly, still figuring things out as he said them aloud. "And if you'd made contact with me you'd have risked getting discovered. Sort of the way the Americans on witness relocation have to promise never to contact the family they leave behind. You're like Ray Liotta in Goodfellas."

  And Dermot was happy to let the boy kid himself with such a romantic notion. "So do you think you can give me that chance?"

  "Aren't you worried you'll be recognised now?"

  "Kind of. But it's been a long time, and the IRA agreed to cease all paramilitary activities last summer. I'll count on that as my ‘Get out of Jail Free' card."

  "Well, if you're not going to run off again, then I'm happy enough to keep on seeing you."

  Dermot hugged Joe roughly. Then he broke up the awkward silence that followed with the sound of another can of beer cracking open.

  "So that's enough about me," Dermot said. "What about you?"

  "I don't know where to start."

  "Well, how about we start with the important stuff?" Dermot scratched his head. "Like, are you happy?"

  Joe took a few seconds to think about his answer. "Right now I am. It's been a weird week though."

  "Right now is what's important. We all go through rough patches, but if you can keep your head down and bull through it, there's always a good time around the corner. And if it isn't, just fucking steal something. That always cheers me up."

  Joe chuckled. "I'll remember that."

  "There was a big ginger fellah at your house last night. I take it he's your ma's boyfriend. They been together long?"

  "No." Joe's expression grew serious. "They only met on Sunday, apparently."

  "And has your ma had a lot of boyfriends?"

  "What? No! She's not a slapper."

  "Of course not. I just wanted to know if you were used to that sort of thing. Your mum bringing men into your house, I mean."

  "Well McVeigh's the first one she's ever brought home. And that was only last night."

  And judging by how the boy spat out the ginger guy's name, he didn't have much love for him. "Do you know much about him?"

  "Not a lot. Seen him about a bit. Lives in Beechmount, plays football and thinks he's hard. And he's ginger."

  "He is, isn't he? So you're n
ot a fan."

  Joe shook his head.

  "Well, maybe we could have a bit of fun with him. See what he's made of."

  "I'm listening."

  ###

  Looking over his shoulder at one-minute intervals to keep an eye on his manager, Paul surfed the internet for reviews of the Peugeot 307. He'd spent the morning doing his sums and thought he could probably afford to take on a Charles Hurst Usedirect finance deal for a 2002 model with all the trimmings. They'd be advertising for team leaders in the call centre next month, and after six years working as a phone jockey for Halifax, he had enough experience to do well in an interview. That would mean a little more money and he'd be able to put a bit aside every month to make the final lump sum payment. For once in his life he would count his chickens before they hatched.

  And the night he bought it, he would invite Sinead out for a drive to christen the backseat on a quiet country road. If she turned him down, then he'd take a spin across the city to Linenhall Street, clear of guilt because he'd given the missus a chance to show some affection.

  He'd joked about kerb-crawling with McVeigh the night before, but after the ginger one rushed off to play Columbo, Paul had ordered another pint and thought about his non-existent sex life. His introspection placed the blame in equal measures on Sinead and himself. She should have made more of an effort, but it didn't help that he'd been too soft with her. He never put her under pressure by complaining or begging. Neither of them talked about it anymore. It was as if sex no longer existed in their world. Even when Paul complained about Wee Owen's inability to spend an entire night in his own bed, he made it about the child's welfare and development and never about the impossibility of a decent shag.

  And ever since McVeigh brought it up, his balls seemed to be humming. All morning in the office he'd been evaluating his female colleagues. Every glance of breast pushed against T-shirt, buttocks trapped in cotton trousers or bare calf liberated beneath a summer dress gave him a twitch in his boxers. Even the morning bus to work had given him a cheap thrill as it juddered in traffic. Something had to be done.

  His mobile vibrated in his hip pocket, causing more activity down there. He rolled his eyes and only delayed fishing the naughty phone out for a few seconds.

  McVeigh calling. Would that fucker not leave him alone? He knew he wasn't meant to take personal calls at work. If he'd wanted a chat he could have stayed and had a pint with him the night before, instead of inflicting pubescent notions on him then splitting. He pushed the red button and cut him off. Seconds later a text message came through.

  "soz m8. 4got ur wrkin. call me l8r plz."

  It was probably nothing, but curiosity got the better of him. Maybe the big eejit had actually stumbled across some useful information about the Rockets the night before and wanted to bounce an idea off him. The text seemed too amiable for him to have anything on Danny at least. He keyed in the toilet-break code that would take him off the phone system for five minutes, slipped off his headset/leash and took his mobile to the stairwell. McVeigh answered on the first ring.

  "What?" Paul asked.

  "Do you know where your Danny was at half six yesterday evening?"

  "Probably watching The Simpsons. He never misses that show. Even the really old ones we've all seen a hundred times keep him glued to the armchair."

  "But did you actually see him there?"

  "No. I was at mine, shovelling the dinner into me before training. I never go to my ma's on a Tuesday. No time."

  "But you think he was probably at home."

  "I just said so, didn't I? What's this about?"

  McVeigh took a huffy-puffy breath. "I think I was wrong about Joe Philips running them Wee Rockets. And if I was wrong about him, I'm pretty sure your Danny is innocent too."

  Paul felt the relief of an ignored worry slipping away. "I told you so."

  "Yeah. But now what?"

  "Huh?"

  "They were my main leads. I can't figure out what to do now. Who to follow. What am I meant to do?"

  Paul thought for a second. "You could ask Joe what he knows. He does fall into the gang's age group. Could be he heard rumours about them at school that have a little substance."

  "Nobody touts around here. Especially not at their age."

  "True, but friends and family stick together too."

  "How does that help?"

  "Aren't you seeing his ma now? Make friends with him or replace his da or something."

  McVeigh fell silent for a few seconds. "You might be on to something."

  "Of course I am."

  Paul checked his watch. Still a minute of his toilet-break left. He fired off a text message to Sinead.

  "fancy goin 2 charles hurst tonite? feel like buyin a car."

  He thought that a pretty dashing invitation. He hoped she'd show a bit of appreciation.

  Chapter 9

  The bald lunatic in baggy red trousers and a green vest juggled four flaming torches and tottered on a unicycle. An impressive display spoiled by his constant jabbering in an annoying Manchester accent. Liam had a strong urge to shout abuse but didn't want to draw any unnecessary attention. The juggler faked losing his balance and the crowd outside Castlecourt Shopping Centre gasped. Liam held his tongue. He stepped back from the ring of motley onlookers and tried to find a target.

  On the periphery of the audience, a yuppie-type fidgeted and sweated in a charcoal-grey pinstriped suit. Liam didn't know why the stupid bastard would wear it on such a sunny day, but the white X chalked onto the back of his jacket stood out nicely against the dark fabric. Mickey Rooney had spent the last half hour hovering around cash machines in the heart of the city with a stick of chalk. Anyone withdrawing a thick bundle of notes got followed. Then, while they waited to cross the road, or stopped to check out something in a shop window, Mickey made two diagonal slashes on a coat, shirt or T-shirt without being spotted. X marked the spot. There would be no risking their necks for a five-pound return. They had an easy way to find those worth robbing.

  Yuppie-Type glanced at his gold watch and pursed his lips. Liam followed as the guy waded through pedestrian traffic, towards City Hall. Across the street he spotted Tommy Four-Eyes slip away from the rack of trainers on display outside a sports shop. Liam pointed at Yuppie Type and Four-Eyes nodded. He assumed the others were behind him. So long as they kept him in sight, things would work out fine.

  The target turned on to Castle Street and Liam clenched a fist like a football spectator anticipating something special from a lucky break on the pitch. Less people moved along the narrower footpaths. Fewer witnesses. And more importantly, fewer potential heroes; especially since the black taxis had moved to their new depot and most of the bus stops were relocated to Fountain Street. The shops took a dive in quality on this street. Newsagents, greasy spoon cafes and market stalls that sold cheap batteries and four-for-a-pound lighters made up the bulk of the trade.

  Halfway up the street, Yuppie-Type pulled a spanking new Motorola from his hip pocket, flipped it open and pressed it to his ear. Liam reacted. In a sprint, he closed the gap. He hoped the others would keep up. No time to check. Yuppie-Type, alerted by the clip-clop of Liam's trainers, glanced over a padded shoulder. Liam took a second to register the target's intimidating height. He'd looked average from a distance. Close up, he was a giant. But momentum stopped Liam from bottling out. He snatched the mobile out of Yuppie-Type's hand and ran.

  Pedestrians scuttled aside as Liam bolted along the footpath. He kept an eye out for grabbing arms and tripping legs. The surprised expressions of those not ready to spring into action met his furtive glances. They had shopping to do. Not their problem. Liam broke right and hammered it up Fountain Place. Again he cursed his lack of fitness. His lungs burned. Blood rushed to his face. His teeth rattled in his mouth. He needed to put the pain out of his mind. A busker's accordion blared and he forced himself to focus on it. A Pakistani boy tried to sell him a Big Issue. Liam conserved his breath by not telling him to f
uck off. Low flying pigeons crossed his path. He dropped his chin to his chest and bent at the waist to avoid them.

  Then he slowed to a halt.

  He turned to face his pursuer. Yuppie-Type, barely fifty yards away, dropped gears to jogging speed. Liam could see the sweat glistening on his lined brow. A grim smile cracked his face. White teeth gleamed against a sun-bed tan. His jog became a confident stride. Liam bowed at the waist slightly and put his hands on his knees. He looked beyond the oncoming target.

  Seven Rockets formed a rough semicircle behind Yuppie-Type and homed in. Liam ran at him. Yuppie-Type's eyes widened in surprise but he raised his fists like a boxer. Liam dodged right, avoiding a head-on collision. Yuppie-Type reached out and grabbed a handful of Liam's T-shirt. Liam spun on his heel, breaking the grip, leapt forward and shoved the target, putting all his weight into it. Yuppie-Type stumbled backwards. And the Rockets went to work.

  As always, the Fegan twins attacked first. Eddie jumped on to Yuppie-Type's back and bear-hugged his sweaty head. Matt kicked the back of his knees. The man crumpled and Eddie landed on top of him. Liam soccer-kicked him in his gleaming teeth as he tried to push himself off the ground. Matt cheered. Eddie jumped on the guy's back with both feet. Yuppie-Type flattened out facedown. Eight pairs of trainer-shod feet kicked and stomped the shite out of him.

  Seconds later, Liam and the boys rolled the unconscious and bloody man onto his back and rifled through his pockets. He found a worn and wrinkled black leather wallet leaking crumpled receipts and fresh banknotes. He pocketed the wallet and went for the man's left arm. As he tried to figure out the clasp of the gold watch, Tommy Four-Eyes tugged on the sleeve of his T-shirt.

  "What?" Liam asked.

  Tommy nodded towards the bottom of the street. "We need to go."

  Down the street, an elderly lady held a cop by the arm and jabbed her finger at the Rockets. The cop spoke into the walkie-talkie clipped to his Kevlar vest and sprinted towards them, almost dragging the little granny with him. The gang split into three groups and ran in different directions. Liam and Four-Eyes fled towards City Hall. Liam glanced back over his shoulder.