Wee Rockets

by Gerard Brennan

  "Mackers! So that ancient bastard is still flogging clunkers to idiots. Thought he'd be dead by now. Must drop by and say hello to him."

  "Well, he's still in the same house. Me and my mates tried to buy a runabout off him last year, just for a wee tear. He told us to fuck off."

  "Well, I'll teach you how to get by without him. Next time we go driving I'll let you hotwire it." Dermot flicked his half-smoked fag onto the road. "Right, time to get down to business. We're going in the back."

  Joe nodded and dragged back the unlocked security gate at the mouth of the alley separating the houses on Locan Street and Beechmount Street. A knackered pram and a couple of rusting bikes lay in a tangled jumble close to the gate, waiting for the council to come and dispose of them. Crisp packets and plastic Fruit Shoot bottles cluttered the uneven cement path. A dog squatted at the far end and left a steaming coil for some kid to run through.

  McVeigh's numbered wheelie-bin stood sentry outside his backyard gate. Dermot smiled at the fact that the gate was one of the old wooden ones. It'd pop right off its hinges without too much fuss. After a quick check up and down the alley, and a cursory glance at the small number of windows they could be spotted from, he threw his shoulder into the gate. It juddered back on its creaking hinges and Dermot almost toppled over. The big eejit hadn't locked the deadbolt. He shook his head and slipped into the yard. Joe followed close behind him.

  The yard was the cleanest Dermot had ever seen. No moss on the ground or bird shit on the windowsills. Two patio plants in terracotta pots sat in the middle of the yard to make the most of the sun's daily path. And with not one beer tin ring-pull or cigarette butt to be found, it looked like the sad bastard actually hoovered outside.

  He tried the backdoor. Unlike the gate, McVeigh had locked it.

  "So what now?" Joe asked.

  "You any good at climbing?"

  "Don't know."

  "Well, with those long arms and legs you'll take to it like a duck to water."

  Dermot visualised a path from the yard to an open window on the first floor. The bubbled glass marked it as the bathroom. The house had been a standard two-up-two-down, but like most of the houses in Beechmount, it had a backyard extension to accommodate a modern kitchen and an indoor toilet. This particular extension had a Legoland look to it. The bathroom sat on top of the longer ground floor extension. The staggered, flat roofs looked like a couple of steps. They'd be as easy to climb.

  ###

  Stephen stood in front of the referee, palms to the sky and shoulders raised. His baggy green, white and yellow jersey flapped in the wind. Between them, lying at their feet, the St John's centre-forward lay curled up and moaning.

  "I was going for the ball," Stephen said. "The wee man must be into amateur dramatics."

  The ref looked to the umpire on the sideline who shrugged. He hadn't seen it.

  "Told you, ref. I didn't do nothing to him."

  "McVeigh, I know you're a dirty bastard. I'll catch you next time."

  "Ah, ref. That's uncalled for." He winked at the balding, self-important prick.

  St John's made their substitution and the fresh meat jogged onto the pitch with a look of terror on his face. A young player Stephen hadn't seen in the blue and white strip before. It was probably his first season on the senior team. Stephen checked the time. Five minutes left. He'd leave this one alone. There wasn't enough time for him to make a difference. St John's trailed by three goals and a point.

  The huge score difference meant there'd been no real need to take out their starting forward, but Stephen couldn't pass up the opportunity to get in a sly dig. Sometimes personal vendettas took precedence over necessity. Marty McShane had made him look bad in a friendly match last season. Cheeky fucker had run rings around him for the whole seventy minutes and when Stephen went to shake his hand at the final whistle, Marty blanked him. Stephen hated that kind of bad sportsmanship. He'd given nothing away when they met again. Every time Marty took possession, Stephen came in hard and fast. In the final ten minutes the ref hadn't caught up with the ball on the break and it fell into Marty's hands. Stephen didn't waste his chance. Marty charged for the goal, mind set on salvaging a little pride. Stephen loomed just outside the box, about ten yards from the oncoming forward. He spat over his own shoulder for dramatic effect then sprinted head on at Marty and stuck a knee in his groin as they collided.

  Sweet revenge.

  They played a little extra injury time and Davitts conceded a few points, but St John's had done too little too late. Stephen shook hands with the fresh centre-forward and jogged towards the changing rooms. He caught sight of Louise on the sideline and gave her a little wave. She stuck her fag in her mouth and waved back, then pointed towards the car park. He nodded to signal he'd meet her there after his shower.

  Nobody mentioned his dirty tackle in the changing room; communal showers being no place for easy innuendo. After drying off and dressing, he went to the car park with Wee Paul. Louise smiled at both of them as they approached. Stephen enjoyed the sight of her in her bright pink vest top and light blue jeans. There wasn't even a hint of flour on her summery ensemble.

  "Hiya, boys."

  Wee Paul clacked his tongue and winked at her. Louise giggled at his semi-fake leer.

  "Paul says he'll give us a lift up the road, Louise."

  "Ach sure, it's a nice night. Why don't we dander back to yours?"

  "He just got a new motor. Let him show it off."

  "Really? Where is it, Paul?"

  "It's the red Clio over there." Paul pointed to his girly city-car, huddled in the corner of the car park.

  "Oh. My. God! That's gorgeous."

  Stephen nudged Wee Paul's ribs with his elbow. "Told you, mate."

  "Told him what?" Louise asked.

  "I gave him a lift down here. He told me that it's a woman's car."

  Louise raised an eyebrow and pouted. Stephen wanted to plant a big sloppy one on that sexy mouth; ashtray breath be damned.

  "What?" he said. "Don't tell me you think that's a pimp-wagon."

  "And what do you drive, Captain Caveman?" she asked.

  "That's a fair point. Paul, lead us to the fanny magnet."

  Louise shook her head, but couldn't fight off the smile tugging at the corners of her mouth. On the way to the car, Stephen felt a teensy bit guilty about his remarks. Wee Paul wore a slight blush, though he hadn't sniped back. Not yet. Then the car's interior smothered Stephen's guilt again. He couldn't hold his tongue.

  Before he buckled up, he turned to face Louise in the backseat. "Why do you think Paul decided to go with black seat covers with little red love-hearts instead of pink?"

  Louise looked out her window. "Don't be ignorant, Stephen. The car is red. Red and pink clash."

  Stephen sniggered then clapped Wee Paul's tense shoulder. "Only slagging, mate."

  "I know." But he didn't turn to look at his passenger.

  "Then smile."

  Wee Paul drew his lips back from his clenched teeth.

  "It's a lovely car, Paul," Louise said.

  Stephen couldn't resist. He pointed at the rear view mirror. "The Betty Boop air freshener is a bit much though."

  Wee Paul sank the toe and the Clio skittered forward with a tyre-spinning squeal. Stephen opened his mouth to comment on the reckless manoeuvre but Wee Paul cranked the stereo to drown him out. ABBA's upbeat Mama Mia bass line blasted from the speakers. Even Wee Paul couldn't help grinning.

  "Fucking Sinead!" He ejected the CD and frisbeed it out the window. "We've had this car two days and she's already taken it over. May as well hang my balls on the mirror instead of those furry dice she's after." Although he laughed, he made it sound like a joke with a jag.

  "Will she not be pissed that you threw out her CD?" Louise asked.

  "Ach, she's got millions of them. And not one of them is in its box. She'll not even realise."

  Stephen fiddled with the stereo. DAB digital. A bit flash, but fun to play with.
He found a classic heavy metal station and nodded. Welcome to the Jungle. Wee Paul tapped his thumb on the steering wheel in time with the snare drum. Stephen heard Louise sigh softly in the back, but he didn't risk asking her if she wanted to pick the music.

  They pulled up to his house halfway through an Iron Maiden track. The chorus was cut short as Wee Paul killed the engine.

  "Mate," Wee Paul said. "Your front door's open. I could swear I saw you slam it shut."

  Stephen leant forward to look past his teammate. "Fuck. Come in with me. The fuckers might still be in there." He twisted in his seat to face Louise. "Wait there until we check this out."

  Worry creased her face as she nodded.

  Stephen took a deep breath to steady his nerves. Before his brain could make a coward out of him he hopped out of the car and charged into his house. In the living room he stood statue still, straining his ears to detect the intruder's position. Nothing. Wee Paul came in and stood beside him.

  "TV's still here, mate," Wee Paul said.

  "Shush, will you?"

  Wee Paul huffed air through his lips but held his tongue. Stephen listened for another few seconds.

  "You check upstairs," Stephen said. "I'm going to the kitchen."

  "What? Why don't we stick together?"

  "Because I want to be down here if someone bolts down the stairs."

  "Aye, after they've stabbed me? Dead on. You go upstairs and I'll follow you."

  "Fine. You fucking pussy."

  Stephen clumped up the stairs, deliberately trying to warn any would be attackers that he was on his way. He couldn't get rid of Wee Paul's idea that an armed lunatic waited for them in his bedroom. Getting stabbed by a dirty wee hood had to be one of the worst deaths he could imagine. He went to the main bedroom with an idea to start at the farthest room from the front door and work his way back. Wee Paul stuck to his heels like a shadow. He eased the door open and stepped in with his knees slightly bent, ready to duck or pounce.

  "There's nobody in here," Wee Paul said.

  "Aye, thanks for that, mate. Just you keep me up to date."

  The room seemed untouched. Bedclothes unruffled, the wardrobe and chest of drawers neatly shut, clock radio, TV and Xbox all present and accounted for. He checked the other bedroom and the bathroom. Nothing out of place.

  "This is weird, mate. Why would someone break into your house and take nothing?"

  Stephen shrugged. "Maybe they were looking for cash."

  "Do you keep any in the house?"

  "Just a few quid in the kitchen to pay the window cleaner and get milk. I use my Switch card for most things."

  "Well, we may check the kitchen then."

  Downstairs, all was in order. Even his jar of change on top of the fridge had been left alone.

  "Are you sure I closed that front door properly?" Stephen asked.

  "One hundred percent. I thought you were going to pull it through the frame, in fact."

  "This is fucking weird."

  He unlocked the backdoor and stepped into the yard. His gate sat open and the guttering from his kitchen extension lay on the ground by the wall. It looked like it'd been used as a handhold by an amateur scumbag. Squinting against the setting sun, he traced an alternative route into his home and tightened his lips. Somebody really had broken in. He hadn't noticed at first glance, but his bathroom window was opened much wider than usual. But why hadn't they taken anything?

  "Stephen," Wee Paul peeped his head around the doorframe. "Come on back in and look at this."

  He followed Wee Paul to the living room. Now that his adrenaline blinkers had faded he noticed it before his friend pointed it out. His mystery visitor had drawn a crude pair of breasts on his Bruce Lee picture. And across his stomach they'd scrawled one word.

  "FRUIT!"

  ###

  Paul only allowed himself to smirk after he'd parked the Clio outside his own house. After all the shit McVeigh had given him, he didn't even feel one bit guilty about it. He'd left the big man trembling with rage in his living room, glare fixed on his defaced icon. After he explained the situation to Louise and advised her to give McVeigh some time to cool down, he took his own advice and sloped off.

  Wee Owen waved out at him through the window. He gave his son the thumbs up and climbed out of the car. Sinead half-smiled up at him from the sofa as he dropped his kit bag at the bottom of the stairs.

  "There's tea in the pot if you want one, babe," she said.

  "Thanks. I quite fancy a coffee though."

  "Suit yourself."

  He hesitated for a second, but she made no indication that she intended to get up and make him one. He rolled his eyes and went to the kitchen. On the countertop he found a plastic bag from Wheels R Us, the car accessory shop. He poked inside and found a large Playgirl Bunny decal. It looked as if it would fill a large portion of the Clio's rear window. Paul forgot about his coffee.

  "Sinead?"

  "Yeah, babe?"

  "What the fuck is this?"

  "Paul! Watch your language. Owen's..."

  "Get in here."

  "Who the fuck do you think you...?"

  "Get in here, now!"

  The sofa springs creaked as Sinead dragged herself off the cushion. She trudged slowly into the kitchen, as if on her way to the gallows. Paul flexed the muscles in his jaw, all the more wound up that she seemed to possess no ability to rush. He wanted to charge and shake her until the teeth rattled in her head.

  "What's wrong?" Her meek voice cracked and sprang up an octave.

  "This." Paul held the plastic bag in front of him at arms length.

  "What about it?"

  "It's the last straw."

  "But..."

  "But nothing. You've hijacked that fucking car from me. Bad enough that I bought the model you were wetting yourself over, now you're going to tart it up to make it look like even more of a girl's car? I can barely sit in it without taking a reddener as it is. But this bunny sticker? Fuck! Do you want to just stick a pair of tits on me now? Call me Paula?"

  "Paul, you're acting like..."

  "Shut up. Just shut up. Nothing you say right now is going to help."

  Sinead's lower lip quivered. Her big brown eyes moistened and she sniffed, but she didn't speak. Paul took a deep breath.

  "There are going to be some changes in this house, Sinead. Starting now." He dropped the plastic bag on the floor between them. "That's not going on the car. Get a refund, store credit or burn the fucking thing. But keep it away from my car."

  Sinead nodded.

  "I'm heading out for a few hours. You put Owen to bed, tidy the place up a bit and make me a sandwich to take to work tomorrow. It's time you started pulling your weight. And don't you dare yap about your sciatica. It never flares up in the club on Saturday night."

  Sinead wiped her wrist across her wet cheeks. She nodded again, defeated before she realised they'd been fighting. Relief flushed through Paul's body. Too much had been left unsaid for too long. He knew what his family thought of his wife. It'd never been said out loud, but they picked their barbed questions with expertise. Sinead looks tired this week. Have you her working too hard in that house? Does Wee Owen always ask you for his dinner before Sinead? Where's Sinead today? Cleaning the house? Oh, Sleeping? Well, I suppose Wee Owen is hard work, isn't he? I mean, look at you; you've lost more weight. And it was all a polite way of saying, Sinead's a lazy bitch.

  He checked his pockets for cash and keys then swept past his wife and straight out the front door. Wee Owen raked back the vertical blinds and waved at him through the window again. Paul gave him another thumbs up and gunned the engine. He'd get the child some sweets to make up for leaving without spending any time with him.

  Without admitting to himself where he was headed, he took the Falls Road into the city. Belfast opened late on Thursday night. He could have gone to Castlecourt Shopping Centre for a browse and a bite to eat. He could have strolled up and down Royal Avenue and rated the window-sho
pping women on a scale of one to ten. He could have gone to an internet café and played online pool until closing time. But he didn't. Instead, he navigated the city's one-way traffic system and found himself trundling up Linenhall Street, evaluating the Lycra-skirted goods.

  After his first pass he looped the loop down Ormeau Avenue, onto Bedford Street and back onto the meat market stretch via Clarence Street. On his second ogle he spotted a girl that stood out from her contemporaries. Long leather jacket. Wavy blonde hair. Arrogant chin tilt. She looked like Buffy the Vampire Slayer. Wee Danny sometimes watched it. The show was stupid, but the wee blonde had plenty going for her. He pulled up to Buffy-a-like's stretch of kerb before the big brain could overrule the little one. Cold sweat trickled from his armpits to his floating ribs as he wound down the window.

  "Hiya... love."

  "You looking for company, darling?" Her Cockney accent contradicted, yet highlighted, her American style.

  "Um... what way...?"

  "Do you want directions or a fuck?"

  Paul blinked. "No... I'm looking for... um... you know?" He laughed at himself. She would hardly knock him back. "Look, I want a shag."

  "That's the spirit. First time?"

  "No. I mean, aye. Like..."

  "Shall I just get into the car?"

  "Yes, please."

  "I'm not cheap."

  "Okay. I have money."

  "Good. So long as we both understand how this works, we'll both have a good night."

  Paul held his breath as she slinked by the front of the car and slipped in the passenger side. The little car rocked slightly as she settled into her seat. She gave Paul a slow, sexy wink.

  "Does your missus know you've got her car out?"

  Chapter 12

  Liam studied Tommy's dead face. It didn't freak him out. It didn't even look like Tommy. No glasses. Pale skin pulled taut across reconstructed cheekbones. Freckles disappeared by makeup. He stepped back from the white coffin after what seemed like a respectable viewing time. He didn't force tears. His poker face would be construed as a mask of shock by the people gathered at Tommy's wake. The hushed chatter in the lamp-lit living room continued through Liam's performance. Drug-numb from his replenished grass stash, he kept guilt and grief at bay.