Wee Rockets

by Gerard Brennan

  "Stay back, dickhead." Dermot's battered lips parted as he sneered.

  "You fucking scummy fucking bastard. I'll fucking kill you."

  "No. You'll stay the fuck back. Isn't that right, Louise?"

  Louise spat her words through clenched teeth. "You get one chance to let me go, Dermot. I'd advise you to take it."

  Dermot chuckled, a humourless and painful effort. "I'll take my chances."

  Stephen couldn't help but cringe as Louise reached behind her and grabbed hold of Dermot's balls. She threw her head back, smashing it into an already punished face. Wiry muscles bunched in her forearm as she squeezed. Dermot emitted a thin yelp and folded over. He dropped the bottleneck and clutched his sac with both hands. Louise push-kicked his floating ribs and he flipped onto his back. Stephen watched her take him apart in awe. She drew back her foot to crash it into his skull. But Dermot reached out and snatched her weight-bearing leg from under her. Stephen was shocked into action. He darted forward and tried to catch her. Too late. Her head cracked off the edge of a table as she went down. Stephen dropped to his knees by her side.

  Dermot groaned as he struggled to his feet. Stephen ignored him. Louise was his only concern. He put a finger under her nose. The warmth of her breath flooded him with relief. He stroked her cheek.

  "Louise. Louise. Come on, love. Wake up. Are you all right, babe?"

  She groaned a little, and he knew she would come to.

  Fucking Dermot Kelly!

  Stephen looked up, ready to leap into action and dance all over Dermot's head. But the scummy bastard was moving again. He lashed a roundhouse kick into the already damaged side of Stephen's head. Stephen flopped to his side. He threw his own leg out, clipping Dermot's heel and toppling him forward as the fucker tried to escape. Then Stephen tried to push himself off the floor. Time to finish the job. But black snow floated in his vision and he almost puked. His strength abandoned him. He lay on his side and breathed deep.

  Dermot crawled to the top of the stairs. He used the balustrade to haul himself to his feet. Clutching the banister, he staggered down the stairs. Stephen watched the bastard from the floor.

  "Go on then, you sleeked cunt." Stephen's hoarse yell caused fresh agony in his skull, but his anger wouldn't allow silence. "I'll get you another time. And it won't be just a beating. I'm going to cut your throat and dump you in the Lagan."

  Dermot nodded and waved his middle finger at Stephen as he sank from view. Stephen tried to force himself to chase him down and break him in half, but it was a losing battle. He couldn't even sit up.

  "Stephen." Emily whispered for his attention.

  "What?"

  "I'm a great believer in contingency plans."

  She sat by Wee Paul and stroked his hair. The one-eyed GAA hero had gone pale and eerily quiet. Emily's mascara had run to give her panda eyes, but she curved her lips in a grotesque grin.

  "What are you talking about?"

  "I've some insurance organised. Everything's going to work out, darling."

  ###

  Drum and bass pumped through the walls and poured out onto the street. Joe sucked down a deep breath of summer-drizzly air. The familiar metallic scent zinged on his sinuses. He shouldered open the front door of the Greene family home. Liam's parents had gone for their monthly jaunt to Donegal and the Rockets were making use of the free house. In each hand, Joe held carrier bags stuffed with party food. If you're going to gatecrash, you better bring some goods. The musty tang of hash hung in the cloudy open-plan hallway and living room. He could feel the music in the floorboards, passing through his rubber soles and raising the hair on his calves.

  Ginger Mickey Rooney was the first one to spot him. He scurried to the kitchen and came back with Liam and the Fegan twins. The jungle track died and all eyes turned to Joe. He felt as welcome as a preacher in a whorehouse.

  Liam broke the silence. "You've a brass neck on you, son."

  "I'm not here to start anything. Just wanted to say sorry for what I said the other day. You weren't to blame for Tommy."

  "I don't need you to tell me that."

  "I know, but I needed to say it. I've been a dick. Let's just get over this. It's gone too far for no reason."

  Liam looked around the room to gauge his gang's reaction. They offered him very little. A few shrugs, but nothing decisive. His call.

  "It's probably the drugs, Joe, but I'm with you. There's no need to keep this stupid feud going." Liam pointed at Joe's carrier bags. "What's in the bags?"

  Joe liked what he heard, but he didn't relax. He needed his wits about him in case Liam was leading him on. "I brought a peace offering. Food and drink so we can eat and be merry. I'd have taken some drugs with me, but I knew you'd have that covered yourself."

  "Fucking right we have it covered. We've been toking dope all night. But I've a bag of Es there to wake us up later on. I'm well up for some food too. I've a fuck off case of the munchies here."

  A general murmur of agreement seconded Liam's desire to eat. Joe grinned and swaggered to the centre of the living room. He plonked the plastic bags on the pine coffee table.

  "It's mostly shit I asked my ma to bring home from the bakery. Cakes and buns. I've a few bottles of Fanta there and all. You can't beat that with a big stick after a night on the weed."

  "What the fuck are we waiting for, then?"

  The Wee Rockets homed in on the sugary treats as one unit and decimated them. Icing sugar dusted the coffee table and white paper bags lay crumpled on the floor. Just as Joe thought he would, Liam had scooped up all the apple sponge and made a pig of himself. A whole cake, right down the hatch. The greedy shite licked his fingers with a big smile on his face. Joe suppressed a stomach-punishing wave of nausea.

  "Liam, I found a bottle of Dr Pepper in our house as well. You're the only fucker I know who likes that shit." Joe tossed the three quarter-full bottle to Liam. "Enjoy."

  Liam smiled and twisted the cap off. He glugged the brown liquid down from the bottle.

  "Tastes a wee bit weird. Kind of chemically."

  "Ach, that's just the weed fucking with your taste buds, mate."

  "Aye, probably. Cheers, Joe. Here, did you not get any cake?"

  "My ma works in a bakery. Missing out on a donut or two will do me no harm."

  "You sure?"

  "Aye, no sweat."

  "Well, take a seat at least. Matt, pass him a joint."

  Joe sank into the sofa between the two Franks. Fra Collins half slept on his left, and Frankie Devlin fidgeted in his usual weasel-like way. Even stoned, Frankie's eyes never got a break from zipping around the room. A real ADHD kid. Joe sucked on the joint, but inhaled as little as he could. He'd have time to get fucked up later, in the safety of his own home. Right now, he was in the company of some true blue lunatics who were doing a piss-poor job of hiding their contempt for him. Joe was under no illusions. Liam was fucking with him. Acting the tomcat. But Joe had never been a mouse. And he was playing his own game.

  The night rolled on and the mood remained light, then Liam passed around the baggie of E.

  "Take it easy on these Doves, lads. One each. They're strong as fuck. E Man says they haven't been cut."

  Joe fished four out of the bag as it passed under his nose. He palmed three and tucked one under his tongue then faked a swallow. "These are Doves, then? Me and Wee Danny dropped some Mitsubishis the other day. Do you reckon there'll be much difference?"

  Liam shrugged. "These are better. For the big boys."

  Joe gave him an unimpressed lip curl.

  Liam swallowed his tab with a big gulp of water. "I heard about Wee Danny."

  This is the start of it, Joe thought. "That right?"

  "Aye. He got his head cracked open with a baseball bat."

  Joe nodded.

  "Were you not there to look after him, then?"

  "No."

  Liam sucked air through his teeth. "Stupid wee fucker. Still, maybe it'll knock a bit of sense into him. A wee sp
arrow fart like that trying to do an armed robbery? He must have been out of his tree."

  Joe chewed on his lip, refusing to rise to the bait.

  "I suppose he'll end up in the Juvenile Justice Centre. And the way he smokes, he may get his wanking hand greased up; for that's the only way he'll be able to keep himself in fags."

  Even Fra Collins laughed at that. Joe felt his face light up, but he said nothing.

  "You not going to stick up for your boyfriend, Joe?" Eddie Fegan asked. He licked his lips wolfishly.

  Joe stubbed his joint out in the ashtray between his feet. He shook his head.

  "Ach, Joe," Liam said. "Crack a fucking smile, will you? I'm only slagging."

  Joe raised his eyebrows. The pill under his tongue had started to dissolve. He didn't want to give Liam an excuse to unleash the boys, but he couldn't encourage him to disrespect Wee Danny either. He stood suddenly. Liam flinched a little.

  "I feel sick, Liam. Be back in a minute."

  He ran up the stairs to a chorus of dry heaves from the Rockets. Inside the bathroom, he leaned back against the locked door. Encased in a greasy sweat, he took deep breaths in an effort to ease the ball of sickly panic in his stomach. Seconds ticked into minutes, but he didn't rush himself. He'd done it. He'd come in to the lion's den and was still alive to tell the tale. All he had to do now was slip out the window and let time do the rest.

  But he couldn't leave it like that. Not after the way they laughed at Wee Danny. And really they may as well have been laughing at him. Fuck you, Joe. What are you going to do about it? They'd soon find out what he could do. There was no way he'd sneak away without enjoying the power of his moment. He needed to be in their presence again and relish knowing. Risky, but worth it. He spat the soggy E tab into the toilet and flushed it. Then he splashed some water on his face and went back to his spot on the sofa.

  "You finish puking, you big Jenny-Anne?" Liam asked.

  "Aye."

  "You were gone long enough. We thought you'd fell down the toilet."

  "Nah. I stopped by your ma's room and had a sniff around her knicker drawer."

  The whole gang fell silent. Liam had them all climbing right up his hole. They were afraid to laugh at him.

  "I'm only slagging, Liam."

  Liam didn't drop the hard man glare.

  "Seriously," Joe said. "I wouldn't touch your ma with yours."

  Liam stared for another few seconds, then chuckled. "All right, mate. Fair's fair."

  The music returned to cover up the iffy atmosphere. Joe just had to sit tight until the E worked its magic. Then he could have a quiet word with Liam and be done with the whole business. He lit a fag for something to do, then another off the butt, then another. Then Frankie Devlin leapt off the sofa and stepped up onto the coffee table. He waved his arms about and shrugged his shoulders in what was technically a dance. Most of the others laughed and cheered him on. Fra Collins simply gave him a thumbs up and closed his eyes again. It'd take a stick of dynamite in the arsehole to get that one going.

  Then they were all up, jigging and jerking, except Fra and Joe. But Joe didn't have Fra's excuse. He forced himself to get off the sofa and act like the other lunatics. Trying to play the loved up clubber was not easy. He felt like he had lead in his shoes and his joints seemed to be stiffening, making movement awkward and laborious. And he didn't think his eyes were wide enough. Fuck all he could do about it though. So he threw his limbs about and hoped the others were too involved in their own bliss to notice his discomfort.

  From the corner of his eye, he saw Liam slip off into the kitchen. Nobody else seemed to notice. Joe left the jittering loons to it and followed the fat bastard. He found him bent over the kitchen worktop with a piece of stripy plastic straw jammed up his nose. His eyes rolled about in his head. He snorted a line of fine white powder before acknowledging Joe.

  "Why did you come here, Joe?"

  "I want us to be mates again."

  "I don't believe that for one second."

  "Okay, then. I wanted to make sure I wouldn't come to harm."

  "You think I would do something to you?"

  "You're not the only one hearing things on the grapevine. The twins are loyal, but they've got big mouths. Half the hoods in Beechmount know about the Park Centre thing. That's some body count you're racking up."

  Liam rubbed his nose and sniffed. "I told them all to keep it quiet. What can you do? But there's no proof I did it, so why worry?"

  "Yeah, you're right. Unless the security guard's family find out who you are and arrange a wee meeting."

  "Are you threatening me?"

  "Not at all. Just looking out for you. Remember I tried to warn you about McVeigh? Same thing."

  "Except he hasn't done fuck all, has he?"

  "Not directly, no."

  Liam shook his head and got to work chopping and lining the coke with a video rental card. "You're just trying to melt my head. But it's not working."

  "I heard that there's a lot of bad ecstasy coming out of Poleglass these days. Lot of kids in comas or dead. Now, if someone wanted rid of you, they could arrange for you to pick up a bag of that bad E. Am I right?"

  Liam snorted another line. His smile stretched like a clown's. "Whatever."

  "Some of that shit is cut with rat poison and bleach. If the dealer gets the mix wrong..." Joe wrapped his hands around his own throat. He let his tongue hang over his lip and made choking noises.

  "Stop that."

  "What's wrong, Liam? Worried you got a bad batch?"

  "You took one too."

  "Take a good look at me, mate. Do I look like I'm coming up? I flushed the pill."

  "Doesn't prove they're bad. You can't know they're bad."

  Joe nodded slowly. "That's true. I can't know. Those tabs are probably perfectly fine."

  Liam's shoulders dropped in visible relief.

  "But if the rat poison and bleach got into your system another way, the autopsy guy would match it with the ecstasy in your blood and come up with a cause of death. How did you enjoy that cake, by the way? And the Dr Pepper? Wash it all down for you all right?"

  Liam dropped his plastic straw and card on the countertop and squared up to Joe. "What the fuck did you do?"

  "Ach, maybe I'm just fucking with you." He laid a palm on Liam's shoulder. "Or maybe I'm looking out for number one."

  Joe moved his hand from Liam's shoulder to grab his ear. He punched him in the stomach then rammed the side of his head against the countertop. Liam's eyelids fluttered. Still gripping the ear, Joe jerked him back and bashed his head off the black glossy surface. Liam's legs buckled. He shoved the fat fucker's head against the cupboard door. As Liam slid to the floor, Joe kicked the other side of his head for good measure.

  The music in the living room kept the commotion from reaching the other Rockets' ears. Joe knelt by Liam's side. He popped the three E tabs he'd palmed earlier into his fat mouth then pinched his nose shut and pressed a palm to his lips. But the old trick didn't work. The subject probably had to be conscious.

  "Fuck it, I've done enough."

  Dissolving slowly in his mouth, the tabs might not be enough to cause an overdose, but the sweet rat poison from the cake and powdered bleach mixed into the Dr Pepper would work its magic. If Liam didn't die, he'd certainly be off the street for a long time. Joe decided to leave it at that. Give the wanker a chance for old time's sake. He rejoined the chaos in the living room. A minute later he slipped out the front door. The Rockets would find their fearless leader passed out or dead from a drug OD. Maybe it'd make them think about changing their ways.

  But probably not.

  ###

  Dermot staggered along the footpath. The pain from his beating lit up his nerve endings as the last of his adrenaline drained away. He smiled.

  "You're a survivor, mate." His own voice sounded alien, but he drew comfort from the words.

  Ahead, a group of students on their way to some pub or club parted before him. H
e lurched through the ragged guard of honour. One of the girls gasped, but none of them offered to help. They had their own problems. Dermot didn't give a fuck. He'd been battered half to death, and he'd never felt so alive.

  But he'd come to the end of his affair with Belfast. The ginger prick and his wee mate had more reason than ever to kill him. And with that treacherous bitch Emily on their side, the squat wasn't safe anymore. But before he could go anywhere, he needed to pick up his cash stash. Then he'd be on the first bus to Dublin. And after that... he'd have to wait and see.

  His conscience nagged at him a little over knocking Louise out. Such a rotten way to end things. He'd actually enjoyed catching up with her. But at the end of the day, he had to look out for number one. No chance of her forgiving him for waving a broken bottle in her face and then whacking her skull off a table.

  He spat a huge crimson glob onto the pavement outside his squat. His appearance would draw a lot of nervous looks on the bus but it'd be unwise to waste time getting cleaned up. He needed to keep moving.

  Climbing the stairs to the bedroom generated a fresh surge of pain. It crackled through his body like an electric shock. He fought through it but had to stand still at the top for half a minute until a wave of dizziness passed. As he stood there, he thought about Joe.

  The bastard had too much of his ma's temper in him. He'd felt more than physical pain after they'd crashed into the postbox. His own son had betrayed him over a street runt. Left him to be scooped by the peelers. Dermot would never forget that. You should be able to rely on flesh and blood. Family should stick together. After all, he'd tried to include Joe in his budding empire. Mutually beneficial though it may have been, at least he'd been willing to pass on his wisdom while using him to get what he wanted. But he wouldn't make a mistake like that again. One less tie to the stinking city of Belfast.

  He collected his cash and bundled some clothes into a holdall. After a quick root through Emily's stuff he found some painkillers. He popped four in his mouth and crunched them to dust, hoping they'd kick in quicker. The chemical taste turned his stomach, but he soldiered on. He half-stumbled down the stairs and opened the front door.

  A silver Ford Ka idled at the kerb. Behind the wheel of the little city car sat an expensively suited ogre with slicked back hair. His left arm was trussed up in a sling. The driver's window slid open with an electric whir. Essex Boy, Tony Walsh extended his good arm through the opening. A sawn-off shotgun glared at Dermot.