Wee Rockets (13 page)

"I don't know. Try your pocket."

"Pockets can't talk."

"Stop melting my head." Wee Danny tried to sound tough but his goofy grin betrayed him.

"Will you turn off the stereo? I'll not be able to concentrate if I want to dance."

"Can we put it back on after?"

Joe nodded and Wee Danny danced his way to the sound system. He hit the power button and Joe almost felt the music stop, like it had cloaked him. Coddled him. And he could hear the kids and the cars from the street again. But those sounds offered their own comfort too. Joe whipped the phone from his hip pocket and the scrap of paper with his da's number on it from his back pocket. He dialled.

"Oh shit, Danny, it's ringing."

###

Dermot stalked the city centre car park, noting the wonderful variety in colour, class and engine capacity. Security wasn't much of an issue here. A dozen signs, nailed to the low wooden-fenced perimeter, shirked responsibility for damage to or loss of vehicles. A curmudgeon manned the MDF-walled ticket booth. Smashed CCTV cameras nestled in graffiti-coated concrete pillars. The pillars supported a motorway flyover which threw a shadowed chill over the parking bays. The cars sat abandoned and unsupervised in tidy rows. His for the taking; like sweeties from a child.

He'd spent the day trekking around Belfast City. He wanted to familiarise himself with the old whore sporting her EU funded facelift and discovered an abused city screaming for attention.
Look, we've taken away the barriers and the watchtowers. Everything is squeaky clean and bombscare free. Don't be afraid anymore. Spend your money here. The Guinness tastes just as good as it does in Dublin. I promise.
And Dermot knew he'd come home in the nick of time. New opportunities begged to be reaped.

His phone vibrated in his pocket. A mystery caller. He smiled, knowing full well only a handful of people had his number, and only one of those hadn't given him one in return.

"Dermot Kelly speaking. Can I help you?"

"Um, Da... Der..." Some unintelligible muttering followed before the caller finally identified himself. "It's Joe."

"Joe! Good man yourself. I'm glad you called. What's the craic?"

"Just... you know... the usual, like."

"Unfortunately, I don't know enough about you to know what the usual is. But we'll put that right, eh? Or are you phoning me to tell me to fuck away off?"

"Yeah... I mean, no... I mean..." Joe tutted. "Can we meet? For a burger or... something?"

"You sound a little jittery, Joe. Are you okay?"

"Yeah, sweet." His voice went up an octave. "Dead on, like. I'm just a bit nervous, I suppose."

"Oh, right." Dermot didn't want to miss his chance at getting on the boy's good side. So he didn't tell him it sounded like he could do with taking it a little easier on the E-numbers. Kids hyped up on food additives melted his head. "So, we shouldn't waste any more time. Are you free tonight?"

"Tonight? Yeah! I can meet you at the McDonalds by the Kennedy Centre. It's only two minutes away from here in a black taxi. I love McDonalds. Especially Big Macs. They..."

"Okay, Joe. Save some of that energy for later. I have to get a few things sorted out today, so I better nip on. But save your taxi fare. I'll pick you up, all right?"

Joe paused for an instant. "I don't know if my ma would be too keen on that."

"I'll not come to the door. Just listen out for a horn."

"What'll you be driving?"

"Don't know yet. That's one of the things I'll be sorting out today. I'll swing by some time around eight. Okay?"

"Yeah, great."

"Seeya later then, son."

Dermot pocketed his phone and turned his attention back to the neatly lined cars. Halfway down one of the rows sat an old Vauxhall Astra Mark II in red. The joyride of choice from his misspent youth. A time before electronic immobilisers and sensitive alarms. His intention that morning had been to scope out some new hunting grounds, but nostalgia's siren call beckoned. It'd make for a nice, low-risk buzz. He patted his light tracksuit top, feeling for the tools of his trade stashed in the lining. Seconds later, he jammed the flat-head screwdriver into the Astra's driver's door lock and twisted. The button popped and he slipped into the car. He cracked the ignition barrel and hotwired the engine. The old man in the ticket booth didn't so much as raise his head from his newspaper. Dermot flipped open the glovebox and found the little credit card-sized parking ticket. Rather than create a scene by busting through the yellow and black striped rising barrier, he paid the three pound tariff and cruised out onto Corporation Square.

The familiar driving position and handling took him back. He could almost hear the laughter of four passengers anticipating the next handbrake turn on the Monagh Bypass. Flashes of reverse doughnuts and games of chicken with Citybus drivers set his heart beating double-time and turned his stomach in the old combination of fear and excitement. Headlights flashing and car horns blaring. Engines revving and tyres screeching. Burning rubber and exhaust fumes in the air. Skinny youths rattling against each other like bottles in a milk crate. Then a frantic shag with a wide-eyed Millie in the backseat before burning out the disposable motor.

Great times.

He'd give anything to get that life back. A simpler time when anything he needed seemed to fall into his lap. No scrabbling for a few quid to keep afloat. No wondering where he might be sleeping after outstaying another welcome. No looking over his shoulder. No sleepless nights in squats. Although chaotic, his youth had always enjoyed a sense of security. Hoods like him belonged to West Belfast. They made up an integral part of the pecking order and as such, they would always find a maternal comfort on the streets. He'd taken that for granted until it was whipped out from under him by the peelers and the IRA. They'd left him with a choice. Run and hide or die.

He'd fled to Scotland on the ferry, hiding amongst an army of Glasgow Rangers fans on their way to an Old Firm match. Over a couple of years he worked his way down the island as a non-person, afraid to claim benefits and leave a paper trail, until he finally settled in London. Always two burglaries away from living on the street, he slept in hostels and flats between tenants. Emily eventually provided his first home for five years.

Her pimp had beaten her pretty bad and Dermot, a longstanding customer, had charged her a small fee to knock the shit out of him. She got a little more value for her money than either of them expected when the pimp's skull cracked open on a kerbstone leaving him severely brain damaged.

Dermot took the job as her live-in bodyguard and occasional fuck-buddy. Because Emily learned from her mistakes, Dermot never enjoyed pimp status. His payment for driving her to gigs and dishing out the hairy eyeball to overenthusiastic drunks was food and shelter at Emily's flat in Hackney. Emily didn't pay him a cut of her earnings, so Dermot continued to burgle houses and steal cars for currency. But without the added pressure of providing his own accommodation, life became a lot easier.

Of course, he managed to fuck things up again by getting on the wrong side of some London gangsters.

Emily had landed an easy number. A strip, a lap dance and a hand job, dressed as a prison guard at a coming home party for an aging Essex Boy. Tony Walsh, a big bear of a man, had just done a stretch of bird for armed robbery. Fifteen years of his life gone, and his mates celebrated the fact by throwing him a party and paying for a stripper. Not much of a consolation.

When the time came for Emily to jump out of a large cardboard cake Tony had cheered and laughed with the rest of them. He made all the right noises in all the right places, right up until she took him to the cellar of the little pub for his private treat. At that point, Emily later told Dermot, he'd gone to pieces and opted for a hug and a chat rather than the more erotic option. He wanted to talk about his son, who'd been buying crack cocaine from the Yardies. Ilford used to be a much nicer place before Tony left his two-year-old boy to pay his debt to society. But the Jamaican drug dealers had invaded the streets like vermin and little Jonnie Walsh had gotten familiar with the crack pipe.

This had been kept secret from Tony by his family and his gangster friends. They didn't want him to have to think about it in jail, and knew he'd prefer to deal with it himself when he got back on the street, rather than have one of the other Essex Boys lay down the law. Once Tony wiped out a couple of the main dealers in the area he could book Jonnie into rehab and life would resume.

But Tony was scared.

He confessed all to the pretty blonde in the prison screw uniform. The thought of going back inside for the sake of a few Yardie scumbags chilled him to his core. And if he was completely honest with himself, he blamed his son and not the dealers. Why should he have to take such a risk because of his son's weakness? Couldn't he just retire in peace? He still had money stashed from the robberies he hadn't been caught for. He could afford to just drift away from the lifestyle.

Emily could smell money. She told Tony that she might have the solution to his problems and gave him her number. He would phone her the next day to talk about a price.

Dermot listened to Emily's idea as he drove her home from the party.

"Are you nuts?" he asked.

"What's wrong with you?"

"I've never killed anyone in my life. What made you think I'd be up for this?"

"It's not like you'd be killing real people, Dermot. They're Yardies. Those wankers are always shooting each other in the back. It won't even make the papers."

Dermot shook his head. "It's not about getting caught, you stupid bitch. It's about knowing whether or not I'm capable of murder."

"Stupid bitch? Listen to me, you Paddy cunt. This is a golden opportunity staring us right in the face and you're not going to pussy out. I can't make a living on my back for the rest of my life, Dermot. We need to start working some better angles. This is a good start."

"Do you know what the going rate for a hit is these days?"

Emily shrugged.

"I'll be lucky to get seven grand a dealer. Seven grand! We'll hardly be set for life on that."

"And when was the last time you had seven grand, Dermot? Burglary and car theft hasn't exactly been lucrative, has it? With seven grand you could buy into something bigger."

"What, like drugs? So I can get shot too? Sounds like a great plan, Emily. Tell me, why did it take you so long to come up with the answer to our prayers?"

"You've got no balls."

"Ach, fuck off."

The heat of their discussion materialised as condensation on the car windows. Emily drew circles on her side with an index finger. "If I can get him to offer ten grand a hit, will you consider it?"

Dermot flicked on the demister. It rattled to life and droned. "How many hits are we talking about exactly?"

"He said a couple, so probably two or three."

"Well, which is it?"

"We'll say two for argument's sake. That's twenty grand for one night's work. Would you think about it?"

Dermot drummed his fingers on the steering wheel. "What if we could get the twenty grand without risking my neck?"

Emily narrowed her eyes. "How?"

"Well he's hardly going to ask us to bring him their heads on a plate, is he?"

"Obviously not, but I'm sure he'll have some way of finding out they're dead. These gangster boys all have eyes and ears on the street. He's not going to pay us on our word."

"We could buy off the dealers. Offer them a few grand to move on and get their underlings to feed back rumours that they're short a few Jamaicans."

"You're a right dumb berk sometimes, Dermot." With a violent swipe of her palm she rubbed out the circles she'd just drawn. "Do you know how much money a drug dealer can make in a nice area like Ilford? You can bet they have regular customers and the cops in their pockets. Why would they give that up for a few grand?"

"Maybe we could subcontract? Pay some youth to do them both for ten and keep the other ten."

"Or you could do the fucking job and we can have twenty."

"Fuck's sake!" Dermot rolled to a stop at the traffic lights on Morning Lane. They'd be home soon and he didn't want to continue the discussion all night. "All right, I'll think about it."

Emily put her hand on his crotch and squeezed gently. "There you go, love. You've got a pair after all." Then she flashed him a victory smile, knowing full well that the thinking was done and Dermot would do the business.