Wee Rockets (19 page)

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.

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 fuck 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.

"Fuck," Liam said. "He's following us."

"Ah balls," Four-Eyes said. "We're in the. Shit now."

"There'll be enough of a crowd outside City Hall to get lost in. Just keep moving."

Four-Eyes struggled to speak through rasping breath. "Easy. For. You. To say."

"Are you having an asthma attack?"

"Think. So."

"Fuck!" If the cop scooped Four-Eyes it might allow Liam to escape, but there was the long-term to think about too. Could Tommy be trusted to keep his mouth shut?

"Can't. Breathe."

Liam looked at Four-Eyes. The asthmatic weed squinted back at him, pale-faced and panicky-eyed. Liam would have to help him. He linked arms with the lighter boy and pulled him along. Ahead, the pedestrian crossing on Wellington Place went from little green man to little red man. The four lanes of traffic got moving again. This made Liam's escape plan a little trickier.

"We can make this," Liam said.

Four-Eyes had worked his little grey inhaler out of his hip pocket. He tried to guide it to his mouth on the move, but as Liam jerked him into a sprint, he fumbled it and it bounced away from him. He croaked a barely audible protest and tried to resist against Liam's pull. Liam ignored him and charged on, sights set on the other side of the road.

Car horns blasted. Tyres screeched. Metal crimped. Glass shattered. Tommy Four-Eyes wriggled out of Liam's grasp. Liam reached the other side of the footpath. He didn't look back. But he knew he'd never forget the thud, the splat or the screams of the front row witness. A skinny Goth girl shrieked on the pavement where she had been waiting for the little green man; a spatter of blood beaded on her pale face. Tommy's blood. He was all done.

Liam barged past the Goth girl and ran on.

###

Joe scratched his head as he stared at the framed Bruce Lee poster hung over the fireplace in McVeigh's living room. Bruce stared back, fire in his eyes, sneer on his face, his bare chest slick with sweat.

"Do you like Bruce Lee?" Stephen asked.

Joe turned to him, glanced at his ma standing too close to the ginger prick, and shrugged. "Don't know. Never seen any of his stuff."

McVeigh blinked as if he'd been slapped. "Seriously?"

Joe shrugged again and looked away. "I don't like movies with subtitles. If I wanted to read I'd buy a book."

"You can watch the dubbed version on DVD."

"And listen to a bunch of Brit poofs shouting hi-yah? No thanks."

"Joe!" his ma said.

"Sorry, I mean
English homosexuals
."

His ma tutted.

McVeigh smiled. "But Enter the Dragon was an American pro... Ach, you know what? Never mind. Different strokes for different folks, I suppose." The smile faded quickly. "Will we eat?"

McVeigh had invited them over to his place for their dinner. His ma had insisted that Joe go and make an effort to get on with her new fellah. Joe hadn't put up too much resistance. Scoping out McVeigh's house suited his needs. His da's plan could only benefit from it.

"What did you make?" Joe's ma asked.

"A phone call." McVeigh chuckled at his own joke. "Pizza arrived fifteen minutes ago. I stuck it in the oven to keep it warm."

"Oh, we love pizza. Don't we, Joe?"

"Aye, it's all right."

"Great," McVeigh said. "Sit down there and I'll bring it in. You don't mind eating in the living room, do you? I never bought a table for this place. Seemed silly to have one for just one person."

"Me and Joe are well used to eating in the living room. But keep the telly off or you'll not get a word out of this one."

Joe rolled his eyes and flopped down on the couch. McVeigh disappeared into the kitchen and got to work on banging cupboard doors and rattling his cutlery drawer. Joe looked at his ma, still standing in the middle of the Spartan living room. She jerked her thumb towards the ceiling.

"Sit up straight, you." She whispered through clenched teeth. "You're making the place look untidy."

Joe whispered back. "Ach, wise up, ma."

"I'm serious. He's invited us into his home."

"So
he
should be trying to impress
us
. Not the other way around." But he straightened himself up to keep her quiet. "Happy?"

"Thank you. He invited both of us because he just wants to make things a little less awkward between the two of you." She glanced at the door leading to the kitchen, then sat beside Joe. She dropped her volume to a mouse's whisper. "And I think he's worried about your father coming back. He keeps asking me questions about Dermot, as if he's fishing to see if I still have feelings for the bastard. It's kind of sweet that he's a bit nervous. Will you try to be nice to him? For me?"