Wee Rockets (2 page)

"You have to pick your fights, Fatso. You're just lucky me and Joe came along in time to pull you out of trouble. You looked like you were shitting it."

"Your ma," Liam said.

"Right, okay, that's enough," Joe said. "Listen, we're looking too suspicious hanging around in a group of ten. We should lie low for a bit. That big ginger guy must be too thick to put two and two together, but if one of the real community activists decides to do a headcount they won't be long figuring us out. I don't want them knocking on my ma's door."

There was no discussion. Joe passed out the cigarettes and sweets and the gang broke off in twos and threes.

"You want to come to my place?" Joe asked Wee Danny. "I think my ma's to go for the groceries after work. We might get an hour or so to watch the telly."

"Aye, let's go."

They got about thirty minutes lounging time before the front door rattled open and Joe's ma spilled in, hands full of shopping bags.

"
And where were you last night?
"

His ma didn't even wait to get her coat off before launching into the interrogation. It didn't matter that Wee Danny was sitting on their sofa watching the telly. She was going to have it out with him. Joe hopped out of the armchair in case he needed to dodge a slap. He was taller than his ma, but she was a bleached-blonde devil when she was pissed off.

"
I was out with Danny and a few of the lads.
"
Joe said.

"
Do you want us to put your shopping away, Missus Philips?
"
Wee Danny asked.

"
No, Danny. Sit there and be quiet.
"
She turned to Joe.
"
Well? What were you and your mates doing?
"

"
Just hanging about, like.
"

"
Hanging about where?
"

"
What
'
s with all these questions?
"

"
Hanging about where, Joseph?
"

"
Down at the Dunville Park. We went to the chippie across the road from the gates and all threw in for a couple of sausage suppers and a bottle of Coke. Then we sat at a bench and ate.
"

"
So you weren't on Beechmount Avenue?
"

"
No. The chippie on that street closed last week. Health and Safety shut it, I heard.
"

Joe
'
s ma finally took her coat off. The black polo shirt she always wore to work was covered in flour. Her job at the bakery paid her off the books which meant she
didn't
have to declare it to the DSS. She got her housing benefits and jobseekers allowance on top of the fiver an hour she earned three days a week. Without it they
'
d be eating ASDA value beans every day.

"Missus McKinney's son was at the bakery today. He's in bits about what happened last night. Did you hear about it?"

"Aye," Joe said. "Heard someone talking about it in the shop."

"Were you buying cigarettes?"

Joe broke eye contact with his ma for a second before answering. "No." He could always make up a convincing alibi, but lying to his ma about smoking was impossible. He'd never understand why.

"You lying wee bastard. Give me them."

"Sorry, ma. It's just too hard to quit." Joe handed over three loose cigarettes. The white paper had crumpled near the filters. They didn't travel well out of the box.

"Jesus, are they still selling singles in that wee shop?" She looked at the brand logo. "Mayfair? Ah well, better than nothing."

Joe's ma fished a plastic lighter from the pocket of her blue jeans. She always smoked his confiscated fags. Just to rub it in. He watched her thin cheeks dimple as she inhaled. She puffed a solitary smoke-ring before blowing two jets from her nose, clouding the space between them. The smell tightened his chest.

"Get those groceries put away and I'll let you smoke the butt."

###

Stephen grunted and shoved. His triceps and pectorals screamed but he fought through the pain. The clank of the loaded, twenty kilo bar settling
into its brackets couldn't compete with his wail of ecstasy and relief.

"
Good man, Stephen,
"
Wee Paul said.

Stephen opened his eyes. Black spots danced, distracting his focus from Wee Paul who looked down at him from the head of the weights bench.

"
I might have one more set in me,
"
Stephen said.

"
That
'
s enough, mate. We can
'
t have you injured for next week
'
s match.
"

Thank fuck you said that,
Stephen thought. Another eight reps would kill him. He
'
d already raised the stakes a little too high when he got Wee Paul to throw another couple of fives onto the bar. The last push scared him. And with Wee Paul spotting him, if he
'
d dropped it he
'
d have been fucked. Thankfully, he was at his peak. He sat up on the bench and rubbed his stiffened wrists. Wee Paul handed him a plastic bottle of water. He left slippery finger tracks in the condensation as he choked it down.

"
Why are you pushing yourself so hard, Stephen?
"

"
Need to get a bit of aggression out. I
'
m not long out of the Residents Association meeting.
"

"
Talking about poor aul Missus McKinney?
"

"
Yeah, plenty of talking. That
'
s the fucking problem. All talk, no trousers.
"

Wee Paul nodded. Short, rapid bobs that went on for too long. He looked like one of those bobblehead characters all the music shops in town were selling. His little brother, Danny, nodded the same way.

"
How
'
s your wee brother doing in school?
"

Wee Paul tilted his balding head.
"
Our Danny? Why do you ask? How do you even know him?
"

"
I met him on my way up here. He
recognised
me when I was asking his mates a few questions. Just thought the crowd he was hanging about with looked a bit dodgy. Has he been getting into trouble lately? Anything like that?
"

"
What are you saying, Stephen?
"

"
Don
'
t get me wrong, mate. I
'
m sure your brother had nothing to do with Missus McKinney
'
s mugging. I mean, you
'
d know if you had a scumbag like that in your family. Wouldn't you?
"

"
Of course I would.
"
Wee Paul barked the words.

"
But do you think he
'
d tell you if he knew his mates were getting up to no good?
"

"
Did you ever tout on a mate, Stephen?
"

"
That
'
s kind of my point there, Paul. I wonder would you ask your Danny if he
'
s heard anything. Tell him it
'
s family before mates. Tell him you're worried your own granny might be the next victim.
"

Wee Paul shook his head.
"
I
'l
l think about it. Take off the fives and fifteens until I get a go on this bench.
"

They swapped places and Stephen spotted Wee Paul as he went through the motions. The wiry muscles in the smaller man
'
s arms strained as he counted out ten reps. The look on his face informed Stephen the wee man
'
s thoughts were elsewhere. He was worried about his brother.
Good stuff.
Stephen didn't trust that cocky wee shit or his hoodie-wearing friends. Especially the lanky one with the bum-fluff moustache.

After another set each, Stephen told wee Paul he'd to see a man about a car.

Retired mechanic, Brian "Mackers" MacDonald, was the man to see about buying runabouts in Beechmount. Uninsured cars that were too old or fucked up to pass an MOT but could get you from A to B. Mackers' cars were parked all over the place. Customers rapped his door and told him what they wanted. He disappeared back into his house, retrieved a green parka and a key from within, and walked his client to the matching car. Some used them as disposable transport. Others for getaway wheels. Stephen wanted a patrol car.

The once blue Ford Escort had seen better days. Stephen kicked a balding tyre and rust flakes rained from the wheel arch. Replacement body parts scavenged from scrap-yards hadn't been spray-painted. A red door, a green bonnet and a black front bumper created a patchwork quilt paintjob. The driver's door opened with a protesting creak. Inside, the car smelt musty. Cracks ran through the plastic instrument panel. A little tree hung from the rear view mirror, its magic long departed.

"I'll give you forty quid for it."

Mackers rummaged in his hairy ear with a thick, old man finger. He smiled an NHS smile and drummed his fingers on the bonnet of the car parked on Ballymurphy Street. Stephen wrinkled his nose at the waxy fingerprints the old boy left behind.

"Fifty," Mackers said.

"See you later." Stephen got out of the car and brushed past the crooked old entrepreneur.

"Okay, son, forty it is. Come on back and don't be so huffy."

Stephen didn't offer to shake on the deal. He handed Mackers two wrinkled twenties and settled into the driver's seat. The engine chugged for the first few yards but eventually settled into a semi-regular splutter.

No time like the present,
he thought. He decided to take the knackered motor out on its first patrol.

The runabout bucked as he changed gear. Everything in the car seemed to rattle or clank. The radiator light blinked at random intervals. The ancient magic-tree swayed from side to side as he took corners on the narrow
streets of the West Belfast housing estate. He approached the junction onto the Falls Road.

Wee Danny and the tall prick with the sparse moustache
sat on the low windowsill of the closed down chippie on Beechmount Avenue. Their seat faced an ancient IRA mural. A chained fist hovered over a badly drawn map of Ireland. The street sign set into the brick wall hosting the mural had been blackened out with spray paint. Above the deletion the words
RPG Avenue
were now scrawled.

He stopped at the red light and go
t a good look at them. Wee Danny was smoking, which his brother Paul would be delighted to hear. The tall one nattered on about something. He punctuated whatever he said with too many hand gestures. The long, skinny arms made his movements awkward and exaggerated. But Wee Danny hung on his words. He'd mistaken Wee Danny as the ringleader earlier. The cocky wee shit's attitude had thrown him off. The tall kid was the real leader. So the tall kid had to be dealt with first. Always target the main man.