Wee Rockets (23 page)

"That's my fucking bottle you hood bastard." The wino's gravelly voice gurgled through a mucus-filled throat. He hacked and spat a big green gob. It landed by Liam's trainer.

Liam glared at the gelatinous bubble of phlegm, framed by the hem of his drawn up hood, as the wino struggled to his feet. Blood roared in his ears. "You dirty fucker. Were you trying to spit at me?"

"My fucking bottle. I'm going to kick your hole."

"Did you just spit your manky, rotten slabber at my Nike Airs?"

The wino wobbled and tottered like a zombie Pinocchio, but managed to stay on his feet. He stumbled into his half-drank bottle of Mundies and it bounced forward. The thick green glass hit the concrete hard but didn't shatter. The wino recoiled at the sudden clunk and tripped over his drink-heavy feet. His head hit the sandstone behind him with a sledgehammer thump. He didn't seem to register any pain from the fall. With determination cut into his leathery brow, he jerked his legs back in an attempt to get them under him again.

Liam's internal temper thermometer threatened to spew boiling mercury. Kids like Tommy died every day, but guys like this lived on. He stepped over the wino's spittle and scooped up the second wine bottle. His fists clenched around the neck of each bottle, held at his hips like a gunslinger's revolvers.

The wino almost made it to his feet, but then flopped back onto his ass again. He looked up at Liam with hatred in his squinty eyes. "Give me my drink, dickhead."

"Oh you want it?" Liam raised the half-empty bottle in his right hand. "No problem, mate."

Liam swung the bottle from his shoulder to his waist and slammed it into the wino's forehead. The wino's eyes widened slightly and his lower jaw flapped loose. Liam went at him with a slow-motion Lambeg drum roll. Right, left, right, left, buppa-buppa-buppa-buppa-boom. Half aware he'd lost control, he stepped back and placed the full wine bottle on the ground. Then he twisted the cap off the half-empty one and sloshed the remains over the beaten and bloody tramp at his feet. He pulled a fake Zippo lighter from his pocket and snapped it lit. Against all of Hollywood's conventions, the wino didn't burst into a fiery mass when Liam dropped the naked flame on the drink-soaked woollen coat. The lighter puffed out on contact.

Liam turned his back on a passing car and saw the sleeping bag. The car disappeared up the road and he lit two cigarettes with his retrieved lighter in shaky hands. He stuffed them into either end of the roll and tucked it under the unconscious, dead or dying man. Liam's knees wobbled as the smell of burning synthetic wafted up.
What the fuck are you doing?
He thought. He stumbled backwards, and half-turned to run. The wino moaned and Liam froze. He looked at the bloody mess with a sleeping bag billowing black smoke tucked under his knees.

Blood dribbled over the wino's unshaven chin. "Drink."

Liam looked at the full bottle he'd set down before trying to douse and burn the tramp. Blood-matted hair clung to the side. He fought the urge to puke. "Oh, fuck, mister. I'm sorry."

"Drink."

Other cars passed, paying no attention to the scene. The shadows thrown by the deep-set doorway hid the beaten tramp's face. A hooded figure at midnight served as part of the furniture in Liam's part of the world. Don't bother what doesn't bother you. He kept his hood up and his back to the road.

"Please. Drink," the wino said.

Liam understood. "Okay. That's how sorry I am. I'll give you more drink."

Crying, Liam fell to his knees and lifted the gory bottle. He twisted off the lid and tilted the bottle's lip towards the wino's mashed mouth. Wine and blood mixed. The tramp swallowed. Liam sniffed back watery snot and rubbed his eyes. Pillars of black smoke thickened and rose into the night sky. Growing tongues of flame licked at the air. Liam poured the wine until the fumes from the burning sleeping bag spun his head. The wino sighed and Liam retreated, glassy weapons in hand and fat tears rolling off his face.

The battered drunk showed no pain as the sleeping bag puffed alight. His woollen coat caught seconds later. He closed his eyes; passed out from smoke inhalation or shock. The dipso was fucked. Then Liam couldn't see him. Blurred vision and acrid smoke mercifully combined to filter his revulsion at what he'd just done.

"What the fuck am I going to do?" he asked the night.

A gust of wind tumbled up the road. It gently ushered him.
Move on.

Louise grabbed Joe's bony shoulder and shook him awake. He groaned and gently pushed her arm away. She whipped his duvet off and dumped it on the sock-littered carpet, exposing her stripped-to-the-boxers son to the fresh air pouring through the open window.

"Joe, it's past one in the afternoon. Get up."

"I'm freezing." He turned his back on her and curled into the foetal position.

"Would you not take a minute to put on a pair of pyjamas before you go to bed?"

"They don't fit."

She took in his knobbly spine and how his skin stretched over his shoulder blades. He'd shot up too quickly for his puppy-fat to keep up. She'd have to cook steak for dinner more often.

"Come on, you big string of piss. I've got sausages and soda farls downstairs. Hop in the shower and I'll get the frying pan out."

Joe unrolled himself and looked at her through one half-open eye. "Sweet. I'll be down in a minute."

"Yeah, I thought that'd get you moving."

Downstairs, the oil had only started popping in the pan when Joe tramped in wearing his navy bathrobe and dripping water over the linoleum. Louise shook her head and smiled.

"Will it be long?" he asked.

"No. Stick the kettle on for me and go watch some TV. I'll bring it out to you."

Joe hummed as he filled the kettle and plugged it in. Louise watched him swagger the short distance to the living room, lost in his own internal soundtrack. She wondered if Dermot had actually done something useful for once and cheered Joe up. It'd take a lot longer to win her over, or even earn a smidgen of her respect, but she had to admit, Dermot had impressed her. She'd let the meetings continue but hoped he wouldn't lose interest in the fatherhood thing and disappear in a few weeks.

She piled eight sausages and two whole sodas on Joe's plate and buttered some toast for herself. In the living room she watched Joe smother his sausages in tomato ketchup and shove them between the halved sodas. With each bite, a dollop of sauce plopped onto the plate on his lap. He purred like a cat as he chewed.

"Enjoying that, son?"

He nodded and tore another chunk off his sandwich. A thin line of ketchup ran down his chin and he wiped it away with the heel of his palm.

She waited until he'd cleared his plate before making conversation. She didn't need to wait long.

"So, you had fun last night?"

Joe nodded. "Yeah, it was class."

"What'd you do?"

Joe sipped at his tea before answering. "Drove around a bit. Had a chat. Nothing much." He hid behind the red and blue Spider-Man mug again.

Louise guessed there was more to it than that, but she didn't press him. He deserved to blow off a little steam. "So, how do you feel about Tommy?"

Joe's face reddened and he put his cup on the arm of the chair. "I feel a bit guilty about it this morning."

"Why?"

"I sort of stopped hanging about with him and a few of my other mates and I keep thinking I should have been there to look out for him. Like maybe it wouldn't have happened if I'd been with him."

"Well, Joe, sweetheart, I think your time is up when it's up. Even if you were there it probably wouldn't have made a difference."

Joe bit his thumbnail and looked thoughtful for a few seconds. "Yeah, you're probably right."

"And anyway, I heard something earlier that's made me thank God you weren't with him."

Joe's eyebrows met above his nose and he tilted his head back a little. "What did you hear?"

"Stephen phoned me after listening to the morning news on Radio Ulster. Tommy was running away from a peeler when he got knocked down. He'd been with a gang of kids who'd just robbed some guy on Fountain Street and got spotted in the act. They're saying that The Wee Rocket gang is expanding, or at least working further from home."

"Who's saying?"

Louise shrugged. "The news people, I suppose. Did you know he was in that gang?"

"I don't want to talk about it anymore."

"Oh, right. I understand. But if you have anything on your mind or you have any questions about life and all that stuff, you know you can talk to me, don't you?"

"Aye."

"And Stephen says he'd be happy to talk to you too; if you want a man's opinion, like."

"I've got my da to talk to now. Why would I ask McVeigh for anything?"

"He just wants to let you know he's there for you."

"Dead on."

"No really, he seemed genuinely interested. He's taken a shine to you, I think. Maybe you remind him of himself when he was younger."

"Tell him thanks, but no thanks."

"There's no need to be like that, Joe."

"Whatever." He lifted the Sky TV remote, flipped on the digital listings and glared at the TV screen.

Louise reminded herself that he'd been through a lot in the last few days. "Okay, son. Sorry for pushing it."

Joe glanced away from the screen for a second and shot her a quick half-smile. "Thanks."

"So what are you going to do today?" she asked.

"Ach, not much. Meeting my da at seven."

"Oh, really? He's very keen."

"Yeah, I guess."

Although suspicious of Dermot's sudden interest she decided to let things lie. She was actually a bit relieved that Joe would be out by seven. It meant she could go see Stephen's match without bringing up the topic and upsetting him again.

###

Dermot shoved the old warped door shut behind him, muffling the jackhammer clatter from the roadworks outside. He slid the deadbolt in place automatically. Upstairs, he found Emily sitting on the bed base, flicking through a newspaper as she chewed on a red ballpoint pen. He hung his jacket over the corner of the door. The squat seemed a little tidier and the air smelt faintly of potpourri.

"When did you learn how to read?" he asked.

"Fuck off, darling." She pulled the pen out of her mouth and drew a circle on the page.

Dermot sat beside her and glanced at the paper. "The Property Finder?"

"I need to get out of here, Dermot. This place is depressing the shit out of me."

Dermot pointed to the ad she'd just circled. "I'm not going to live in East Belfast, love."

"Why not?"

"It's a cultural thing. A Brit chick like you wouldn't understand."

She rolled her eyes. "Well you take a look through the ones I've circled and cross out the dodgy areas. I'm just marking all the two bedroom apartments going for five to eight hundred a month."

"Fuck, rent's gone up here in the last few years."

"It's still dirt cheap compared to Hackney."

"Did you just defend Belfast, Emily? I thought you hated this place."

"I'm looking on the bright side." Her voice had a slight edge of reproach to it.

"Good for you."

"So are you going to help me or what?"

Dermot checked his watch. "I'm meeting Joe soon. He's going to cut his teeth on the footballer's house tonight. Remember?"

"Fine." The edge softened a little. "Did you go see the fence then?"

"Aye. Everything's okay there. He's still in the trade and happy to take a look at whatever I come across."

"Including motors?"

"No, but he gave me the number of another guy."

"Go and make some money then. We'll need a deposit and a month's rent. If we're not out of here by the end of the week, I'll cut your fucking balls off."