Wolf Tickets (12 page)

Cobb chewed the inside of his mouth. "I don't know."

"It's necessary. Too much to do, too little time to do it in.
Avanti
."

By the time we got to the Royal Station Hotel, my back was minging with sweat. Had to watch your arse when you were driving round town, else there'd be someone up it. Soon as people got caught in the one-ways, they lost their shit and started driving like they were in a demolition derby. I missed a cyclist with no peripheral vision and veered in behind a line of black cabs that wouldn't move if lightning struck them. Another black cab pulled in behind us. The cabbie, a skinny wanker with a Waddle mullet-perm, leaned on the horn.

I stuck my head out the window. "You better've had a fuckin' heart attack and slumped on your horn, you fuckin' prick, else I'll come back there and bray fuck out of you."

"See, this is why you don't get to come inside," said Farrell. "Your people skills are sorely lacking."

"That cunt's a honk away from a headbutt." I watched Waddle in the rear view. Willing him to hit it again. My blood was up with all this evasive driving. "Do what you have to do. I've got my own."

"Give me an hour," said Farrell.

"You going to call us if you find anything?"

"Not on the room phone. Police put two and two together, I don't want them checking the records and seeing your number."

"Right."

Farrell grinned. For a gadgie who'd looked like he was going to drink himself to death a couple hours ago, he was chipper as fuck now. Truth be told, it'd be good to get a break from the bastard. Something about him still wasn't right.

"See you back here in an hour," said Farrell.

He got out of the car and jogged through the traffic towards the hotel. I waited until he went in, then pulled away. As I did, that cabbie bastard decided to lean on his horn again. I slammed on the brakes, watched him jolt to a stop behind us. Wouldn't take much to lash the sock on this one, but I had to bite it back. Farrell was right. We didn't need to draw attention to ourselves. And beating the shite out of that cabbie might be fun, but it was indulgent. So I just reversed in a hop and took out one of his headlights, then lurched the Volvo into traffic.

I was about halfway home when I wanted a tab. And when the dash lighter didn't work for us even though it had worked for Farrell, I decided to stop off at a newsagents to get another disposable. Next time I saw Orville, I'd have a short, sharp word in his shell-like. Wasn't as if it was a Zippo or anything, but there was an etiquette involved with cadging tabs, and nicking the cadgee's lighter just wasn't fuckin' cricket, was it? Wasn't like I hadn't been generous enough with the cans. But that was the thing with Orville – he always had to take it one step too far.

"Give us a disposable," I said to the newsagent. "Red if you've got it."

The newsagent picked up a red lighter and tested it before he handed it over. I fished around in my pockets for a bit before I realised that Farrell had used all my change. So I had to dig out the special emergency twenty I kept in the watch pocket of my jeans.

The newsagent looked at us like I'd just pissed on his early editions.

"You got anything smaller?" he said.

"It's all I've got, mate. If I had anything smaller, I'd be using it to pay you with, wouldn't I?"

"You'll have to buy something else."

"I don't want anything else."

"I don't do change."

"You're not doing us fuckin' change, you're selling us a lighter."

"A fifty pence lighter, aye. That's a twenty there."

"Shit, is it? There's me thinking it was buttons and fluff. Fuckin' hell. Look, alright, give us a Mars Bar an' all."

"A Mars Bar?"

"A fuckin' Mars Bar
Duo
, then."

The newsagent pulled a face that meant he was sick of repeating himself. He took the lighter back and shoved it into its little plastic stand.

I stared at him. Counted a slow ten in my head.

"Okay," I said. "I'll have twenty Berkeley Menthols."

"No, you won't. Only got the normal Berkeleys."

"Consulate, then."

The newsagent turned to look at the rack. Took him a while to locate them. I didn't help him. Instead, I nicked a handful of Chomps. When he turned back, I nodded behind him at the lighters. "A red one."

The newsagent tested it again, because he was an anal fucker. "Six-ten."

"No please?"

He smacked his lips like that was a good enough answer. I handed over the twenty and he gave us the thirteen-ninety in pound coins and silver.

"I thought you weren't giving change," I said.

"I don't have no notes."

Lying bastard. There were plenty of notes in the till. I'd seen them. One of them shopkeepers that liked to hoard the paper money. On the way out, I pulled a Chomp from my pocket and bit into it. The newsagent frowned at us.

That's right, Paper Round, you just got fuckin' took.

***

The police car was gone when I got back to the flat. I parked the car round by the garages that still had doors on them and grabbed everything I could out the back. My sock and the Stanley sat in my jacket pockets. I put the bottle of Bushmills in Farrell's bag. Most importantly, I took the gun out of the glove compartment. I broke it open, saw that Farrell had loaded it up with Goose's bullets. Clicked it shut. Fucking thing. I should've chucked it in the Tyne, the amount of shit it had caused us already, but I wedged it down the back of my jeans instead. Better on me than in some charva's hand.

I went inside and held my breath before I stepped into the lift. Only so much ammonia a bloke could take. At the end of my corridor, I stopped to sniff the air. The usual cabbage and sweat smells. Nothing unusual except I was still missing a front door. I lit a tab and stepped over the wreckage to see what the thieving bastards had left us with.

The stereo was gone, along with some of the CDs. They'd twocked my telly an' all. That wasn't a blow, mind. Bought it a couple of years ago, must've watched it about three hours in total. And it looked like they'd left most of my books alone, even if they had kicked them about a bit. Something about the sight of books that pisses off burglars. They think they're back at school or something.

What really bothered us, mind, was the smell in here.

Aftershave.

Wasn't mine. I don't have it. Way I look at it, if a bloke wears aftershave, he might as well chuck on a dress to go with the perfume. It was probably Farrell, but I couldn't remember it being this strong before. I waved my hand in the air, tried to get rid, as I walked over to the phone. The dial tone was spaced out, which meant I had messages waiting.

I dialled 1571.

Heard, "Message received at—"

Something flared white behind my eyes. I opened my mouth.

Shock.

Fuck.

Then the pain came roaring in as another blow knocked us forward. I dropped the phone, threw one hand up to the back of my head. Felt wet. That aftershave stink got worse. I turned, blinking, spit coming out my mouth. I couldn't focus.

There was someone there. Tall. Skinny. A bloke. And that bloke swung something at us.

One more slam, this time right between the eyes.

And I was gone before I hit the carpet.

Liz wasn't available when I got to reception, but a small blonde wearing too much mascara found my key card for me. The small cardboard wallet it came in had 361 written on it. I smiled at the blonde, tapped the key and headed towards the stairs. Took them two at a time until I arrived on the third floor. I had to admit, Nora had planned this out nicely. She'd picked a hotel that wasn't so expensive that she and O'Brien would look odd, but then not so exclusive that she'd need more ID. Plus, it was right next to the station, which was an easy trip to Frankland and an even easier getaway if needed, because I couldn't see anyone driving a fast car through the middle of Newcastle.

I found the room, slid the key into the card reader and removed it with a click that made the red light green. I paused, the door slightly ajar. Listened to the kind of silence you only ever got in libraries, funeral homes and good hotels. The slightest noise would register like a gunshot, so I kept as quiet as possible.

I slipped into the room, eased the door shut behind me. A familiar smell tensed me up – Nora's perfume. Poison. I breathed it in, and tried to ride the pain in my chest.

The room was modern and an over-sized bed, its sheets wrenched and thrown, dominated the place on a raised carpeted area. Housekeeping hadn't been in yet, which meant the room was as Nora left it. Her overnight bag sat on the desk. The hairdryer lay next to it, recently used. That didn't match. She would've put it away. She was a neat freak.

Which meant she'd planned on coming back.

I felt sick. Hadn't expected anything but rage. Almost managed to convince myself that I'd never loved the bitch, but now it came back in a rush.

I breathed out. Needed to get my head together. I couldn't stand here all day. There was work to be done.

I crossed to the wardrobe, found a couple of skirts and a halter top that hadn't been worn. I left them, then got on my hands and knees and looked under the bed. There was a suitcase, just where she always left it. I pulled out the case, yanked out a pair of shoes that were one size too small for her, but which she insisted on wearing until her heels were raw, and dumped them on the bed. There were more clothes underneath. I picked up the case, dumped everything out. Nothing but clothes. I felt like chucking the case across the room, but I let it drop onto the bed and took out my Dunhills instead. I smoked half the cigarette in one drag and sat on the bed. There were no ashtrays in the room. I just hoped the place didn't have skittish smoke alarms. Last thing I needed right now was the sprinklers kicking in.

"Jesus, Nora, what the fuck did you expect me to do, eh?"

I turned over the pile of clothes, but the enthusiasm was gone. She hadn't left anything except bad memories. The touch of familiar fabric made my chest hurt.

There was a breeze against my ear. It felt like a whisper.

"You never had much of a brain, Farrell."

"Sure, I got this far, didn't I?"

"And you wouldn't have gotten here without my help."

I tapped ash onto the floor. I blew smoke through my nostrils and stared at myself in the mirrored wardrobe.

I looked old. I looked tired.

"Why'd you do it?"

"Come on, Farrell, you didn't honestly think I was going to hang around with the small time, did you? No ambition—"

"I had ambition."

"Oh yeah, the money ..."

"Not the money. O'Brien."

"Ah
."

"Ah." I sniffed. "Why'd you call it off?"

"You know why
."

"Because you still loved the old bastard."

"It wasn't fair
."

"And robbing me was?" I got to my feet, flicked the last of the ash at the carpet and smoked the Dunhill down to the filter. I headed for the ensuite. "We had him, Nora. We had him right where we needed him."

"I know
.
"

I flicked the filter into the toilet bowl. "Christ, you think
I
was small time, at least I didn't let my fucking hormones make my business decisions for me."

Silence to that. I looked at myself again, this time in the bathroom mirror. She must have gone. I reached for the taps, felt the breeze again.

"Then what are you doing here, Farrell?"

"You lit out on me," I said, and splashed my face with water. "You robbed me."

"And you should've done the right thing and written it off. Maybe took it as a sign that our relationship wasn't exactly panning out?"

"Harsh."

"Cruel to be kind, Farrell.
" A pause, then a sound like a sigh.
"You don't want to mess with Frank. I told you that.
"

"I know. But I will. And then I'll kill him."

"Aw, Farrell, we both know you're not a killer. You never killed anyone your whole life."

"What about Heinz?"

"Heinz was a dog."

"I got a gun."

"With dodgy bullets."

"I got a gun. I can get different ammunition."

"Cop on to yourself, Farrell, will you? You're not well. Your cara Cobb, he'd tell you you were poorly upstairs and he'd be absolutely right. So why don't you just admit you hit a dead end and take yourself back to Galway?
"

I squinted. I could almost see her standing behind me in the mirror. "I'm fine."

"You're fine. Of course you are. Which is why you're talking to yourself in a dead woman's jacks."