Wolf Tickets (2 page)

And then there was the money. Twenty large. Not a lot in the grand scheme of things, but enough to make that bastard behind the eyes kick up a notch when I thought about it.

I pushed out through the fire exit, went looking for Heinz. He was chained to the wall down by the garages. The dog was some kind of mongrel – fifty-seven varieties and all of them mean as hell. He'd looked like a skinned fist when he was a puppy and he hadn't gotten any prettier with age. Soon as he saw me, a low growl sounded somewhere deep in his throat.

We went way back, me and Heinz. He'd spilled my blood before. Wouldn't be surprised if he'd developed a taste for it.

"Nasty fucking mutt, aren't you, eh?"

Nora loved him. Always spoiling him with treats and pets and kind words. Loved him more than she ever loved me.

Take care of Heinz
for me
.

I tossed him the chicken slipper. Heinz launched himself at it, shook it between his jaws, growling louder and looking right at me as he did it. I watched him, tried a smile, and as soon as his head went down for another chew, I stepped up and put two in his skull. Heinz didn't make a sound, but he did glare at me for a count of three before the fire went out and he dropped to the concrete.

I waited. You never knew with dogs like Heinz. You could put two in them and still miss their brain. I watched him twitch it out, watched him wind down. And when the blood pooled wide enough to confirm his passing to a better world, I left.

There you go, Nora-love. Taken care of.

The biddy behind the counter at the Spastics shop, the one with the milk bottle lenses and the thick Selleck, probably knew that I twocked stuff but she didn't mind, or else she didn't say nowt about it. After all, charity began at home and all that.

Trouble was, it wasn't the biddy watching us. There was this new girl, would've been sexy if she hadn't been carrying about a hundred extra pounds, and she was eyeing us like I was made of chips. She reminded us of someone, but I couldn't put my finger on it. I gave her a wink, anyway – beggars and choosers, and I was beginning to think the next woman who got lucky with Jimmy Cobb would get a wax dart for their troubles.

She took the wink and looked away.

Fair enough. This wasn't the time or the place for romance. If I was honest, I was a bit put off because of the musty smell, and I could never work out if it came from the biddy herself or the racks of dead man's pants over in the corner. I sniffed, rubbed my nose, and wandered round to the paperbacks. Cocked my head as I walked, checked out the spines. Looked like most of the books were about the search for the perfect man or the perfect pair of shoes, so I straightened up and headed for the CD shelf.

The usual suspects on there.
Dance Mix '97. The Best Party Album in the World Ever ... Part 10. Now That's What I Call Music 28.
Checked the tracklisting, there was Stiltskin, Haddaway and The Brand New Heavies.

Now That's What I Call Shite, more like.

Another one, peeking out from the corner and covered in dust.
Take a Pair of Sparkling Eyes
, Josef Locke. The name rang a bell, then I remembered – they'd made a film about him, had that fat bloke from
Deliverance
in it, the one that squealed like a pig. Had a fair voice on him in the Locke film, mind. Must've had lessons. Or else been dubbed over. Films were lying bastards.

I looked at the back. "Soldier's Dream", "It's a Grand Life in the Army", "A Shawl of Galway Grey". All fine tunes.

I checked over my shoulder. The biddy and Fat Lass were talking. I pushed the CD into my pocket and moved round to the dead man's pants.

Spring was the best time for charity shops. Winter took care of the old and the weak so come March and April time, there was a load more new stock. Tell you, some of it was proper decent gear, too. And if there was a class of person who knew how to buy clothes that wore, it was the fuckin' elderly.

I pulled a pair of grey tweeds from the rack, felt the material. Made to last centuries, but it'd grate your balls to ribbons if you ever went commando.

I put the trousers back and took a hat from the shelf next to them, popped it on my head. I said to Fat Lass, "What d'you reckon?"

She frowned at us like she didn't know what to say. Then she said, "Too small."

I looked at myself in the mirror. Took off the hat and slung it off to one side, went back to the books. My nose got itchy. I had a rummage, pulled out something grey and wiped it on a Lee Child.

"Do you mind?" It was Fat Lass.

"You what?" I said.

"This isn't a hostel, you know."

And click, that's who she reminded us of – that Kirstie off of the telly, the one that went around trying to sell people houses. Had to say, like, I wouldn't have kicked her out of my pit back in the day, but I couldn't get to grips with her now, not since I found out she was a raging fuckin' Tory.

"I know it's not a hostel," I said.

"It's a shop."

I nodded.

"So ..."

I nodded again. Probably beginning to look a bit simple, but I didn't know what this wifie's crack was.

"So, if you're not going to buy anything, I suggest you leave."

"It's a free country, pet. I can browse if I want."

"I know about you," she said. "I know what you do. And apart from the fact that it's deplorable behaviour, it happens to be illegal."

I remembered the snot. "Oh, you're a Jack Reacher fan, are you?"

Her lips thinned, which given the size of her was a miracle in itself. Next to her, the biddy trembled. Couldn't tell if she was scared or excited.

"If you don't leave right now," she said, "I'll call the police."

"You what?"

"You heard me."

"You serious?"

"Incredibly."

"That's not very charitable."

"Elsie, hand me the phone."

I waved at her. "Alright, alright. Fuck's sake. I'm going."

She watched us all the way to the door. I shook my head, couldn't get my brain round it. What kind of world was I living in where they give you the shaft in a charity shop? Right enough, I managed to get a CD out of it, but still, where was the common decency in folk?

Tell the truth, I blamed Thatcher. Or that new cunt, the one that looked like he walked out of the fuckin'
Beano
.

I took the long walk back home. Nipped to the corner for forty Berkeley Menthol and a litre bottle of Glen Rotgut. When I got back to the block, I took a second to prepare for the stairs. It was a long way, and I didn't trust the lift. Six floors up, I leaned against the wall for a minute, then went another six. Got in, kicked the door closed behind us, cracked the bottle of whisky and sparked a menthol. Took my jacket off, dropped to the settee and coughed through the dust I'd stirred up. Swig of the Rotgut, swilled it round my mouth like one of them wine connoisseurs before I swallowed it down.

Christ, but it hurt like bad sex.

And like sex, there was the moment afterwards when I didn't know what to do with myself. I could drink myself to sleep, then wake up and have a muckle great dump. Two days since the last one, and I was beginning to feel pregnant. Then there were books to read, a couple of ex-library Lansdales that had been shouting for us to clap eyes on them.

But I didn't do either of them things. Instead I put on the Locke CD.

The music popped, crackled, sounded like it'd been ripped from a 78. When Locke started singing "Soldier's Dream", that was me, up and marching around like a giddy twat. A swig each time I hit the wall, then back the way I'd come. By the time I got to the bit where Locke was bellowing "Hear the guns!" the Glen Rotgut had thrown us for a fuckin' loop. So as the song wound down, I dropped back into the settee and had another swig.

Fuckin' hell. Good times.

Got caught up for a second there. All that marching. Took us back to the good old days, the squaddie days.

Like that time me and Farrell were down London on leave.

In a boozer, hadn't had much more than a sip before this little Cockney twat heard Farrell's accent and thought he'd play it large. He swaggered over, suited, booted and rolling his shoulders like he was the hardest of his slick-back posse. Wouldn't have been difficult, like – as I recall, they were streaks of piss to a man.

"Wot you boys doing in here, then?" he said.

Farrell smiled and said, "On leave."

"Army, is it?"

"Yes."

"
Yes
," said Cockney and that must've been funny to the simple-minded fuck, because he started laughing. "Fahkin' hell. What's a fahkin' paddy doing in Her Majesty's, eh? These fahkin' cahnts, they're all IRA, innay?"

Farrell didn't say anything. Me, I was ready to knock some teeth loose.

Farrell shook his head at us, though. And that meant "later".

Jesus, the Irish. The Italians might've invented the word vendetta, but the Irish were the ones who really knew how to carry it out. Clutched a slight to their tit like a first born, and Farrell was no exception.

So Cockney went on, mouthing off to anyone with a pair of ears as to how paddy-bashing should be a national sport, and how Farrell probably came over here to stock up on spuds. Usual kind of shite from a mind that never left the east end, and Farrell weathered it all, full-on ignored Cockney until he ran out of steam, called Farrell a "cahnt" again and then returned to his city boy compadres.

I couldn't leave it, so I said to Farrell, "What the fuck was that about? Should've just chinned the—"

Farrell put one finger to his lips, then tapped his ear. Cockney had shifted tack, started going on about his new ride. A Mazda, top-end, fully kitted, cost a bomb, you wouldn't fahkin'
believe
.

Farrell drained the rest of his black.

Then he said, "I could use a breath of fresh air, Jimmy."

Three steps out, I spotted the Mazda – nippy little ride, dark metallic green – basking under a street light. I looked at Farrell; he looked back with this little smile on his face like
go on, then
.

So I did. I was designated driver that night, so the Volvo parked up the street with a couple of five-litre cans of paint thinner in the boot. If I ever crashed, I'd go up like Guy Fawkes, but I liked to run rough and at eight quid a pop, the thinner was better than petrol in situations like this. I pulled open the boot, heaved out a can and waddled over to Cockney's motor.

"Make it a good one," said Farrell.

"Wey aye, right y'are."

First things fuckin' first – and this was my favourite part – I splashed the thinner out across the Mazda's paintwork, all the way round, controlled the flow, and then dribbled up and over the roof, shook out the last few drops and flung the can. Closed my eyes, heard the fizz-crackle as the paint started melting off of the metal. Wished Cockney was out here to enjoy this. It was fuckin' beautiful, like a spring thaw.

I went round the side of the car, put my elbow to the driver side window, got the car open. The alarm shrieked. I didn't give a fuck. Went and got the other can and drenched the back seat, which was built for midgets.

Then I heard something above the shriek, thought it
was
the alarm for a second, but then I caught the words: "WhaddyafinkyafahkinDOINCAHNT?"

There was Cockney, stood in the double doors to the pub, mouth open like a sex doll.

"Y'alright?"

Cockney took a couple of staggered steps out onto the street. Building up steam, ready to make a square go of it. Too busy staring at us to notice Farrell in the shadows.

Cockney pointed at us. "You are fahkin'—"

A loud snap. Cockney's finger pointed back at himself and he didn't know why. Mouth open, scream caught in the back of his throat. Looked Farrell's way and caught a face full of forehead for his trouble. Something white dropped out of Cockney's mouth, quickly followed by a lot of red. He tried falling back, but Farrell clamped a hand on the back of his neck and brought his knee up into Cockney's package. Cockney creased. Tried to shout. Another boot to the balls and Cockney hit the deck.

Farrell said, "How you doing, Jimmy?"

"Dandy, marra." I doused the dash, finished off the rest of the can on the front seats. My eyes were streaming, my nose stung like I'd been on the Billy for a week straight, and my thumb was itchy to feel a Zippo wheel under it. That last thing was easily remedied. I dug out my NUFC Zippo, ground the wheel and watched the flame flicker for a moment – so fuckin' pretty – then chucked it onto the passenger seat.

Blue turned yellow, flames caught the pleather and chewed on it. Something spat. Something else crackled.

Hypnotic. Loved it. Could've watched it for hours.

But Farrell was shouting on us.

"You coming?"

I nodded. Cockney was rolling on the ground, and he'd found his cords: we were fahkin'
dead
, he was gonna murder the fahkin' pair of us
cahnts
, he had fahkin'
friends
. Considering his posse of yuppie fucks in the pub didn't even have the stones to come outside, I sincerely doubted he knew anyone called Harry the fuckin' Hammer, and I gobbed at him as I passed to make sure he knew about it.