Wolf Tickets (21 page)

I made a couple of moves. Both times Cobb told me to wait. Time ticked on, dragged out. We watched the drunks get settled in the late bars and the lights start dropping out of The Claddagh windows like the end of
The Waltons
. As the lights went, so did the noise of the drunks, fading into the background caterwaul of bad karaoke from a pink neon place at the other end of the street, the static of a restless sea and my own heart banging in my ears.

A couple – a squat frog of a bloke and the girl with the greasy ponytail I'd seen waiting tables earlier on – stepped out of the pub. The start of the staff exodus.

It felt as if we were tempting fate, sat out here in plain view of the place. I pictured DS McDonald and a posse of woodentops waiting for us inside the pub, then scrubbed it out. Just the usual paranoid jitters, the sweats and shakes coming up swiftly behind it like a bad speed rush.

A black car growled up towards The Claddagh. Fog lamps, tinted windows, glass-humming bass line coming from inside. It stopped outside just as Robbie Keegan came out. He was walking unaided. Cobb looked at me, clearly thinking the same as me. I thought I'd nailed that bastard, and yet here he was, didn't even need to go home early. Keegan got into the car and it roared away from the pub. When I looked at Cobb, I realised he was staring at me. "What?"

"Calm."

"I'm fine, Jimmy."

Cobb smoked past the filter, blew his last lungful as the doors closed on The Claddagh. Then he put his hand on the door and, in one swift and silent movement, ditched the filter, stepped out onto the street and ground the butt under his trainer. I got out of the Volvo. The place was dead on the outside, but there were plenty of pissed witnesses if this went tits up. Cobb went to the boot and waved at me to come over. He dragged out two cans of paint stripper and nodded to the crowbar sat on a dog blanket. I picked it up, tested the weight in my hand. Wasn't quite a hurley, but it'd still crack a head wide open if necessary. I went back to the passenger side of the car, picked up my Italian leather and brushed some of the blood from the hide before I shrugged into it. It felt like a skin I'd shed too long ago. Stained and beaten, but still breathing.

Cobb nodded at the pub and set the pace, jogging towards it with a can in each hand.

Show time.

We went round the back of the place and started kicking at the door like it was O'Brien's ball sack. There was no sense in being a fuckin' ninja about it – we wanted that bastard to know he was being raided. The frame cracked and broke. I kicked the jagged bits from the bottom of the door and we ducked inside.

With the lights off and a dead jukebox, The Claddagh looked like a decent place to sup. They'd cleaned it up since this afternoon, which was a shame. I was that caught up at the time, I didn't get a good idea of the carnage. Still, I'd be at it again soon enough. And this time, I'd remember every fuckin' second of it.

By the time I got the cans to the bar, I had a sweat on. My chest was tight too, which wasn't good. I leaned against the bar, put a hand on my heart, just to make sure I wasn't going to have a fuckin' coronary or owt like that. I looked around as I tried to catch my breath. It was a big place, this. It'd be a challenge with only two cans. But then I'd been in the cubs and the Army, and if they'd taught us nowt else, it was to make the best out of any situation. You just had to use your initiative, like.

So I didn't have enough stripper. Not a problem. There were ways round it.

Farrell stood by the door. He was tapping the crowbar against his hand. "You want me to do anything?"

"You wanna helk ush, turn on the gash in the kitshensh."

Farrell dropped the crowbar to his side and headed for the stairs. I took a good look around and set out my plan. See, starting a fire was a piece of piss. It was keeping the fucker going that was the real challenge. A fuckin'
art
form, like. Unappreciated by the general public and the authorities, but then all great artists were unappreciated in their time, weren't they?

Course they were.

I piled up a load of fresh drip towels on the bar and doused them. The fumes nipped at my skin, made my cuts raw and put water in my eyes. I juggled the towels so they were all sopping. That was half a can. One and a half to go. More than enough.

I snaked the towels through the crap spirits on the back bar. I picked up a bottle of Johnny Walker Black from the top shelf and knocked the dust off it. Fuckin' typical of the arseholes that came in here that they didn't order a nice nip like this. I span the top off the bottle and took a swallow – it was liquid magic, fuckin' light years from the Rotgut. I had another swig, then put the Johnny on the bar. The curtains on the picture window across the way looked thick and heavy. Old, too. Probably hadn't been cleaned since they were hung. I followed the imaginary burn as it caught and ran across the wall panelling, then dragged a full can over to the curtains, which I splashed until my arms shook with the effort. Moved the stripper down over the wooden furniture and across the upholstery on the booths in the corner. By the time I got down to the dregs, I'd covered half the room. I grabbed the other can and attacked the other half. I stopped at the juke. Looked at the selection – a load of blarney shite. I put my elbow through the glass and pulled out the CDs one by one.

I looked around for a target. Saw that smug little leprechaun wanker on the blackboard. I flung the CDs like they were ninja stars. They bounced off the blackboard and skittered across the floor. Time was, they would've done the decent thing and smashed. These days it was harder to kill the shite, even if you had a spare day and a new hammer.

Never mind. It'd all go up in a minute. I dug around in my pocket for a light. I wished I still had a Zippo. When you sparked one of them, it stayed sparked. Not like this shitty little disposable I had. Start a fire with one of these, you had to sacrifice a layer of thumb skin on the wheel first. Worse than that, you had to hang about for a bit, make sure the flames were catching right. It was a fuckin' logistical nightmare.

Fuck it, though but. I didn't have a choice. I went over to the curtain and sparked the lighter.

Then I heard movement behind us. I turned to tell Farrell I was going to set the burn going. "Fa—"

Felt the blast before I heard it. Something heaved us up against the window, my back hit the sill and my legs went out. I hit the floor like a sack of spuds. My back killed us. So did my side.

And then I smelled the gun and the blood, and I realised that there was plenty more pain to follow.

He was here, I knew it. The more I thought about it, the more it made sense. Someone had been on the premises to lock up after Keegan left, and O'Brien didn't have anywhere else to live. The trick was finding the bastard.

I checked out the dining area. The tables were swabbed and spotless and the air smelled like snuffed candles. I crossed to the kitchen, pushed through the swing door and slapped the light switch, ready with the crowbar just in case. The strips threw a white fit across the kitchen, all gleaming stainless steel. I went down the row of cookers, kicked open the over doors and turned the gas right up on each one until all I could hear was an immense hissing sound. There was a fire exit, but nothing else. I came back out to the dining area and looked around for other doors. Unless O'Brien lived in the mop cupboard, he had to be somewhere else.

I walked over to the railing. Cobb was splashing paint thinner onto the curtains. He looked as if he was having trouble with it. He looked old.

"Struck out again, Farrell."

"We don't know that," I said.

"Ah, you know it, lover. Sure, you can't be that dense."

I pushed away from the railing. "We're fine. We'll find him."

"You're not fine."

"I will be. After we find him."

I tapped the crowbar against one of the tables. The burn wasn't going to work in here. I needed more than smoke damage here. I needed O'Brien.

"Why?"

"You know why."

"You want to avenge my death, Farrell. That's very sweet. Except it's bollocks, isn't it? The real reason you're doing this is pride. You're just embarrassed that a woman put one over on you."

I didn't answer. Looked around the dining area again. There was a painting on the far wall. It looked like a landscape of Galway Bay. Home sweet fucking home.

I heard Cobb shuffle downstairs. Heard the scrape of a lighter, then more footsteps.

And then I realised that Cobb didn't have four feet.

I turned just as the shotgun went off. I ran back to the rail and there he was – O'Brien, come out of nowhere – with a double-barrel steadied on a bandaged arm. Smoke twisted from both barrels. O'Brien cracked the gun, dumped the spents and fumbled two more into it. Cobb was sprawled out on the deck by the window, curling against buckshot. I took the stairs like I was falling and O'Brien turned at the noise. He shifted his aim from Cobb to me.

And I flashed back to Salisbury Plain.

Basic training. Very simple. No thought required. None of your usual fingers between the trigger guard or fine muscle work here. Shift the weight to the right foot, a hard palm straight out until the heel connected sharply with the gunman's forehead. Another quick shift. Then a boot to the balls.

As the wise man once said: "You teach a man through his genitalia, he'll remember the lesson forever."

I dispensed with the foreplay and went straight for the jewels. O'Brien folded in half, but tightened on the shotgun. A blast ripped up the floorboards and put bells in my ears. I brought the crowbar down on his good hand and the shotgun clattered to the floor. Brought the metal back up and caught him under the chin. His teeth clacked together and he twisted out against the bar. He hung off it for a second, his mouth open and blood hitting the floor. He blinked, all dizzy and daft. I kicked him in the back, put him to the boards. I grabbed the shotgun and held it on him, my hand still vibrating from the solid hit. I glanced back at Cobb. "You okay?"

He grunted, held up one bloody thumb, then slapped his hand against the floor.

"Good." I moved round to the jukebox and hefted the can of paint stripper Cobb had left there. There was still a good half-can left.

Cobb slapped the floor again. The noise echoed through the pub. He'd pushed himself up to his knees. Shaking his head at me. I ignored him, went over to O'Brien, who'd just gotten used to the pain in his balls. I put the boot into his ribs to keep him thinking. He looked as if he was yawning as he slumped back to the floor. I lifted the can and splashed the rest of the paint stripper over him. He spluttered.

I watched him flail on the floor for a bit. "Where's your lighter, Jimmy?"

Cobb replied with another slam. His eyes were wide. He was breathing heavily, one hand pressed to the ugly wound in his side. Showing bottom teeth, looking for all the world like he wanted to kill me.

"Gurn the fuckin'
kug
."

"I will burn the pub, Jimmy. I promise. Just give me your—"

"No. You're gonna gurn
hing
."

"Yeah, so he'll go up with the pub."

Cobb grabbed at the nearby table, rocked it as he hauled himself to his feet. He looked up at the ceiling, a dizzy spell throwing a sway into him. He let out a rush of breath.

"Alright, okay. You don't want to burn him, we don't have to burn him. We'll finish this the old-fashioned way." I went to bar and grabbed the shotgun. One in it, and one was all I'd need if I got it close enough. Which I did, jamming both barrels into O'Brien's cheek. O'Brien's eyes flickered to the gun and he made a high noise like someone opening an old door.

"Taken care of, Nora," I said, and pulled the trigger.

I launched myself at Farrell. Put a hand over the shotgun as it clicked down the empty, and Farrell whipped round with eyes like a cornered dog. Something had cracked in there, man, something had gone helter-skelter all the way down. Farrell pulled the gun away from us and I fell forward a bit, got in front of O'Brien. "Outshide."

"No, Jimmy."

I nodded. "Now. Outshide now. Howeh."

Farrell brought up the gun. I rapped a fist in his chest. He wasn't expecting it. He went back. I grabbed the gun by the barrel, still fuckin' hot, and held on. Farrell looked at us, then looked at the gun. "I'm not going to fight about this, Jimmy."

I took a hold of the stock. Pointed the gun at the floor. Nodded at O'Brien. "Outshide."

"You're going to let him live."

I pointed at the door. "Go on."

He grabbed his crowbar then went to the doors and slapped back the bolts. He flung open one door so hard it slammed off the inside wall. Then he went outside. Finally.

I put the shotgun on the bar and leaned for a bit. The floor looked slick. Too bright in here. When I moved my hand, there was still blood coming out the wound. Didn't have much time before that and the fumes put us out. I pulled my lighter and set flame to towel, watched the fire take on the Guinness logo and win. I took a swallow of Johnny as I stepped over O'Brien to get to the curtains. A couple of cranks and a burned thumb later and fire sprinted up the material and across the walls. I stood and watched it, my heart thumping mental. Had to make myself do this, because the secret of successful arson was not getting yourself panicked. I took another drink to slow it all down, kill some of the pain in my side, and closed my eyes to listen to the crackle and feel the heat.