Wolf Tickets (3 page)

And I was right. Cockney never did come after us. Never did take it to the next level. Part of us was always a bit disappointed about that. Could've been good fun.

But them were definitely the days. I was a different gadgie back then – sorted and steady, a sense of purpose and a bit of cash in my pocket. Bit different to now, sat on a settee listening to a fat, dead Irish bloke give it some with his opera pipes, sucking the filter off of a menthol and drinking myself daft.

Pining for a better time, man.

Pining for a
dead
time.

I was older. Bored with my lot, had to be said. Wasn't entirely sure of myself anymore. Took to nicking stuff that I never even wanted. I emptied the Freddos out of my pocket and looked at them. Wasn't even hungry, man. Not like I could punt them on, either. And I needed cash like oxygen.

I lit another menthol off the arse of the last one. Breathed out.

The phone rang. I looked around the room. Couldn't see it. Didn't want to see it. I never got any good calls. It was all BT hard-sell and scams.

Kept ringing. Whoever it was, they were fuckin' tenacious, so I had to get up and have a root around. I found the phone under a pile of paperbacks. Scratched my nose, sat on the arm of the settee and picked up.

"What, man?"

There was a pause, then a familiar brogue: "What in the name of God are you listening to, you dumb bastard?"

"Fuckin' hell. I was just thinking about you."

"I don't want to know."

"How you keeping, marra?"

"Not – hang on, is that Josef Locke I can hear there, Jimmy?"

"Aye."

"You turn on me, did you?"

"You what?"

Farrell sounded like he was swallowing something large and unpleasant. "He was Garda, did you know that?"

"I don't care what religion he was, the man's got pipes." I blew smoke. "What's happened?"

"Nora."

"Right."

"She lit out."

"Sorry to hear it. Who's Nora?"

"The love of my life."

"Ah, that Nora. Wey, I feel for you, Sean, I really do. It's a fuckin' shame. I always thought youse two would tie the knot and have a load of ugly kids an' that."

"I'm coming to Newcastle."

"Fuckin' get in." I grabbed the Rotgut, gave him a toast and celebratory swig. "If you're puddle-jumping, bring some beer money, because I'm brassic."

"I'll get the cash when I'm there."

"How's that? You got something on, like?"

Farrell cleared his throat. "The bitch robbed me, Jimmy."

I put the bottle down. "How much?"

"Twenty."

"Euros or real money?"

"Your Queen's sterling."

"Fuck." Nora was a dead woman walking. You didn't get between Farrell and his money.

"And," he said, "she nicked my jacket."

"The leather?"

"The
Italian
leather, yeah."

Strike two – Farrell and his leather jacket, the one I always reckoned made him look like an aging rent boy, but which he was dead proud of.

"You know what she left me with?"

"What?"

Deep breath, one word that sounded as if it cut his tongue as he said it: "Dido."

"See you at arrivals," I said.

There was this old joke about an Irishman at an airport. I couldn't for the life of me remember it, but trying to helped take my mind off a vigorous pat-down courtesy of a teenager with a cluster of angry zits on the back of his neck and an apparent fascination with my scrotum.

It was the same song every time I flew into England. A bake like mine got the authorities twisting their knickers like they were wringing 'em dry, but I'd hoped they'd find someone browner to fuck around with. It was the twenty-first century, after all.

Of course, it was my own bloody fault. Nothing marks a man for a cavity search more than a cash-bought one-way ticket. Might as well have packed Semtex and a suicide note.

Another lad, couldn't have been more than twelve, approached me as the groper straightened up. This fella's epaulettes drooped from small, rounded shoulders onto his arms. I could've sworn his head was cone-shaped.

I was staring at it when he said, "Mr Farrell, is it?"

"Yes."

"What's the purpose of your visit to the UK this morning, Mr Farrell?"

"Personal. Looking up an old mate."

"And how long are you staying?"

"As long as it takes."

The spotty lad wiped his nose with one finger, pointed at my feet. "Could you take those boots off for us, sir?"

"No."

"Why not?"

"I take 'em off, they'll explode."

The spotty lad went white.

"Also, you should know, you see this watch I'm wearing? It contains a garrotte."

The spotty lad moved his mouth, got his colour back fast. "You can get in trouble for saying stuff like that. I could book you right now."

"Yes, you could certainly try."

"Mr Farrell, would you remove those sunglasses?" said the pinhead.

I smiled at the spotty lad. I could feel the heat coming off him. "Can't."

"Mr Farrell—"

"I'm an X-Man. I take these off, I'll fry you up. Won't be my fault either."

"Very funny."

"Won't be laughing when you're char sui." I looked back at the spotty lad. "How's mutant jokes for you, son?"

"Okay, let's move this along," said the pinhead. "Take 'em off."

I lowered my head, removed the glasses with my eyes closed. Truth was, I still had a bastard behind the eyes, and I didn't want any sudden glare to throw off my game here. When I opened my eyes, the spotty fella had backed off a good couple of feet. I smiled.

"What's the problem here?" said the pinhead.

"I don't have one. I'm just in a hurry, and I don't particularly like being felt up in public."

"You set off the metal detectors."

"That'll be the steel toecaps in my boots."

"Which you were asked to remove."

"If I didn't let my missus take them off me, there's no way your man here's getting his hands on them. These boots have been with me since the first Gulf."

The pinhead moved his shoulders. "Irish Army?"

"Come on, son, do I look sickly enough to be in the PDF?
British
." I tapped the side of my nose. "Which particular part of Her Majesty's, I'm not at liberty to divulge at this time. Suffice to say, I'm not a fucking terrorist, I'm just a good Catholic boy on a very important mission."

And just to ram the point home, I let my right eye twitch.

"We could hold you for questioning," said the pinhead.

"You could."

A pause. The pinhead looked around, saw the rabble arriving behind me, weighed up his options. "Okay, go on through."

I tugged at my jacket, nodded at the pinhead and went on.

Nora thought I was weird about these boots, which was probably why she made a move for them last night. I liked to think she knew quality when she saw it, but it was probably just because I looked on these boots the way I looked on the Italian leather – priceless, one-of-a-kinds. They'd been worn in for five years, been through the Galway rain with its drops like fists until they fit like hope.

Not so long ago, I'd taken them out to Bohermore for promotion. The cobbler had been nigh on blinded by age and poteen, but there was nothing wrong with his hands. As he put the steel caps in the Docs, rain ran down the windows, throwing shadowed tears down his cheeks. He turned to the sound of the rain against glass, looked out at the graveyard opposite and I swear to God the old bastard looked wistful.

"You're not planning on anything good with these, are you?"

I didn't answer. Didn't need to.

He lowered his head. "But none of my business, right?"

I handed him a mess of Euros for the caps. He brought the money up to his face and his mouth puckered. "This new money, it's not worth piss."

What he lacked in eloquence, he made up with truth. I nodded and left.

I thought I'd have a good week to break in the boots. Turned out I didn't have to wait that long at all.

Next night, outside McSwiggan's – the only pub in Ireland to have the dubious honour of having a tree in its lounge – I was huddled in the cold with the rest of the lepers, sucking the life out of our cigarettes. The usual half-drunk small talk – bionic cats, recessions and rapist councillors. Inside, Kenny Joplin sang like Christy Moore's dog, twisted in both mind and body. I could see him through the crack in the door, hunched over his scraped guitar and howling out something he called "The Ballad of JT", the sound staggering out onto the street every time another smoker joined us.

I was listening with both ears until someone shouted my name.

"Jesus, Sean, you deaf or something?"

I breathed smoke, looked up. A fly boy I knew from school. If I remembered right, he'd done well in the property boom, wore that success like a strip of medals. Count it off: Bally loafers, Armani suit, capped teeth, ring on his finger that looked to be carrying a Masonic emblem.

Question: what the hell was that doing on a good Catholic boy?

Answer: he wasn't a good Catholic boy.

He had a woman on his arm, skirt to her arse and tits to her navel. She had that reptilian new money expression, like she'd smelled something foul years ago and hadn't recovered. Looking at me, too, and I knew what she saw – leather jacket with a hole in the shoulder, the smell of booze and smoking on the streets. In her eyes, I was a pint of black away from robbing people's shoes down at the shelter.

"Farrell, this is Rita."

I nodded at her. She batted large and false eyelashes, looked like she was trying to keep her eyeballs cool.

"So how are you keeping?"

Back to the fly boy. Trying to remember his name. It began with a G ...

Git. Gimp. Gobshite.

I blew smoke in Rita's direction. "Not so bad,
Glen
."

"Yeah?"

"I'm managing."

"Staying out of trouble, I hope?"

I opened my mouth, held the smoke at the back of my throat, then aimed it at Glen this time. Talking to me like I was his kid. Looked to me like a stacked wallet and a bargain basement sex doll on his arm had given Glen an inflated sense of self.

"Well, Glen," I said, "you know me."

"I do at that." Glen smiled with half his face. "That reminds me. I heard a joke the other day -"

"I don't like jokes." I dropped the filter.

"You don't like jokes." Glen turned to Rita, his mouth open, a thin web of spittle binding his teeth. "Farrell doesn't like jokes, Rita."

Right enough, she did look like the kind of woman who needed everything explained twice.

"Still, I think you'll appreciate this one, Farrell. Right up your alley, so it is. I heard it, I thought of you."

"Really."

"See, this kyke applies to join the Garda."

"That so?"

"Yeah, but they turn him down, though."

Beat.

Two.

Three.

"You know why?"

The other punters had already taken the opportunity to vacate the smoking area, and they were right to do so.

"No," I said. "I don't know why. But I've got the feeling you're going to tell me."

Glen flashed his caps, shone like an Osmond. He fluffed himself up for the punchline. "They reject him because ... you've got to be a
complete
prick!"

Rita let out a shriek like she'd been goosed, a cross between a giggle and full-blown hysteria. Took me a second to realise she was laughing. Glen joined in –
ayuck-yuck-yuck
– sounded like a cartoon redneck.

I had a fierce thirst. I made to go back into McSwiggans, then stopped. Judged the distance, reckoned that tonight would be just as good as any other, pivoted and brought the right boot into Glen's left knee. The patella popped like corn and Glen made a similar sound to Rita, except I knew the bastard wasn't laughing.

Once he'd quieted down a bit, I told him: "My old man was a guard."

And as much as I hated that bastard, I hated this bastard more. A thick roll of cash wouldn't keep this one safe from me. That was a lie his type had been telling themselves ever since the Celtic Tiger first pawed up gold, long before they declawed the beast and sucked it dry like the ticks they were.

Of course, the ticks had the law on their side. Glen lodged a complaint, I got the early morning knock-up from the blues. From there it was a short trip to the judge with shocking winter plumage and skin like a flapjack.