Wee Rockets (22 page)

"So much for airbags," his da said. "Not one of them activated."

"So what'll I do now, da?"

"Reverse and charge again. If at first you don't succeed... you know the rest."

"I haven't learned how to reverse yet."

"Now's as good a time as any. Move the gearstick back to the R slot. That's you. Now apply a wee bit of pressure to the accelerator."

They bounced in their seats. The Honda had hit the grassy ditch opposite the gate.

"Jesus, you've a heavy foot, son. No worries though. Just stick her in neutral and rev up the engine a few times. Yeah, that's it, lovely. Listen to that big monster roar. Now, pop her back in drive, and floor it."

The weakened gate splintered and Joe rolled over the remains. The Honda's body rocked and jolted on the uneven terrain. He noticed Emily sink her fingers into her armrest and chuckled.

"Jesus, Dermot. This field's full of cows!"

"They're not dangerous."

"Says you."

"Ach, Emily. Look at the bloody things. They're practically hugging the ditches."

"Yuck! That one's shitting all over the place."

"Yeah, they do that. Joe, take us into the middle of the field. I'll talk you through a reverse doughnut. I'm pretty sure these things revert to front-wheel-drive automatically when you reverse. Pretty swanky, eh?"

"Can you show me how to do a handbraker too?"

"This isn't the best car for that, son. Too high and heavy. But we'll start with the doughnuts. Then we'll see."

The Honda tore up the field as the cattle cowered around the field's perimeter. A single beam of light from the intact headlight swept over the green grass. Joe took to the destructive driving like a duck to water. His da instructed and cheered him on from the back. Emily alternated between cackling and screaming. Every so often she'd egg him on by patting his forearm, and once by squeezing his thigh. The E tab he'd dropped with Wee Danny hadn't even felt this good. He only stopped because the orange reserve light blinked on. They were almost out of fuel.

"Sorry, Joe," his da said. "We'll need what's left to get back to civilisation."

Joe read the time off the dashboard. "But it's only after eleven. Do we have to leave now?"

"No, not yet. But we can't go on burning diesel. Just let her idle and we'll have a wee chat. Do you know this model has a foldout picnic table in the back?"

"I am not getting out of this car, Dermot," Emily said. "Not with all those bloody cows running about."

"That's okay, love. You stay here and work the radio. Me and Joe can sit out on our own. Have a little father and son time."

While his da figured out how to work the picnic table, Joe realised that he hadn't thought about Tommy Four-Eyes since he'd left the house. Guilt flushed his face. Tommy was dead and he'd been having the time of his life in a Honda CR-V, with the prettiest woman he'd ever met in real life beside him and his da singing his praises in the back. But not only that, Joe was painfully conscious of the relief he'd felt after Liam phoned him with the news. Relief that he'd decided to pack it in before the Wee Rockets suffered such a misfortune and, ultimately, relief that Liam carried the burden of guilt for the accident and not him. Grief for the loss of a friend seemed to play a smaller part than it deserved in his mixed bag of emotions.

His da snapped him out of his introspection.

"Hah. Got the bastard. Now for a wee nightcap." He pulled a half bottle of whiskey from one of the big pockets stitched to the leg of his combats then waggled it in Joe's face. "Want a shot?"

"Ma told us not to drink."

"No, your ma told me not to fill you with beer again. I'm only offering you one shot of whiskey while we chat. Totally different kettle of fish."

"Oh, right. Okay then."

Joe took the offered bottle and gulped down a shot from the neck. His eyes watered as the whiskey-burn edged down his throat and into his chest. "Gah! That's fucking stinking!"

"It's an acquired taste, son. Have another sip in a few minutes. It'll go down a lot easier."

"I might not take you up on that."

"We'll see."

They sat on the sill of the Honda's boot, and Joe rested his elbows on the foldout table. His da gulped down a huge mouthful and blew a short blast of air through his lips. Joe wrinkled his nose as the smell on his da's breath rejuvenated the taste clinging to the back of his throat. The big man took another shot before spinning the lid back on.

"So, Joe. What do you know?"

Joe looked at him blankly.

"What I mean to say is; how are you? You know? What with your mate...um?"

"Tommy."

"Yeah, Tommy. What with Tommy dying, are you going to be okay?"

"Aye. I'll be fine."

"Good. That's good."

They sat in silence for a moment. The cows had gotten used to them and were moving about, though still keeping their distance. Joe thought they were the most useless animals in the world. Slow and dumb. No redeeming physical features. Just waiting for that sledgehammer to the head and mutilation on the butcher's cutting block. Probably nice to have no worries though. Eat and shite and sleep. All day long. Lucky fuckers.

"So, me and my ma were in McVeigh's house earlier."

"Oh, aye?"

"Yeah. He's weird. Big poster of Bruce Lee, half naked, over the fireplace. Fuck all furniture. And everything looks too clean and tidy."

"Ah, a neat freak. All the better for us. It'll make things much easier to find. So when do you want to do it?"

"Well, I know he's got a Gaelic match on tomorrow night. He'll be running around in shorts on the Beechmount Leisure Centre pitch for seventy minutes. Kick-off's at seven."

"So I'll meet you at seven. Outside the video shop on Beechmount Avenue, okay?"

"Dead on." Joe drummed his fingers on the thick plastic tabletop. "Can I get another shot of that whiskey, then?"

###

Liam lay in his bed, wide awake, quilt kicked to the floor and shivering in his boxer shorts. He didn't want to sleep. He couldn't face the nightmare lying in wait. Every time he closed his eyes he could see Tommy Four-Eyes; his ashen face scrunched. His squinting eyes peering at him over the top of the thick-rimmed glasses on the end of his sweat-slicked nose. Liam's final image of his dead friend perfectly preserved in his mind. While he lay awake it was a silent image. But the dreams would come and give Tommy the power of speech, and Liam knew he couldn't handle the asthma-strained voice of accusation. Not yet.

He rolled onto his side and watched the passing glow of headlights on the closed vertical blinds. Outside, life moved on. According to his digital alarm clock it was still Wednesday night, but only just. Tommy had died almost seven hours ago. Another car rumbled down Liam's street, oblivious to the tragedy. He tried to imagine dying on a Wednesday evening in the middle of the summer and cringed. There'd be a remembrance mass in September at St Paul's chapel on Cavendish Street. The teachers and priests would pretend they'd suffered a loss to their school and parish. Tommy's memory would be dragged through roses and still come up smelling of shite. You didn't have to tell the truth about dead kids, but plenty of people would remember it in silence. He'd died running from a cop after kicking the shit out of a yuppie and stealing from him. It'd be left out of the service, but not the local paper.

And of course, there'd be questions. Who were the other kids? Why had they not given themselves up? What were the cops going to do? Where were the witnesses? When would the others be caught? How could they let a friend die?

Just after the accident he'd phoned Joe in a panicky blur and stupidly admitted his fault in Tommy's accident. He'd panicked and hung up while Joe stammered. Then he'd gotten a wave of missed calls and text messages from the other Rockets asking if he and Tommy had made it. Rather than tell the truth or attempt to come up with a story, he'd turned off the phone. Then he'd slinked around the City, blending in as best as he could, for two hours to avoid meeting the others on his way up the road. Apparently they hadn't been stupid enough to phone his ma's house and rouse suspicion. He found her on the armchair by the TV, drinking vodka and orange juice and watching Big Brother. His da had gone to the pigeon club.

"You want dinner, son?"

"No, ma. I had a fish supper in the park."

"And you wonder why you can't lose your puppy fat?"

Same old same old. He'd gone to his room and left his TV on for a few hours, mimicking normality. When he flicked it off he couldn't remember one show he'd watched.

Enough. He rolled off his bed and landed lightly on the floor. A well practiced movement from countless midnight excursions. He pulled on his jeans, muffling the rattle of his open belt buckle by closing a chunky fist over it. Then he unrolled and wiggled into the Ben Sherman T-shirt and navy NYC hoodie from the floor. He padded down the stairs, sticking to the side closest the wall to reduce the risk of creaking floorboards. Probably an unnecessary precaution as both his ma and da's snores cut through the night like a pair of stuttering chainsaws. He got to the bottom of the stairs and still hadn't decided what he intended to do. The general idea was to get fucked up and maybe steal a few hours of escape. But he was out of grass and the off-licences closed at eleven. Some of the taxi ranks still sold cider after hours, but not to kids his age and not without a phone order. His ma's vodka might do the trick, but only as a last resort. She marked the bottle and could tell when it had been watered down no matter how drunk she got.

Hoping the night air would bring inspiration, he slipped out the front door and took to the streets. He picked a maze-like path through the terraces of Beechmount, towards the Springfield Road. Most of the younger kids had been dragged off the streets for the night, but small groups of teenagers were dotted about the area, gathered at street corners, smoking, drinking, murmuring and laughing. Liam wasn't in the mood to listen to the inevitable verbal abuse. He avoided all the corner crews by backtracking and taking alternative routes. On the Springfield Road, he considered climbing the gate into the nearby Dunville Park to look for the rest of the gang. Maybe scrounge a bottle or two. But they'd want to hear about the accident. They were bound to know by now. It'd have worked its way out from Joe and from Tommy's family.

Instead he pulled up his hood and cut through Waterford Street putting the three-storey shop buildings between him and the park across the road, then surfaced onto the Falls Road at Clonnard. He trudged down the road's slight decline, towards the city, still not knowing where he wanted to go. A gust of wind swept up a blue plastic bag and rolled an empty Harp lager tin towards him. He sidestepped the low-flying bag and kicked the tin off the footpath and into the road. A passing private taxi ran over it. The dull crimp resonated in the still night and Liam shuddered as unwelcome thoughts of Tommy Four-Eyes squished flatter than the tin swamped him. His stomach churned and his mouth watered but he swallowed hard and moved on.

He stopped at the Falls Road Library. As usual, it featured the wino-of-the-week seeking shelter from Mother Nature in the enclave doorway of the red sandstone porch. The scraggly tramp sat in cross-legged meditation, his head bowed and drool strings clinging to his stubble-coated chin. His rolled sleeping bag lay beside him, forgotten in drunken blackout or awaiting more urgent need in the wee small hours of the night when the ancient and mystery-stained woollen coat's protection wouldn't be enough. Under the brown ceiling of his wrinkled and weather-beaten face, two bottles of Mundies fortified wine stood to attention. One had given up half of its contents, the other looked full. As Liam got closer he could see the seal hadn't been broken on the second bottle's tin screw-top.

Liam reckoned he'd be doing the dipso a favour by taking the unopened bottle. He eased himself up the concrete steps leading to the doorway, paying care not to scuff the soles of his trainers and wake Sleeping Brutal. Holding his breath, he bent at the waist and gently wrapped his hand around the neck of the full bottle. The wino stirred. Liam paused, heart thudding. He felt his chest tighten as his lungs craved air. The wino's shoulders slumped slightly and his hunched back rose and fell in a slow steady rhythm. Liam lifted the bottle and hugged it to his fluttering chest. A little braver, he took a deep breath and sighed it back out. The wino snorted.

"Whaffuck?" He sat bolt upright and squinted at Liam. "Fuckaya doon?"

"Sorry, mate. I was going to leave you some money for it." Liam shoved a hand in his pocket, making a show of hunting for the money he had no intention of parting with.