Wee Rockets (24 page)

Dermot left her to her bad mood. The prospect of a good old-fashioned burglary lifted his spirits. He had a lot of talent for car theft, but he enjoyed house-breaking more. After all these years it still got his heart thudding in his chest when he opened another person's cupboards, drawers and wardrobes in search of valuables.

To save time and hassle, he flagged a private taxi and hopped out at The Beehive, the Beechmount residents' unfriendly local. He arrived five minutes early, but not before Joe. His gangly protégé loitered outside the video shop puffing on a fag. He spotted Dermot and raised his hand in a splay-fingered salute. Dermot nodded and crossed the street to meet him.

"What's the craic, Joe?"

"Same old. You not driving today?"

"A big strapping lad like McVeigh would hardly drive to the Boucher Road from here. I figured we'd just take his car if we needed to move fast."

"Seriously?" Joe hunched his shoulders and sniggered.

"What's so funny?"

"Wait until you see his motor."

"Is it one of those silly wee Fiats or something?"

"Not even. Come on, sure. I'll show you."

They took their time dandering up Locan Street, wary of attracting unwanted attention. As they approached McVeigh's house Joe sniggered again. He pointed up the street.

"It's the blue one. Well, it started off blue, I think."

Dermot glanced at the old Escort as they passed it. Then, without breaking stride, he checked out the front of McVeigh's house, scanning for an obvious weakness in security. No alarm, but he had a brand new PVC door and double-glazed windows. The brass door handle had a decent lock, unlike the weak night-latches he was used to. They'd have to check out the backdoor. After soaking up the details from his initial sweep he led Joe to the right and onto Ballymurphy Street. He pulled two fags from a fresh twenty-deck and handed one to Joe. Father and son stood facing each other and nattering through a cloud of smoke. Nothing suspicious about that.

"He drives that piece of shit?" Dermot asked. "Are you serious?"

"Yeah, I think he bought it off aul Mackers."

"Mackers! So that ancient bastard is still flogging clunkers to idiots. Thought he'd be dead by now. Must drop by and say hello to him."

"Well, he's still in the same house. Me and my mates tried to buy a runabout off him last year, just for a wee tear. He told us to fuck off."

"Well, I'll teach you how to get by without him. Next time we go driving I'll let you hotwire it." Dermot flicked his half-smoked fag onto the road. "Right, time to get down to business. We're going in the back."

Joe nodded and dragged back the unlocked security gate at the mouth of the alley separating the houses on Locan Street and Beechmount Street. A knackered pram and a couple of rusting bikes lay in a tangled jumble close to the gate, waiting for the council to come and dispose of them. Crisp packets and plastic Fruit Shoot bottles cluttered the uneven cement path. A dog squatted at the far end and left a steaming coil for some kid to run through.

McVeigh's numbered wheelie-bin stood sentry outside his backyard gate. Dermot smiled at the fact that the gate was one of the old wooden ones. It'd pop right off its hinges without too much fuss. After a quick check up and down the alley, and a cursory glance at the small number of windows they could be spotted from, he threw his shoulder into the gate. It juddered back on its creaking hinges and Dermot almost toppled over. The big eejit hadn't locked the deadbolt. He shook his head and slipped into the yard. Joe followed close behind him.

The yard was the cleanest Dermot had ever seen. No moss on the ground or bird shit on the windowsills. Two patio plants in terracotta pots sat in the middle of the yard to make the most of the sun's daily path. And with not one beer tin ring-pull or cigarette butt to be found, it looked like the sad bastard actually hoovered outside.

He tried the backdoor. Unlike the gate, McVeigh had locked it.

"So what now?" Joe asked.

"You any good at climbing?"

"Don't know."

"Well, with those long arms and legs you'll take to it like a duck to water."

Dermot visualised a path from the yard to an open window on the first floor. The bubbled glass marked it as the bathroom. The house had been a standard two-up-two-down, but like most of the houses in Beechmount, it had a backyard extension to accommodate a modern kitchen and an indoor toilet. This particular extension had a Legoland look to it. The bathroom sat on top of the longer ground floor extension. The staggered, flat roofs looked like a couple of steps. They'd be as easy to climb.

###

Stephen stood in front of the referee, palms to the sky and shoulders raised. His baggy green, white and yellow jersey flapped in the wind. Between them, lying at their feet, the St John's centre-forward lay curled up and moaning.

"I was going for the ball," Stephen said. "The wee man must be into amateur dramatics."

The ref looked to the umpire on the sideline who shrugged. He hadn't seen it.

"Told you, ref. I didn't do nothing to him."

"McVeigh, I know you're a dirty bastard. I'll catch you next time."

"Ah, ref. That's uncalled for." He winked at the balding, self-important prick.

St John's made their substitution and the fresh meat jogged onto the pitch with a look of terror on his face. A young player Stephen hadn't seen in the blue and white strip before. It was probably his first season on the senior team. Stephen checked the time. Five minutes left. He'd leave this one alone. There wasn't enough time for him to make a difference. St John's trailed by three goals and a point.

The huge score difference meant there'd been no real need to take out their starting forward, but Stephen couldn't pass up the opportunity to get in a sly dig. Sometimes personal vendettas took precedence over necessity. Marty McShane had made him look bad in a friendly match last season. Cheeky fucker had run rings around him for the whole seventy minutes and when Stephen went to shake his hand at the final whistle, Marty blanked him. Stephen hated that kind of bad sportsmanship. He'd given nothing away when they met again. Every time Marty took possession, Stephen came in hard and fast. In the final ten minutes the ref hadn't caught up with the ball on the break and it fell into Marty's hands. Stephen didn't waste his chance. Marty charged for the goal, mind set on salvaging a little pride. Stephen loomed just outside the box, about ten yards from the oncoming forward. He spat over his own shoulder for dramatic effect then sprinted head on at Marty and stuck a knee in his groin as they collided.

Sweet revenge.

They played a little extra injury time and Davitts conceded a few points, but St John's had done too little too late. Stephen shook hands with the fresh centre-forward and jogged towards the changing rooms. He caught sight of Louise on the sideline and gave her a little wave. She stuck her fag in her mouth and waved back, then pointed towards the car park. He nodded to signal he'd meet her there after his shower.

Nobody mentioned his dirty tackle in the changing room; communal showers being no place for easy innuendo. After drying off and dressing, he went to the car park with Wee Paul. Louise smiled at both of them as they approached. Stephen enjoyed the sight of her in her bright pink vest top and light blue jeans. There wasn't even a hint of flour on her summery ensemble.

"Hiya, boys."

Wee Paul clacked his tongue and winked at her. Louise giggled at his semi-fake leer.

"Paul says he'll give us a lift up the road, Louise."

"Ach sure, it's a nice night. Why don't we dander back to yours?"

"He just got a new motor. Let him show it off."

"Really? Where is it, Paul?"

"It's the red Clio over there." Paul pointed to his girly city-car, huddled in the corner of the car park.

"Oh. My. God! That's gorgeous."

Stephen nudged Wee Paul's ribs with his elbow. "Told you, mate."

"Told him what?" Louise asked.

"I gave him a lift down here. He told me that it's a woman's car."

Louise raised an eyebrow and pouted. Stephen wanted to plant a big sloppy one on that sexy mouth; ashtray breath be damned.

"What?" he said. "Don't tell me you think that's a pimp-wagon."

"And what do you drive, Captain Caveman?" she asked.

"That's a fair point. Paul, lead us to the fanny magnet."

Louise shook her head, but couldn't fight off the smile tugging at the corners of her mouth. On the way to the car, Stephen felt a teensy bit guilty about his remarks. Wee Paul wore a slight blush, though he hadn't sniped back. Not yet. Then the car's interior smothered Stephen's guilt again. He couldn't hold his tongue.

Before he buckled up, he turned to face Louise in the backseat. "Why do you think Paul decided to go with black seat covers with little red love-hearts instead of pink?"

Louise looked out her window. "Don't be ignorant, Stephen. The car is red. Red and pink clash."

Stephen sniggered then clapped Wee Paul's tense shoulder. "Only slagging, mate."

"I know." But he didn't turn to look at his passenger.

"Then smile."

Wee Paul drew his lips back from his clenched teeth.

"It's a lovely car, Paul," Louise said.

Stephen couldn't resist. He pointed at the rear view mirror. "The Betty Boop air freshener is a bit much though."

Wee Paul sank the toe and the Clio skittered forward with a tyre-spinning squeal. Stephen opened his mouth to comment on the reckless manoeuvre but Wee Paul cranked the stereo to drown him out. ABBA's upbeat
Mama Mia
bass line blasted from the speakers. Even Wee Paul couldn't help grinning.

"Fucking Sinead!" He ejected the CD and frisbeed it out the window. "We've had this car two days and she's already taken it over. May as well hang my balls on the mirror instead of those furry dice she's after." Although he laughed, he made it sound like a joke with a jag.

"Will she not be pissed that you threw out her CD?" Louise asked.

"Ach, she's got millions of them. And not one of them is in its box. She'll not even realise."

Stephen fiddled with the stereo. DAB digital. A bit flash, but fun to play with. He found a classic heavy metal station and nodded.
Welcome to the Jungle
. Wee Paul tapped his thumb on the steering wheel in time with the snare drum. Stephen heard Louise sigh softly in the back, but he didn't risk asking her if she wanted to pick the music.

They pulled up to his house halfway through an Iron Maiden track. The chorus was cut short as Wee Paul killed the engine.

"Mate," Wee Paul said. "Your front door's open. I could swear I saw you slam it shut."

Stephen leant forward to look past his teammate. "Fuck. Come in with me. The fuckers might still be in there." He twisted in his seat to face Louise. "Wait there until we check this out."

Worry creased her face as she nodded.

Stephen took a deep breath to steady his nerves. Before his brain could make a coward out of him he hopped out of the car and charged into his house. In the living room he stood statue still, straining his ears to detect the intruder's position. Nothing. Wee Paul came in and stood beside him.

"TV's still here, mate," Wee Paul said.

"Shush, will you?"

Wee Paul huffed air through his lips but held his tongue. Stephen listened for another few seconds.

"You check upstairs," Stephen said. "I'm going to the kitchen."

"What? Why don't we stick together?"

"Because I want to be down here if someone bolts down the stairs."

"Aye, after they've stabbed me? Dead on. You go upstairs and I'll follow you."

"Fine. You fucking pussy."

Stephen clumped up the stairs, deliberately trying to warn any would be attackers that he was on his way. He couldn't get rid of Wee Paul's idea that an armed lunatic waited for them in his bedroom. Getting stabbed by a dirty wee hood had to be one of the worst deaths he could imagine. He went to the main bedroom with an idea to start at the farthest room from the front door and work his way back. Wee Paul stuck to his heels like a shadow. He eased the door open and stepped in with his knees slightly bent, ready to duck or pounce.