Wolf Tickets (22 page)

I heard O'Brien struggle to his feet behind us. I heard him make a move for the shotgun. And I got there in time to kick him in the face, the cheeky bastard. O'Brien dropped onto his back. A tooth skittered across the floor and blood came up over the others. He was saying something, but with the fire in my ears and a spin in my head, I couldn't make it out. I picked up the shotgun and pointed it at him. Nodded to the door. Told him the same thing I'd told Farrell: "Go on."

He turned and crawled towards the door.

I couldn't let him burn. Same as I couldn't let Farrell shoot him in the head. That would be too fuckin' easy and too fuckin' quick.

Farrell was leaning against the car. He was smoking a tab, the crowbar in his other hand. He looked at us like I was soft. "You saved him, then."

I kicked O'Brien up the arse, kept kicking him until he rolled off the pavement into the road. He didn't make much noise. I pointed at Farrell's crowbar, then at O'Brien's legs. "Greak 'em"

"You what?"

I pointed at my knee, then at O'Brien. "Hish legsh. Greak hish legsh."

"Ah, got you."

He stepped up and swung the crowbar against O'Brien's left knee. I took the bottle of Johnny over to the car, opened the driver's door and got in but left the door open so's I could see what Farrell was up to. He was shouting, cursing the old man's name as he took the crowbar in short, sharp stages all down his legs, smashing up every fuckin' bone he could find. Wasn't very discreet, like. But then, that was partly the point.

I picked up the brick of skag from the dash.

Plans, plans, plans.

Killing O'Brien wasn't good enough. That kind of revenge wasn't satisfying, and I never liked the idea of killing. Shite like that had a way of creeping up on you in the middle of the night.

Nah, it was much better to ruin his life than end it. Give him the fear.

And what was he afraid of? Wasn't losing his pub. He'd lost everything else, what was another fuckin' pub? Wasn't death, neither. He was old enough, he added a new ache to the collection on a daily basis. Death was something he accepted. I could see that in the bastard's misty eyes.

Nah, what Frank O'Brian feared the most was prison. Didn't wear it on his sleeve, but it was definitely in the lining somewhere. All that banter he'd give us, all that cool as hard man shite, that'd just been a way to get his last stretch out of his system. I'd seen it before. Them that talked about their time like it was a piece of piss were the ones hanging on to it.

So. Here we were.

I saw people up the street, a couple of brawny and bronzed lads with their one-night sport fucks hanging off them, all slack jaws and glassy eyes. The whole pub'd gone orange now, flames licking out of cracked windows. It was a lovely fuckin' sight. They didn't see Farrell, not yet, but they would.

Which meant it was time to finish this.

I took one last belt of the Johnny, then smashed the bottle against the side of the car. I shook off most of the whisky and took the jagged neck over to O'Brien.

Farrell turned and looked at us. "What's that for?"

I nudged O'Brien, then kicked him till he was face up. He was burbling. I took a deep breath, then twisted up my face so I had all the cuts open, because I didn't want to talk through my teeth anymore. I wanted this cunt to hear every last word.

"Listen to us." I kicked him and he fell silent, watching us. "I'm not going to kill you. I want you to know that. I'm not going to kill you, because that would make us a fuckin' murderer and, for all my faults, I'm not a fuckin' murderer." I held up the brick. The foil reflected the orange light into O'Brien's eyes. "You've got to have a moral compass,
Francis
. Even if it isn't always pointing magnetic fuckin' good."

He raised a hand up over his face. Babbling something through the spit and blood. I kicked his hand out of the way, pulled open his jacket and pushed the brick into it. O'Brien panicked, tried to get it out of there, but I stamped on his bad hand a couple of times and that soon sorted him out.

"You're going back inside, Francis. And you're going in with a rep, auld son."

He spat at us.

"You know they mark sex cases. Paedos. You know that – you told me about it. The shorteyes scar. Mark 'em so when your average block rager gets mental with the boredom, he knows who the clean targets are. You, Francis, you might be a sex case, you might not, I couldn't give a fuck either way. And once you're fuckin' marked, neither will anyone else."

He was white now. Silent and white.

I grabbed him under the chin, turned his cheek. A blank canvas. He struggled, but he didn't have any strength left. I put the jagged edge of the bottle to his skin and dug in hard.

He'd made a monster out of us. It was only right I should repay the cunt in kind.

And when he screamed, that was my revenge right there.

Hello, darkness, my old friend ... and somewhere I could hear the sound of sirens.

The police and the fire brigade. We didn't know who called. Could've been any number of weekend drinkers who'd come out onto Front Street, drawn by the blaze and the bloodied, whimpering figure curled in the gutter outside The Claddagh. In any case, it would be a good story for work on Monday.

Cobb didn't talk. The plasters hung off his face in bloody strips. He drove with one hand, the other still pressed to his side.

"You want to get that looked at."

He looked at me. We both knew he wouldn't see a doctor any more than I'd see the Holy Mother's diaphragm. He looked back at the road. Then his good eye closed for a second and the car swerved violently. I punched his arm.

"Stop pissing about," I said.

He opened his eye. There was a twinkle, the ghost of a smile.

Back at Cobb's flat, we divvied up Goose's cash. I was going to split it down the middle, and that was the way Cobb wanted it, but in the end I took enough for a week's expenses and left him the rest. Cobb went into the bathroom and didn't come out until the morning with his wound packed and bandaged. I wondered where he got the supplies from, but then realised that Cobb was the kind of bloke who'd been preparing to get shot for a long time.

"How are you?"

"Enh."

"Does it hurt?"

"Nah, I cacked it with fairy dusht. Coursh it fuckin' hurtsh." He made a motion to get up. "Howeh, you gotta go."

"Huh?"

Cobb put his hands out at his sides like a plane. "Gack to Ireland. Gefore the collish cung round."

"I suppose." I got up, took off the leather and stuffed it into the bottom of my bag.

Cobb jangled his car keys in one hand. He nodded at the cash.

"That's for you," I said.

He shook his head.

"Don't start. I'm leaving it here. Do whatever you want to with it."

He jangled the keys once more, then pocketed the cash with another nod.

On the way to the airport, Cobb told me to get a ticket to London. The plan was, I should hang around down there for a bit, then move on. If the police were looking for me, they'd be looking for me in Newcastle and Galway, so it made sense to divert.

"What about you?"

He shrugged.

"You'll be alright with the police?"

He nodded.

Cobb parked the car and we did the long, wary walk to the ticket desk. I spent way too much on a ticket to Heathrow. When I turned, Cobb was gone. I found him in the WH Smiths, leafing through a paperback with a picture of Jason Statham on the front of it.

"Ready to go."

"'Kay." He put the book in his pocket and left the shop. He'd been spotted, but nobody was about to challenge the shoplifter with the freakish face. We headed out of the airport and I handed him one of my last two Dunhills. Cobb patted his pockets like he'd lost his lighter somewhere. I sparked him up and we smoked for a while.

"I'm sorry, Jimmy. About what happened to you."

"Fuck it." Cobb blew smoke. He dabbed at his face, checked his fingers. "Itchy."

"Means they're healing."

"Aye."

More smoke, more silence. I looked out at the flat, barren landscape that surrounded the airport. "You sure you want to handle the police?"

"Uh-huh."

They called my flight. I ditched the cigarette and Cobb followed me through to the security check. He slapped me on the back and said, "See ya later. Keeck in touch."

"I will."

He wasn't one for the long, drawn-out farewells. If anything, he looked happy to see me go. I didn't blame him. I joined the queue for security checks. A dumpy little girl pointed at me as I passed. Her mother slapped the hand down and backed off down the queue away from me. It was enough to make a guy paranoid. As I moved down the queue, I noticed other glances. I wondered if the police had called in, if McDonald was waiting for me up ahead. Be just my luck to get picked up on the way out. When I got to the front of the queue, my boots were off and I strode through the metal detector without setting it off. I grabbed my boots and was lacing them when a wide uniform with a mole on his cheek called me back.

"I'm going to miss my plane," I said.

"This won't take a moment."

I looked around. People were staring now. I could make a scene, but they'd bring security down on me. I could run and they'd do the same. My hands got sweaty. I hadn't set off the alarm, so what was the deal here? "I don't understand. Is there a problem?"

"I don't know," said the uniform. "Is there?"

"You what?"

"The question is, are you as advertised?"

"I don't know what you're talking about."

I had my boots on. I could sink a cap into this guy's sack and make a run for it. The uniform moved and I flinched as he plucked something from my back. I leaned on my back foot, ready to swing my bag. Then I saw the small, yellow piece of paper stuck to the uniform's hand. He held it up so I could read it.

TERRORIST

Oh, you bastard, Jimmy.

I bought myself a cheap portable CD player from the Dixons at the airport. I chucked it in the back seat of the Volvo then drove to the lake up Seaton Burn way. I parked the car and waited to see if there was anyone following, then I went and got the shotgun out of the boot. I couldn't leave it in the pub, and I couldn't keep it at mine, not with the door smashed in and the police on their way round. I flung it out into the middle of the lake. A splash and ripples. I leaned against the boot for a bit. Felt like I'd messed up some of the gauze. My side burned. I wasn't as sturdy as I used to be. When something hurt now, it hurt worse and for longer. I'd have to remember that.

When I got back to the flat, there was this little gadgie in the middle of my living room, looking around the place like he'd been dropped there. He was blowing his nose when I came in. He turned and did a double-take. I was getting used to people doing that.

"Mr Cobb, is it?"

"Aye."

He lifted a finger, pointed at us. "What happened to your face?"

"What hackened to
yoursh
?"

"Sorry?"

I went past him into the kitchen. I dug around in the fridge and pulled out a stubby, held it up to show him. "Gottle o' geer?"

"No thanks."

I snapped the cap off the stubby and went back into the living room. I took a swig to clear the shite from my gob and stood there, looking him up and down. "Ngackgonald."

"McDonald, yes," he said. "Mr Farrell mentioned me, then."

"Aye."

"Is he here?"

Shook my head.

"He said he was staying with you."

"Uh-huh." I sat on the settee, stretched my legs out a bit. My knees clicked. I was glad I'd given the place a bit of a tidy before we set out for the airport, like, because I knew this copper'd had a nose. I could see stuff moved around.

"Where is he?"

I shrugged. "Dunno."

He bristled like he didn't have time for this. Like his morning was so fuckin' full. "You know the name Frank O'Brien?"

I shook my head.

"You know him. You know his pub was burned down last night, too."

"Which cug?"

"The Claddagh."

"Geshundheit."

McDonald folded his arms and watched us. "You're quite a distinctive-looking fella, you know that?"

"I crefer rugged."

"And you were seen there last night. A bloke with plasters all over his face."

"Washn't ngee."

"With another man who matched the description of Mr Farrell."

"Hah. What're the oddsh?"

He looked down at the blood stain on the carpet. "When we turned up, we found Mr O'Brien with his legs broken, a dirty laceration on his face, maimed hands and a large brick of unstepped heroin under his jacket."