Wolf Tickets (8 page)

"Right," he said. "Aye. Fine."

He hung up. Breathed smoke.

"Well?" I said.

"We're in. But I'll tell you, see if he messes us around, I'm taking first shot."

"Deal."

Farrell was nearly out the door before I stopped him. "How, man, I can't leave the place like this. It's an invitation to rob the gaff."

"Wouldn't worry about that, Jimmy. Any burglar's going to think they were beaten to it."

I picked up what was left of the door, tried to prop it up in the doorway. "Try and fix the door—"

"You do a joinery course I don't know about?"

The phone rang. I put the bit of door down. "I'll get it."

Too late. Farrell picked it up.

"Hello?" he said.

"How, that's my fuckin' phone."

"Hello?" he said again.

"Who is it?"

"No one," he said. "They hung up."

"Heavy breather?"

"You wish," said Farrell, but it didn't come out like a gag because he was obviously thinking about something else.

"What is it?" I said.

"Your man Baz isn't skittish, is he?"

"What d'you mean?"

"I mean he's not the type to change his mind, is he?"

"He better not," I said. "Anyway, he knows you. He would've said something."

"That's what I thought." Farrell shook his head. "Fuck it, let's go. Got a long drive."

Or
I
had a long drive. Fucked if I was letting Farrell behind the wheel. My Volvo took a careful and disciplined hand, especially with the flammables in the boot. I told Farrell to dig around in the back seat for the DAB and turn it onto Rock Radio. This time of night, it was Jon Kirby's long song. Tonight: "LA Woman" – nigh on eight minutes of spot on fuckin' driving tunes. I turned it up and Farrell kept his gob shut the whole time, which was a nice change.

By the time we got to the caravan, the night had turned nasty. The wind howled and punched. I left the Volvo a way back from the caravan and we took it careful going across the grass. Never knew what you were going to put your foot in out here.

Baz'd told us the place was empty, but Baz never had much of a track record when it came to the truth – bastard'd say shit was chips if someone paid him enough. Couldn't see my hand in front of my face out here, neither. So if there was anyone in that caravan, they were going to get a fuckin' shock, especially if Farrell still felt hard enough to wave the gun around.

I waved him back as we got to the caravan. I pulled out my sock, half-crouched because of the wind. No lights on inside, but that didn't mean it was empty. Goose's lads had left us on the edgy side, and I didn't want any more surprises if I could help it.

I put one hand on the door, tugged it open.

Nowt happened inside. Then the wind moved some paper on the floor.

I went up the steps. I felt for the light switch, clicked it.

Nowt.

"Fuck it."

"What?" said Farrell.

"Nowt," I said, and went in the caravan properly.

Place was dark, but it was empty. No stink, so no people. I went to the kitchen drawers. Farrell came in behind us, tried to pull the door shut. I found a candle, waited until Farrell clicked the door, then lit it.

"We got light," I said. "And heat."

"Marvellous."

I wedged the candle in an empty stubby bottle of Biére D'Alsace, went over to the sitting bit at the end of the caravan. Put the candle and my sock on the table and stretched out on the bench as far as I could. Wasn't brilliant, but it would do.

Farrell put the gun down on the table. "Still a shithole."

"So what do we do now?" I said. "Wait around and hope your lass shows up?"

"Try to get some sleep. Nobody in their right mind's digging holes in this. She'll wait until morning."

"You told her the exact spot?"

"Yeah."

"Baz'll be chuffed to hear about that. No point in having a hideout if people know where it is."

Farrell leaned over and peered through the side window. "I didn't expect her to rip me off, did I?"

"Course you didn't." I stretched out until my legs clicked at the knees. "Nobody
expects
to get ripped off. Otherwise they wouldn't get ripped off, would they?"

"Jimmy—"

"I know. You're with a bird, you don't expect her to mess with your money."

"Don't forget the jacket. It was—"

"Italian leather, one of a kind." I shook my head. "The fuckin' clothes, man. Women are always trying it on with the clothes. My Brenda was always after us to dump that brown leather I had."

"With good reason."

"How, it was fuckin' mint, that jacket."

"It was a hickey piece of shit, Jimmy. Hung off you like a bad smell."

"I liked it."

"What happened?"

"She gave it to the Guide Dogs."

Farrell laughed. "Shrewd woman. You nick it back?"

"Already sold."

I looked at the table. Shouldn't have mentioned Brenda. Got us to thinking about her. And when I got to thinking about her, I wanted a drink. I reached for Farrell's bag, pulled out the Rotgut. Noticed Farrell's mobile was on.

"You got a missed call," I said, uncapping the whisky.

Farrell came over. "Yeah?"

I slid him the phone, got myself settled and took a swig. Farrell poked at his phone. He listened to the message, then started chuckling to himself.

"What?" I said.

"Bottle, Jimmy."

I took a pull, wiped the neck and handed it over. Farrell supped hard, coughed and grinned.

"That was Nora," he said. "She's wondering what I'm doing in Newcastle."

"How'd she know?"

"Phoned your place, didn't she?"

"Ah."

"She's angry," said Farrell.

"Is that good, is it?"

"Oh, yeah. If she's angry, then she's fucking scared. And that's grand."

"Get in. Now give us the booze back, else I'll never get any kip."

"You've got thin lips," she said.

"You've got a harsh mouth."

Nora leaned against the bar and smiled. "Don't be so sensitive. I don't mean it in a bad way. No girl wants to be with Jagger, do they?"

"He does alright."

"It's the money, Farrell."

"Call me Sean."

She shook her head. "Sean's a navvy name. Farrell reminds me of Colin. You ever see
Intermission
?"

"Must've missed that one."

"Yeah?"

"Too busy having a life."

"Pity." She came in close enough to smell. I didn't move. Stared at her mouth as she spoke. "There's this bit right at the start, Colin's talking to a girl who works in this caff, asking her if she believes in love at first sight, charming her all to hell. And you know, she's not keen at first, she thinks he's a chancer, and she's
right
, of course she is – nobody but chancers talk like that, do they? But the thing is, he's Colin Farrell, so it's a minor thing, his bullshit – I mean, it's all coming out of that mouth, isn't it? So the more he talks, the more she gets suckered into it and right when she's dreamed up, smitten, hook, line and fucking sinker – WHAM – he smacks her in the face and nicks the till."

She reared back, big grin, delighted with herself.

"You want me to smack you?"

She patted my hand. "Not now, Farrell. Not
here
. I've yet to fully trust you."

"Why wouldn't you trust me? You've known me all of an hour."

"You're a weasel."

"I see. So why are you still here if I'm such a weasel?"

She smiled.

Because I was her kind of weasel.

She first mentioned her ex in a Belfast hotel room, the night before I was due to meet with my petrol contact. I had an in with a border run, hadn't seen a loss in a year, and with petrol hitting seventy-four pence a litre in the north, the contact was dancing desperate. Which meant I was in the Europa Presidential Suite talking old flames with Nora. She was smoking in bed, the window open. Back then, she smoked more than me.

"He's in prison now," she said.

"Best place for him."

"You think?"

"You don't?"

She got up and flicked the butt out the window. Didn't answer him.

The next day the contact turned out to be undercover customs. Me and Nora skipped to Cork, but only just. Shortly after that, she shifted tack. She gave up the cigarettes, told me to do the same.

"You need to get healthy," she said.

"I need to get left alone."

"No more bacon butties. No more fish suppers."

Should've seen it coming. All the compromise, all the healthy stuff. Nora was testing my will, preparing me for the night when she finally said fuck it and plied me with the good stuff until my eyes began to float.

She never touched a drop, and I'd been so grateful for a drink that I never asked her why not.

Circling over Shannon, note in my hands, candle guttering as it neared its final inch. Cobb's Glen Rotgut had its claws right in me, kept my mouth tight and brain humming paranoid.

One thought above them all – I'd been set up since day one.

I pushed the bottle away from me. Closed my eyes. Buckshot hail hit the caravan roof, made my head thunder. I pinched the bridge of my nose, tried to will it away.

Didn't work. Couldn't help but hear Nora's message.

"Farrell, didn't I tell you not to look for me? Didn't I tell you it wouldn't make any difference? So what are you doing in Newcastle, eh? Farrell, seriously, don't let me see you. Don't let me catch you anywhere
near
me. It won't be pretty."

And it wasn't, because the next thing I knew, it was daylight.

Passed out, woke up, whatever it was, my heart tripped over itself.

Head thumping in time to Cobb's piggish snore. Eyes to slits, I looked over at him. He was in the same position as last night: head back and mouth open, his arms folded across his gut and legs stretched out in front of him.

When I moved, my back raged. I took it slowly, eased myself out from behind the table, turned to face the windows with my head down. I hunkered down, shuffled toward the end of my seat as my joints did a Rice Krispie beatbox. Sat for a moment until I felt my legs were solid enough to support me, then I pulled myself to my feet. Both hands still on the table, I opened my eyes a little more. Breathed out.

Turned to walk away and I knocked the empty whisky bottle onto the floor. It rolled; something lanced my head.

I felt along the kitchen counter, heading for the door. I needed fresh air, something to clean me out. Least I could do was breathe something that wasn't the after-smoke of Cobb's menthols. Fresh as a mountain stream, his arse.

Twenty-one was a memory, but I'd never felt it quite as much as now, with what felt like a month's worth of late night, early morning combinations crashing down on me. I wrestled with the caravan door. Kicked at it once, felt it give and caught a belt of wind in the face.

Along with it, a dirty smell that made me turn away as my stomach rolled.

I swallowed, pulled my jacket tight.

The smell persisted. Nagging. And when I recognised it, I had to steel myself to open my eyes properly.

First thing I saw was the blood. Smeared on the door handle, down to the steps.

The second thing was down by my feet. A bundle of clothes, or that was what it looked like at first glance.

Then, closer, I saw it: Italian leather.

One of a kind.

Nora.

"Wake up, you bastard."

"Fuckin' ...
hell
, man. Fuckin' matter with you, you radgie fuckin' ..."

He punched us in the shoulder and I lashed out.

Fucker woke us from a dead dream. I was having a mint time just hanging in the void, and there's Farrell screeching on like someone set him on fire. He grabbed at my leg. I kicked at him, called him a twat. But once I managed to get the shit out of my eyes and I got a better look at him, I saw how sick he looked. And I knew it wasn't just the Rotgut not agreeing with him, either. I'd seen him hungover, I'd seen him come down, and this was neither. This was something else. And it was a something else that I didn't want to deal with first fuckin' thing.

Farrell gagged. Mouth hung open, clicking sound at the back of his throat, one hand up to his lips. He tried breathing, let out a burp. He hung to the kitchen counter.