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  "And you're bored out of your mind."

  "Aye." He bobbed his head. "There is that."

  I went over to one of the wooden chairs and sat down on another book. A thin one. There was a painting of a guy shaving his head on the front. He looked the way I felt. I turned it over, tossed it onto the floor. "I might have something."

  "Okay."

  "Bit of money in it for you."

  "Even better."

  "I know we didn't part ways on the best of terms, so I know there's no reason for you to help me."

  "Don't be daft. We're mates."

  I nodded. "Yeah."

  "Anything you need."

  "A gun."

  "I know."

  "A little help with tracking down Nora."

  "And then?"

  I looked at him. He was staring right back.

  "And then?" I said.

  "What you going to do when you find her?"

  "Get the money."

  "If she doesn't have it?"

  "She stole from me."

  "But you won't kill her or owt."

  "I don't know that yet."

  Cobb laughed. "You're a murderer like I'm Barbra Streisand."

  I stood up. "You need to get on the phone to your squaddie mate."

  "Alright."

  "And don't be so fucking sure about what I will and won't do. I already killed once today, Jimmy, so if you want in on this, you might have to brush up on 'The Way We Were'."

  COBB

  They used to call the place The Ridges back in the thirties. Late sixties, they changed the name to Meadow Well in an attempt to roll a turd in glitter. By the early nineties, the police wouldn't come out to emergency calls anymore because they were getting fuckin' bricked every time they showed their snouts. Then there was that accident with the boys, the place blew up, everything went to shit, and then they tried to build it all up again, this time painted in primary colours.

  This was where Goose lived. He called himself Goose on account of he lost a leg on Goose Green in '82. Nobody really believed him, but nobody really gave a fuck, either, because Goose was a dealer, and you never pissed off the man holding product.

  Anyway, he was a fuckin' prick, and from what I knew, he hadn't gotten any nicer since I saw him last. The more narcotics he poured, stuck or snorted, the more pissed off and paranoid he got. Last I heard, he wasn't even really dealing anymore – he had skivvies out doing his fuckin' dirty work for him – so I had no idea what the fuck he'd turned into without a reason to get up in the morning.

  Trouble was, this was the only gadgie I knew who had a gun. He probably wouldn't sell it, right enough, but I reckoned that he might know a fella who would. It was worth a try, anyway.

  "You alright, Jimmy?"

  I nodded, but I didn't mean it. I got out of the car, leaned on the roof. I saw Farrell's nose twitch.

  "Smells like chip fat round here," he said.

  "I don't smell nowt."

  "Living where you do, Jimmy, I'm not surprised."

  I went forward, knocked on Goose's front door. It moved under my fist. You could hear the war going on inside, bombs and screams and the rattle of machine guns.

  Farrell looked at us, smirking.

  I looked back, like: Don't get fuckin' giddy. I'm in charge.

  If he understood, he didn't show it.

  "It's open," shouted Goose.

  I pushed the door, led the way. At the end of the hall, I could see the edge of Goose's wheelchair. A bit closer, and there he was, the man himself, hunched over a plastic table that clipped onto the arms of his chair. The television was blaring away in the corner of the room, had on that Colin Firth thing from the eighties, the one where he gets paralysed. I'd seen it in bits and bobs about a million fuckin' times back when I had a habit, and it looked like Goose still kept the thing on a loop to add gunfire to his day. It made us a bit sick to look at, to be honest. I wondered if Goose had put it on special.

  Goose raised his head with a snort that made it sound like something was loose in the centre of his head. He pulled on his nose, blinked at us. "Jimmy-son. Long time. How's it going?"

  "Not so bad."

  "Who's your boyfriend?"

  "That's Farrell. He's a mate of mine."

  "Howyeh," said Farrell.

  Goose stared at him. He sniffed and said, "He's a fuckin' mick."

  "A fucking paddy, actually."

  "A cheeky fuckin' mick. Let me guess, youse two were in the forces together, were you?"

  "Aye," I said.

  The smile wavered. "You're kidding."

  "No."

  He pointed at Farrell. "You were in the Queen's?"

  "Yes."

  "Our forces?"

  "He's quick, isn't he?"

  "You must have a pair, boy," said Goose. "You were in the same time as James here, you must have a pair the size of fuckin' watermelons. Sit down. You're making us nervous standing there like a bailiff."

  Farrell looked around, opted for an armchair. He got settled in, crossed his legs and smiled at Goose.

  "So what is it?" said Goose. "Last I heard, you was off everything except the drink and I reckoned, fuckin' bonus for you, eh? Clean as, well done. So I'm guessing you're not round here to score."

  "I'm not."

  "Aye, you look too clean." Goose ran his tongue over his top teeth, glanced across at Farrell. "Fuck's he smiling at?"

  "You," said Farrell.

  "Oh aye?" Goose's hand twitched once, then slid under the table. "You want to watch that, like. Smiling at people when you're not properly acquainted. It's like coming round to your old dealer's house when you're not on the powder anymore. It's got a way of making a fella suspicious about your fuckin' motives, know what I mean? Makes a fella think that maybe youse two aren't on the straight, that maybe you've taken one look at the sweet set-up I have here and thought you'd take a slice of it for yourselves. And I'll tell you now, if you're thinking that, you're not right in the head. From what I remember about you, Jimmy, you was the one with the moral fibre. Am I right?"

  "You're right."

  "So what happened to that?"

  I didn't answer.

  "That's what I thought. See, I know this. Gut instinct."

  Talking of which, that was where Goose's hand stopped. On a bulge that definitely wasn't made of him.

  "We're not here to rob you," said Farrell.

  "Oh aye?"

  "We're here to buy," I said.

  "I thought you kicked."

  "Not blow."

  "I need a gun," said Farrell.

  Goose looked at him. "I don't sell guns, mate."

  "That's not what I heard."

  Back to me: "You tell him I sold guns?"

  "No."

  "Because if that gets out, that's not just the fuckin' polis at my door, that's the whole Armed Response."

  "I didn't tell him that. I said you might be able to help. Like you might know a bloke—"

  "I don't know anyone what sells fuckin' guns, Jimmy."

  I held up both hands. "Okay."

  "You want to ask anyone round here if they know any fuckin' gunrunners, you ask your mick mate over there."

  Farrell's smile turned into a grin, which wasn't a good sign. He got out of his chair and switched off the television on his way over to Goose.

  "Fuck d'you think you're doing? I was watching that."

  Farrell cupped an ear. "Sorry, Mr. Goose, I didn't hear you on account of your pornography was turned up too loud."

  Goose jerked in his chair. "You what?"

  "Farrell," I said.

  "See? It's playing havoc with his hearing, too."

  "Farrell-man—"

  Farrell smacked the table, sent it flipping into the air. It landed somewhere behind him, knocking something fragile over and smashing it. Goose's mouth went like a cat's arse and he made a move for his shirt, but Farrell got there first. Grabbed Goose's fingers and twisted, dipping in for the gun with the other hand. Goose
screamed. Farrell brought out the gun, held it up out of reach, and then let go of Goose's hand. Goose snatched his fingers back, his face all crumpled up.

  "Broke me fuckin' fingers, you fuckin'—"

  "You don't know anyone who sells guns, do you?"

  Goose glared at us. "I thought you was a decent bloke, Jimmy. I thought you knew where the line was drawn."

  "Don't project onto him." Farrell shucked the cylinder from the .38 snub. "You're the one caught in a lie."

  "Goose," I said, "I'm sorry."

  "What you sorry for?" said Farrell.

  "You, you mental twat. Listen, Goose, let's be fuckin' civilised about this, alright? Try not to chuck an eppy or owt."

  "Chuck an eppy? I don't know this cunt from Adam and he comes in here, breaks me fuckin' hand—"

  "Oh, it's your whole hand now, is it?"

  "And now he's waving me fuckin' gun around—"

  "I'm not waving it around."

  "You fuckin' well are, you bog-trotting shitehawk. You know I would've took you right down if it wasn't for me leg."

  "Or lack thereof." Farrell shook the bullets from the cylinder, dropped them into his jacket pocket, and clicked the gun closed. Then he started messing on with the hammer, thumbing it back and letting it settle slowly onto the firing pin. All of this while he pointed the gun right at Goose. And even though it was empty, Goose was still shitting it.

  "You keep it nice," said Farrell. "Where'd you get it?"

  The hammer clicked down. Goose jerked his chair away from Farrell, knocked over a pile of videos. "Pair of youse can get fucked."

  "Howeh, Goose," I said. "Don't be like that."

  "You in particular."

  "I'm sorry about Farrell. I already said I was sorry about him, alright?"

  "That doesn't make it better."

  "Lookuh, he's just in a hurry, so he's not as polite as he could be."

  "I'm being polite," said Farrell. "He's the one having a tantrum."

  "Fuck yourself."

  "See what I mean?" Farrell held up the gun. "You should be thanking me, Mr. Goose. This gun, you keep it nice and everything, but it's too old to be handling the kind of round you had wedged into it. I'll tell you straight, if you'd have drawn and fired this just now, you'd have a blown barrel and a hand to match your leg there."

  Goose kept quiet. A vein throbbed in the side of his head.

  "So, you know, you're welcome."

  "Fuck you."

  "Close enough."

  "How much do you want for the gun?" I said.

  "Fuck you an' all."

  "Is this the dark place you were telling me about?" said Farrell.

  I put hands on Farrell then, pushed him out towards the door before Goose launched at him. I shoved Goose back into his chair, pointed at Farrell, nodded for him to fuck off out the house. Stared at him until he moved. Which took a while, because Farrell was a stubborn bastard.

  "Get that fuckin' bastard back in here," said Goose.

  I rolled my shoulders. "Listen, Goose—"

  "You're dead, you know that, don't you?"

  The speech, the one I had all prepared, the one about us just having a lend of the gun for a bit, and how we could bring it back in a couple days and nobody would know any different, that went out the window as soon as Goose said that. Because all I could see right then was the nasty little prick who'd shown us that Polaroid of himself with his cock in a dead Argie's mouth.

  "You walk out of here, you steal from us, I'll fuckin' come for you. I'll fuckin' find you."

  I took a deep breath. It smelled rotten in here. "You do, and you know what'll be waiting."

  "You what, a fuckin' sock full of batteries?"

  I went to the door. Goose's voice got louder.

  "You charva fuckin' cunt, you think I'm scared of you? Wasn't so long ago you would've choked on my length for a fuckin' gram bag."

  I left the front door standing open.

  "Fuckin' Cromwell had the right idea!"

  I went to the car. I could hear him shouting still, but I didn't know what he was saying. Couldn't hear much over the thump in my napper. I tried to unlock the driver's door, but my hand wouldn't stay still.

  Looked up, and there was Farrell watching us.

  "Jimmy," he said.

  "I'm fine." I pulled the door open. "You got what you came for, so lash on."

  FARRELL

  There was no talk on the drive back to Cobb's flat. No music, either. He stared straight ahead the whole journey, his eyes shadowed by a heavy frown. As soon as we got back to the flat, Cobb made for the kitchen. I heard the cap spin from the bottle of whisky, watched Cobb return to the doorway and give me a murderous look.

  "Okay, I'll say it: thank you, Jimmy."

  "For what?" Cobb pushed off the doorway and went over to the couch. "I never did nowt, me. I never got him all riled up. I never nicked his gun. All I fuckin' did was stand around like a spare dick."

  "You and him had some history."

  "Fuck me, you're perceptive."

  "Anything you want to tell me?"

  "No."

  "Is he dangerous?"

  "He's in a wheelchair." Cobb took a large gulp from the bottle, showed his teeth. "How dangerous can a gadgie in a wheelchair be, eh?" He waved one hand. "He's a pussycat, man. All mouth, no trousers. One leg, plenty of bad dreams, fucker's a mess. Watch, you give it a night and he'll have forgotten about us."

  "Sure?"

  "No." said Cobb. "But it doesn't matter now, does it?"

  "I should've stayed on the bench."

  "You should've stayed in the fuckin' car." Cobb rubbed at the side of his head, then took another swig. "Nah, you know what, it doesn't fuckin' matter. I mean, I ever get back on the coke, I'm fucked for a dealer, but I suppose it's closure, isn't it? Not like I didn't need it. Never liked it that much in the first place. I know you're a fan, but I drink a dozen double espressos I turn into the same kind of gibbering cunt as I used to on the coke. Costs less an' all. So, no, Sean, it's all good, don't you worry." He put the bottle on the floor, lifted one cheek from the couch and felt around in his back pocket. "Fuck's sake, I left my tabs in the car."

  I threw my Silk Cuts at him. Cobb picked up the pack, pulled a cigarette out.

  "I never got the whole Ultra thing."

  "Rip off the filter."

  Cobb ripped off the filter, lit the rest with my lighter. He took a couple of puffs. "Shite."

  "So you going to tell me?"

  "About what?"

  "The coke."

  "I just did."

  "That's not the whole story."

  "Aye, it is."

  "What, you were on it bad and now you're not?"

  "In a nutshell."

  "Fuck off," I said. I knew Cobb better than he knew himself. He wasn't going to brush this off. He was one of those blokes, had themselves a full-on addictive personality. "There's more to this. You haven't changed."

  "How the fuck would you know?" Cobb squinted, the cigarette pointing upwards. "Been years, man. You been off doing whatever in Galway, shacked up with that runaway bitch of yours and fuck Jimmy Cobb, leave him to fuckin' rot." He plucked the cigarette from his mouth, swigged from the bottle. A thin trickle of whisky ran down the side of his face. He wiped at it before he sucked on the Silk Cut again, speaking through his teeth. "You recall, marra, we never spoke again after I came round. You was all hitched up and happy. I might as well have been dead, man."

  "Don't be so bloody melodramatic, Jimmy."

  "Only reason you're here now is you need something from us."

  "No."

  "No?"

  "That's not true."

  "Howeh, then, tell us what you're here for."

  "Thought I'd come and see how you were getting on."

  "You what?" Cobb shook his head. "You can't even come up with a good lie, man." He sniffed. "I don't even fuckin' care, anyway. You wanted a gun, you got a gun. What now?"

  "Well, I think I kno
w where she's going."

  "Where?"

  I lit a cigarette. Puffed a couple. Cobb was right; they did taste like shit. "She's after the two hundred grand."

  Cobb sucked some whisky from his bottom lip. "Thought you said it was twenty she took."

  "It was. But she's after the two hundred we collected in our squaddie days."

  "Huh," said Cobb, nodding. "Alright. Here's the thing, I thought I had a handle on our squaddie days, Sean, and for some reason I don't recall us having two hundred thousand pounds at any point. See, I wouldn't be robbing the spastics if I had that kind of change."

  "You don't."

  "I know I fuckin' don't."

  "And neither do I."

  Cobb opened his mouth, then closed it. Then he said, "Fuck are you blethering on about?"

  Smoke drifted into my eyes. I waved it away and blinked water. Flicked ash into an empty stubbie bottle. "I told Nora we had two hundred stashed away."

  "You never."

  "I did."

  "Why?"

  I blew out a long stream of smoke, held my hand out for the bottle. I took a belt of the Rotgut and it tasted even worse than I remembered – battery acid with a hint of wet dog. I coughed, handed the bottle back and leaned over to wipe my eyes. Smiled because I had to.

  "Well?" said Cobb.

  "Because I wanted to be big time, Jimmy. That's why I told her. Because I wanted her to think I was someone special."

  And Cobb burst out laughing.

  COBB

  Oh, howeh, I fuckin' had to, didn't I? Tell you, that bird had him pure whipped if he was telling her stories like that. I never saw the attraction myself, but fair play to this Nora lass, there must've been something about her that made a grown man like Farrell act like a teenager trying to get his tops.

  "Man, you're a daft bastard, you are. Fuckin' special is right. You want to give your fuckin' head a shake, man."

  I took a big drink from the Rotgut. Looked back at Farrell and the gadgie looked about a hundred. Disgusting and pitiful. How the mighty had fallen.