Wolf Tickets Page 5

  "You know what happened," I said.

  "I know," he said.

  "You lost the plot because you got your end away. That's bad form, man."

  "I know," he said again, this time with an edge in his voice like it was my fault he was a twat.

  "So howeh then, you going to tell us where this mother lode is?"

  Farrell looked up from the carpet. "Right where you shot me."

  "Your left shoulder?"

  "You know what I mean."

  "You're never going to let that lie, are you? It's not like I did it on purpose. Fuckin' bygones, man."

  I was a different bloke back then, into the powder and firearms in a big way. Amazing that the pair of us ever got away with the amount of jobs we did with me bristling like that all the fuckin' time, but there you go.

  This particular time was after the post office in Carlisle. We'd been tooled up for that one, carried a mean-looking handgun and a fresh sawn-off. Menacing stuff. One shot to the ceiling and the rest took care of itself. You'd be surprised how quick people can move with shite in their kecks.

  Course, we still needed somewhere to lie low for a bit after. There was this mate of mine, Baz, he specialised in that kind of thing. He had a load of caravans up around Sandy Bay, all of them spaced out so the nearest neighbour was about a mile away. Nice and private. And because I was a mate, I was promised a double-wide. What I ended up getting was a two-berth tin can that shook like a dog shitting razor blades when the wind blew. Which it did. A lot. And that was the least of its problems. The floor was greasy and there was a smell of old beef coming from the fridge. It was the kind of place you'd have to be piss-mortal to stay in, so we set about achieving that state as soon as possible.

  After a while, it got a bit tight in there. Only so many times you can play gin rummy before it loses its fuckin' lustre. So I reckoned fuck this for a game of soldiers, I was going to trot out into the marl and get some shooting done. Had enough booze in my system to get a bit reckless, enough empties to line up as targets and a loaded revolver that was going to be unloaded now or as soon as Farrell's snoring got on my last fuckin' nerve.

  There was something immensely satisfying about firing off a gun half-pissed. The old cliché was that it had to be a part of you, an extension of the fist and bam, all the release of a good solid punch without the scuffed knuckles, and it was true to a certain extent. It was a looser experience when I was swaying drunk, mind. I set up the bottles so they wouldn't fall over in the wind, then lit a menthol and squinted down the sights.

  Make my fuckin' night.

  Three right off. Bam-bam-bam. Trio of dead soldiers, hear the bugle playing. I took a swallow of whisky to keep us warm and aimed again, hand aching from the kick-back, coke jag still cackling in the back of my head.

  Bam. Another bottle in pieces.

  Then a voice out of the blue: "The fuck are you—"

  Spiked us, twirled us, then this shape in front of us.

  Coke grabbed us, shit us up, and I fired.

  Bam. I put a bullet in Farrell. But what was worse for Farrell was that I also put a bullet in his Italian leather.

  "One of a kind," he said now.

  "Howeh, you've got to let that go."

  "Still hurts, y'know. The cold weather makes it ache."

  I said, "You sure she's going to turn up?"

  "Could've already been there." Farrell looked at his watch. "She hasn't been over here that much longer than me, mind you, so it's doubtful. She'll need to find out how to get there first, then take the time to make sure it's safe. But if you're asking is that where she's going, then yes, she'll go there because that's where I told her we buried it."

  "Buried it. Jesus, you make us sound like a right couple of amateurs."

  "We are, Jimmy. And Nora doesn't give a shit about whether we're professional or not. All she cares about is the money."

  "Which isn't there."

  Farrell nodded. "Which isn't there."

  "Right then," I said, getting up. "I suppose I'm going to have to phone Baz, then, aren't I?"

  "We're not staying that long."

  I picked up the phone, pushed an old newspaper out the way, looking for my phone book. "Aye, but if we show up and Baz has someone in there, and them someones are armed and jumpy, then they might fuckin' shoot at us. And I know from personal experience that you're not at your best with a bullet in you."

  "Try it yourself some—"

  There was this loud bang at the front door. We both looked at it. I put down the phone.

  "Did you hear—"

  Another bang.

  "Ya bastard," I said. "The fuck was that?"

  "How'm I supposed to know?" said Farrell. "It's your flat."

  "Fuck that," I said.

  Then the door came in, splinters flying.

  And that was my fuckin' cue to do one.

  FARRELL

  I was out of my seat the moment Cobb disappeared. I was about to tell him to get his arse back in here when the chubby lad made a show of kicking down the rest of the door. When the lad saw me, he grinned wide and pointed.

  "You," he shouted.

  "Jimmy," I said, "there's one of your neighbours out here, doesn't know how to knock."

  "Oh I knocked, you cunt," said the chubby lad. Behind him, a mountain of muscle and flab ran one hand over his shaved head. "I'm guessing you're the fuckin' mick, eh?"

  I smiled. Watched the mountain come into the flat, floundering over the busted door and breathing so hard I could hear him. Either there wasn't that much muscle under the fat, or he'd jogged up the stairs.

  Something to note.

  "How, I asked you a fuckin' question."

  "No, you didn't. Not really."

  "You what?" The chubby lad moved his shoulders as he approached. "Fuckin' smart lad, eh? Noel, this one's a fuckin' smart mick."

  "Smart mick?" Noel's voice was too high for his frame. "That'll be the day."

  These two wouldn't be a problem. They talked too much. The talkers of the world ended up being the loudest screamers.

  "If he's Noel," I said, "then that would make you Liam."

  Liam looked panicky. "The fuck d'you know that, like?"

  "Wild guess."

  "Smart mick," said Noel.

  "Aye, he fuckin' is," said Liam. He held out a hand. "So where's the fuckin' gun then, smart lad?"

  "What gun?"

  "Yeh knaa what fuckin' gun."

  Liam bounced up to me. He rocked on his heels. Wasn't tall enough to intimidate, so he'd decided to shift his weight like he was ready to throw a punch. It didn't work. If anything, it made him look like he was desperate for the toilet. But when he got in my face, things changed.

  Then he became annoying.

  "Yeh knaa what fuckin' gun, yeh mick, yeh fuckin' mick cunt."

  "Quite the vocabulary on you, Liam. Bet you're a mean Scrabble player."

  "Eh? You fuckin' taking the piss?"

  "Yes."

  "I'll fuckin' cut yeh."

  Like any talker, this bowsie's mouth let him down. His hand went for the tracksuit pocket, and came out with a Stanley. I backed up. Decided to let the Docs do the talking, and they yelled. One swift punt to the happy sack and the knife hit the carpet. Another punt, and Liam lifted off the floor long enough to feel his balls hit his gag reflex. Liam dropped, wheezed, retched.

  It took Noel three full seconds to realise his mate was out of the game, then he lumbered forward, his weight shaking the floor. Coming right at me, arms out at his sides like a bodybuilder, and I got to thinking that maybe I'd been wrong about the amount of flab on this one.

  "Yiz're fuckin' dead, yeh mick cunt."

  No way I could tangle here, not with this fella, so I hunkered down and backed off. As I did, I caught a glimpse of salvation sticking out from between two crusty seat cushions. But too far. I'd never get to it in time. I needed a miracle. Down at my feet, Liam caught his breath and slapped one hand on the Stanley.

  "E
asy now, boys. We can talk about this."

  And then there was Cobb, charging into the room like a freight train, the sock a blur in his hand.

  Thank fuck.

  The heavy end of the sock connected sharply with Liam's crown. Liam let out a sound – Ayahman – before the hand that had been holding the knife dropped in order to stop the bleeding from his scalp.

  "Heads up," I said.

  The mountain launched himself into Cobb. The pair of them tumbled back up and over the armchair, brought the standard lamp next to it down with a crash. I turned in time to see Cobb hit the floor, kicking and biting. Noel was first to his knees, putting a solid fist in Cobb's face, staggering back to grab the fallen lamp and wielding it like a club. I made a break for the couch. Noel shouted. I felt a hand grab at my jacket. I saw the grip of the revolver poking out from between the seat cushions and threw a hand out at it.

  The hand scrabbled. Pulled. Ripped the seams. I felt the lamp hit me across my back. I yelled and pulled the cushions out of the couch, flung them to one side.

  I felt my fingers brush metal. Lunged forward.

  Praise be.

  I twisted, jammed the barrel of the .38 into Noel's cheek once hard, then again to break the skin. "This what you're after, eh? This gun, is it? This fucking gun?"

  The mountain turned liquid, the hand gone from my jacket. His mouth flapped. "How, man. Huh-how—"

  "You were talking before. You got a tongue in your head, you better answer me." I pulled myself up the side of the couch, kept the gun in Noel's face. "This the gun you lads are after?"

  Noel's head was shaking so much it looked as if someone had stuck it in a paint mixer. I dug the barrel deeper into his cheek. Blood smudged the metal. Close enough for us to smell each other's breath. Noel's was rank; mine probably wasn't that much better. I thumbed back the hammer.

  "Aye," said Noel, in a high voice.

  Coughing from the carpet. It must have been Liam, because I could see Cobb getting to his feet in my peripheral vision.

  "Fuckin' do him, Noel," said Liam.

  I heard Cobb take a few quick steps across the room towards Liam, then the wet sound of foot against face. Liam made a mewling sound and spat at the carpet.

  "How, don't you fuckin' gob on my carpet, son," said Cobb. Then the click of a Stanley blade. "You want to watch them fuckin' manners, else I'll cut your nose off."

  "So you boys are after this gun," I said. "What do you think you're going to do now, then?"

  Noel said, "Divven't knaa."

  "You divven't knaa. Fuck's that, Chief? Better start speaking English, because I don't cotton savage, you get me?"

  Noel worked his brain, then his mouth. He said, "Yes."

  "Good. Now what are you going to do?"

  "I don't know."

  "Better. You want to wrestle me for it?"

  "No."

  "Sure?"

  "Yes."

  "You're a big fella. Think you could take me? I think you probably could. You want to give it a shot?"

  "This little twat here looks like he's going to heave," said Cobb. "How, you're not thinking of spewing, are you? Because I thought we just talked about that."

  There was a mumbled reply. Cobb kicked Liam.

  "Jesus," he said. "What's the world coming to when you get a couple of shitheads like these two barging in, eh?"

  I didn't take my eyes off Noel. "No respect."

  "Aye, no fuckin' respect."

  The smell hit us both. I glanced down at Noel's tracksuit bottoms. A dark patch stretched down the inside of his left leg. His face was white and sweaty.

  Cobb said, "Did he just piss himself?"

  "I think so. Why'd you piss yourself, Chief?"

  "Scared."

  "Okay. You know how to get un-scared?"

  "No."

  "The way to get un-scared is to back off slowly from the gun, collect your boyfriend from the floor before he pukes and my cara over there Chinatowns him. Then you toddle off back to Goose and you tell him that the gun you're so fucking scared of belongs to me now. It's my gun. Repeat that."

  "It's my gun."

  "Don't be an idiot."

  "It's your gun."

  "Better. You think you can remember all that?"

  "Yes."

  "Good. Then let's run it."

  Noel took a tentative step backwards, like he was stepping off something high, trying to find his balance with both eyes shut. I moved back to give the lad some room.

  "Okay," I said.

  Noel opened his eyes. Breathed out when he saw he was safe. "Liam."

  Liam made a noise like a sick dog. He was on his hands and knees, dry-retching.

  "Don't you fuckin' puke," said Cobb.

  "I wouldn't," I said. "Not if you know what's good for you."

  Liam panicked, let loose the kind of belch that said the wind was the warm-up for the main liquid act. Cobb made a move for him. Liam clawed his way across the carpet, knocked into Noel's leg. His mouth was closed, his cheeks puffed out, his eyes wide and shining. A stream of blood ran from somewhere on the back of his head and twisted round his neck like a ponytail.

  "Now run, boys," I said. "Don't worry about the door. We'll settle up with Goose later."

  Noel helped Liam to his feet and they took off, Noel with his wet pants and Liam still dizzy, blue-balled and his mouth full of vomit. I kept the gun trained on the pair of them until I was sure they were gone. Then I lowered my hand, massaged some blood back into my aching arm.

  "Nice, Sean," said Cobb. "Handled that like a proper professional."

  I watched Cobb play with the Stanley knife. "You're bleeding."

  "Huh." Cobb dabbed at his nose with two fingers and looked at the red smear. "So I am."

  "Serious?"

  "Just a scratch." He moved his chin. "That gun's not loaded, is it?"

  "I'm not daft, Jimmy. Last thing I want is that fucking thing to go off."

  "That's what I thought."

  I nodded to the phone. "You were calling Baz."

  "So I was." Cobb got up and grabbed the phone, started stabbing buttons.

  I looked at the broken door. How dangerous could a bloke in a wheelchair be?

  "Baz, it's Jimmy Cobb." Pause. "Listen, that tin can you got out at Sandy Bay, you got anyone staying in it at the moment?"

  Cobb sniffed, held out his hand, mouthed the word "tab". I gave him a Silk Cut. Cobb ripped the filter, snapped his fingers for my lighter, sparked it up.

  "Aye," he said into the phone. "That exact shitheap you put us in the last time. Why? Because I left my copy of Breaking Dawn behind and I want to know how Bella's bairn gets on, the fuck's it got to do with you?"

  Another pause, longer this time. Cobb puffed on the cigarette.

  "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."

  COBB

  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 m
ean?"

  "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.