Wolf Tickets Page 6

  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."

  FARRELL

  "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.

  No
ra.

  PART TWO

  GET BUSY

  COBB

  "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.

  I looked at him, then stamped my foot until my leg didn't cramp. I grabbed tabs, lit one and it was minty enough to make us think I'd just brushed me teeth. "If you're going to spew, Sean, then you might want to do it outside. I don't know that Baz'll like you decorating his caravan, shithole or not."

  Farrell shook his head like he was trying to get rid of it. He moved to the seat opposite. I picked at some sleep from my eye and punched his leg.

  "Howeh then," I said. "Out with it."

  Farrell screwed up his face. "She's outside."

  "Who is?"

  "Nora." His eyes were red and demented.

  "The fuck you talking about?"

  He waved a hand. "G'on, see for yourself."

  He looked delusional. This early in the morning, his brain all dehydrated, he'd probably gone out for a piss or something, seen a tree waving in a weird way and lost his fuckin' mind. I held up a hand, gave him a smile like it was alright, your Uncle Jimmy's here, and then I went outside.

  Windy out here, and a bad fuckin' smell was riding it. I stood just outside the doorway for a bit, looking down at the bundle.

  Huh. Would you credit it, the bastard was telling the truth.

  Nora was laid out on her side, rolled right up against the caravan door. Jeans, T-shirt, Farrell's leather. Her eyes were open. There was a drop of water on one pupil, made it look extra large, and a smell coming off her that made us think she'd been a long and hard time dying.

  Heard Farrell inside saying, "Jesus wept. Jesus fucking wept."

  The back of her head was bashed to the white meat. Ragged, too. Like someone'd taken a rock to her napper. She'd put up a fight, judging by the bruise that made up half her face and the broken, bloody fingernails. Dirt on her hands, blood on the caravan door. Didn't take David Caruso to realise she'd done some crawling to get here.

  Back in the caravan, Farrell was sat at the table with a piece of paper in his hands. He was staring at it. When he saw us, he folded it carefully and slid it into his back pocket.

  I nodded at the door. "She's dead, then."

  Farrell nodded, pushed out his lips. He let out a short breath through his nose. Could've been a laugh or the beginnings of a bubble. Either way, I couldn't have him getting caught up in himself.

  "Means we need to hit the fuckin' road," I said.

  He picked up his mobile, stared through the display. Ignoring us.

  "How, Sean, she wasn't killed out there. She was dumped. Which means whoever did it not only has bollocks the size of bowling balls, but he knows where we are, which means he's probably called the fuckin' polis on us already."

  Farrell shook his head.

  "Fuck's that supposed to mean?"

  "We can't leave her."

  "I already got thinner in the boot, I don't have room for a fuckin' corpse."

  He shook his head again.

  "How man, you need to focus," I moved round, got in his eyeline. "She turned up, alright? And you didn't get to bray her because someone else did it for you. What can I say, there's no fuckin' justice in the world. But it's time to man up and fuck off, know what I mean?"

  Farrell just looked at me.

  "I'm telling you, she's staying put."

  "I can't—"

  "Fuck her. I never liked the bitch when she was alive, and she's not gotten any fuckin' cuter now she's stopped breathing." I grabbed his bag off the floor, checked my watch. "You've got five minutes of mardy, just to get it out of your system. Then I start the engine. If you're not in the car by then, that's it. Adi-fuckin'-os."

  I went out the caravan, stepped over Nora without looking at her, and headed right for the Volvo. My feet made a sucking sound as I walked. Water seeped in there. Stupid fuckin' countryside.

  There were no sirens on the main road, no flashing lights. I didn't look back at her. Seen a few dead bodies in my time, and it wasn't like I was fuckin' squeamish or nowt, but it wasn't like I was all relaxed around 'em either. Way I see it, you get nonchalant around the recently-carked, you need to get an MOT on your fuckin' humanity toot fuckin' sweet.

  The caravan door opened. Silence.

  "Howeh," I said. "Time to go."

  "Give me a second."

  Fine, fuck it. He wanted to make peace with her, he was welcome. I lit another menthol and spat the shitty taste out my gob.

  Farrell approached. There was something draped over his arm.

  The leather.

  "You are out of your fuckin' mind," I said.

  "What?"

  "You took that off her?"

  He sounded tired. "No, she gave it to me herself, Jimmy."

  "It's covered in blood."

  Farrell looked confused. "It's my jacket. It's Italian leather. One of a kind."

  "Class act, Sean. See if that fuckin' jacket gets us in the shit—"

  "It won't."

  "It does, you're on your own."

  "Fine."

  Farrell got in the car, slammed the door. I flicked the filter and got behind the wheel. After a couple of tries, I managed to rev the Volvo out of the mud long enough for the tyres to catch. Once we were on the road, I turned on the radio to fill the silence. Farrell stared out of the window, the jacket on his lap, his hands balled.

  As he talked, he rubbed the bullet hole in the left shoulder. "She was young, Jimmy."

  "Aye. Younger than some."

  Onto the motorway now, and I gunned the engine. Wasn't in the mood to talk. Didn't want to set Farrell off accidentally. The Irish and their fuckin' grief, man, it could fill a book.

  His mobile rang. He pulled it out of his jeans, checked the display. His face moved, flickered. He blinked.

  "What is it?" I said.

  "Nora."

  "You what?"

  "Nora's number."

  Still ringing. Farrell broke the freeze, connected the call. I turned off the radio. Tried to keep my eyes on the road.

  I heard someone talking at the other end, faint but obviously speaking clearly.

  Farrell cleared his throat. It sounded painful.

  "Yes," he said, "I know who this is."

  A pause. More talking.

  "What money?"

  Beat. The other voice a bit louder.

  "There is no money. Any money you were looking for disappeared when you killed Nora, you fucking gobshite."

  Another beat. The voice at the other end dropped in volume.

  Farrell's didn't: "You want to threaten me, you auld cunt? I'll beat you to death with your own fucking spine, you see if don't ... Yeah, keep fucking talking. Keep fucking talking so I can find you quicker, and I'll make you squeal like the cowardly fucking pig y'are."

  Farrell stabbed the call dead with one finger. He closed his hand around the phone, held it tight in one white fist. Colour burned in his face. White stuff flecked the corners of his mouth.

  The phone rang again.

  Farrell rolled down the window, flung the phone out onto the road. A clatter, smash, and a mess of shattered plastic kicked out in the rear view mirror.

  I let him seet
he for a bit longer.

  Then I said, "Who was that, your mam?"

  Farrell looking like he trying to eat himself alive, starting with his own tongue.

  "That was Frank O'Brien," he said.

  "Right."

  "And as soon as I find him, I'm going to murder the fuck."

  FARRELL

  It was all clear now. She hadn't ripped me off, not really. She'd been coerced into it. Kidnapped. Made to write the note that I found. Course that didn't jibe with her getting me drunk. That was premeditation.

  But premeditation didn't matter now.

  She was dead, she was the victim, and it didn't matter what she'd done, Frank O'Brien had done worse. And as much as I'd hoped the scrawny little bastard was still choking on prison food, I should've known better. Dogs like him didn't get bit without snapping back.

  "So, apart from a dead man, who's this Frank O'Brien?" said Cobb.

  "You know the name Martin Cahill?"

  "No."

  "They made a film about him. Two, actually, but only one that wasn't shite. Called himself The General. On the face of it, he was pure as the driven: didn't smoke, didn't drink, didn't do drugs. Lived with his wife and his girlfriend, mind, which I'm sure wasn't as fun as it sounds. Cahill's big vice was robbing people. He got off on it and he was fucking good at it. He nicked a bunch of paintings, stole turf—"

  "Sounds like a right charva."

  "This charva managed to get away with sixty million all told."

  "Fuckin' hell."

  "Course you can't do that in my neck of the woods without pissing off the wrong people, and in the end the Republican Army did what the fucking Garda wanted to do, and put a couple of bullets in him. That's the basic story, anyway. You watch the film, you'll get the picture, even though there's still plenty of blanks."

  "And what're you saying; your bloke is one of them blanks?"

  "Lot of people think it was the two Johns who organised Cahill's murder, like they'd sold him out to the IRA. And right enough, they did well after The General was gone, but that was mainly because the market was ripe. You ask me who arranged the Custer, it was Frank O'Brien. That fucker had Cahill's ear when he wouldn't give it to anyone, mostly because Frank has a talent for dirty work. Which is why he kept to the shadows, and why nobody's ever likely to make a film about him – there's only so much you can sugar coat when your man's malt fucking vinegar."