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Page 8


  I gave it to him, took the others from Farrell and put them down by the Lidl bag. Something in there smelled dead. "Have a ball, mate."

  I motioned to go. Farrell kept looking behind us as we walked. "What, that's it, is it? Your half-mad alco mate's going to put the finger on O'Brien for us, is he?"

  "Maybe. Orville doesn't piss about when there's cans on offer."

  We reached the car. Farrell put his hands on the roof. "But you gave him the cans."

  "Yes, because I'm a nice person, and because he knows he'll get more if he turns anything up. Besides, good deeds do wonders for your karma." I pulled open the driver's door. "You should give it a try sometime."

  "You're full of shite."

  "Aye," I said, getting into the car, "but I'm still going to heaven when I die."

  Farrell got in the passenger side as I took out my menthols. Put one in my mouth and felt around for a lighter. Sure I had it on us a couple of minutes ago. Looked up, and Farrell was smiling.

  "He twocked my fuckin' lighter, didn't he?"

  Farrell nodded.

  I put the tab back in the box, started the engine, and wondered what the world was coming to.

  FARRELL

  If Cobb thought I was going to leave the whole hunt in the hands of a lighter-thieving alco, he was wrong. It might have been clutching at straws, but I made him stock up on cans and do the rounds of any halfway houses he knew. By the time we finished, it was getting into the late afternoon and all we had left was the bottle of Bushmills. The cans had all gone to the local drinkers, and all of them treated Cobb like an old pal, which was a bit worrying. I had to admit, though, given a certain angle and a certain light, it was easy to see Jimmy on the streets. Sad truth of it was, he wasn't much without me.

  We swung by the flat again. The police car was still there. Cobb cruised us past and shared a look with the copper behind the wheel. If the copper clicked on to who we were, he didn't show it. Maybe Cobb was right. Maybe O'Brien hadn't called the guards on us. Mind, it bothered me that they were still there.

  "Jimmy, we can't keep driving around like this. I need to sit and think. Besides, I've got a throat on me. Let's find a pub and get settled in."

  Cobb shook his head. "Nah, mate. It's doing you no good. You been out of the game too fuckin' long. You're a lightweight. Get yourself pie-eyed, that's your revenge out the window. Even if you manage it, you won't remember it."

  "I'll be fine."

  "Plus you said this O'Brien bloke was dangerous. So you want to be on top of your game if he ever shows up, don't you?"

  "I'm just jacked, Jimmy."

  "You've done fuck all. I'm the one done all the driving."

  "Okay then, let's find somewhere to kip out for a while."

  "We'll sleep in the car."

  "You might be a fucking tramp, Jimmy, but I want a proper roof."

  Cobb tapped the steering wheel. "Time was, you were man enough to kip in a ditch if it was free."

  I opened my Dunhills, picked out a cigarette and pushed the lighter in the dash. "Times have changed, James. I'm a man of taste and distinction now. All this driving around, it's not accomplishing anything but make us look desperate." I puffed smoke at him. "We need a break."

  "What about Nora?"

  "What about her?"

  "Where'd she stay? She got relatives over here?"

  "I don't know." I tried to remember, and felt the start of a headache because of it. "I don't think she ever told me stuff like that."

  "You fucked her long enough."

  "Hey," I said, warning him. "Ease up. I'm still in mourning over here."

  "Then stop mourning and get thinking. You're the one knew her, so give us an idea of where she was, where she'd be, because O'Brien's not going to be far from there, is he? In the meantime, I've done my bit. I've sowed the seeds. He turns up at a halfway house, I'll know about it."

  "You got a mobile?"

  "No."

  "Then how the fuck is your man going to call you?"

  "Home phone."

  I blinked. He just wasn't making the connections here. "There's police outside your flat, Jimmy."

  "Give it until two o'clock and they'll be gone."

  "Why two?"

  "Shift change. If they've sent out uniforms, it's not going to be important enough to straddle shifts. They won't send any more once these two have clocked off."

  I went for the Bushmills and took a long, hard swallow. I wiped my mouth and said, "Okay, well, Nora didn't mention any family to me. It was a job enough getting her relationship with O'Brien out into the open."

  My gut protested at the whiskey and I thought for a second it was going to come back up. I pulled the leather jacket back onto my lap until the nausea went away. I put my finger through the bullet hole.

  "Wish you'd stop doing that, man," said Cobb. "If you're going to wear it, wear it. But stop playing with it. Doing my fuckin' box in."

  I decided to go through the pockets instead. Found my wallet in the inside pocket. I opened it up, went through the folds to make sure everything was still present and correct. My driving licence, a couple of credit cards. Some Euros and a wad of receipts that I should've chucked a long time ago. Closed the wallet and checked the other pockets.

  "Owt or nowt?" said Cobb.

  "She cleaned it."

  "If she wore it."

  "She would have."

  Because she stole it to wear it. Because she knew I liked quality and it would mess with my head if someone else wore my jacket. She'd been messing with me every step of the way. It'd always been about scoring points.

  And that was when it hit me. I opened up the wallet again. "Hang on a second. Pull over."

  "Eh?"

  I pointed out the window. "There, next to that phone box. I need to check something."

  "What?"

  "Just do it. And give me some change for the phone while you're at it."

  ***

  "If you would like to check your balance, please press one ...

  Cobb wasn't the only one who'd had rock bottom moments. After that fracas in Belfast when that petrol contact of mine turned out to be up to his nose in debt with the fucking Provos, I was so scared I considered the straight life. I actually went out and looked for civilian employment – went through the Tribune, the Independent, looking for anything that resembled a decent job-type job. And all I found were customer service positions, like a rash across the employment pages, phone monkeys all riding the Celtic Tiger. Cobb told me once that it was the same in Newcastle. With industry privatised and plundered, punted on to the lowest bidder with the best contacts, all that was left was the so-called friendliness of the Geordie accent. Same for the Irish, apparently. We were fucking trustworthy, apparently.

  In the end, I'd had an attack of good sense and kicked the idea to the kerb. And a good job, too, because from the sounds of it, they didn't even have people on the other end anymore.

  "If you would like to check your most recent transactions, please press three ..."

  I pressed three.

  As the computer rattled off the last five transactions, I listened and took note. The other card had already come up short, but there was still an itch at the back of my head that told me this was the way to go.

  And then: jackpot.

  I put the phone down, slapped my wallet closed and went back to the car. Cobb rolled down the window. "Well?"

  "I've got something, but I need another couple of quid, just in case."

  "Fuck's sake ..."

  "It's sixty pence a call, Jimmy. And I don't have any of your funny money, do I?"

  Cobb lifted one arse cheek, dug around in his jeans like he was searching for his balls, then slapped a handful of warm coins into my hand. "That's it. Don't ask us for any more, alright? I'm fuckin' brassic, and you're lending money off us like—"

  I didn't hear the rest. I was already at the phone box. I dragged open the door, picked up the receiver and dialled the directory enquiries
thing he saw advertised on the side of the box.

  GOT YOUR NUMBER.

  Turned out they didn't. They put me through to a halal pizza place where the fella on the other end lost his rag with me in three different languages before I hung up. Another pound down, and I finally got the right number.

  "Good afternoon, Royal Station Hotel, this is Liz speaking."

  "Hi Liz, this is Mr Farrell. I don't know if you remember me. I checked in last night with my wife?"

  "What can we do for you, Mr Farrell?"

  "Thing is, and this is terribly embarrassing ... We've been out shopping today, and I think I've lost our key."

  "Oh dear."

  "I know. I've looked all over for it, retraced our steps, the lot. I just can't seem to find it anywhere. Now there'll probably be a fine to pay, is that right?"

  "Yes, I'm afraid so."

  There always was. "I told her, you know, I said: 'Keep an eye on the key, darling, don't let it out of your sight.' And it turns out I'm the one with the bloody thing. Or not, as the case may be. Anyway, I'm really awfully sorry."

  "Not a problem at all, Mr Farrell. If you want to pop by reception, we'll have another key card waiting for you there."

  "That'll be grand, Liz. Thanks ever so much for your help."

  I hung up and the phone refused to give change. I walked back to the car, where Cobb was waiting with his hand out.

  "Ate it."

  "You're fuckin' kidding."

  "Nope."

  Cobb slapped the side of the car. "Fuckin' BT, fuckin' bunch of pirate bastards."

  "Everyone's got mobiles now, Jimmy," I said, getting back into the car.

  "Wouldn't be seen dead, man. Shackles of the twenty-first century, I'm telling you. And the fuckin' contract phones, them smartphones with the GPS and all that? They're monitoring your movements. MI5 nosing around your life. Fuck that."

  I stared at him. He looked as nuts as he sounded.

  He cleared his throat. "Anyway, what's happening?"

  "You know the Royal Station Hotel?"

  "If it's the one I think it is, it's down by Central. Why?"

  "Nora was staying there."

  Cobb smiled. "Don't tell us she used your credit card."

  "One of them, yeah."

  "No offence to the dearly departed an' all that, but she was a daft cow if she didn't think you'd pick up on that."

  "Oh, she knew I would." I took a Dunhill from the pack on the dash. "But this whole thing is a series of little fuck-yous, isn't it? She'd planned to be there one night, maybe two. Enough time to pick up the money and then she'd be gone."

  Cobb started the engine. "So we go down the Royal Station and see where that leads us?"

  "Not we, just me. You do what you need to do."

  "If we split up, we're—"

  "Jimmy, she's booked in with my credit card. And from the price of the room, I'm guessing this isn't a fucking Travelodge. So if I walk in there with a scruffy gobshite like you at my side, it's going to draw attention. God knows, I'm already pushing my luck by telling the receptionist that I lost my key, so I don't need you pushing it further. You drop me off outside, go by the flat and see if Orville and the rest of your degenerate friends have turned up anything on O'Brien. In the meantime, I'll search the room. With a bit of luck, she might've stashed my twenty grand somewhere."

  Cobb chewed the inside of his mouth. "I don't know."

  "It's necessary. Too much to do, too little time to do it in. Avanti."

  COBB

  By the time we got to the Royal Station Hotel, my back was minging with sweat. Had to watch your arse when you were driving round town, else there'd be someone up it. Soon as people got caught in the one-ways, they lost their shit and started driving like they were in a demolition derby. I missed a cyclist with no peripheral vision and veered in behind a line of black cabs that wouldn't move if lightning struck them. Another black cab pulled in behind us. The cabbie, a skinny wanker with a Waddle mullet-perm, leaned on the horn.

  I stuck my head out the window. "You better've had a fuckin' heart attack and slumped on your horn, you fuckin' prick, else I'll come back there and bray fuck out of you."

  "See, this is why you don't get to come inside," said Farrell. "Your people skills are sorely lacking."

  "That cunt's a honk away from a headbutt." I watched Waddle in the rear view. Willing him to hit it again. My blood was up with all this evasive driving. "Do what you have to do. I've got my own."

  "Give me an hour," said Farrell.

  "You going to call us if you find anything?"

  "Not on the room phone. Police put two and two together, I don't want them checking the records and seeing your number."

  "Right."

  Farrell grinned. For a gadgie who'd looked like he was going to drink himself to death a couple hours ago, he was chipper as fuck now. Truth be told, it'd be good to get a break from the bastard. Something about him still wasn't right.

  "See you back here in an hour," said Farrell.

  He got out of the car and jogged through the traffic towards the hotel. I waited until he went in, then pulled away. As I did, that cabbie bastard decided to lean on his horn again. I slammed on the brakes, watched him jolt to a stop behind us. Wouldn't take much to lash the sock on this one, but I had to bite it back. Farrell was right. We didn't need to draw attention to ourselves. And beating the shite out of that cabbie might be fun, but it was indulgent. So I just reversed in a hop and took out one of his headlights, then lurched the Volvo into traffic.

  I was about halfway home when I wanted a tab. And when the dash lighter didn't work for us even though it had worked for Farrell, I decided to stop off at a newsagents to get another disposable. Next time I saw Orville, I'd have a short, sharp word in his shell-like. Wasn't as if it was a Zippo or anything, but there was an etiquette involved with cadging tabs, and nicking the cadgee's lighter just wasn't fuckin' cricket, was it? Wasn't like I hadn't been generous enough with the cans. But that was the thing with Orville – he always had to take it one step too far.

  "Give us a disposable," I said to the newsagent. "Red if you've got it."

  The newsagent picked up a red lighter and tested it before he handed it over. I fished around in my pockets for a bit before I realised that Farrell had used all my change. So I had to dig out the special emergency twenty I kept in the watch pocket of my jeans.

  The newsagent looked at us like I'd just pissed on his early editions.

  "You got anything smaller?" he said.

  "It's all I've got, mate. If I had anything smaller, I'd be using it to pay you with, wouldn't I?"

  "You'll have to buy something else."

  "I don't want anything else."

  "I don't do change."

  "You're not doing us fuckin' change, you're selling us a lighter."

  "A fifty pence lighter, aye. That's a twenty there."

  "Shit, is it? There's me thinking it was buttons and fluff. Fuckin' hell. Look, alright, give us a Mars Bar an' all."

  "A Mars Bar?"

  "A fuckin' Mars Bar Duo, then."

  The newsagent pulled a face that meant he was sick of repeating himself. He took the lighter back and shoved it into its little plastic stand.

  I stared at him. Counted a slow ten in my head.

  "Okay," I said. "I'll have twenty Berkeley Menthols."

  "No, you won't. Only got the normal Berkeleys."

  "Consulate, then."

  The newsagent turned to look at the rack. Took him a while to locate them. I didn't help him. Instead, I nicked a handful of Chomps. When he turned back, I nodded behind him at the lighters. "A red one."

  The newsagent tested it again, because he was an anal fucker. "Six-ten."

  "No please?"

  He smacked his lips like that was a good enough answer. I handed over the twenty and he gave us the thirteen-ninety in pound coins and silver.

  "I thought you weren't giving change," I said.

  "I don't have
no notes."

  Lying bastard. There were plenty of notes in the till. I'd seen them. One of them shopkeepers that liked to hoard the paper money. On the way out, I pulled a Chomp from my pocket and bit into it. The newsagent frowned at us.

  That's right, Paper Round, you just got fuckin' took.

  ***

  The police car was gone when I got back to the flat. I parked the car round by the garages that still had doors on them and grabbed everything I could out the back. My sock and the Stanley sat in my jacket pockets. I put the bottle of Bushmills in Farrell's bag. Most importantly, I took the gun out of the glove compartment. I broke it open, saw that Farrell had loaded it up with Goose's bullets. Clicked it shut. Fucking thing. I should've chucked it in the Tyne, the amount of shit it had caused us already, but I wedged it down the back of my jeans instead. Better on me than in some charva's hand.

  I went inside and held my breath before I stepped into the lift. Only so much ammonia a bloke could take. At the end of my corridor, I stopped to sniff the air. The usual cabbage and sweat smells. Nothing unusual except I was still missing a front door. I lit a tab and stepped over the wreckage to see what the thieving bastards had left us with.

  The stereo was gone, along with some of the CDs. They'd twocked my telly an' all. That wasn't a blow, mind. Bought it a couple of years ago, must've watched it about three hours in total. And it looked like they'd left most of my books alone, even if they had kicked them about a bit. Something about the sight of books that pisses off burglars. They think they're back at school or something.

  What really bothered us, mind, was the smell in here.

  Aftershave.

  Wasn't mine. I don't have it. Way I look at it, if a bloke wears aftershave, he might as well chuck on a dress to go with the perfume. It was probably Farrell, but I couldn't remember it being this strong before. I waved my hand in the air, tried to get rid, as I walked over to the phone. The dial tone was spaced out, which meant I had messages waiting.

  I dialled 1571.

  Heard, "Message received at—"

  Something flared white behind my eyes. I opened my mouth.