Piranhas

by Gerard Brennan

GERARD BRENNAN, 29, lives in Northern Ireland with his wife, Michelle, and their two children, Mya and Jack. He’s working on his third novel while Piranhas languishes in many slushpiles. His first has been put down, sadly. It was for the best. He is also redrafting a screenplay, titled The Point (thanks to NI Screen), finishing off a collection of poetry for children, illustrated by Rachel Law, and plans to tackle another draft of the play co-wrote with his father, Joe Brennan, titled The Sweety Bottle. And he runs a blog dedicated to crime fiction in Northern Ireland and beyond -- www.crimesceneni.blogspot.com. So pass the coffee.
Contact Gerard

Author's note:
In writing Piranhas, I set myself the challenge of keeping the story as true to the location and culture as I could make it. I wanted to portray a Belfast that is moving on from the Troubles, but finding the transition a rocky journey full of new perils, without demonising an area of social deprivation. I believe I have managed this. But I also think that I've written a good story that can be enjoyed without an in-depth knowledge of Northern Ireland's history. I was awarded funding by the Arts Council of Northern Ireland based on an early draft of this novel, which in this age of cutbacks, is no mean feat.

Chapter 1

The streets of Beechmount stank of wet dog. The effect of drying rain in early summer. Light faded from the West Belfast housing area. Joe Philips yawned and slumped against the redbrick alley wall. Half past ten at night. He wanted to be in bed, cosy and watching a DVD until he drifted off to sleep. But he was the leader. The rest of the gang expected him to be there.

At least it was holiday time. No school to mitch in the morning. He popped his head around the corner and glanced down the avenue.

“I see one,” he said.

They all looked up to him. Literally. In the last few weeks he’d taken what his ma called a growth spurt. He’d use his share of tonight’s money to buy longer trousers. Too much white sock showed between his Nike Air trainers and his Adidas tracksuit bottoms.

“Anyone else about?” Wee Danny Gibson asked. He snubbed a half-smoked fag on the alley wall and tucked the butt behind his ear.

“No, just the aul doll. Easy enough number.”

Wee Danny nodded and the rest of the gang twitched, murmured and pulled hoods up over lowered baseball caps. Ten of them in all, not one above fourteen years old.

“Right, let’s go,” Joe said.

They spilled out of the alley and surrounded the blue-rinse bitch like a cursing tornado. She screamed, but they moved too fast for the curtain-twitchers to react. Broken nose bleeding, she dropped her handbag and tried to fend off kicks and punches. Wee Danny scooped it up and whistled. They split in ten different directions. The old granny shrieked at them. They were gone before any fucker so much as opened his door.

###

“Why are we wasting time talking about this? I’ll happily volunteer to go out there now and batter each one of the wee fuckers with a hurling stick!”

“Stephen McVeigh. Sit back down and shut up unless you have something constructive to offer.”

Stephen glared at Father Cairns but slammed himself down on the seat with enough force to mark the laminate flooring with black rubber streaks. The squat, bald priest looked away. Nobody had the balls to back Stephen up. Everybody knew the only way to stop these hoods was to talk to them in the one language they understood. Violence.

“Ginger cunt,” some spineless fucker behind him muttered. Stephen’s hand automatically went to his red hair. A couple of people sniggered. Bastards.

The Beechmount Residents Association met every month at the leisure centre, and every month they skirted the real issues. The committee sat behind a long table at the top of the multi-purpose room and the concerned residents faced them in rows of stackable plastic chairs. Nobody wanted to deal with the bastards the Andersonstown News had dubbed the Piranha Gang. Since the IRA agreed to cease all paramilitary activity, punishment beatings were no longer common practice. And because Sinn Fein would not officially advocate the Police Service of Northern Ireland, and there was still a bad-feeling hangover from the RUC days, their investigations weren’t supported by the residents. The vicious, robbing bastards could take what they wanted from innocent people with no fear of consequence. The Wild West.

“It’s time for us to stage a protest.” Father Cairns addressed the gathered residents. A general murmur of agreement filled the room.

Stephen snorted loud enough to be heard. He was ignored.

“Yes,” Jimmy Mac, the association’s chairperson, said. “We know that some of these wee scumbags must live around here. We need to put pressure on them or their families to come forward.”

Stephen shook his head. “If we knew who they were we could just run them out of here. Why waste time with chanting in the street? The parents don’t give a fuck about these kids and the kids don‘t give a fuck about who they hurt.”

“Please watch your language, Stephen,” Jimmy said.

A red-faced Father Cairns cleared his throat and nodded.

“Sorry, I curse when I’m upset. Last night’s attack was a disgrace. Missus McKinney is in her seventies. ”

“We’re all upset. Just try to keep in mind the company you’re in, Stephen,” Jimmy said. “This isn’t a football pitch.”

“Look, I’m just saying that the softly-softly approach won’t accomplish anything. In the days when the Provos ran this area these wee hoods would be rolling about the streets in wheelchairs.”

“These are different days. We have to look ahead.”

“You’re just politicking, Jimmy. A protest is a waste of time.”

Stephen folded his arms. He’d made his point. Someone else needed to run with it. Plenty of the people at the meeting thought like him. Now that he’d put a stop to the pussyfooting it’d be easier for the others.

Nobody took the opportunity. Jimmy slow-shrugged at Stephen as if to bait him into further discussion. Stephen shook his head. The muscles in his forearms bulged as he twisted his beanie. The black wool stretched in his grip, spoiling its shape. He was the only man in the room who really cared about his community. He’d have to do something about the little problems on his own.

###

“I have to leave the gang,” Joe said.

He’d purposely waited until he and Wee Danny were alone. They were on their way back to the gang from a trip to the corner shop. Joe carried a plastic bag of loose cigarettes and penny chews. His height and thin moustache helped him pass for sixteen. He didn’t mind buying the cigarettes for the rest of the gang. It was much easier than buying cider.

“What?” Wee Danny took the fag out of his mouth and squinted as a cloud of smoke blew back in his face. “What do you mean leave? Where are you going?”

Joe shook his head. “No, I mean quit stealing with you guys.”

“What for? Sure it’s good craic.”

“Aye, I know. But I’m starting to stick out like a sore thumb. It won’t be long until someone around here figures out who I am.”

“My ma says I won’t be long catching up with you. We’re just at that age.”

Joe nodded. He didn’t want to tell Wee Danny his ma was full of shit. He was only a sparrow fart. You could tell by looking at Wee Danny’s fists he would never be big. Joe’s granny always used to say that pups and boys grew into their paws. Wee Danny couldn’t even get a sovereign ring small enough to fit his fingers. And anyway, his brother Paul was still a shortarse and at twenty-something his growing days were gone. The others joked that Wee Danny’s ma still bought his clothes in Baby Gap. Not in front of him though. Small or not, he scrapped like a Staffordshire bull terrier.

“That doesn’t help me right now though.”

“The others won’t like it, Joe.”

“Do you think?”

“Yeah. Don’t be saying nothing yet. Not until me and you come up with a story.”

“Okay, mate. Are you not pissed off?”

“No. With you gone the gang’s mine. Best news I’ve heard all year, you gangly prick.”

Joe punched Wee Danny’s shoulder. Wee Danny laughed and flicked his fag butt at him. It bounced off Joe’s chest in a shower of sparks.

“You’re a wee bastard,” Joe said.

“Your ma says I’m massive where it counts.”

Joe tried to think of something disgusting to say about Wee Danny’s sister. He didn’t get a chance.

“Here, Joe, what’s going on up there?”

At the corner of Beechmount Avenue and Mica Drive a big guy with ginger hair stood amongst the rest of the Piranhas. Voices rose.

“Shit. Doesn’t look good,” Joe said.

They jogged towards the commotion. As they got closer Joe picked out a voice shouting the odds.

“You don’t own the street.” Liam Greene’s voice wavered but he raised his double chin to the big ginger guy. Stupid wee fatty always had to mouth off. He’d just make things worse, as usual.

Joe and Wee Danny joined the ranks. Joe wanted to say something but he couldn’t think.

“What’s wrong, mister?” Wee Danny asked.

“I’m trying to find out who robbed Missus McKinney last night. I thought I’d ask your mates since they’re always hanging about here. They’ve offered me nothing but lip.”

“You’re Stephen McVeigh, aren’t you?”

The big ginger’s face softened into a surprised smile.

“How’d you know that?”

“You play football for Davitts. The same team as our Paul.”

“Wee Paul? The forward?”

“Aye.”

“Nippy wee bastard, your Paul. We’d be lost without him.”

Wee Danny nodded as if he’d trained his older brother in the sublime art of goal scoring. Joe marvelled at his friend’s confidence.

“Right, well you and your friends keep an ear out for me. If you hear about any hoods from St James’s or the Whiterock coming down here to cause trouble, you let me know. I won’t let this place go to the dogs.”

“No problem, Stephen. Good luck in next week’s match. I hear St John’s are on a winning streak.”

“Cheers, wee man. Talk to you later.”

McVeigh cantered down Beechmount Avenue and turned into Beechmount Parade before the gang relaxed into tough guy mode.

“Fucking dickhead. Who does he think he is?” Joe said.

“Who gives a fuck?” Wee Danny asked. “So long as he doesn’t know who we are.”

“We thought you were going to suck his dick for him,” Liam Greene said. The others laughed.

“You have to pick your fights, Fatso. You’re just lucky me and Joe came along in time to pull you out of trouble. You looked like you were shitting it.”

“Your ma,” Liam said.

“Right, okay, that’s enough,” Joe said. “Listen, we’re looking too suspicious hanging around in a group of ten. We should lie low for a bit. That big ginger guy must be too thick to put two and two together, but if one of the real community activists decides to do a headcount they won’t be long figuring us out. I don’t want them knocking on my ma’s door.”

There was no discussion. Joe passed out the cigarettes and sweets and the gang broke off in twos and threes.

“You want to come to my place?” Joe asked Wee Danny. “I think my ma’s to go for the groceries after work. We might get an hour or so to watch the telly.”

“Aye, let’s go.”

They got about thirty minutes lounging time before the front door rattled open and Joe’s ma spilled in, hands full of shopping bags.

“And where were you last night?”

His ma didn’t even wait to get her coat off before launching into the interrogation. It didn’t matter that Wee Danny was sitting on their sofa watching the telly. She was going to have it out with him. Joe hopped out of the armchair in case he needed to dodge a slap. He was taller than his ma, but she was a bleached-blonde devil when she was pissed off.

“I was out with Danny and a few of the lads.” Joe said.

“Do you want us to put your shopping away, Missus Philips?” Wee Danny asked.

“No, Danny. Sit there and be quiet.” She turned to Joe. “Well? What were you and your mates doing?”

“Just hanging about, like.”

“Hanging about where?”

“What’s with all these questions?”

“Hanging about where, Joseph?”

“Down at the Dunville Park. We went to the chippie across the road from the gates and all chipped in for a couple of sausage suppers and a bottle of Coke. Then we sat at a bench and ate.”

“So you weren’t on Beechmount Avenue?”

“No. The chippie on that street closed last week. Health and Safety shut it, I heard.”

Joe’s ma finally took her coat off. The black polo shirt she always wore to work was covered in flour. Her job at the bakery paid her off the books which meant she didn’t have to declare it to the DSS. She got her housing benefits and jobseekers allowance on top of the fiver an hour she earned three days a week. Without it they’d be eating ASDA value beans every day.

“Missus McKinney’s son was at the bakery today. He’s in bits about what happened last night. Did you hear about it?”

“Aye,” Joe said. “Heard someone talking about it in the shop.”

“Were you buying cigarettes?”

Joe broke eye contact with his ma for a second before answering. “No.” He could always make up a convincing alibi, but lying to his ma about smoking was impossible. He’d never understand why.

“You lying wee bastard. Give me them.”

“Sorry, ma. It’s just too hard to quit.” Joe handed over three loose cigarettes. The white paper had crumpled near the filters. They didn’t travel well out of the box.

“Jesus, are they still selling singles in that wee shop?” She looked at the brand logo. “Mayfair? Ah well, better than nothing.”

Joe’s ma fished a plastic lighter from the pocket of her blue jeans. She always smoked his confiscated fags. Just to rub it in. He watched her thin cheeks dimple as she inhaled. She puffed a solitary smoke-ring before blowing two jets from her nose, clouding the space between them. The smell tightened his chest.

“Get those groceries put away and I’ll let you smoke the butt.”

###

Stephen grunted and shoved. His triceps and pectorals screamed but he fought through the pain. The clank of the loaded, twenty kilo bar settling into its brackets couldn’t compete with his wail of ecstasy and relief.

“Good man, Stephen,” Wee Paul said.

Stephen opened his eyes. Black spots danced, distracting his focus from Wee Paul who looked down at him from the head of the weights bench.

“I might have one more set in me,” Stephen said.

“That’s enough, mate. We can’t have you injured for next week’s match.”

Thank fuck you said that, Stephen thought. Another eight reps would kill him. He’d already raised the stakes a little too high when he got Wee Paul to throw another couple of fives onto the bar. The last push scared him. And with Wee Paul spotting him, if he’d dropped it he’d have been fucked. Thankfully, he was at his peak. He sat up on the bench and rubbed his stiffened wrists. Wee Paul handed him a plastic bottle of water. He left slippery finger tracks in the condensation as he choked it down.

“Why are you pushing yourself so hard, Stephen?”

“Need to get a bit of aggression out. I’m not long out of the Residents Association meeting.”

“Talking about poor aul Missus McKinney?”

“Yeah, plenty of talking. That’s the fucking problem. All talk, no trousers.”

Wee Paul nodded. Short, rapid bobs that went on for too long. He looked like one of those bobblehead characters all the music shops in town were selling. His little brother, Danny, nodded the same way.

“How’s your wee brother doing in school?”

Wee Paul tilted his balding head. “Our Danny? Why do you ask? How do you even know him?”

“I met him on my way up here. He recognised me when I was asking his mates a few questions. Just thought the crowd he was hanging about with looked a bit dodgy. Has he been getting into trouble lately? Anything like that?”

“What are you saying, Stephen?”

“Don’t get me wrong, mate. I’m sure your brother had nothing to do with Missus McKinney’s mugging. I mean, you’d know if you had a scumbag like that in your family. Wouldn’t you?”

“Of course I would.” Wee Paul barked the words.

“But do you think he’d tell you if he knew his mates were getting up to no good?”

“Did you ever tout on a mate, Stephen?”

“That’s kind of my point there, Paul. I wonder would you ask your Danny if he’s heard anything. Tell him it’s family before mates. Tell him you’re worried your own granny might be the next victim.”

Wee Paul shook his head. “I’ll think about it. Take off the fives and fifteens until I get a go on this bench.”

They swapped places and Stephen spotted Wee Paul as he went through the motions. The wiry muscles in the smaller man’s arms strained as he counted out ten reps. The look on his face informed Stephen the wee man’s thoughts were elsewhere. He was worried about his brother. Good stuff. Stephen didn’t trust that cocky wee shit or his hoodie-wearing friends. Especially the lanky one with the bum-fluff moustache.

After another set each, Stephen told wee Paul he’d to see a man about a car.

Retired mechanic, Brian “Mackers” MacDonald, was the man to see about buying runabouts in Beechmount. Uninsured cars that were too old or fucked up to pass an MOT but could get you from A to B. Mackers’ cars were parked all over the place. Customers rapped his door and told him what they wanted. He disappeared back into his house, retrieved a green parka and a key from within, and walked his client to the matching car. Some used them as disposable transport. Others for getaway wheels. Stephen wanted a patrol car.

The once blue Ford Escort had seen better days. Stephen kicked a balding tyre and rust flakes rained from the wheel arch. Replacement body parts scavenged from scrap-yards hadn’t been spray-painted. A red door, a green bonnet and a black front bumper created a patchwork quilt paintjob. The driver’s door opened with a protesting creak. Inside, the car smelt musty. Cracks ran through the plastic instrument panel. A little tree hung from the rear view mirror, its magic long departed.

“I’ll give you forty quid for it.”

Mackers rummaged in his hairy ear with a thick, old man finger. He smiled an NHS smile and drummed his fingers on the bonnet of the car parked on Ballymurphy Street. Stephen wrinkled his nose at the waxy fingerprints the old boy left behind.

“Fifty,” Mackers said.

“See you later.” Stephen got out of the car and brushed past the crooked old entrepreneur.

“Okay, son, forty it is. Come on back and don’t be so huffy.”

Stephen didn’t offer to shake on the deal. He handed Mackers two wrinkled twenties and settled into the driver’s seat. The engine chugged for the first few yards but eventually settled into a semi-regular splutter.

No time like the present, he thought. He decided to take the knackered motor out on its first patrol.

The runabout bucked as he changed gear. Everything in the car seemed to rattle or clank. The radiator light blinked at random intervals. The ancient magic-tree swayed from side to side as he took corners on the narrow streets of the West Belfast housing estate. He approached the junction onto the Falls Road.

Wee Danny and the tall prick with the sparse moustache sat on the low windowsill of the closed down chippie on Beechmount Avenue. Their seat faced an ancient IRA mural. A chained fist hovered over a badly drawn map of Ireland. The street sign set into the brick wall hosting the mural had been blackened out with spray paint. Above the deletion the words RPG Avenue were now scrawled.

He stopped at the red light and got a good look at them. Wee Danny was smoking, which his brother Paul would be delighted to hear. The tall one nattered on about something. He punctuated whatever he said with too many hand gestures. The long, skinny arms made his movements awkward and exaggerated. But Wee Danny hung on his words. He’d mistaken Wee Danny as the ringleader earlier. The cocky wee shit’s attitude had thrown him off. The tall kid was the real leader. So the tall kid had to be dealt with first. Always target the main man.

The traffic lights turned green and Stephen moved on. Wee Danny looked his way as the Ford’s engine backfired. He said something to the tall one and they both turned to stare at him. He stared back and took his time pulling out onto the road. The tall one blew him a kiss and Wee Danny laughed. Stephen shook his head and manoeuvred the runabout onto the Falls Road. A couple of hundred yards up the road he turned left into a narrow lane that led back into Beechmount. He took his time completing another circuit.

###

The blare of a car horn set Joe’s heart racing. He hated being so nervy. Criminal paranoia. It was bad for the body and the mind. The driver responsible waved at him. Stephen McVeigh. His piece-of-shit car rattled past.

“He’s driven past us three times now, Joe,” Wee Danny said. “And he’s given us the hairy eyeball every time.”

“What’s he beeping at us for?” Joe asked.

“To let us know he’s watching us, I suppose,” Wee Danny said.

“Do you think he’s on to us?”

“I think he’s asking questions about everybody. He’s decided he’s a vigilante or something.”

“Are you worried?”

“No. Are you?”

Joe lied. “No. Fuck away off.”

“Good.” Wee Danny looked at his watch. “When are these bastards going to get here?”

“Text Liam and see what’s keeping them.”

“I’ve no credit.”

“Ach, fuck this then. Will we get some cider instead? I feel like getting pissed.”

“Your ma will kill you, Joe.”

“Only if she catches me. Come on. Will we just go have a drink at the park?”

Before Wee Danny could answer, Liam Greene and three other Piranhas turned the corner. They announced their arrival by yelling insults at Joe and Wee Danny.

“So what’s the plan tonight, Joe?” Liam Greene asked when the insults finally died off. His big cheeks were red from the effort of walking and talking at the same time. Joe felt an urge to slap him. Tell him to cut back on the Crispy Pancake sandwiches.

“I fancy a wee carryout at the park.”

“After we earn a bit of cash?” Liam asked.

“Nah. I can’t be arsed running about tonight. I’m sure you’d appreciate a rest too. You must be knackered after last night.”

“Fuck up.”

Joe waited for the rest of them to quit their sniggering then said, “What about you lot? Fancy a drink?”

The three who’d arrived with Liam looked to him for an answer. What the fuck is this? Joe thought. He glanced at Wee Danny who looked just as confused.

“They want to do some robbing,” Liam said. The others didn’t look directly at Joe but they didn’t disagree with the fat bastard either.

“Can they not talk for themselves?” Wee Danny asked.

“We did our talking in the taxi down,” Liam said. “We’re all in agreement.”

Joe tugged at the back of his baseball cap; the adjustable strap seemed too tight. Cold sweat ran from his armpits to the waistband of his trousers. “Are you the leader here, Liam?”

Liam looked up into Joe’s face. His eyes widened. The fat boy’s cheeks jiggled when he cleared his throat. “No, Joe.”

“But you’re making agreements in taxis with my gang. Sounds like you want to be the leader.”

“Look, Joe, I’m sorry.”

“What are you sorry about, Fatty? Making plans behind my back?”

Joe took a step forward and Liam retreated. The other three moved away from him, deserted him. One of them stumbled off the kerb onto the road. Wee Danny lit a fag. On the road, a car skidded to a halt and stalled.

“Get off the road, you stupid cunt.”

A pretty blonde with a rough country accent poked her head out the window of her car. A student from St Mary’s Teacher’s College on the Falls Road by the look of her. Her little Clio had stopped just inches from the shocked Piranha. The tension broke as Wee Danny pointed and laughed exaggerated hee-haws at the angry student. She rolled up her window and shook her head as she gunned the engine. They cheered when she got it going on her second attempt. The cheer rose as she spun off and jumped a red light at the junction.

“Stupid bitch,” Wee Danny said.

Joe nodded and pointed at Wee Danny’s fag. His little mate passed him the shrinking butt and he pulled hard on it. Liam didn’t speak. Joe blew smoke towards him.

“So you can keep your mouth shut.”

Liam shrugged.

Joe stomped the ground in front of him. Liam flinched at the sudden movement. His chubby cheeks burned red. Thank fuck, Joe thought, he’s not up for a scrap.

“Chill out, Liam,” Joe said. “We’re all mates here, aren’t we?”

Liam nodded then stared at his own feet. Joe’s heart slowed its roll. He was in charge again. He didn’t want to be, but he wouldn’t be phased out of his position by Liam Greene. People didn’t forget that kind of thing. Show weakness and you’re fucked.

“Here’s the rest of them now,” Wee Danny said. He put a finger and a thumb in his mouth and whistled loud enough to hurt Joe’s ear. One of the other four whistled back. They carried blue plastic bags weighed down by what had to be three-litre bottles of cider. Barrack Busters. Another decision taken from Joe’s hands. But he let this one slide. When the whole gang was together, Joe took control of the situation.

“No one will annoy our heads at the park,” he said. “If we drink on the street we’ll have to keep moving about. I just want to sit still.”

“Right, let’s go then. I’m gasping for a drink now.”

Liam didn’t throw in an opinion. Good, Joe thought, remember your place.

Dunville Park, their favored haunt, wasn’t far from Beechmount. Five or ten minutes at an idle pace. It was smaller than the Falls Park which lay further up the road from Beechmount, but that way was all uphill and the older kids usually took all the best spots. Dunville Park was less concealed, but for a small group it did the job. They rarely got moved on from the swings and benches at night time. It was accepted that kids had to drink somewhere. Better the park than a residential street corner.

Joe leaned against the frame of the swings. He held a plastic bottle of cider in one hand and picked at the peeling primary colour paint on the swing’s frame with the other. Wee Danny twirled on one of the intact swings. The chains scrunched as they twisted together. Liam worked on wrapping another swing around the crossbar. He took sips of cider in between. The rest of the gang were scattered about the recreational area. Some sat around the huge terracotta fountain and others lay on the grass. Because it was summer they would be undisturbed until ten o’clock. Then a council employee would lock up for the night. When the park keeper was gone, they’d scale the fence back in.

The late evening air blew warm and the smell of exhaust fumes from the Falls Road traffic cleared a little. Joe sucked up the moment. The cider buzz, friends in good humour, nothing to dread in the morning, bright nights in a little city. The sweet life.

“This is fucking great, isn’t it?” Wee Danny said.

Joe laughed. “You must have read my mind, mate.”

“Fruits,” Liam said.

Wee Danny spat a tobacco-spotted green gob. It missed Liam’s head by inches. Liam made a kissy-face at him.

“Fuck up, Liam,” Joe said. “If you want to be a fucking moan, go away on home to your ma.”

“Sorry, Joe.”

The fat fucker had obviously gotten in over his head earlier. He wasn’t keen to repeat the experience. But Wee Danny didn’t want to let it lie.

“You didn’t say sorry to me, Fatso.”

“Why should I, Frodo?”

“Who the fuck’s Frodo?” Wee Danny asked.

“Ach, you’re a stupid bastard. He’s that wee dwarf out of Lord of the Rings.”

“Hobbit, Liam,” Joe said.

“What?”

“Frodo’s a hobbit. The dwarf’s the one with the long beard.”

“Whatever. He’s still a shortarse.”

Wee Danny hopped off the swing. Liam didn’t back down.

“Well, we don’t call you Wee Danny because you’re a fucking giant, like. You’re a tiny wee shrimp. Probably have a wee, small dick to match.”

“Keep talking, Fatso,” Wee Danny said. “You’re making this very fucking easy for me.”

“You couldn’t beat the deuce of clubs without Joe behind you.”

“Is that right, dickhead?”

“Why don’t you show me different?”

Joe’s stomach clenched. In just seconds, the perfect summer moment had turned sour. It looked like he was set to referee a scrap. Liam, stupid fucker that he was, was headed for a serious kicking. After that they’d never get back the mellow atmosphere he’d been enjoying. But what could he do? If he stepped in now it’d look like Wee Danny couldn’t stand up for himself.

“Are you sure you want to do this, Liam?” Joe asked, knowing what the answer had to be. Fuck it, it was worth a try.

“Fucking right I do. This wee dick thinks he’s hard as nails. I’d love to hammer him.”

“What about you, Danny?”

“I’m going to wreck this cunt.”

Joe sighed and twisted the cap back on to his bottle.

“Fine, then. Try and keep it kind of clean.”

###

Copyright © Gerard Brennan, 2008

Click here to read Gerard's interview with Adrian McKinty