Bygones

They bundle us intae the back ay the jeep, Zander just aboot greetin, ‘Whit aboot the Beemer? Ah’m tellin ye the noo, that better no have as much as a scratch oan it –’

Finn cracks his jaw wae an open haun, the noise ay it alone, capable ay shatterin gless, ‘Don’t you worry about your precious car now. What dae ye think we are, eh? Fuckin thieves?’ Zander looks like he’s gonae speak again but thinks better ay it, rubbin his scarlet cheek.

Paddy rolls the motor forward, aw the other pikeys spillin oot their caravans, congregatin roon, tryin tae ascertain whit’s happenin. They gather roon, closin oer the road in front ay us. The big fuckin unit — William, fae earlier oan — comes up tae the windae, ‘Ye all right there Coln? Me an the lads are good to go, should ye need it.’

‘All good here, William. These men here are just gonnae enlighten us as to the error of our ways, so they are. Nothin ye need to be concernin yersel with.’ Coln sais, gien him a playful slap tae his substantial chops.

‘Alright then, if yer sure.’ the cunt sais, bangin the roof ay the motor.

‘Tell young Connor there to open the gate.’ Coln shouts oot an before we get there, the wee boay’s pult the fucker wide open.

We fire through, kickin up a plume ay dust in oor wake as it’s clunked shut behind us, just as quick.

Ah direct them tae McNulty’s street an Paddy takes the coarner wae as much finesse as an errant shoppin trolly, mountin the kerb. Ah’m sure ah see Scanlon’s cousin an that Coyle boay as we burl by, so resolve tae make contact wae him, if ah come oot the other side, an tell him aboot whit McNulty sais aboot his faither when he wis wrecked. It’s only right, know whit ah mean? Ah mean, if it wis me, ah’d want tae know.

‘Just in there, in front ay that motor.’ ah sais, pointin tae a space ootside the close. He pulls the big safari wagon in, haphazardly, leavin it lookin like it’s been blagged an abandoned, as we aw pile oot oan tae the street.

‘Steven, you first.’ Coln nods at the door, his haun clamped firmly roon the grip ay the sawn-aff secreted in his duffel coat, ‘ . . . and Steven, don’t you fuckin try nothin, boy.’ he prods me in the back wae it, tae really fuckin hammer it hame.

‘Paddy, Finn, yous go up front with him. An you, you go in front of me, where I can see ye.’ he sais tae Zander.

The close door’s oan the snib so there’s nae need tae buzz up an we head up the stair. There’s a knot in ma stomach the size ay a fuckin beach baw an pellets ay sweat stream doon ma back makin me shiver as we ascend the dank, fusty stairwell.

Reachin the tap landin, ah turn, lookin fur instruction an Finn — puttin his finger tae his mooth tae shush us afore ah get a chance tae say anythin — gestures tae the door, ‘Go!’ he sais, an the rest ay them line up, tight tae the waw oan the stairs so they’ll no be seen.

It seems tae take an eternity between chappin the door an waitin fur the inevitable clatter ay the dug bulldozin doon the hall intae the door. It disnae come though. Just the buzz fae the halogen light oan the close waw challenges the silence.

Coln mooths tae me tae chap it again, which ah dae, only louder this time.

‘Who is it?’ a voice comes fae inside.

‘It’s me, McShane. Hurry it up, eh? Ah’ve no goat aw day.’

‘Listen you ya prick, don’t start gettin wide, who dae ye think yer talkin tae?’ Monty sais, openin the door, ‘Eh? You listenin?’ he prods me in the chist, ‘ . . . ah sais, who dae ye think yer talkin –’

Fae naewhere, Finn steps up next tae me an thuds the knob at the boattom ay the bat intae the bridge ay Monty’s nose makin a snappin crunch, like a size ten boot steppin oan broken gless. His eyes stream wae tears that converge intae the bloody mush ay his beak, ‘Ah’ll fuckin kill ye! Dae you know who ah’m ur?’ he sais, thrashin his airms aboot in front him.

‘Aye. You’re the fella whose snib I’ve just broke. In!’ Finn sais, proddin him wae the thick end ay the bat, ‘Fuckin move! In!’

‘Go! Check in there.’ Coln commands Paddy an Finn an they burst intae the front room. Ged’s sparkled oan an armchair, sleepin, but leaps up wae the sudden commotion afore bein invited tae sit back doon again wae a swing ay Paddy’s bat taewards his heid.

‘Where is he, huh?’ Coln sais tae Monty, haundin him a towel that’s hingin oer the toilet door.

‘Where’s who?’ he sais, haudin the towel up tae his face, blawin meaty clots ay skin an blood intae it.

‘That’s the wrong fuckin answer, boy.’ he sais, sluggin him in the stomach, Monty foldin like a fuckin deckchair, ‘We’ll try that again, eh? Where. Is. He?’

‘MCSHANE! Ah’m gonnae cut your fuckin throat. Dae ye hink yer gonae get away wae this?’ Monty smirks, lookin at me, then Coln, ‘. . . whit’s that wee prick telt yies that makes ye think this is a good idea, eh?’

Coln hoists him tae his feet in an effortless, heavin yank an drives the barrel ay the shotgun intae his bloodied beak, a howlin Monty replies, ‘HE’S NO FUCKIN HERE! RIGHT? HE’S AWAY OOT.’

‘Paddy!’

‘Yeah?’

‘Turn the fuckin place over! You, get fuckin in there!’ he sais, hurlin him intae the room, bootin him in the back as he goes, ‘ . . .over there on the couch, sit down.’

Paddy an Finn rifle through drawers an cupboards, rattlin cutlery an smashin plates oan the flair as they hurriedly discard them.

‘You! Where is he?’ Coln points the barrel taewards Ged.

‘D-D-DON’T F-FUCKIN SHOOT BIG MAN! He’s – h-h-he’s away walkin the d-dug. S-s-sais he’s gonae g-get a kerry-oot.’ Ged stammers.

‘Fuckin shut it! Don’t tell these tinker bastarts nothin.’ Monty snarls, scornfully.

‘WHAT DID YOU FUCKIN SAY, BOY?’

A silence faws oer the room as Paddy an Finn stoap whit they’re dain, walkin oer tae join Coln.

‘I think he just called us tinkers, Coln.’ Finn sais, restin his bat acroass baith shooders, like a crucifix.

Paddy walks oer tae the side ay the couch, his broad frame castin a shadow oer him fae the eftenin sun pourin in the windae, ‘That’s what I thought I heard him say. You tell me, what did you say, eh?’

‘Ah sais, don’t tell they fuckin tinker bastarts noth –’

He lets oot another migraine inducin scream ay pain as Paddy grabs his beak through the towel he’s been usin tae stem the flow ay blood.

‘Leave him alane, man. He didnae mean it!’ Ged pleads as Finn draws back the bat in his hauns, linin up his swing a couple ay times afore committin.  It whistles taewards Monty’s knee cap connectin wae a sharp pop as the patella fragments like a fuckin grenade.

‘Coln! Fuck sake! Is this really necessary?’ Zander pleads.

‘Ssshh, there’s a good lad.’ Paddy sais tae Monty, stuffin the bloody towel intae his mooth so that only the muffled hint ay his cries escape, ‘That one there, Coln. Fuckin forehead, there. He was with yer man when they scammed us for them fags.’ Paddy sais, pointin the bat at meatbaw heid.

‘Oh aye. So it is.’ he squints his eyes at him, ‘Good spot there, Paddy. Never even recognised him. Not as, how can I put it, distinctive lookin as McNulty.

D’ye remember that wee transaction, big lad? When ye sold us ten thousand cigarettes at a knock-down price, except it wasn’t the fifty sleeves promised, was it? No it wasn’t. Wait till ye hear this Steven, Zander. You’ll like this. Ye see, ten of them cellophane wrapped sleeves had the fags in, three of which the lads duly opened to allay our fears of any dishonesty and misrepresentation, only for us to find out later — and this is the fuckin funny part — only for us to find out later, when we were moving them on, that the other forty were filled with compacted fuckin sawdust of equal weight.’ he laughs, a kind ay disingenuous fuckin cackle, ‘ . . . Now I’ll be the first to admit, I fuckin laughed at the time; the fuckin balls on ye; fuckin admired the ingenuity of the scam, in truth, but I told myself there and then, I’d never let it happen again. I said to myself, “If it looks too good to be true, then in-fuckin-variably, it is.” The boys here wanted to hunt yies down; make ye pay for your — what’s that word? — temerity, but I decided, on reflection that there was a life-lesson there; that God almighty himself, had deemed it necessary to give us Houlihan lads a lesson on that day; a lesson in humility, no less.

When someone mistakes the leniency I’ve afforded them for weakness though, then it’s a whole different quandary I find myself in.’

‘Whit ur ye talkin aboot? That wae the fags wis years ago. We wur just wee guys man, tryin tae score a fast buck. Ye sais yersel it wis a good wan, eh? Some balls, ye sais.’ he laughs, nervously, ‘Whit’s that prick telt ye? McShane! Whit huv you sais, an whit the fuck’s he dain here?’ he sais, pointin tae Zander.

‘Is that what you thought you’d do again, eh? Only this time up the fuckin auntie to thirty-five grand’s worth of cocaine? Go for the big fuckin score, huh?’

‘Ah-ah d-don’t know whit –’

‘Where’s the gear? And the money?’

‘Fon’t fuffin fellem!’ Monty sais, shakin his bloodied, swollen heid, the towel still in his gub.

‘Behind the cooker. There’s a hide in the waw.’

‘AH SAIS DON’T YA FUCKIN PRICK –’ Monty screams, pullin the blood drenched fabric fae his mooth, his eyes blackened an swollen.

Coln nods tae Paddy, ‘Fuckin shut him up.’

‘YE’VE DONE IT NOO! HE’S GON –’

He’s silenced wae the thunk ay Paddy’s bat oan his skull. Ah only know by the sickenin noise it makes; that an because in the short time ah’ve spent in these boays’ company the day, ah’ve come tae foster an acute awareness ay their methods. Monty obviously hudnae. Ah’d turned away, avertin ma eyes, the putrid dink ay the aluminium bat connectin wae his cranium repellin me further away as ah step taewards Zander at the back ay the room. He throws up oan the flair. He never turned away.

‘Finn?’

‘Got it, Coln. Three keys and some more already bagged up into smaller amounts. There’s a pile of cash here too. Fuckin thousands – tens of thousands!’ he sais, squeezed in behind the auld electric cooker.

‘Good enough. You know what to do.’

Ged’s frozen in his seat, knuckles white wae his grip oan the airms ay the tattered leather chair. Ah keep ma eyes fixed oan him, the look oan his face alone, repugnant enough tae tell me ah don’t need tae see whit elicits it.

‘WHIT HUV AH TELT YOUS TWO STUPIT CUNTS ABOOT LEAVIN THAT DOOR OPEN. ANY FUCKIN CUNT COULD JUST WALK RIGHT IN!’ a voice comes alang the loabby.

Aw eyes turn tae the door. Paddy stoaps fillin the holdall wae the haul Finn’s passin him fae behind the cooker as he too, sticks his heid up tae see who’s talkin. Ged, still terrified, tries tae speak but nae words leave his mooth, Zander peeks oot fae behind the foldin table in the coarner he’s cowerin behind an me an Coln turn roon tae see McNulty, haudin the dug in wan airm, an a poly bag bulgin wae a kerry oot in the other.

‘There he is now, lads. They seek him here, they seek him there, they seek him fuckin everywhere! Come in and sit down next to yer mate there.’ Coln sais, pointin the shotgun at him, noddin tae the lump ay tenderised mince sittin oan the couch.

He draps the dug an the bag tae the flair, the dug scamperin fur Coln, an slams the door shut.

Coln fires, blawin a hole ye could fit Ged’s heid through in the door as the dug sinks its teeth intae his leg, loacked oan like a fuckin bear trap. He tries tae prod at it wae the barrel ay the gun but its jaws ur like a vice, hunners ay puns ay pressure drivin doon oan his calf.

‘Fuckin shoot the cunt!’ Paddy sais, clamberin oer fae the kitchenette tae help.

‘And take my fuckin leg off as well? Don’t be so fuckin stupid, man. Get the bastard!’ he grimaces.

He comes oer, bat in haun, as Finn wrestles wae the cooker tryin tae get oer tae help an aw. It’s stuck fast though, its feet catchin oan the lino. Just as Paddy draws the bat up tae perform the task he seemingly dis best, Ged springs up fae his seat, like a strikin rattlesnake, grabbin oan tae the bat in his haun. They struggle, crashin aboot the room, knoackin oer the big tellie in the coarner.

‘Finn! Get over here!’

Zander grabs the other bat Finn’s left leanin against a kitchen unit an runs oer, ‘Here, Coln.’

‘What do you want me to do with it? Fuckin hit the thing!’

‘I can’t – I can’t do it.’ Zander sais, shakin, haudin the bat above the dug, tearin an gnawin at Coln’s leg, blood pourin doon, saturatin his boot.

Ah grab it aff him an thud the dug oan the heid wae it, wae as little force as ah kin, but enough tae persuade it tae let go. It relinquishes it’s grip immediately, whimperin away in pain. Afore ah kin dae anythin else tae help the vicious wee cunt, Coln pulls the trigger, the pellets fae the shell sprayin oot ay the short barrel eradicatin the thing, decoratin the waw, flair an ceilin in flesh, fur an shattered bone.

‘PEBBLES!’ Ged shouts, runnin at us wae the bat, huvin won the tussle wae Paddy, who’s strugglin tae get tae his feet. Coln snaps the gun open, tryin desperately tae retrieve mare shells fae his poakit tae reload as Ged closes in oan him. There’s a crash as Finn tips the cooker oer tae get oot, afore tacklin Ged tae the flair just afore he brings the well-worked bat doon oan Coln’s nut.

‘Paddy! Stop fuckin about over there an get after that cunt, McNulty. Take Steven with ye.’ he sais, flingin Finn’s bat tae him an drappin two mare shotgun shells intae the barrel, snappin it shut.

This development is a surprise tae me, seemingly the bounty they’re aboot tae huv it away wae, coupled wae ma efforts in gettin the dug aff him, enough tae convince him that ah kin be trusted.

‘Out of the way Finn. Let him go.’ Coln’s voice foallies us ominously doon the loabby latticed wae Ged’s beseechin wails fur mercy, as we run oot in pursuit ay McNulty afore the thunderclap ay the shotgun echoes doon the close.

At the boattom, the flat tae oor right as ah look oot tae street opens, ah wee burd in her jammies pokin her heid oot, ‘Whit’s aw that racket? Is that they fuckin arseholes up that stair again? Ah’ve goat a wean in here –’

‘Get fuckin back in an mind your business.’ Paddy growls at her, brandishin the bat, the door swiftly slammin shut again, ‘ . . . this way.’ he gestures tae the back door, held open wae a wee hook oan the back ay it couplin intae an eyebolt that’s anchored intae the waw.

He walks through an stumbles oer, flat oan his face oan tae the hard slabs ootside, the metallic clang ay the bat bouncin oan the concrete flair ay the interior ay the close as he draps it when a cobblestane skites aff his dome oot ay naewhere. McNulty appears in front ay me fae the right haun side ay the door, reachin doon, pickin up the bat.

Ye hear cunts sayin that in situations where yer facin certain death that ye freeze, like the proverbial rabbit in the heidlights; yer boady inanimate wae terror; nae fight or flight mechanism, nothin. Just resigned, oan some subconscious level tae the incontrovertible fact that yer gettin it; yer tea’s oot; the gemme’s fuckin up.

Ah know whit that feels like noo. There’s a moan fae behind him as Paddy comes roon, tryin tae get up tae his feet an McNulty turns roon, bringin the bat back doon oan tae him.

Ah hear the wail ay distant sirens an Coln’s voice boomin fae above, accompanied by frantic, sonorous fitsteps rumblin doon the stairwell.

‘COLN! DON’T LEAVE ME HERE BRO!’ is the last thing ah hear as ah bolt oot the front door, runnin like ah’ve never ran afore, the temporary, incapacitatin panic ah’d felt, left behind me in that close.

Scanlon’s young cousin an that ur still hingin aboot oan the coarner as ah sprint by them, jumpin intae the first assailable gairden ah see, dain umpteen backs until gettin tae wan that seems quiet enough. Far enough away fae the madness. Relatively safe. Ah hunch ma knees up tae the underside ay ma chin, huggin them, like a wee wean. Feart an alone.