https://letswriteashortstory.com/short-story-ideas/
Meanwhile here's a story inspired probably by too much viewing of Love/Hate
https://www.imdb.com/title/tt1625724/
The volume
from the TV filled the tiny sitting room lit up at intervals by the lights that
flickered through windows on the ten floors of high rise flats opposite his
block. Half the apartments on his side were already vacated, families relocated
to suburbia, generations of memory erased. They would soon bulldoze the lot and
the inner city would be transformed overnight into a glass domed financial
sector. Jimmy had seen it happen already down at the quays.
What would
his Ma have made of this? At least he’d been hoarding his dosh. He fingered it
now in his inside pocket. Not a lot yet but enough for an emergency. No way was
he being transplanted to the sticks. Jimmy cracked his fingers one by one and
then flexed them. He touched the comforting wad of notes again. He’d had to do
things. Things his Ma would not have liked. But as soon as he made enough he’d
be out of the game. He’d promised her that. At least he’d gone to the big
sprawling graveyard, trawled through a dozen overgrown aisles of forgotten
ancestors, shoved the bunch of daffs into a stolen jam jar and swore to her
that he’d get out soon. The sudden vibration of his phone ringing in his pocket
startled him.
“What’s the
story?” he barked into the mouth piece.
“Mark’s
dead! Meet me at O’Neill’s,” the high pitched voice of Squealer replied. The
news jabbed like a knife in the gut. Jimmy reached under the wicker sofa and
pulled out a bundle tied with a shoelace. Instead of undoing the knot he
stretched the lace that was loosely tied and eased it off. The revolver fell
onto the vinyl floor lit up by the glare from the TV. Last episode of
Homelands, damn it. He’d have to forgo the satisfaction of seeing the shock on
the CIA faces when they realised they’d made a balls of it.
Mark dead? The knife in his gut twisted again.
Who’d have wanted that? Who’d even bother to waste a bullet on him? Hapless,
harmless, stupid Mark. It had to be personal. It had to be Chris, the squealer.
When he
pushed the pub door what struck him was the silence. O’Neill’s had been cleared
out for them. For him, Chris and Mickey, the Boss. The squealer was helping
himself to a pint behind the bar, and from the empty pint glasses Jimmy could
see that it wasn’t Squealer’s first.
The ashtray overflowing and the stench of cigarette smoke meant
business, dirty business, when Mickey chain smoked someone was about to be
taken out. Jimmy thought, not for the first time, that he should have been a
goddamn detective instead of a petty criminal.
“Hefo’s
boys shot him at point blank on Eccles’ St,” Mickey announced, not bothering to
even raise his head in Jimmy’s direction.
“That so?”
Jimmy’s voice was non committal.
“You doubtin’
the boss?” Chris was slurring his words.
“What’s the
plan?” Jimmy asked, not looking at Chris.
Mickey took
another drag and slowly blew out smoke circles.
“What’s the
goddamn plan? I’ll stick them. Just let me do it!” Chris roared
Jimmy
noticed that the Boss’s eyes were no longer gleaming. It was settled then. The
five point plan in place. With a nod in his direction Mickey got up and made
for the back office.
“It must
have been revenge. Hefo thinks we killed that new lad of theirs. The one found
in the canal with his throat cut,” said Chris.
“Did we?”
Jimmy threw over his shoulder as he followed the Boss into his inner sanctum.
As he
followed the boss and closed the door on Chris memories of Squealer’s threats
towards Mark on Paddy’s Day came vividly back. The same drunken Chris, red
faced, slurring, threatening to stick Mark for getting his sister up the duff.
Heat was rising in Jimmy’s chest; he knew that an ugly gash of red was now
burning on his neck.
“What the
hell’s this? You know who did this!” he said to Mickey through gritted teeth.
“Bring in
Chris!” barked Mickey. Jimmy stepped back into the bar.
When they
returned the boss was stubbing out his cigarette on the corner of a picture.
Then he held up the photo of two skinheads skulking in front of the Four
Courts.
“The
Donnelly brothers, Anto and Wee Liam. They’ve been sniffing up my backyard long
enough. They’ll be at their local, the Blind Piper, Ballygate, tonight.
According to my sources they did it.”
“The
Donnellys are IRA. We can’t touch them,” said Jimmy.
“Past
tense. Were. The boys from Belfast
will be glad to get their dirty work done.”
“Hefo would
know if the IRA did their lad,” Jimmy insisted.
“Hefo
doesn’t care who did it. He wants to send out a message. Well, I’ll damn well
send him one back.”
“I think
you’re misreading this, Mickey.”
“Maybe
you’d damn well like to take my place?” The glint in his eyes stopped Jimmy in
his tracks.
Chris was
already at the door. He’d be wanting to snort coke before going out on his big
hit. Jimmy was about to turn towards the door when Mickey slipped him the note
written on yellow sticky pad. Chris was already lining up the white powder on
the bar counter.
“Read it
and then eat it.”
Jimmy
glanced at the note.
“Now eat
it.”
Instead
Jimmy rolled the paper up and made towards the bar.
“Here use
this, Chris,” and he offered him the rolled up sticky pad.
“Cheeky
bastard,” muttered Mickey. “Now get the hell out of here, the pair of you!”
Chris
staggered behind the steering wheel and revved up a one way in the wrong
direction. If they were lucky they’d be arrested for drunk driving and
possession of arms and Jimmy would be out of the loop. Murder. Cold blooded
murder. He’d promised Ma, on her grave. If he nudged Chris’s elbow, just a
fraction, they’d be in the bus lane, hit a kerb and end up in Casualty. Chris
had thrown the note on the dashboard. Jimmy reached for it now, scrunched it up
and swallowed it.
“Jaysus!
Was there any coke on that? You must be desperate.”
Jimmy
noticed the sign for the M50 N. The airport. Freedom. Chris was a fool but he
didn’t deserve it. Mark was a fool and he hadn’t deserved it either. Chris’s
sister was up the duff. So what for Christ’s sake? Not worth a man’s life. And
what if that yarn about the IRA wasn’t true? What if the Donnellys were still
rank and file members? The boys from Belfast
would hunt him down. There’d be no hole deep enough to hide in. Jimmy reached
into his pocket and felt the comfortable touch of his wad of notes. The heavy
weight of the revolver in his hip pocket took away his temporary feeling of
security.
His order
from the Boss, written in red biro on yellow sticky pad, was to turn on Chris
once the Donnellys were down, just when Chris would least expect it, in the
tarmacadam car park of the Blind Piper.
Exit 5 and Dublin airport loomed. He
had two minutes to make up his mind.
“Can you
pull up, Chris? I have to take a pee.”
“Now? For
Christ’s sake. There’s a rosser on our tail. Can’t you wait?”
“I can’t,
Squealer. Just do it!”
Chris
indicated. Jimmy watched the white cop car sidle past them slowly, the
passenger garda watching them intently. For a minute he thought it was up, that
the decision had been taken off him, but then the cop car picked up speed and
joined the long slow trail of cars sweeping away from the airport and freedom.
Just two
minutes to decide. Over his head he heard the distinctive sound of a plane in
take off, a trail of white smoke curling behind it. It was a sign from above,
from his Ma.
In the wing
mirror Chris watched as Jimmy began to walk towards the railing that separated
the motorway from embankment. With one leap he was over it and then he was gone.
Copyright with Cathy Leonard 2017
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