Читать книгу Once A Pilgrim - James Deegan - Страница 17

5.

AT EXACTLY THE MOMENT that Gerard Casey opened his window, another alarm clock sounded.

This one was on a cheap Formica bedside table, next to the head of a young man in a very similar bedroom, in an all-but identical terraced house, about five miles distant as the crow flies.

Only five miles, but Northland Street was a world away from Lenadoon Avenue. It might as well have been a different country, and in a way it was: to get there, you’d to wade through rivers of blood.

The young man in Northland Street – William ‘Billy’ Jones – opened one eye, clicked off the alarm clock, and groaned.

He was glad of the money that came with his recent promotion, but he missed the extra couple of hours’ kip.

Rubbing the sleep out of his eyes, he half-rolled, half-fell out of bed and onto his knees.

From there, he stood up and stumbled into the bathroom for a piss, and then stumbled back to his bedroom to pull on his uniform.

Black trousers, white shirt.

He fished a badge saying ‘Assistant Manager’ from his trouser pocket, and pinned it on his chest.

Stifling a yawn, he crept slowly downstairs to the kitchen, trying to be as quiet as possible.

His da’ would have been out with the boys until the wee small hours, and he was not a man to annoy when he was hungover, his da’.

Not a man to annoy at any time: Billy Jones Senior was a leading commander in the Ulster Volunteer Force, and a violent man with a hair-trigger temper and a light-heavyweight’s physique. He wasn’t shy of using his hands, even now his son was twenty.

Billy Senior was a dyed-in-the-wool bigot, for whom the only good Catholic was a dead one. Billy Junior bore no such hatred. He’d flatly refused to get involved with the UVF, and Billy Senior had made it quite clear that he despised the boy for it. He was a coward, a traitor, a taig-lover…

Christ. Billy Junior smiled guiltily to himself as he reached up for the cornflakes. If only the old bastard knew.

He was seeing a Catholic girl, a pretty wee thing called Colleen who worked in the bar. They’d had to keep the whole thing secret – his da’ would kill him if he found out, definitely kick him out the house, and hers wouldn’t take it much better. The sooner the two of them could save up the money to get the fuck out of this Godforsaken city, and move in somewhere together… London, maybe. Maybe the States. Somewhere that it didn’t matter whether or not you believed in the Virgin Mary, or thought the sun shone out of King Billy’s arse, or cared what football team anyone supported.

Colleen had hinted that she wanted to get married, settle down, have kiddies.

He imagined a big family wedding.

His old man would go proper mental.

A fucking papist wedding in a fucking Fenian church?

Red-faced, veins bulging, steroid-popping eyeballs sweeping over everyone in the other pews.

And then the reception… Billy Senior and his brothers on the lager and scotch, her da’ and his brothers on the Guinness and vodka chasers…

Fuck me, but it would be a bloodbath.

Nah, they’d be living together. Somewhere a very long way away.

Hey, maybe they’d get wed in Vegas? Just the two of them.

An Elvis wedding.

He grinned, put his bowl in the sink and slipped on his favourite red adidas jacket.

Upstairs, he could hear the old man snoring.

He’d see Colleen tonight when their shifts overlapped.

Not for long. Just a kiss and a wee cuddle.

Five minutes alone.

Go back later to walk her home.

It wasn’t much, but it was better than nothing.

And it wouldn’t always be like this.