Читать книгу Northern Heist - Richard O'Rawe - Страница 12

FIVE

Ructions and Panzer sit in the hot-food section of a service station on the Belfast–Dublin motorway, their heads almost touching. Panzer kicks Ructions under the table as he looks over Ructions’ shoulder.

‘Who is it?’ Ructions asks.

‘Tiny Murdoch, Colm Coleman and two heavies.’

‘What are they doing?’

‘For fuck sake,’ Panzer says, ‘they’ve seen us. They’re coming down.’

Robert ‘Tiny’ Murdoch is six feet six inches tall and has the build of a professional wrestler. He is also a member of the Provisional IRA’s general headquarters staff. With the signing of the Good Friday Agreement in 1998, the IRA has disavowed armed struggle as a means of achieving its aim of uniting Ireland. This convinces some political commentators that the Provisional IRA has been neutered, but Ructions, Panzer and the criminal underclass know differently.

Murdoch sits down next to Panzer, while Coleman slips in beside Ructions. The two heavies take seats at a nearby table.

A middle-aged lady, with tied-back greying hair and glasses, enters the eating area and slides into a seat several tables away from the heavies. She opens her handbag and takes out her purse, but not before she presses a button which activates a pinhead surveillance camera in the side of her handbag.

‘What about youse, lads?’ Tiny Murdoch says, as his huge JCB fingers scoop up some of Panzer’s fries.

‘Sound, Tiny,’ Panzer says, looking relaxed. ‘Help yourself to those fries, why don’t you? I hear they’re very good.’

‘That’s very civilised of you, Panzer,’ Murdoch replies as he gathers up the rest of the fries before pulling Panzer’s tray towards him. ‘Jesus, Panzer, you haven’t half lost the weight.’

‘I’m cutting down on the fast food, Tiny,’ Panzer says.

Murdoch guffaws. ‘A good idea.’

When Colm Coleman reaches towards Ructions’ fries, Ructions’ lean hand and long fingers grab his wrist. Coleman tries to pull away, but Ructions’ grip is too strong.

‘I told you, Colm, didn’t I?’ Murdoch says. ‘Look at him. A fuckin’ Rottweiler. He’d put a bullet in the back of your head for a main course and one in mine for dessert.’

Ructions releases Coleman’s wrist. ‘Be my guest,’ he says, gesturing with his hand.

‘Be your guest?’ Coleman says insolently, rubbing his wrist. ‘You’ll be lucky if you don’t end up being my guest.’

Words from the grave echo in Ructions’ brain, advice from The Devil: Never let your enemies see your anger.

Barely able to speak after shoving Panzer’s cheeseburger into his mouth, Murdoch mumbles, ‘Have youse any moves on?’

‘Nah,’ Panzer replies. ‘I’m telling you, Tiny, I’ve never seen it so tight. Have you ever seen it this tight?’

Murdoch finishes off Panzer’s cheeseburger and wipes his mouth with a paper serviette. ‘I enjoyed that.’ He belches. ‘What was that?’

‘I said, there’s nothing on.’

‘It’s hard to get a turn these days, I’ll give you that. Hard times, Colm.’

‘Desperate times, Tiny.’ Coleman looks at Ructions’ cheeseburger and then at Murdoch. ‘Would you recommend that?’

‘Ten out of ten.’

‘What about you, Ructions? Would you recommend it?’

‘I hear they do a good cheeseburger here.’

Coleman laughs heartily. The infection spreads to Murdoch, Panzer and Ructions. ‘That was funny,’ Coleman says. ‘Wasn’t that funny, Tiny?’

‘He’s a funny guy is our Ructions – a regular Charlie Chaplin,’ Murdoch says.

The hilarity subsides. Coleman lifts Ructions’ cheeseburger and takes a bite. Unlike Murdoch, Coleman chews slowly. ‘Oh, boy, this is juicy.’ He holds Ructions’ cheeseburger up to Murdoch. ‘We should get into this, Tiny. This is exceptional.’

Murdoch stabs his finger into Ructions’ chest. ‘This boyo’s a hard bastard to kill. Three times we went for him.’

‘Why’s he still breathing, then?’ Coleman asks.

‘Because he cleared his slate.’

‘How? What did he do?’

‘It was during the ceasefire. Talks were at a …’ Murdoch waves his hand, ‘delicate stage and we had to hold back. So the bullet-dodger here clipped a bad boy for us.’

Ructions looks out the window. Murdoch puts his hand on the top of Ructions’ head and turns his face around. ‘I said … you’re a goddam killer.’

Ructions yawns, making no attempt to disguise his irritation.

‘Goddam killer in motorway services,’ Murdoch says loudly, pointing to Ructions. ‘Read all about it.’

‘So, Ructions,’ Coleman says, ‘what’s on the pot? What are you and old Panzer cooking up?’

Colm, if I’d the governor of the Bank of England in the trunk of my car, you’d be the last person on earth to hear about it. Ructions shrugs and waves his hands in resignation.

Murdoch studies Panzer’s face. ‘Would you tell me if you’d a job on, Panzer? I don’t think you would.’

Panzer knows that if he says he would let Murdoch know of any move, it would be a blatant lie, so he opts for the truth. ‘You’re right, I wouldn’t. Why should I, Tiny? So you could take the food off my plate?’

‘I wouldn’t do that.’

Panzer looks at his empty plate and grins. ‘Of course you wouldn’t.’

Murdoch whispers in Panzer’s ear, ‘You don’t begrudge me a burger, do you?’

‘Of course not.’

‘I fuckin’ hope not. Now, you can deny it all you want, but I know you two pulled off that million quid cigarette move at Balcoo in January—’

‘Ahh, Jesus, Tiny!’ Panzer exclaims. ‘Now that’s out of order. You boys did that.’

‘Em, I don’t think so. We got the blame for it – as we always do – but you and the bullet-dodger here,’ Panzer nods to Ructions, ‘did it.’

‘You’re up the left on that one, Tiny.’

Murdoch takes the plastic top off Panzer’s Coke, puts the cup to his mouth and swallows its contents. ‘Colm?’

‘Yes, Tiny?’

‘Did we get any tax out of the Balcoo move?’

‘Not a washer.’

‘Imagine not paying your taxes, eh? You know, people get sent to jail for that.’

‘People have been put down holes for that,’ Coleman chips in.

‘We didn’t do it, Tiny,’ Panzer says. ‘I swear.’

Murdoch touches Panzer’s arm. ‘I’m going to let that one go because, well, I like you, Panzer. You did us a turn or two back in the day.’ He points to Ructions again. ‘But I don’t like him.’ Murdoch puts two of his fingers to his temple. ‘You’d love to nut me, wouldn’t you?’

Ructions looks nonchalant and does not reply.

‘See, Colm? See?’ Murdoch says, a look of contrived consternation on his face. ‘The little shite hasn’t even the decency to deny it.’ Murdoch continues to stare at Ructions, still waiting for a denial that will not be forthcoming. He turns to Panzer, ‘If I hear—’

‘There’ll be nothing to hear,’ Panzer interjects.

‘Belt up when I’m talking.’ Murdoch pauses to see if Panzer will defy him. ‘If I hear you’ve a job on and we don’t get our tax, I’ll be paying you a visit. Got it?’

‘Sure.’

Murdoch’s attention returns to Ructions. Both men try to outstare the other. Murdoch breaks first. He looks out the window before returning his gaze to Ructions. ‘Colm, were we tailed?’

‘I don’t think so.’

Murdoch looks about to see if there are any close-circuit cameras in the building. There are. One of the heavies, reading the signs, puts his hand in his waistband as if to pull out a gun.

Ructions’ eyes concentrate on Murdoch’s nose. I’ll lockjaw on to that big fuckin’ beak before your pups whack me, asshole.

Two uniformed policemen enter the shopping area. Murdoch shakes his head and the heavy withdraws his hand.

Tapping Ructions’ cheeks, Murdoch smiles. ‘Panzer, bring your Rottweiler to heel, or I will.’ Murdoch gets up and walks away. He turns, rubs his belly, and says, ‘Oh, and thanks for that snack. It hit the spot.’

Ructions’ eyes follow Murdoch and his comrades as they get into their car. It pulls around past the window and stops. Murdoch stares out the passenger-side window at Ructions before waving on the driver.

‘You shouldn’t annoy him,’ Panzer says. ‘It’s not good business.’

‘He’s easily annoyed. I never opened my mouth.’

‘You could’ve been more diplomatic.’

‘You mean I should’ve grovelled to him?’

Panzer winces. ‘Ructions, we’ve got to—’

Ructions’ face looks like a red-hot boil that is about to burst. ‘I don’t crawl to the likes of that bastard, Panzer. And when we’re on the subject – fuck him – and fuck his tax. Who the fuck does he think he is to tax us? I’d—’

‘All right! I hear you!’ Panzer snaps. Ructions retreats behind his wall of silence again. ‘Look, Ructions,’ Panzer says in a more even tone, ‘I’m gonna be out the guts of a quarter of a mill before this thing kicks off …’ Panzer holds up one finger. ‘Before one single pound coin comes back. So I need you to be with me one hundred per cent. If you’re not, then fuck off now before I lay out the money.’

Ructions feels genuine contrition. ‘I’m with you all the way, Panzer. Count on me.’

Panzer grabs Ructions’ cheeks in the palm of his hands and pulls his face close to his. ‘Son, if we have to shovel shit, we shovel shit together – not because we fear the IRA – but because it’s good tactics.’

Once more Ructions opts for silence; he wouldn’t know how to shovel shit.

‘But you are right about one thing.’

‘I am?’

‘Yeah. We’re paying tax to nobody. Fuck them all, the greedy bastards.’

Ructions smiles. ‘I’m starving. Fancy a hamburger?’