here if I'm such a weasel?"
She smiled.
Because I was her kind of weasel.
She first mentioned her ex in a Belfast hotel room, the night before I was due to meet with my petrol contact. I had an in with a border run, hadn't seen a loss in a year, and with petrol hitting seventy-four pence a litre in the north, the contact was dancing desperate. Which meant I was in the Europa Presidential Suite talking old flames with Nora. She was smoking in bed, the window open. Back then, she smoked more than me.
"He's in prison now," she said.
"Best place for him."
"You think?"
"You don't?"
She got up and flicked the butt out the window. Didn't answer him.
The next day the contact turned out to be undercover customs. Me and Nora skipped to Cork, but only just. Shortly after that, she shifted tack. She gave up the cigarettes, told me to do the same.
"You need to get healthy," she said.
"I need to get left alone."
"No more bacon butties. No more fish suppers."
Should've seen it coming. All the compromise, all the healthy stuff. Nora was testing my will, preparing me for the night when she finally said fuck it and plied me with the good stuff until my eyes began to float.
She never touched a drop, and I'd been so grateful for a drink that I never asked her why not.
Circling over Shannon, note in my hands, candle guttering as it neared its final inch. Cobb's Glen Rotgut had its claws right in me, kept my mouth tight and brain humming paranoid.
One thought above them all – I'd been set up since day one.
I pushed the bottle away from me. Closed my eyes. Buckshot hail hit the caravan roof, made my head thunder. I pinched the bridge of my nose, tried to will it away.
Didn't work. Couldn't help but hear Nora's message.
"Farrell, didn't I tell you not to look for me? Didn't I tell you it wouldn't make any difference? So what are you doing in Newcastle, eh? Farrell, seriously, don't let me see you. Don't let me catch you anywhere near me. It won't be pretty."
And it wasn't, because the next thing I knew, it was daylight.
Passed out, woke up, whatever it was, my heart tripped over itself.
Head thumping in time to Cobb's piggish snore. Eyes to slits, I looked over at him. He was in the same position as last night: head back and mouth open, his arms folded across his gut and legs stretched out in front of him.
When I moved, my back raged. I took it slowly, eased myself out from behind the table, turned to face the windows with my head down. I hunkered down, shuffled toward the end of my seat as my joints did a Rice Krispie beatbox. Sat for a moment until I felt my legs were solid enough to support me, then I pulled myself to my feet. Both hands still on the table, I opened my eyes a little more. Breathed out.
Turned to walk away and I knocked the empty whisky bottle onto the floor. It rolled; something lanced my head.
I felt along the kitchen counter, heading for the door. I needed fresh air, something to clean me out. Least I could do was breathe something that wasn't the after-smoke of Cobb's menthols. Fresh as a mountain stream, his arse.
Twenty-one was a memory, but I'd never felt it quite as much as now, with what felt like a month's worth of late night, early morning combinations crashing down on me. I wrestled with the caravan door. Kicked at it once, felt it give and caught a belt of wind in the face.
Along with it, a dirty smell that made me turn away as my stomach rolled.
I swallowed, pulled my jacket tight.
The smell persisted. Nagging. And when I recognised it, I had to steel myself to open my eyes properly.
First thing I saw was the blood. Smeared on the door handle, down to the steps.
The second thing was down by my feet. A bundle of clothes, or that was what it looked like at first glance.
Then, closer, I saw it: Italian leather.
One of a kind.
Nora.
PART TWO
GET BUSY
COBB
"Wake up, you bastard."
"Fuckin' ... hell , man. Fuckin' matter with you, you radgie fuckin' ..."
He punched
She smiled.
Because I was her kind of weasel.
She first mentioned her ex in a Belfast hotel room, the night before I was due to meet with my petrol contact. I had an in with a border run, hadn't seen a loss in a year, and with petrol hitting seventy-four pence a litre in the north, the contact was dancing desperate. Which meant I was in the Europa Presidential Suite talking old flames with Nora. She was smoking in bed, the window open. Back then, she smoked more than me.
"He's in prison now," she said.
"Best place for him."
"You think?"
"You don't?"
She got up and flicked the butt out the window. Didn't answer him.
The next day the contact turned out to be undercover customs. Me and Nora skipped to Cork, but only just. Shortly after that, she shifted tack. She gave up the cigarettes, told me to do the same.
"You need to get healthy," she said.
"I need to get left alone."
"No more bacon butties. No more fish suppers."
Should've seen it coming. All the compromise, all the healthy stuff. Nora was testing my will, preparing me for the night when she finally said fuck it and plied me with the good stuff until my eyes began to float.
She never touched a drop, and I'd been so grateful for a drink that I never asked her why not.
Circling over Shannon, note in my hands, candle guttering as it neared its final inch. Cobb's Glen Rotgut had its claws right in me, kept my mouth tight and brain humming paranoid.
One thought above them all – I'd been set up since day one.
I pushed the bottle away from me. Closed my eyes. Buckshot hail hit the caravan roof, made my head thunder. I pinched the bridge of my nose, tried to will it away.
Didn't work. Couldn't help but hear Nora's message.
"Farrell, didn't I tell you not to look for me? Didn't I tell you it wouldn't make any difference? So what are you doing in Newcastle, eh? Farrell, seriously, don't let me see you. Don't let me catch you anywhere near me. It won't be pretty."
And it wasn't, because the next thing I knew, it was daylight.
Passed out, woke up, whatever it was, my heart tripped over itself.
Head thumping in time to Cobb's piggish snore. Eyes to slits, I looked over at him. He was in the same position as last night: head back and mouth open, his arms folded across his gut and legs stretched out in front of him.
When I moved, my back raged. I took it slowly, eased myself out from behind the table, turned to face the windows with my head down. I hunkered down, shuffled toward the end of my seat as my joints did a Rice Krispie beatbox. Sat for a moment until I felt my legs were solid enough to support me, then I pulled myself to my feet. Both hands still on the table, I opened my eyes a little more. Breathed out.
Turned to walk away and I knocked the empty whisky bottle onto the floor. It rolled; something lanced my head.
I felt along the kitchen counter, heading for the door. I needed fresh air, something to clean me out. Least I could do was breathe something that wasn't the after-smoke of Cobb's menthols. Fresh as a mountain stream, his arse.
Twenty-one was a memory, but I'd never felt it quite as much as now, with what felt like a month's worth of late night, early morning combinations crashing down on me. I wrestled with the caravan door. Kicked at it once, felt it give and caught a belt of wind in the face.
Along with it, a dirty smell that made me turn away as my stomach rolled.
I swallowed, pulled my jacket tight.
The smell persisted. Nagging. And when I recognised it, I had to steel myself to open my eyes properly.
First thing I saw was the blood. Smeared on the door handle, down to the steps.
The second thing was down by my feet. A bundle of clothes, or that was what it looked like at first glance.
Then, closer, I saw it: Italian leather.
One of a kind.
Nora.
PART TWO
GET BUSY
COBB
"Wake up, you bastard."
"Fuckin' ... hell , man. Fuckin' matter with you, you radgie fuckin' ..."
He punched
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