The Big Shot

By Dave Siddall

Aidan's curse pierced the hiss of water from the shower. He draped a towel around his waist and answered the phone before the machine had chance to kick in. Seemed a kid had been hit, one in the leg and one in the head as he lay in the road screaming for his mother. Nobody was going to miss him, obnoxious shit that he was - but he was one of theirs, one of Fat Eric's crew and Aiden had his orders – ‘Get it sorted.'

He replaced the receiver. With the kick of adrenaline his mind was clearer, sharper than it had been in years – the old feeling was returning. Two years in Spain had dulled his senses. He had wanted to stay. But family ties, loyalty and the lure of home had dragged him back. So now he lived with the doubts of his trade: that maybe he was losing his edge. He ran a hand over the smoothness of his torso. His doubts receded. He had a physique better than a twenty year old. Taking a deep breath, he strolled into his brother's room.

Darrel lay beneath the covers. He rattled the bed. “Get up and phone Neal – we need some wheels.” Darrel didn't move. Aidan didn't ask twice. He pushed his hands beneath the mattress and lifted. Boy, bedclothes and mattress tumbled to the floor. “C'mon lazy arse.” The only movement was a pale arm snaking from the sheets and reaching for a pillow. Aidan called Neal himself.

He was in the kitchen with Aidan when Darrel finally emerged from his room. Hands in his pockets he shuffled over to the kettle.

Aiden frowned. His brother had a sickly, grey pallor. “You wanna lay off whatever it is you stick up your nose kido. You look like death.”

Neal's smirk lit the room. Flicking the end of a cigarette into a ceramic ashtray, he pushed a strand of unruly black hair behind his ear. “That's what you get chasing women.”

Aiden perked up. “Women, what sort of women?”

Neal arched his eyebrows. “The wrong sort: little blond tart.”

Darrel turned and pushed his gaunt face into his brother's. “She's not a tart!”

Jerked from his smug demeanour, Neal poked a finger into Darrel's chest but before he could respond Aidan banged the table. “Enough!” Darrel glowered and dared Neal to continue but Neal knew better than defy his elder brother. In the corner the kettle began to rattle. Aidan scowled, “And put water in that thing,” he said, “before you blow the friggin' thing up!” The fire in Darrel's eyes died and reluctantly, he obeyed.

Aidan took a deep breath and wafted Neal's cigarette smoke back across the table. “So – whaddya get?”

“Merc – A.M.G”

“Fuck me!” Aiden ran a palm across the shaven crown of his head. He stared across the table. “Ever hear the word discreet Nee – it means obscure, unobtrusive?”

Neal shrugged, “It's a good car – fast like.”

“Don't care how friggin' fast it is, just so no one clocks us.”

Neal's gypsy eyes glinted. “It's a Merc.” He smiled, “So who cares?”

“Jesus!” Aiden shook his head. He was thirty five and following his Spanish exile, had brought his brothers into Fat Eric's fold. Darrel was still a prospect and Neal – well he wondered if Neal would ever take the job seriously. He gestured him closer, “Lose the Merc.” He jabbed a thumb in Darrel's direction, “Take him and find another.” He lowered his voice. “And Nee,” a Cavalier or Mondeo will do.”

* * *

An hour later they were back. Aidan hadn't moved. He sat quietly listening to Jazz F.M on the radio. Charlie Mingus and ‘Goodbye, Porkpie Hat' faded away. “Well?”

Neal's nose twitched in distaste. “P Reg Astra – nice family saloon.”

Aiden felt the challenge to his authority but let it pass – this time. “Good,” he said and rose from the armchair. Taking a leather jacket from behind the door he felt the pockets. Aiden watched Darrel's face, saw his sudden interest as he withdrew the hammerless ‘Iver Johnson' and checked the chamber. It was almost an antique, but the silver revolver was a favourite. “Wanna hold it?” Darrel shook his head. Aiden grimaced, sooner or later he would have to harden the kid up.

“Where to?” Neal held open the door.

Aiden glanced in the mirror and smoothed the sparse lines of his goatee. “Lets go see Stan. If anyone knows, he will.”

* * *

Fat Eric ran Liverpool 's south end. On the western fringe, between rundown housing and boarded up shops, was ‘The Bridge'. The Pub was out of the way, bleak and would never make it onto a tourist's itinerary – but it had its uses. Many a dispute was settled over a quiet pint in the back room and if necessary the car park was plenty big enough for a ‘straightener' to settle the score. Opposite, in a quiet cul-de-sac was Stan's ice cream van.

Aiden wound down the passenger side window. “How's biz Stan?”

Stan's fleshy face peered over the counter. His idle demeanour did nothing to disguise quick, anxious eyes. “Usual.”

Aiden nodded. “And the ciggies?”

Stan smiled sheepishly. November was a lean time for ice cream, but with a thriving side line in contraband tobacco, he was never going to starve. His shoulders twitched. “Same.”

Aiden pursed his lips. “Give us a couple of wafers. He glanced behind, “And a ninety nine for ‘our kid'.” He watched Darrel's face darken, but was glad to see the boy knew when to keep his mouth shut.

Like a huge mole, Stan dug down into the fridge. “Hear about the shooting?”

Aiden nodded. “Bad business.” He took a wafer from one of Stan's pink, paddle like hands and passed another to Neal.

Stan shook his head. “Place is going from bad to worse.”

Aiden licked the bottom edge. “Whaddya know?”

“Only what I hear.”

“Which is?”

Stan pulled a face, twirled a cone beneath, ‘Mr Whippy – Ice Cream Maker.' “South End Boys.”

“Who?”

“South End Boys,” he repeated, sticking a flake in the pyramid of ice. “Bunch of little bastards. It was them who done the post office a couple of weeks back. Stuck a gun in the old girl's face and rode off on pushbikes.” Cone in one hand, red syrup in the other, he looked through the window at Darrel. Deliberately he cautioned himself. “Or…. that's what people say.” Stan squeezed the bottle until it gasped.

Aiden's face was blank. “People, what people and who the hell are these,” he gestured, “South End Boys?”

Stan shrugged. “Kids Aidan, that's all, just kids.” He leant out of the hatch and passed the ice cream down.

“And they get away with this?”

“You've been gone a long time,” said Stan, “things change.”

Aidan stroked his chin. He eyed Stan, knew the shyster of old. He may act the fool but he knew the score, and he had a big mouth. “I want names Stan - who done it?”

“Look,” Stan lowered his voice, “I keep me head down, nobody has trouble from me Aidan, you know that. I keep out of their way especially after what happened to Frankie.”

Aiden rolled his eyes. “And what happened to Frankie?”

“Hit him with a crowbar and gave him a bloody good hiding. Poor bastard has only just come out of hospital.”

Aidan grimaced. “You're not helping me Stan.”

Stan blinked rapidly. “There is one thing,” he said, knowing there would be no peace until he told Aidan something. “The kid who was shot,” he looked furtively around, “he was one of ‘em.”

“One of these South End lot. But he worked for Fat Eric?”

Stan shrugged. “Things go on Aiden.”

“Not here they don't. Why was he shot?”

“Look, they all want to be the big ‘I Am', a ‘Big Shot', ‘King Dick' for a day. If it means ripping you or Eric off, then so be it. Believe me, he had a nice line selling hash to the kids.”

“Little bastard. If he wasn't dead, I'd kill him.”

“Yeah, well.”

Aiden's eyes narrowed. “I still want a name?”

“Don't know any names.”

“I think you do Stan,” Aidan's voice was flat, cold, controlled. “Who pulled the trigger?”

Stan's body began to shake. “I've said too much – these kids got no fear.” His voice was quivering, “And if they knew it was me…”

“Listen you bag of shit, you tell me what I want to know or it won't be the ‘kids' you need to worry about.” Aiden put his hand in his pocket and stroked the revolver.

Stan saw. His face drained of colour. There was no going back and he told Aidan everything. “There were two, I didn't see ‘em Aidan, you gotta believe me – but a name's been mentioned.”

“Well?”

Stan closed his eyes. “John McCreedy.”

Satisfied, Aiden took his hand out of his pocket. “And where might I find John McCreedy?”

Stan's shoulders hunched and he shook his head. “Don't know that Aiden.”

Aiden moved his hand a fraction closer to his pocket.

Stan bowed to the inevitable “Right now, I guess he'll be in ‘Jessie's Bar'.”

“Hope you're right Stan.”

“I do my best, you know I do.”

But Aidan was no longer listening. Neal had put the car into gear and already they were pulling away. As he dropped the remains of his ice into the gutter, Stan's final words flew through the open window. “Hey, tell Eric I was asking after him.”

* * *

‘Jessie's', was a rundown, squalid excuse of a pub. Only those who needed the comfort of the familiar, escape from life or had nowhere else to go frequented its sordid arena. Parked opposite was a P reg Astra.

“What do we know about McCreedy?” Aiden looked over the decrepit building.

For a moment neither brother spoke. In the driver's seat Neal twisted his neck. “Didn't you go to school with him?”

Darrel squirmed. “We were in the same year.”

“What's he like?” Aiden was curious.

“Tosser.”

“How d'you mean?”

Darrel pulled a face. “He hung round with harder kids, hoping to get a reputation. I can't believe he'd do it. Maybe Stan's got it wrong.”

“It's a name. Besides, it don't really matter.” Aiden's gesture left little to the imagination. He cracked his knuckles. “So you'd recognise him?”

Darrel shrugged. “Sure.”

“Good.” Aidan brushed a hand over his trousers. “You're with me.” He opened the car door and with Darrel beside him, walked towards the stark, red-bricked building. “I'll go to the bar and order drinks. If he's there, give me the nod.”

‘Jessie's' had all the ambience of a tomb. Aidan's nose twitched. Stale tobacco and spillage combined to create one, unwholesome musk. He waited a moment while his eyes adjusted to the thin, watery light. Brown stains mingled beneath red vinyl seats. Some had been repaired using black gaffa tape. It reminded Aidan of Saturday night at the A & E. The wooden bar was rough and sharp edged, the men around it the same. Some moved away when they saw Aidan and finished their drinks elsewhere. He paid no heed and pushed Darrel into an empty seat. Taking a Bud for the boy and a J.D for himself he watched with the predatory eye of a cobra. His little brother scanned the room.

“Is he here?”

Darrel shook his head. Disappointed Aidan turned to his drink. It had barely touched his lips when he heard the laugh. It was a girl's laugh, high pitched and overwrought and as he searched for the source another joined. Darrel caught his breath. Aidan reached out and touched his arm. “Easy lad. That him?” Darrel nodded. Aiden glanced behind. He saw the girl, pretty but cheap. She was brushing away a lank, blond fringe that had fallen over one eye and laughing like she'd never laughed before. Empty bottles lay on the table. The boy with her had clipped, bleached hair shaven into patterns at the back and a tattoo of a bird on the left side of his neck. Beer on the table and hand up her skirt, John McCreedy looked like he'd won the lottery. ‘King Dick' for a day. Let him have his day thought Aidan, because that's all he was going to get. He motioned to Darrel and they slipped from the room.

Outside Aidan caught Darrel's sleeve. “You Okay?”

“Sure.”

“Getting nervy?”

“Course not.”

Aiden laid a hand on the boy's shoulder, tried to imbue him with a sense of his own strength. “You could take him on your own.”

Darrel's face was blank. He turned towards the car and thrust his hands deep into his pockets. “I know.”

Aiden watched the blank form of his brother return to the car, and to no one in particular, he shook his head.

* * *

Aiden tossed his jacket onto the sofa and pinched the bridge of his nose. He had left Neal and Darrel outside ‘Jessie's', with instructions to phone if McCreedy moved. With money in his pocket and a girl like that, he guessed he wouldn't. McCreedy bothered him. Punks were getting younger. But kid or no kid Aidan had a reputation to maintain. No one messed on Fat Eric's turf - not on his watch.

In the kitchen the coffee pot was still warm. He sloshed the remains into a mug and went into the bedroom. He peeled back the carpet and used a bent screwdriver to prise away a floorboard. Beneath, and covered in an oily rag was an ex-service revolver. It was a deactivated Webley once owned by a geek who played soldiers at weekends and impossible to trace. A ‘friend' had bored out the barrel. Inaccurate at anything over ten feet, he once told Darrel, ‘If you're that far away, you're not doing your job properly'.

He caressed the black steel and thought about his kid brother. Perhaps there were too many years between them. Aidan hadn't seen too much of the boy while he was growing up. But Darrel was different. He had once seen him wandering the streets with a few of his feral mates – sullen and resentful, as if he owed the world a beating. He shook his head. It was a ruthless business he was engaged in and Fat Eric didn't suffer fools. Maybe he wasn't cut out for the business, maybe they didn't have the same blood - maybe he was yellow?

Aiden stroked his chin. No not that. It was something deeper, much deeper than that. But what, he couldn't quite tell.

* * *

Night had come. In a cold and damp Vauxall Astra, three men watched the front door of ‘Jessie's Bar'. Just for a moment Aidan allowed his eyes to stray. He glanced at Darrel. The boy was growing impatient.

“When?”

Aiden's face was impassive. “When I say.” He turned and refocused on the building opposite. Neal tapped the steering wheel with a steady rhythm. Quietly, he waited for the serious part of the day to begin.

The hour moved slowly. Neal smoked continuously, Aidan's barbed comments drawing no response until he opened the window and let an icy blast fill the car. The smoking stopped. A squall blew in from the river. The tarmac glistened, the houses were still.

And then it happened.

Aiden let out a low breath. “Now.” He was out of the car and marching towards ‘Jessie's' before Darrel realised he had gone. He hurried to catch him.

Like a ghost McCreedy's elongated shadow had appeared at the door. As it opened wider and the interior light flowed onto the pavement, his body followed. One arm snaked around the girl, the other he held against the frame, steadying himself, unsure whether to vomit or fall. The moment passed and he bent over the girl. They were laughing. Too late he saw Aidan. His face slammed into the wall. There was a crack of bone and before he knew what was happening, rough hands had dragged him into the dark alley alongside. McCreedy fell to his knees.

“What the fuck.” The girl had her hands to her mouth. She saw Darrel and her eyes widened.

Darrel grabbed her and pushed her behind McCreedy. “Shut it, shut it now,” he said. She started to plead but a shake of Darrel's head was threat enough. Aiden kicked McCreedy in the guts. As he doubled over he turned to the girl.

“Fuck off kid – fuck off and don't come back.”

“But you can't…”

Aiden caught her with the back of his hand. “I said go home.”

She held her cheek, the shock seeping through her defiance like the tears trickling through her mascara. Aidan lifted his eyes from the prostrate McCreedy and turned them on the girl. She saw his eyes, as cold and hard as gun-metal and she knew there was nothing here but the promise of pain. She backed away, pushed a hand through her damp hair then turned and ran. She didn't look back.

Blood was flowing from McCreedy. Aiden took the silver revolver from his pocket. He made sure McCreedy saw it. “Got the tape?” Darrel held up the black roll, tore a piece off and fastened it over McCreedy's mouth. “Hands.” McCreedy made no sense of the word but a cuff to the back of the head improved his hearing. “Hands!” This time he bent forward, meekly placing them behind him while Darrel wound tape around his wrists.

The Astra's doors were open. Aiden half lifted and half carried McCreedy into the back seat then pushed the gun into his ribs. Darrel climbed into the passenger seat and with tyres screeching, they raced into the night.

* * *

The car moved swift and fast until Neal detoured off the main road and followed a track onto waste ground. He slowed down. The track led them over the long abandoned festival site and down towards the river. By the water's edge they stopped. On the far side a huge tanker disgorged its cargo into the terminal. But here, it was quiet. Aidan shoved McCreedy out of the car and forced him onto a derelict landing stage. It was open and worn, stood twenty feet above the river and McCreedy knew there was little between him and the darkness below. He slipped on the wet timbers. Beneath him, he could hear water lapping the wooden pontoons. Aidan forced him to his knees. “One chance kid,” he wagged a finger in front of his eyes, “that's all you get,” and he pulled the tape from his mouth.

McCreedy's breaths came in short, sharp gasps. “Why – why are you doing this?” he said.

Aiden turned his back and walked to the end of the landing stage. He looked over the edge. “Who pulled the trigger.”

“What?”

Aidan sauntered back. “Was it you or your mate?

McCreedy looked up, saw Aidan's face and knew he was in shit up to his neck. Ten paces away he latched onto Darrel's familiar face and bit his lip. “Don't know what you mean.”

Aiden's voice hardened. Still he remained reasonable - so he gave the boy his chance. “You were seen. We know there were two. If it was the other who did the shooting you'll just get a hiding and nothing else.” He walked over to Darrel and passed him the revolver. “If not…,” he pulled the Webley, his killing gun, from its holster.

McCreedy stopped breathing. “Not me!”

“Then who – I want a name.”

McCreedy's world was crashing around him. In ten minutes he'd gone from ‘King Dick', to a quivering mass of puke and blood. He stared into the abyss. “Darrel!” He squeezed the name through gritted teeth.

Aiden slapped him. “You'll get no help boy. This is between you and me.”

But unbeknown to Aidan, Darrel had stepped forward. “Tell him Creedy,” he said, “tell him what he wants to know. Tell him about loyalty - the boys and the way it works?”

McCreedy saw the gun in Darrel's hand and just for a moment it seemed a door had opened. He looked up into Aidan's face. Hope made him a fool. “You can't touch me.” He shook his head. “Hurt one and you hurt us all.” Defiantly, he jutted his jaw forwards and stared at Aidan. “If you do, they'll tear you apart.”

Aiden roared. His scream ripped through the night. He cracked the pistol against McCreedy's head. “You're a maggot, a fucking maggot. This is my patch my territory, tread on it you tread on me. Nothing else counts boy – just this,” and he pushed the gun beneath McCreedy's nose. “Now tell me what I want to know. Who killed him?”

McCreedy lay sprawled on the decking. Fresh blood pulsed from the cut on his head. He pushed himself away knowing there was nowhere to run nowhere to hide. The gun's barrel kissed his forehead. He clambered to his knees and saw the bore opening before him like a one way road to hell. The bird tattoo on his neck pulsed. “Not me,” he hissed, “I told you,” and he turned his eyes on Darrel, “it was him!”

Aiden stepped back, wasn't sure what he had heard and was about to whip him again. But a single shot came from the dark. John McCreedy's head flew back. He rocked forward just once, his eyes still on the boy he called a friend - then he tumbled down and back into the black water. There was a dull splash as his lifeless body hit the river.

Aiden stared after him. All that was left of John McCreedy were a few splinters of bone and a dark patch of blood. He stared at Darrel. “Why?”

Darrel dropped the pistol to his side. “He shouldn't have been with my girl.”

“Your girl?” Aiden frowned and glanced across to Neal. “Little blond ‘tart'?” His confusion was beginning to clear. “And last night?”

“The kid crossed me.”

Aidan let out a half- hearted laugh. “So you run the South End Boys. Suppose I should have guessed.” He looked at Darrel with grudging respect. “So we're not so different after all.”

Darrel snorted. “You having a laugh? I work for me. You're owned by a dickhead.”

Aiden's shoulders swept back at the insult. “You watch your mouth kid, if Eric finds out…”

“Who gives a flying fuck about Eric.” He looked at Aidan, his mouth twisted in disdain. “Eric and those around him are finished. This is my town now.”

Aidan closed his eyes. “So you want to be a ‘Big Shot'. If it wasn't for us being family…”

“Family!” Darrel snarled. “When I was ten the house got repossessed. Me, Neal and mam had nowhere to go. You were on remand in Walton. And where were you when mam died,” he sneered, “fucking Spain !” He stared at his elder brother. “You should have stayed there.”

Aiden's anger rose like a black tide. He half turned to see Neal sitting on the bonnet of the car. “You in this as well?”

Neal shrugged. “Keeping my options open. Besides,” he said and his smirk was the final insult. “I'd rather have a Merc than an Astra.”

“Lousy bastard,” and Aiden turned. Quickly he brought the Webley to bear and fired. Fifteen paces away, the bullet whistled harmlessly over Darrel's head. And as he watched, he saw a ghost of a smile spread across his kid brother's face. Slowly, meticulously like a later day dualist Darrel raised the silver pistol. He cocked his head to one side and was almost apologetic.

“I don't believe you're doing your job properly,” he said.

And he pulled the trigger twice.