Emma Mooney is the author of A Beautiful Game and Wings to Fly, both published with Crooked Cat Books. Her shorter works, including poems and short stories, have appeared in numerous anthologies and magazines. She is presently working on the final edits of her third novel and recently graduated with distinction from a Masters in Creative Writing at the University of Stirling.
Big Pete and the Russians
Danny watches Big Pete enter the pub with a swagger.
‘Y’aright Danny.’ Big Pete pulls out a bar stool. ‘No workin the day?’
‘Took a holiday.’ It’s only a wee lie.
Big Pete slaps him on the back. ‘Don’t let the bastards wear ye down, eh?’ Even when Peter Delaney’s sitting beside you, you have to crane your neck to look up at him. Cunt was in the year below Danny at school and was already a giant when he rocked up on his first day at Kirkhill Academy.
‘Fancy a wee chaser wi that?’ Pete asks.
‘Why no.’ Danny’s already knocked back a couple of whiskies. But he’s still sober. Still has his wits about him. And, if he’s in luck, a drink with Big Pete might provide the solution to his current problem.
They sip their pints in silence and stare at the headlines scrolling along the bottom of the TV screen behind the bar.
…Boris Johnson warns Russia not to repeat a chemical attack on U.K. soil…
Danny shouldn’t have been surprised when he was handed his P45 this morning. He’d already been given a written warning for being late.
…Homes across South-East England without water…
Well, fuck them. Let some other poor bastard get paid minimum wage for picking out bits of plastic and metal from piles of crushed cement in the pissing rain.
…Stock market surges to record high…
An old guy dressed in double denim shouts over to Big Pete that it’s his turn at the pool table.
‘Can ye no see ah’m busy?’ Pete shouts back. ‘Ah’m keepin mah guid mate Danny here company.’
The old guy doesn’t argue. Nobody ever argues with Big Pete.
They’ve all heard the story.
It had been snowing the day he killed the boy. Danny was in fifth year at Kirkhill—his last year at that place—so Big Pete would have been in fourth year.
It was the end of the day and the novelty of the white stuff had worn off. Everyone was cold and wet and fucking miserable. But the novelty hadn’t worn off for James MacDonald, a first year with shocking ginger hair and so many freckles they gave the illusion of a year-round tan. James MacDonald’s ma hadn’t got the memo on how to survive secondary school
and she’d sent her wee laddie out in a sensible winter coat, complete with furry hood, and a pair of navy-blue welly boots. She might as well have stuck a post-it note to his back that said kick me.
Maybe it was because James MacDonald was a walking target himself, or maybe it was because he took after his ma in the brains department; whatever the reason, there’s no doubting that James was the one that threw the snowball. There were at least twenty witnesses who said they’d seen him bend down and scoop up a handful of dirty snow with his woollen mittens. Mittens? Who the fuck wears mittens in secondary school? Seriously, the wee guy was asking for trouble.
The snowball hit Big Pete at the precise moment he turned round to speak to someone. And it landed, smack, between his eyes.
Danny can still hear the roar that erupted from Big Pete’s mouth as he pushed everyone aside and lunged straight for James MacDonald.
He only delivered one blow, but sadly for wee James one blow was all it took. Danny watched him teeter on his heels before crashing to the ground like the Red Road Flats. School was closed for the rest of the week and Big Pete was hauled off to Polmont.
He was out a year later and James MacDonald’s ma left town shortly after.
‘Ah’ve got a wee job fur ye tae consider,’ says Big Pete. ‘It’s easy, an it pays well.’
Danny’s hand hovers over his pint. No easy jobs pay well, but like his old man always said, beggars can’t be choosers. ‘Whit’s involved?’
‘Ah need someone ah can trust.’ Pete grabs Danny’s hand, flips it over and writes an address on the palm in blue biro. ‘An ah’ve heard yer the man.’
Danny doesn’t know what Big Pete’s heard but he can’t afford to knock back the chance of making some cash. He looks at his hand. What does Pete have doing business on that side of town?
‘Shove this in yer pocket. Quick.’ Pete hands Danny a brown envelope and a bundle of tenners.
A wee voice tells Danny to back out of it now, while he still can, but Big Pete is looking for someone he can trust and he’s turned to your boy Danny here. And the money will see him through for a few days until he finds himself another job.
Pete tells him what to do. ‘An remember,’ he warns him. ‘Ah need discretion.’
Danny grins. ‘Discretion is mah middle name.’
The muscles around Pete’s mouth don’t even twitch. ‘An ah want ye back here in unner an oor.’
‘But it’s oan the other side ae town.’
‘Ah can find another man if yer no up tae the joab.’
Danny looks around the bar. Which one of these lazy cunts does Pete think could do a better job than him? The guy in double denim? Not bloody likely. ‘Can ah finish mah drink first?’
Big Pete doesn’t answer. Doesn’t need to. The clock is already ticking.
Danny leaves his pint and makes his way to the exit. The door has almost closed behind him when Pete shouts his name. Danny turns round, and through the glass he sees Pete tap the side of his nose with his finger and mouth a single word. Discretion.
Fuck. What’s he got himself involved in? He runs across the road to the taxi rank and jumps in the first car in line. ‘Queen’s Avenue, mate.’
The driver looks him up and down but has the sense to keep his mouth shut.
Ah’m trustin ye, Danny.
What the fuck can be in the envelope that’s worth paying Danny all that just to shove it through a letter box? Surely a first-class stamp would do.
The driver turns up the radio. It’s the same news that was playing in the pub: Houses without water, stock markets rising, Russian spies.
If ah find oot ye’ve been peekin ah’ll hae nae choice.
He replays the last headline in his head. Something about a deadly nerve agent. Shit. Is that it? Is Big Pete working for the Russians?
Ah want ye back here in unner an oor.
‘Stoap here an keep the engine runnin. Ah’ll be back in a minute.’
‘Mate, ah cannae afford tae—’
Danny shoves a tenner in the driver’s hand and opens the door. ‘Wait here.’
A quick glance over his shoulder like he’s seen them do in the movies, and he dodges into WH Smith. The stationery aisle is near the front of the shop and Danny waits til the assistant’s back is turned, and tucks a roll of sellotape up his sleeve. He dashes out onto the street and into the back of the taxi.
The driver pulls away from the kerb and into the busy traffic, and Danny leans back and lays the brown envelope on the seat beside him. He finds the end of the sellotape and carefully — very carefully — winds the tape around it. And around again. And again. Better safe than sorry. He keeps going until the roll of tape is finished. Big Pete and the Russians, eh? Who’d have thought it?
The taxi pulls into Queen’s Avenue and Danny hands over another tenner. If he pulls this off there’ll be plenty more where that came from. This time the driver doesn’t wait and tyres screech as the cab disappears around the corner.
Danny’s never seen a place like it. Audis, BMWs and Mercedes are parked in long, sweeping driveways on both sides of the street, security cameras tucked into the eaves of every house. He pulls up his hood. No one’s gonna know Danny Taylor was here.
Number seven is on the opposite side of the road and there’s a large brass number on the fence as promised. Fuck. Who does Big Pete know that lives in a mansion like this?
Danny puts his hand on the wrought iron gate and slowly pushes it open. It doesn’t creak. Doesn’t make a sound. He steps forward and the gate closes behind him. The path leading up to the front door is lined with red and yellow roses. He looks to see if there’s a name above the doorbell. Discretion, Danny Boy. Discretion. He eases the envelope out of his pocket, stretches out his other hand and raises the flap of the letterbox. No dog barks. No alarm goes off. Just pop the envelope through the letter box and get out of there before anyone sees you. In no time at all, he’ll be back drinking in Wetherspoons with money in his pocket. Might treat himself to a fish supper on the way home.
Fuck!
The sellotape has doubled the envelope’s size.
He turns it.
Tilts it.
Squeezes it.
But no matter what he does, the envelope won’t fit through the letterbox.
High heels click against tarmac and Danny drops his head and waits for the woman to walk on by. Discretion, Danny Boy. Don’t look up. Don’t make eye contact.
The clicking stops at the gate.
Danny lowers the envelope and pretends to dig in his pocket, searching for a front door key. Pretend like you belong somewhere and people will believe it.
The gate opens.
Dammit. His acting’s so good she’s coming to help him. ‘It’s okay, I-’
He looks up.
Fuck.
It’s her, he’s sure it is.
Danny feels the weight of the brown envelope in his hand. ‘Mrs MacDonald?’
She nods.
‘This is for you.’
More information about Emma’s writing is available via www.emmamooney.co.uk and via Twitter @EmmaMooney21.