HellFire by Mia Gallagher

Author:Mia Gallagher
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Penguin Books Ltd
Published: 2006-01-15T00:00:00+00:00

VII

Don’t mess me around, Nayler.

Don’t treat me like I’m me brother. I understand how ya used me, you and Snags both, and why ya tested me, settin me up for the errant, all that, but ya don’t need ta play that game on me any more. I’m up for stuff. Tell me things, not just the shite everyone knows. Tell me the important stuff. I’m better use for ya that way.

Would it a been different if I’d said that? Would ya a lain the ground between us open, told me everythin I wanted ta know? Or would ya a just laughed and ruffled me head and said, Ya should know that’s not how it works, Lucy Lu. Ya should know everyone has ta hold somethin back.

Stupid ta even wonder.

Ah, happy days. The summer a love. I’d be a liar if I said it didn’t start out okay. It always starts out okay.

I lie on the mattress but I can’t sleep. The whole house is stinkin and everywhere I look I see Micko. On the pilla beside me, floatin from the ceilin, dancin outside the winda like that vampire brother in Salem’s Lot. The room is so full of him I feel it’s gointa burst.

Sasha’s door is locked, like it’s been since she went, so I knock on yours.

You’re wide awake. Before ya can say even ‘Oh’, let alone some thick slaggin comment, I tell ya it’s not like that, I don’t want ya near me, I just don’t wanta sleep in there on me own.

Ya tell me I’ll hafta have the floor so.

In the end I sleep on them mirrored cushions. They dig inta me skin and the smell is no better and I can hear ya breathin six feet from me on that mattress but at least Micko stays away.

*

‘He’s expectin payment in twenty days,’ says the delivery boy. He’s from down the country, Kerry, somewhere like that. Ya weigh the pack in yer hand.

‘This all?’

The delivery boy shrugs. ‘Take it or leave it, Nayler.’

‘Alright.’ Ya take out yer scales.

Ya bolt the ten locks as soon as the delivery boy leaves. One two three four five once I caught a fish alive.

‘Can I help?’ I say.

‘Later.’

We’re in the shop on Hill Street, the flat at the back a the playground. It’s not in great shape but it’s way cleaner than the squat. Plus there’s proper furniture and all: a comfy armchair and a good table. If ya didn’t look too close, ya might think it was someone’s auntie’s gaff. Plus it’s outta view and safe from the rozzers and it’s off the Wacker’s beat but still too close ta him for the Don ta touch and we don’t use it ta sell direct from in anyways and, better than all that, it’s got them ten locks on the door.

I watch ya weigh, cut, weigh again, pack. Ya frown as ya concentrate on the scales. Light from the winda catches the edges a bone and muscle in yer lower arm. There’s a rhythm in yer movements that’s easy on the eye.

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