Die Hard Mod (2 page)

The movie had reached the dire moment when a postman drives over Jimmy’s beloved scooter which is when a grim possibility occurred to Steve. ‘Oh fuck… what about my Lambretta?’ He got off the sofa and went to open his front door to check the parking space outside. His battered scooter was lying on its side and Trevor and Donzo had ensured that it was a write-off. Steve stood gawping helplessly at the wreckage while his phone began ringing indoors. He shuffled back inside and answered it with a forlorn-sounding ‘hello’.

‘Jesus Steve, ye need to sort out yer phone manner there, luv… what’s up?’ It was Doug’s girlfriend. ‘Don’t even ask, Suze… let’s just say that I’ll be glad when today’s over… anyway, nice to hear a friendly voice, how can I help ye?’

‘Just lookin’ for that no-good boyfriend of mine… I suppose he’s comatose on the sofa after another night on the lash? The useless git was meant to grab a pizza and come round mine after he’d been to the pub but he was a no-show and his mobile keeps goin’ to voicemail… he’d better have a good apology ready… could ye put him on?… Steve? Are ye still there? Don’t you be coverin’ for him, Steve… c’mon, what’s happened this time?’

Steve had a fair idea what might have happened. He slowly put the phone down and projectile vomited chunks of Pot Noodle and toast all over his newly-vacuumed carpet.

3

Later that evening, the UTV news team provided Steve and Suzie with details of Doug’s whereabouts.

‘The body of local man Douglas McConville, aged 32, has been found in
Fortwilliam
Park
,
North Belfast
. Police are treating the death as suspicious and are appealing for witnesses, or anyone who may be able to assist them with their inquiries into the events that led to Mr. McConville’s death, to come forward. The deceased is described as having cropped blonde hair and was wearing a white Fred Perry polo shirt, jeans and desert boots.’

Steve went round to Suzie’s flat and comforted her as she wept. She was a slight, petite and boyish-looking red-head and felt as delicate as a child as he stood with his arms around her. It reminded him of hugging his skinny, ten-year old nephew after his mother’s funeral. Steve’s own tears hadn’t started to flow yet and he trembled with the effort of holding them back. Suzie had a bottle of Bushmills in her kitchen and he’d poured them each a treble measure. When they sat down on her sofa, he downed his in one but hers remained untouched.

‘Why would anyone want to hurt Doug?’ she pleaded.

‘Thing is luv, I had some visitors last night …’

When Steve told Suzie about Trevor and Donzo, her fists started flailing.

‘You and your fuckin’ dope-smokin’… Doug was never into that shit until he started living with you and none of this would have happened if…’

Steve grabbed her wrists and shouted back at her.

‘For fuck’s sake Suzie, don’t start taking it out on me. My best mate’s dead and my cards marked now too. I reckon them psychos were so coked-up they didn’t realise they’d killed Doug and now they’ll be after me to make sure I keep my mouth shut. It’s probably not a good idea for me to be here ‘cos the word might get around and they’ll suss that I’ve blabbed to you.’

Steve hugged Suzie and tried to wipe her tears away.

‘Look luv… the peelers have been wantin’ to pin something on Trevor for years and they’re bound to have his
DNA
on file. If their forensic team are any fuckin’ use at all, they’ll be able to get the evidence they need. It’s best if I get outta town and lay low for a while, you understand?’

Suzie nodded.

‘Get yerself over to yer ma’s, Suzie… a girl needs her ma at a time like this, eh?’

Steve gave Suzie a parting hug and got out of her flat, fast.

4

When Steve got to the end of his street, he checked to see if anyone he needed to avoid was hanging around his house but it just felt like a typical Sunday night. The Maguires’ Jack Russell was barking his head off at nothing in particular and he could see the old couple from Number 38 on their way to the evening service while Sammy Armstrong, his alcoholic next door neighbour, staggered home from the off-licence with a few cans of Tennents Super. Steve sauntered up to his front door, had one last glance around the street and let himself in. He went up to his bedroom, threw some clothes and toiletries into a hold-all, switched all the lights off and split.

On the
Shore Road
, Steve hopped onto a bus to take him into the city centre. Aside from the type of quizzical looks his Mod appearance usually attracted, no-one on the bus seemed to notice how jittery he was. His heart was racing but anxiety helped focus his mind. He had to get out of
Belfast
but where was he going to go? He had a cousin he was close to in
Edinburgh
but he was married with three kids one of whom was severely disabled so he couldn’t imagine he’d be welcomed with open arms there. There was his mate Tim who’d immigrated to
Toronto
but the air fare would wipe out half his savings. But at least tonight he’d be able to stay with Johnny Bell, one of his Mod associates who put on a low-key 60s night upstairs at The Garrick Bar on the last Sunday of every month. Johnny had a decent-sized flat in the bohemian area around Queen’s University in the south side of the city. Nice and civilised and not the sort of place that he’d be likely to bump into Trevor and Donzo.

Steve got off the bus at the City Hall and when he arrived at The Garrick, there were about a dozen of the usual suspects trying to out-do each other in 60s retro style. Wee Davy looked pretty sharp in his blue three-button mohair suit set off with a paisley scarf and a French crop haircut. There were a couple of heavily-made-up girls with Mary Quant hairstyles and skimpy psychedelic-patterned dresses but they were a little too podgy to carry the look off with much success.

Johnny was behind the decks playing Georgie Fame’s
Somebody Stole My Thunder
and with the kind of lean frame that best suits Mod fashion, he looked the coolest of the bunch with a dark green cashmere polo-neck and a haircut modelled on Jeff Beck in 1968. He beckoned Steve to come over and join him and hugged him as the tune blasted out and a smattering of Mods shuffled nonchalantly around the dance-floor.

‘Jesus Steve, how are ye hombre?’ said Johnny. ‘I heard all about Doug. The whole crew are really shook up about it. Ye missed a wee announcement I made earlier. I know it might not mean much but I just dedicated tonight to him. The girls have been bawling their eyes out, so they have.’

The tender concern in Johnny’s eyes made Steve feel like crying himself but he needed to keep it together.

‘I’m all the better for seein’ you mate… can’t face being in the house alone tonight so hope its okay if I crash at yours.’

Johnny hugged him again.

‘Nae bother amigo… it’s the least I can do.’

Steve let Johnny get on with his DJ duties and spent the rest of the night in a corner at the back, cradling his Guinness as each of the Mods took turns to come over and offer their condolences. The place filled out with students and random drinkers and as the dancing intensified to the sound of The Spencer Davis Group’s
I’m a Man
, Steve felt numb to the hubbub around him. Wee Davy was the last to come over and talk to him. He was always buzzing on some substance or another but his heart was in the right place.

‘Stevie boy, I know you’ve heard it all tonight mate but I just wanted to tell ya that I thought Doug was a top man. See when I was skint, the fella would always stand me drinks all night… and he was great crack, so he was. I know he was yer best mucker ‘n all, must be hard to get yer head around… how are ye bearin’ up, kid?’

Steve patted Davy’s shoulder affectionately.

‘It’s kind of you to ask Davy and I’m not bein’ funny but I’m really tired of talkin’ about how I’m feelin’. C’mon mate, tell us how you’ve been. What have ye been up to lately?’

‘Ach just the same stuff, Steve. Still workin’ in that shop in the arcade that sells the second-hand retro gear. Best crack I’ve had lately was the other weekend. Me and my girl went over for a Mod bash in
Brighton
. I tell ye what, its fuckin’ cracker over there, so it is. It’s a bit like how you imagine the 60s… folk bein’ dead cool ‘n friendly ‘n all. But you’ll never guess what, mate. I was at this wee basement place near the seafront and I coulda sworn I saw that wee girl you went out with, Jeanie. The one that did a disappearin’ act on ye, yeah? I said hello when she walked past but she just blanked me. But I swear, Steve, I would bet my whole fuckin’ record collection that it was her.’

And with that, Steve knew his escape destination.

5

Steve only managed to get a few hours sleep on Johnny’s sofa and at around eight, he could hear his host putting on the kettle in the kitchen.

‘Can I have brew, Johnny boy?’ he shouted. ‘White, one sugar.’

‘Was makin’ ye one anyway,’ replied Johnny. ‘Got a wee fry on the go too.’

‘Happy days!’ said Steve, before the irony of the statement sunk in.

He went through to sit at Johnny’s kitchen table and a plate of bacon, egg, sausage, mushrooms, potato bread and soda bread was put in front of him accompanied by a steaming mug of tea. It looked wonderful and it was some comfort to Steve that his appetite hadn’t been affected by his woes. ‘Boy ye could represent
Ulster
in the eatin’ Olympics, son’, his ma used to say.

‘So, what’s the plan, Steve? Takin’ the day off work? I’m sure they’d understand if ye do. Ye gotta do what’s best for you at a time like this… be gentle with yerself n’ all.’

Johnny’s kind sincerity acted like a truth drug on Steve.

‘Thing is, mate, I gotta get the fuck outta
Belfast
.’

‘Ye what?’

Steve gave Johnny the low-down on Trevor and Donzo and the
Brighton
escape plan, hoping that his friend’s common sense might provide a clear eye on his predicament.

‘Fuckin’ hell Steve, if it was anyone but Trevor McCann I’d go straight to the peelers but I can see where yer comin’ from… there’s a good reason why that fat psycho bastard is still roamin’ free. Fuck, remember yer man who started slabberin’ to the papers about Trevor sellin’ smack to his son…. I saw that poor fucker in his wheelchair around Corn Market the other day…’

‘Aye Johnny, and he’s upped the ante from knee-cappings and sellin’ class As with this particular felony, wouldn’t ye say?’

Steve mopped up some egg yolk with the last bit of potato bread and wolfed it down while Johnny poured him another cup of tea.       

‘So Johnny, I’ve got if figured out. I’ll go to the doc’s this mornin’ and get signed off work for a couple of months and that’ll buy me a bit o’ time. He put me on Prozac when I got maself into a state about Jeanie fuckin’ off on me so he’s already got me down as a sensitive wee soul. I can clear out my savings – that’ll give me twelve hundred quid cash to keep me goin’. Once I’ve done that, I’ll be on the flight to Gatwick and then it’s straight to sunny
Brighton
for Stevie boy.’

‘What about the peelers, Steve? Have they not talked to you yet? Will they not start thinkin’ there’s somethin’ fishy goin’ on if ye just disappear like this?’

‘Listen mate, if I start worryin’ about the peelers it’ll do my head in but I’m not gonna be stupid about it either. I won’t be usin’ my cash card any more so beyond maybe sussin’ out that I’ve flown to Gatwick, they won’t be able to trace where I am and I’ll just get maself a new mobile when I hit Brighton.’

‘Aye Steve but if they want to, they’ll make it their business to catch up with you eventually.’

Steve finished his tea and started fiddling with his chunky silver identity bracelet.

‘Look Johnny, if they ever get houl’ o’me, I reckon I’ll be able to deal with it… I haven’t fuckin’ done anythin’ so what’s the worst they can do? I’ll just say I needed to get away to get my head showered or somethin’. But if Trevor ever gets houl’ o’ me, that’s a whole different ball game.’

Johnny lifted the empty plates and put them in the sink.

‘Guess ye gotta go with yer instinct Steve but why
Brighton
? I know ye love Quadrophenia ‘n all but is that a good enough reason?’

‘As good a reason as any, mate… not to mention the fact that Wee Davy swore blind that he saw Jeanie when he was over there on a weekender a wee while back.’

‘Listen, Steve. I think you’ve got enough on your plate without bringin’ Jeanie into the equation. I mean, Wee Davy says more than his prayers. He’s so off his nut half the time that he was probably hallucinatin’… sees some cute girl with bobbed hair and jumps to the conclusion that it’s Jeanie… fella’s a fuckin’ wingnut.’

‘He sounded pretty convinced to me.’

‘That’s as may be, Steve and I never wanted to say anythin’ before ‘cos I knew you were cracked-up on her but I’ll tell ye now… I know she was gorgeous ‘n all but there was just a vibe I got off her that creeped me out… I always thought that girl was bad news…
really
bad news.’