Jig yanked at the lever. It clunked but nothing came out. Bowie looked up at him, his small tail wagging. Jig stood back and kicked his heel against the machine. The dog barked. Still no gobstopper.
‘That’s it, Jig, kick the shite out of it.’
Jig turned around, but the man looming in front of him was all shadow with the sun blazing behind him. Jig inched forward and looked up, his arm over his eyes. The chipped front tooth told him who it was.
‘Alright, Cracko.’
‘Story, little man.’
Cracko was holding a kid in his hands. His son, Jig copped. He was munching on a bag of crisps.
‘Dodging school, yeah?’
Jig nodded.
‘How’s that cool dog?’ Cracko said, leaning down to Bowie, who crouched low. ‘Must introduce him to my bull terrier.’ Cracko smiled. ‘See who’s boss.’
Jig eyed the back of Cracko’s hand, as he patted Bowie hard. Across his knuckles ran a tattoo of barbed wire and the word STREET. All in plain black ink. Jig looked up at Cracko’s left hand, which was clutching his son. The same barbed wire across the knuckles and, above it, the word JUSTICE. The I was in the shape of a dagger, a red tip at the end.
Cracko’s a seriously cool fucker, Jig thought.
Cracko leaned back up. The toddler kept munching. Jig’s stomach rumbled as he eyed the bits of crisps falling from the kid’s mouth. The boy looked down on him and clutched his bag tight.
‘What’s the little fella’s name?’ Jig asked.
‘Seb. A right little bollix he . . .’
Jig saw Cracko’s face tighten, like someone had twisted a screw. The scar along the right side of his face twitched. Cracko turned around to face the path. All Jig could see was some guy sticking a poster to a lamp pole outside the shops.
The guy walked towards them, one stride bouncing up more than the other. He was too busy looking at a bunch of posters in his hand to see where he was going.
Cracko positioned himself right in the middle of the path. He coiled his back. Jig glanced down at Bowie; he had curled in behind the sweet machine.
Jig watched as the guy walked right into Cracko’s outstretched hand, forcing him to stumble back. When he looked up his expression was like he had just walked out in front of traffic. The kid’s munching punctured the silence.
‘Ah, what’s the story?’
Smack. Cracko slapped the guy across the face, forcing him to land hard on his right foot to stop himself from falling over. The posters flew away under his arms and scattered across the path and the road. Jig judged he was weighing up the risk of doing a legger.
‘Ya fucking move,’ Cracko said, ‘and I’ll kick yer balls up yer fucking windpipe.’
Deadly line, Jig thought.
The man’s face was like his blood had scarpered down his legs and out into the gutter. He was a skinny fucker. One kick from Cracko and he’d break apart.
‘What the fuck?’ the man said, trying to grasp some of his posters.
Jig laughed.
This guy’s about to get creamed by Cracko and he’s picking up his posters.
He tried to read the posters. Something about republicans and a meeting.
‘Don’t fucking touch them,’ Cracko growled.
‘I’m on community business here,’ the man said. ‘Republican business. Who the fuck are –?’
Jig looked at Cracko.
This guy doesn’t know who Cracko is!
Cracko lunged. Seb’s head swung back at the jolt. Cracko grabbed the guy’s jacket with his right hand and swung him off the ground onto the bonnet of a car. A few more posters slipped out of the man’s hand. His head banged hard against the bonnet. He roared in pain and disbelief.
Jig could see Cracko’s teeth bite down on his lip as he leaned forward and went to grab the man by the neck. But his grip weakened as Seb slipped out his left hand and dangled over. Cracko had to grab him with his right hand. The kid screamed. The man leaned up from the bonnet.
‘Who the fuck am I?’ Cracko said.
He rose his big fist up into the blue sky and drove hard into the man’s chest. Jig twisted at the crunch. Seb’s head bobbed from the impact, like one of those nodding dogs in the back of cars.
The man’s roar ran the length of the row of shops. Jig looked around. The street was empty. No one came out of the shops to see what was going on. The man held his hand to his chest and grimaced as he tried to breathe.
Cracko pulled himself back up, spit and saliva on his lips. A gold chain tipped out from under his top.
‘Da, why hit man?’ Seb said, snuggling into his dad’s heaving shoulder.
Jig looked at Cracko as he adjusted his feet. The thick muscles on his arms flexed. A green vein bulged against his skin like a cable. His arm shone with sweat.
Cracko reefed the man up from the car with his right hand. Seb’s neck and head swung back and forwards sharply, hitting off his dad’s shoulder. He roared.
‘Let me introduce myself,’ Cracko said.
Jig watched Cracko pull back his head, his chain catching the sun as he headbutted the man smack in the middle of his face. Jig twitched at the noise. Blood spurted from the man’s nose onto Cracko’s top and Seb’s bare legs. The kid slipped out of his da’s grasp again and Cracko hopped to keep him in. The crisp bag fell to the ground and Seb’s little arm stretched down to it. His face was all red and puffy, his roaring hysterical.
The man half stood against the car, dazed. He stared down at his hands, which were covered in blood.
At that moment, music from an ice-cream van blared from a road nearby. Jig thought how it made the man seem like he was swaying to the tune.
Cracko leaned towards the man, spit and blood spraying from his mouth as he spoke.
‘I see ya again, ya Provo cunt, I’ll shove those posters down yer throat with a pole.’
The man jerked and slid down beside the wheel of the car.
Seb was leaping out of Cracko’s grip in pain and agitation.
Jig banged back against the sweet machine as Cracko strode away, his eyes bulging.
The gobstopper dropped.