Christy had always been the brains of the duo. “Go where? We’re on the top bloody floor. The lift’s knackered. So unless there’s a helio-bloody-copter on the roof, the only way is down.”
Out in the hall, the banisters clanged and vibrated. PJ was battering a tattoo. Jungle drums. Every door in the block would be locked before the rattle faded.
“We’re shagged,” breathed Christy, the mascara running down his cheeks.
“That makeup looks fuckin’ stupid now,” said Little Mike. “You look like a bloody panda or something.”
Christy found a nugget of pride somewhere. “This is cool, right. Yer man from Manic Street Preachers wears this, and yer man from Busted.”
“Mebbe. But they don’t go streaking it by bawling all over their faces, do they?”
Christy’s panda eyes squinted. “Well, PJ is coming up the stairs with God knows what under his coat. Any rock star you care to mention would shit himself.”
“Not Lemmy,” said Little Mike defensively.
“Yes, fucking Lemmy. And Bon Scott.”
Little Mike crossed himself. “Ah, now. That’s a step too far. Don’t talk about Bon.”
Christy could actually hear footsteps on the stairs. Slow and deliberate. PJ was giving him time to jump out the window. Focus, he told himself. Think about what’s actually happening.
“Shut up, Little Mike. I need to think about what’s actu- ally happening, not Bon Scott.”
“That was always your trouble,” said Mike with a few sage nods. “Drifting off. Remember when Miss Doyle asked you Colombia’s main export and you said forty-eight? Sure, that was the day before.”
A soft idea began firming up in Christy’s head. “What if we took PJ on?”
“Coffee,” said Mike. “Any eejit knows that. But it wasn’t that you were stupid, you just never nev…” He stuttered to a halt. “Who? Take what on? Do what?”
Christy jumped to his feet, grabbing his friend by the shoulders, trying to keep the idea going. “Look, PJ’s coming in that door any second. He’s going to break a few bones, and probably do a few deviant things in the riding department. You’re not walking out either. You know what he’s like.”
A tear appeared in the corner of Mike’s eye. “You and yer fuckin’ Fanta.”
“I know. Don’t I know. So why don’t we have a go? There are two of us.”
Little Mike realized that his friend was actually serious. “Two of us? Father Hillary had God Almighty helping out, and look where it got him.”
“I know. But we’re a team. For years, since primary. Batman and Robin.”
“Robin got killed,” said Mike.
Christy was shocked. “He did not, did he? Jesus, I didn’t hear about that.”
“Yeah. It was a big shock. The Joker kilt him.”
“That fuckin’ Joker. I didn’t see that coming.”
Christy shook Batman out of his head, trying to focus.
“So we have a go. You distract him. And I hit him.”
Little Mike had two legitimate questions. “Distract him with what? And hit him with bloody what?”
Christy looked around. There wasn’t much left in the flat other than the bare essentials. A sofa, fridge, widescreen TV, and PlayStation 2.
He ripped the foam on the sofa arm and yanked out a bit of a plank.
“This for the hitting.”
“That?” said Little Mike doubtfully.
“There’s a nail in it.”
“A nail. Are you de-looo-sional, Christy? Two letters for ye.” Little Mike cupped his hands around his mouth. “Pee Jay. We’re fucked. We take the breaks and hope there’s no freaky stuff.”
Christy wouldn’t hear it. “No. He comes in this door here, right?”
“The door, you mean. The one door.”
“So he comes in, and you distract him. Then I fucking whack him straight between the eyes, with the nail. And we’re off on the ferry to England. Or down into the deep country. Waterford or something. I heard they got jungles down there, brother. Local natives that will get up on ye for fifty cent. Like fuckin’ Mexico.”
Little Mike was sucked in by his friend’s enthusiasm. “And just how am I supposed to distract him?”
“You know how,” said Christy meaningfully, nodding in a respectful and non-homosexual way at Little Mike’s bollock area.
“Fuck off,” said Mike, cupping said area.
“The big lad has to come out,” said Christy. “It’s the only extraordinary thing in the flat. It’s all we have.”
“It’s all I have. Fuck off and get yer own.”
Little Mike’s dick was legendary in the flats, in the entire north side. This was mainly due to the fact that Mike himself had spray-painted every hoarding in Dublin with the legend, Little Mike has thirteen inches. Followed by his mobile number. Morning, noon, and night he was on that phone.
“PJ is bad enough without taunting him. If I have the lad out, it’s just rubbing his nose in it. He’ll have to cut the big fella off.”
Christy had it all figured out. “No. He comes in, expecting two fellas to either have a go, or be shitting themselves in the corner. What he doesn’t expect is Mister Thirteen Inches eyeballing him. So for one second, he’s off his stride, then I whack him in the face.”
Little Mike was a sucker for flattery. “You really think the big fella would put a professional like PJ off?”
Christy snorted. “I fucking know it. Jesus Christ, that thing has a shadow longer than the Spire.”
Little Mike was amazed to find himself considering the idea. “Do we have anything? Beer, blow, fucking anything?”
“I think there’s a drop of Fanta in the end of that can.”
“Ah now, if you’re going to start taking the piss, you can show PJ your own langer.”
“Sorry, sorry. We’ve nothing. There’s no time anyway. He’s nearly here.”
It was true. The footsteps were louder now. No echo. PJ would be kicking in the door any second. He was their future and there was no escaping it.
“Over here,” ordered Christy, pulling his friend’s shoulders. “Right in front of the door.”
“And what? Just pull it out through the zip? Or drop the pants altogether.”
“I’d say through the zip, in case you have to run.” That was Christy, always thinking.
The footsteps were not going up anymore, they were going along.
“Nearly there,” said Little Mike. “There’s nothing in the bottom of your pocket. A doobie? A pill?”
“Nothing. Believe me.”
“Shit. Sorry. Just asking.”
Little Mike unzipped, rummaged, and flopped.
Christy had seen it before, but still spared a moment to look.
“Thirteen?”
“Yes, thirteen. Fuck off, begrudger.”
“You know, those school rulers have two sides. Centimeters and inches.”
Little Mike brandished his weapon. “You couldn’t even see the ruler, mate.”
PJ was coming. Each footfall firm and confident. He wanted to be heard. Fed on the fear. His legend grew larger with every step.
“Shit, I dunno, brother,” said Christy, and it was his plan.
Little Mike’s phone rang. He managed to answer without fumbling.
“Yes. This is he… It’s true what it says, amn’t I looking at it…”
“Mike!” hissed Christy, tapping his watch.
“Ah, yeah. Listen, let me get back to you. We’ll have text.” This was Little Mike’s standard hang-up line. He claimed to have thought of it himself.
Mike opened his knees wide, so that his langer would be framed by the gap between his legs. For first impressions a boner would have been good, but not likely.
“Okay, ready?”
Christy raised the piece of wood, making sure the nail was pointing away from him.
“Ready. This fucker’s dead.”
A split second later, PJ kicked in the door. He was mildly surprised to see Little Mike before him with his large langer swinging in the breeze, so he mashed it with his boot. And there was Christy, skinny, red mop, tracksuit, waving a piece of furniture at him. PJ caught the plank and reversed it into yer man’s face. Two down. No sweat. He brushed a section of the sofa with a sticky fabric roller he always carried, and sat to wait for the boys to stop screaming.