Wee Danny (8 page)

"Don't squeeze so hard, mate."

"I'm scared."

"I know. It'll be over soon. Just try to relax."

Conan loosens his grip then squishes my knuckles again when the wee lad on the boat shouts at us through the megaphone;

"Are you all right?"

I yell as loud as I can. "We were fine until you got here, you stupid fucker!"

He pauses, looks at the others in the boat. They're too far away to tell for sure, but I think his shipmates are smirking. Sicken him. The wee lad shakes his head and blasts his voice at us again;

"Can you swim towards us?"

I look at Conan. "Do you want to go on a boat?"

"He's too loud."

"Fair enough." I cup my mouth with my free hand. "No, you're all right! We'll get the next one!"

Conan jerks beside me and tugs my hand to pull me closer. He points at the sky.

"There's a helicopter coming."

And he's right. The chooka-chooka noise swells as a black dot in the grey sky grows. In just a few seconds, a huge red and white helicopter circles above us.

"For fuck's sake."

It's not even funny any more. These morons are going to drive the big lad nuts.

Conan lets go of my hand and sinks his head under the water. Whether he's hiding or just trying to dampen the noise, I don't know. I do know that he can't stay there for long.

"Hey! Boat wankers! Can you not tell that helicopter to fuck off?" I slap the water and throw my hands in the air, raging. They can't hear me. I near split my throat screaming, "Get the helicopter out of here!"

Conan's still under the water. I reach down to pull him back up and he shoves my arms away. Almost knocks me over.

I look at the lifeboat just as two of the crew drop off the side of the boat. They swim towards us, fast as fish. The young lad that I took the piss out of gets to us first. He looks confused.

"What's he doing?"

I shrug. "Fucking
drowning
. Do something."

"You're an awful cheeky cunt."

The wee lifeguard pushes me out of the way and I just about keep my footing. He beckons the older one with a flick of his head. "Come on, Marty. Give us a hand."

Between them, they get Conan to stand up. It's a rough wrestling match but they're fit for the barbarian's struggles. I almost shout out when the one called Marty grabs my friend by the hair and jerks him backwards. I tell myself it's for his own good, though.

"Come on, big lad," Marty says. "Take it easy."

"What the fuck's wrong with him?" the other lifeguard asks.

"I don't know, Sean," Marty says. "Just try to keep him still, will you?"

I spit salty mucus and say, "He's got special needs. The noise of the helicopter is scaring him. Try not to hurt him, please."

"Oh, great stuff," Sean bares his teeth. "And was it your bright idea to bring the retard out to drown?"

The
bastard
.

"Sean, keep a hold of him for God's sake. He's strong as a horse."

I push the urge to strangle the young lifeguard to the side. Conan needs me.

"Conan, Conan, Conan. Listen, I've made up a wee song. Do you want to sing it with me?"

The barbarian cries out and slaps Sean's ear with a free hand before the lifeguards can grab a hold of it again. Sean looks like he wants to hit him back. That won't work out well for him.

"Listen, Conan. It's like the old skipping song. Maybe you heard it when you were in primary school?
Helicopter, helicopter, please come down.
But we don't want it to come down, do we? We want it to go away, right?"

"Make it go away, Danny."

Thank Christ, I've got his attention. I doggy paddle closer to him and make sure I'm in his eye line. He's struggling less already. Marty and Sean are looking at me like I'm loopy-loo. Fuck them.

"This might work, mate. Sing with me, okay?
Helicopter, helicopter, please fuck off. Helicopter, helicopter, go 'way and get lost
."

It takes a few goes for Conan to catch the rhythm right. But he gets it. I shoot Marty a look as we sing the dopey tune over and over. He nods to me and starts to guide Conan towards dry land. Even sings our dopey wee song, low and awkward like the way my da always sings
Happy Birthday
. Sean just shakes his head and rolls his eyes.

We get to where the water slaps against our knees and the helicopter does get lost. Conan's chest hitches and he stops singing. Marty trails off but I go for it one more time at the top of my voice and give the fading whirly-gig the finger with both hands.

"It worked," Conan says.

"Maybe we're magic, mate."

The barbarian doesn't look convinced.

I turn to Marty and extend my hand. He shakes it firmly.

"Thanks, big man. Sorry for getting you wet and all."

Marty shrugs. It's just his job, I suppose.

I take a few steps towards Sean, my hand extended again. He hesitates at first then reaches for it. I curl my fingers into a fist and jump up to clip his chin with an uppercut. Sean stumbles back and I throw myself at him, catching him in the balls with a knee. We hit the shallow water and I try to do some more damage. But I can't get any force behind my rabbit punches. Then there are hands on me. Marty and one of the cops, his trousers soaked, drag me away from Sean.

I let them dump me on dry land without a fight.

Conan looks worried and I've made my point.

The peelers sort us out with tinfoil blankets and cups of tea from the chippy. We're on the bench where we left our clothes, waiting to dry out before we put them on. The cop who ran into the water to stop the fight is hunkered down in front of us, scribbling in a wee notebook. He's changed into a pair of jeans. If I was in a better situation, I might have come up with a joke about cowboys in the PSNI. But I just gaze over his head at Strangford Lough. It looks class now that the sun is cutting through the grey clouds. I doubt I'll ever forget this place.

"You're in a lot of trouble, boys," the cop says.

"It was my fault. Not Conan's. He didn't know we weren't allowed to leave Castle Ward."

The cop makes a point of underlining this after he jots it down.

I'll tell them fuck-all else, but I want to make sure Conan doesn't get time added. In fairness, he wouldn't have done any of this mad shit if I hadn't led him to it. I've a feeling the cop agrees. He must know by now that Conan has special needs.

"The lifeguard wants to press charges against you, Danny. Can't say I blame him. You know they all volunteer to work that lifeboat?"

"He said a bad word about me," Conan says.

The cop sighs. "That's a shame. But it's no excuse. Do you understand that, Conan?"

"Danny can't help it. He likes to look after me."

I have to work like fuck to maintain my poker face.

The cop stands up and slips his notebook into the back pocket of his jeans. "You could try apologising to the man, Danny."

No chance.

"You're going to be in enough trouble without adding this on top, you know."

"I don't think he's going to do it," Conan says.

"I'll give him a wee minute to think about it, sure, will I?"

Conan nods.

"They've told me that we've to bring you two back in separate cars." The cop's voice is low. Friendly, almost. "This might be the last chance you get to chat to each other for a while. Just so you know, like."

I make eye contact. "Thank you."

He nods and wanders off to talk to Sean again. Hopefully he knows what a big deal it was for me to be nice to him.

"Conan, no matter what, you tell them that everything today was my idea, all right?"

"Swimming was my idea, though."

"Doesn't matter. Things will be easier for you if you just tell a couple of very small lies, okay?"

"I'm not good at lying."

"I've a feeling people will want to believe you this time, Conan."

My tongue still tastes salty. I hack and spit. Conan copies me.

"It was a really good day, Danny."

"I know."

"Can I give you a hug before we go back?"

"Aye, after you get dressed, mate."

"Tell me where Conan is."

Alan drags the back of his hand across his lips. "You know I can't do that, Danny."

"You can rightly. You just don't want to."

"Whether I want to or not is irrelevant."

"Aye, right."

"We're here to talk about
you
."

"I'm not interested in me, I'm interested in what happened to my mate."

"You
should
be interested in yourself. It's that attitude that got you in so much trouble to begin with."

"Go away and shite."

"Danny, please."

I fold my arms. He's a useless bastard. Worst psychologist I've ever had the misfortune to work with. Knowing me, he won't be the last. Hope the next one has a bit of cop-on.

"If you're going to be like this then we may as well end the session."

"No skin off my ball bag."

"So you'd rather go sit in your room for the next half hour?"

"It'd be as much use, wouldn't it?"

"No, not really. I've told you before, my report will have some bearing on your court case. I would prefer to make life easier for you, not tougher."

"That a threat? Not very professional,
mo chara
."

"It's definitely not a threat."

"My hole."

"Okay, Danny. This is utterly pointless. Just go."

"Where's your sense of humour, Alan?"

The shitty psychologist shakes his head and points at the door.

"Fair enough, fair enough. But here. Can I ask one wee question before I go? Pretty please?"

Alan takes a deep breath, closes his eyes for a couple of seconds, then nods.

"Where the fuck is Conan, you wanker?"

"You'd sicken a pig, Danny Gibson."

"Aye, I know. Sure put that in your fucking report, why don't you?"

I slam the door on my way out.

I spark up the lighter and stare at the flame. My thighs tingle. I've got twenty minutes to myself thanks to Alan's hissy fit. Just enough time. But there's somebody tramping up and down the corridor. They could look in the peep-hole. Make a big deal out of nothing. There's already been some discussion about the old scars following the Strangford adventure. One of the cops must have touted to the pricks that run this shithole. They're all wankers.

But they're not as smart as they think they are. I gave up my original lighter. Adrian was able to get me a new one the next day through his connection in the kitchen. He asked me if I wanted fags as well. I said yeah. Doubt I'll smoke them but I figured it wouldn't do any harm to have a wee pack stashed away. Plus, I don't want Adrian figuring out what I really want the lighter for. It's bad enough that the staff know about the scars.

He's been less of a dick the last few weeks. I think he's even started to like it when I call him Ady. Maybe he's not all that bad. I'd never count him as a mate or anything, but it's nice to have one less person in my life I'd consider an enemy.

The footsteps in the corridor have faded away. I flick the lighter back to life. Pass my fingers through the flame. The skin on the back of my neck tightens. So does my sac. But the urge has passed. I stow away the lighter and go to my desk. There's still time to kill. I read through a letter to Conan. It cheers me up a bit. This might be the one. Simple, friendly, a wee bit funny. I'll read it a few more times before I seal it in the envelope.

No point rushing until I get Conan's address out of somebody.

Miss still has the hump with me but I think she's softening a wee bit. Or maybe she's just more professional than Alan and controls her feelings better when I'm bugging her. Either way, there's no point torturing her to find out where Conan ended up. Not yet.

"I'll find you, mate. No matter what, we'll go swimming again some time."

What am I like? Talking to myself.

But sure, who the fuck else is worth talking to around here?

###

a novel

If you enjoyed
Wee Danny,
then you can read more about Wee Danny Gibson in Gerard Brennan's
Wee Rockets,
the classic novel that does for Belfast what Irvine Welsh did for Edinburgh.

A gang of fourteen-year-old hoods rampage through West Belfast, indulging in violent street crime and mugging pensioners to pay for cider, cigarettes and sweets. Branded scum by a shocked community and pursued by a dogged local vigilante, the young gangsters' antisocial behaviour soon escalates into something much worse.