Hi Mister

Hi Mister

Stephen Doherty

Hi Mister. Hi Mister. Hold on, hold on.

His school socks were gathered around his shoes and the thumb tacks in the heels clacked the way his big brother's boots did, but faster than normal as he pumped his legs up the cobble street.

The three men ahead of him were not used to running up hills and weren't very fast, but they had an urgency about them even with the awkward bags they were half carrying half swinging.

Mister. Mister. Wait, my dad will kill me if I don't get him his money. Hold on, Mister.

Billy had caught up with the stockiest of the three, the man in the jacket patched at the elbows and black brogues toting three canvas bags over his shoulder, one more then the man ahead of him and two more than the younger fella at the front who laughed as he ran up the steep pavement passed opening doors toward the sound of an approaching siren.

He won a fiver and sent me to get it and he'll kill me if I don't come back with it this time. Mister. Hold on.

In doorways women in aprons stood and watched with their arms crossed. Dinners were cooking on gas stoves in the kitchens behind them. Spuds were having the life boiled out of them and Doherty's sausages bubbled in heavy pans half covered in lard. In a rare kitchen carrots and cauliflower boiled in a pan of water, and somewhere in the city, but not on these streets, southern fried chicken was frying for the first time beside a recipe in a letter from America.

Mister. It was the half two race at Epsom and I need to get the winnings.

Billy Kelly ran on. Used to running and used to the hills. He didn't notice the clacking of the heels on the old cobles or the hole in the sole stuffed this morning with the cornflakes box. He was due another pair of shoes in September for his first year at secondary school and he had his eye on a pair Doc Martens but wasn't likely to get them. His mam had said the only docs he would have near his feet would be in the hospital if he wore through another pair shoes like the last pair. But he thought she was joking and would more than likely get his big brother's hand me downs before he got a new pair. Anyway, the summer holidays were coming and he would wear his trainers for the whole summer, or if the weather was great, like in his favourite book, he'd wear no shoes and just a pair of jeans and dive around in the grass. But he'd have to ask his mum for jeans first.

Mister. Wait. My dad said I need to get ten Regal with the money and I can get some sweets too.

Young fella Kelly. Leave those men alone and come in here now before you get yourself shot. Myra in number four shouted across to Billy waving the tea towel like well-used white flag while pushing the toddler wrapped round her leg back into the shadow of the doorway.

The bookmaker stood frothing among the customers and the corner boys shouting obscenities up the street at the three running men and the small boy who'd just come in with a winning docket and was now tugging on the jacket of the slowest and heaviest.

One of the younger men in the crowd, a skinny man, rubbed at his moustache and commented that it was a sad indictment on the proprietor when young boys had to chase down common thieves to collect on a bet from this establishment. The red faced owner turned and would have slapped him across the head except that the joke had gone down so well. He called them all a group name for layabouts that none of them had heard before, told them to go home and turned toward his place of business, presumably to use the phone. He let loose a mouthful of curses at his cashier, who could be heard sobbing above the chattering commentary of a horse race in England coming to its quick conclusion.

Have you no sense, son? Jesus Christ you're going to get yourself killed. Said the heavy-set man through his balaclava, panting with the start of a sweat under the thrice-stitched Donegal tweed jacket that he was sorry he'd put on that morning.

Aye, well, my Dad'll kill me before that if I don't get his money. He said I can get some sweets and I'm going to get a bag of mix from the mobile shop. Mister, you have to give me my Dad's money.

At the top of the street, on the turn into Waterloo Street a beige four-door car sat waiting, its engine way over the revolutions per minute suggested for idling in the owner's manual. Three doors and the boot were open and the car jerked back and forth like a racehorse at the gate, the driver unsure of the sweet spot on the clutch.

Heaney, leave that child alone and get in the car, will you. Shouted the smallest man who was first into the waiting Cortina. This is no time for making friends. Hurry up and get in here.

The second runner reached the car and threw his two canvas bags into the open boot and then stood with his hands on the lid ready to shove down on it and close it when the last man arrived.

Mister, mister. That's my Dad's money you have there. Here's the docket, look. You owe my Dad five pounds for the win and the pound he put down. That's six, mister. Can you give it to me now, can you?

Ah, Jesus Christ young fella. What is wrong with your head? Can you not see we're in the middle of something?

And Heaney, the big set man with the three canvas bags stopped in the middle of the street and dropped the bags and shouldered his rifle and punched down into the first of the bags, grabbed a handful of notes into his fist and shoved them at the boy.

Some of the money fell to the ground in balls and Billy scrambled to grab them all, eyes wide and counting.

There you go, son. Now go on back home to your Dad. And telling him to stop wasting his money on the horses. And tell him to pick up him his own winnings next time, the lazy bastard.

Thanks Mister. Thanks. And he's not lazy, he hurt his back at the bakery and he can't work now. I always collect his money for him because I'm the best in our house at maths.

Heaney, get in the car. Now.

The big man looked down at the dirty shins and bunched up socks in the torn street and spat on his hands and dug into the bag. He punched out toward the boy and the used-up bank notes went flying.

Now get lost.

Two of the car doors slammed as Heaney heaved the bags and the rifle into the boot and closed it with a glance back to the wee lad in the middle of the road grinning at the fistfuls of money in his hands and unaware of the sirens and tyres screeching and the women in the doors shouting at him and the men at the empty bookmaker's shop edging low back along the walls.

There was a crackle of gunfire as the car lurched away toward Butcher Gate and the Long Tower Chapel.

Billy Kelly was already on the far side of the bookies with his shoulders shoved deep into his pockets when the police jeep passed the top of the road followed by the army in the Saracen and two Land Rovers in formation.

The helicopter came by a few minutes later flying over the Bogside and the warren of alleys and smoking chimneys and back doors where the four men in the car knew their way around very well and the soldiers didn't.