Legitimate Target

by Dee McInnes

  Chapter Thirty

  After the door closed behind them, Dermott dropped Viv’s stilettos onto the floor, took off his tie and opened the top button of his shirt.

  “So. Here we are,” he said.

  Inside the room was a small sitting area with a glass-topped table, a moleskin couch and a single armchair. A double bed with a sleigh-style head and footboard dominated the room, and there was a mirrored wardrobe. Viv tried not to think about what might be expected of her. Stay calm, she told herself. Don’t panic. She shrugged his jacket from her shoulders and walked across the carpet. From the window she could see the place where they had been standing minutes earlier. The yellow and orange quayside lights reflected off the water that was black. Like his soul?

  He picked up the room telephone. “What’ll you have? More champagne. Whiskey?”

  “Irish, with ice, please,” she said.

  He spoke to someone on the other end and came over to stand close behind her, hugging her tight. Pressing his hips forward. His lips grazed the back of her neck, making her stomach churn. “Have you been to Derry before?” he said.

  “No, I only know it… by reputation.”

  “There are plenty of stories to be had in this place, that’s for sure,” he said. “Have you known Carmen and Mark for long?”

  “Carmen and I met at university.”

  “Intelligent then, as well as beautiful.”

  “What about you?” Viv turned around to face him.

  He kissed her, trying to force her lips apart with his tongue.

  “Let’s hang on until our drinks arrive,” she said, pulling away. “Tell me about yourself. I assume you grew up here, in the city?”

  “I left school at sixteen. Going no-where. Fat chance of a university education…my Dad left home when I was young. My Ma worked two jobs to make ends meet. One of my schoolfriends had an older brother. I got a job in his business.”

  “What sort of things did you do?” Viv asked.

  “We delivered things. A courier service, of sorts…” A knock at the door made him pause. “That’ll be the drinks,” he said. “Draw those curtains, will you?”

  Viv closed out the dark, although she worried it was just behind her.

  “There’s a couple of drinks each that should keep us going,” he said, setting down a tray. “Now, where were we getting to half an hour ago?”

  Viv forced a smile and adjusted the strap of her purse over her shoulder. “I just need to use the bathroom. Give me five minutes.” She slid the bolt and stared into the mirror above the wash basin. Her complexion was pale under the harsh strip-light, the domed burn mark, pink and angry. She thought back to the early morning when she had woken up and discovered that her father had been murdered. Shot twice and blown to smithereens.

  Her father owned an oil painting, a reproduction of the famous Last Supper of Christ. In the painting, The Son of God was seated at a long table which was covered by a white cloth. Behind his head were three windows, the centre pane framing his outline, his face surrounded by a halo of light. The aspect of the painting was clever, the side walls angling inwards, creating the impression of distance. She remembered, as a child, trying to match the sandalled feet under the table to the faces above. There were too few feet. Some of them were hidden in the shadows. She had taken the painting down after her father’s murder.

  Viv reapplied chocolate coloured lipstick and leant back against the door. Jumped when knuckles rapped on wood.

  “Is everything okay in there?” Dermott asked.

  She slid her phone out and set the voice recorder on pause. Undid the bolt… hooked her arms around his neck and kissed him, swallowing her distaste, pushing him back into the bedroom, her pubic bone pressing against the front of his trousers. He kissed her back, his tongue darting between her lips, his jaw working hard, forcing her mouth open.

  “I need a drink,” she said, breaking free. She perched on the arm of the couch. The thought of being intimate with him made her feel sick, assuming what she had been told was true. But she was determined to find out more. She needed to know for sure, before…before what?

  He had suggested a swim in the hotel’s pool, but she wouldn’t want anyone seeing them together, nor for there to be an, ‘afterwards’. A ticker tape popped into her head, ‘Football coach drowned in Derry City Hotel after late night sex-romp.’ Far too complicated.

  “What’re you thinking about? Are you okay?” he asked. “You seem miles away. Is the drink catching up with you?”

  “I’m fine, just wondering if we have enough alcohol? It might be a long night,” she said.

  “Jesus, I’m half-cut already. If I drink much more, I’ll be fit for nothing…we were all invited to the Mayor’s Parlour, her private drinking den, before dinner. That’s why some of the Councillors, and their other halves, were so wasted. God, it’s hot in here.” Dermott took off his cufflinks and rolled up the sleeves of his shirt. “Come on over here.” He sat on the couch and pulled her onto his lap, slipping his hand under the hem of her dress, biting her ear lobe. Viv tried not to feel anything, tried to ignore the involuntary chemical response.

  “Why don’t we lie down,” she said, getting up.

  He carried the drinks to the bedside table, kicked off his shoes and stretched back.

  “I’m ready and waiting.”

  “Close your eyes,” she said. She put her purse to the side and slid her phone out, tapping the screen to start the voice-recorder. If she could record his confession, she would go to the police. Resist any temptation to take the law into her own hands. Her fingers hesitated over his button. She forced the circle of plastic through the gap and teased the zipper.

  “I met that friend of yours before we left. The one who told us to get a room,” she said.

  “Who? Noreen? She’s got a long-standing grudge. Forget about her.”

  “She was very drunk. She nearly fell off the couch in the Ladies.”

  Viv tugged the zip down a few centimetres.

  “Yes…come on…I can’t hold on much longer.”

  “Noreen said when you were younger, you got up to no good. Tell me about something you’ve done that was really, really bad. Then I’ll show you something that will take your breath away. It will be the best you’ve ever had I promise you.” Viv moved her hand away.

  Dermott opened his eyes. “Do you mean tantric sex? When you make love all night?”

  “Sort of the opposite. Tell me a secret. Afterwards I’ll show you what I mean.”

  He raised himself up on one elbow and grabbed the glass from the table, his blue-green eyes narrowing for a moment. He drained the whiskey and laughed. “Come on, you’re killing me.”

  He tried to grab her, but she moved out of reach.

  “The quicker you spill the beans, the more time we’ll have,” she said, forcing a smile.

  “You know, my mother always used to say, if Dermott’s born to be shot, he will never be drowned. This stuff is just between us, isn’t it?”

  “Of course. What happens in Derry stays in Derry, remember? You can trust me.”

  “Well, you know, when I was growing up, anyone not involved in The Cause was said to be siding with the opposition. The men at the top of the food-chain were ruthless. They operated a primitive philosophy. People disappeared. An entire family could be punished.”

  “What sort of things did you do, back then?”

  “We delivered things, that much is true. But it was messages, hard talk, sometimes beatings. One time we broke a man’s legs in twenty different places. He never walked again. I hung out with my best friend and his older brother…now your legs and what’s in between them is a whole lot more interesting to me. Come on, show me what you’re talking about. You can’t tease me any longer.” Dermott stretched forwards trying to touch her.

  “I need to know more,” Viv said, keeping her distance. “Tell me the worst thing you’ve ever done. Did you ever end someone’s life? Hypoxic sex can take you right to
the limit…right to the thin line between life and death. I could show you pleasure, and pain,” she rubbed her fingers over her breasts, pinching herself through the taupe-coloured material, hoping her act was convincing. “From there, from the precipice, it’s a small step to oblivion… a hair’s breadth to the ultimate release.”

  “This is agony,” he said, watching her. She didn’t say anything, holding his gaze. He bit his lip and took another gulp of whiskey. Viv pulled her dress up to her thighs.

  “If you want some of this, I’ll need all the gory details, she said.”

  “One time, we were given a legitimate target. I had a semi-automatic pistol that’d seen better days. My mate drove us to the east shore, not far from here. It was a few years after the new bridge went up… We were tipped a nod. I never knew who the hit was. After …afterwards, I set up an explosion. We went into hiding across the border, until the heat died down. You remember the place I pointed out from the top of Grianan Fort?”

  Viv bit the inside of her lip, willing herself to stay calm. “Go on.”

  “My glass’s empty,” Dermott said.

  “Here, have mine.”

  He took another drink. “I’m not proud of what I did, ‘tho some might say otherwise.” Dermott cleared his throat. “Look. I can see now that I was in over my head from the start… but when I was young, there was an accidental death in my family. I felt responsible. Later on, I married my friend’s sister, but she turned out to be a liar. There, does that satisfy you? C’mon it must be your turn to show and tell.”

  Viv pulled the zipper all the way down and Dermott began to tug his trousers over his hips. She leant over and paused the voice-recorder before sliding across the bed and tucking herself up behind him, wrapping one arm around his neck with her chest behind his shoulders.

  “What now?” Dermott groaned.

  “Take hold of yourself. I’m right behind you. Trust me,” she whispered into his ear.

  “Christ almighty.”

  The bed began to vibrate, his breath coming in short bursts. Out of the corner of her eye, she could see the black-faced dial of the Breitling and the red tip of the second-hand edging around the steel bezel. She tightened her grip around his neck.

  His movements became more and more frantic - until at last it was over.

  Chapter Thirty-One

  When Pete’s car drew up, Viv was standing in the rain with her overnight bag at her feet. The cap-sleeved dress was screwed up at the bottom. She’d let Carmen know she was getting picked up. That Pete was back on the road. Carmen had asked her to ‘dish the dirt about last night’. Viv had ignored the question with a vague,

  “What would I do without you?” she said.

  Viv threw her bag into the back seat and climbed in.

  “You’re in a big hurry to leave. Did you not have a good night?” Pete said.

  “I’m not a high heels and handbags type of girl.”

  “I’m really sorry I couldn’t make it. The rim buckled. I couldn’t even get the spare on.”

  “You’re here now, that’s what matters. I saw your court summary,” Viv said. “So, Mitch is being sentenced on Thursday.”

  “Yea. He was in and out in under ten minutes. Are you gonna come, to see what he gets?”

  “I’m not sure, there are a couple of other things you need to know first,” she said.

  “You said something about a major development?”

  “That, and something else. How did you get on at the property agents yesterday?”

  “It was a right Hansel and Gretel, a crumb-trail. I went to three different places until I ran out of time. At the last address, a shared flat, I was told that Karol’s missus works in a supermarket out at the Tower Shopping Centre. Aidan’s doin’ a delivery in that neck of the woods, I thought I’d take him. He’s built like a brick shit-house.”

  “Don’t flaunt any rules,” Viv said.

  “I won’t do. I’ll be riding shotgun.”

  Pete was wearing the green, padded sports jacket that he had loaned her after the fire. Viv remembered the feel of the material against her skin. The scent of him. The windscreen-wipers had a hypnotic effect. She leaned back against the headrest, closing her eyes like she’d done when he drove her to Carmen’s house, after the fire. So much had happened since then. Last night she had been tempted to pick up a pillow and finish the job - but all Dermott Donnelly had confessed to was shooting someone and causing an explosion. He could have been talking about her father’s murder, but she needed to be certain. She had made her excuses afterwards and left.

  She shook herself awake. “Where are we now?”

  “Just coming through Ballykelly,” Pete said.

  “Could we stop for a minute? There’s somewhere I want to go, then we’ll talk. Turn back would you, to that petrol station.”

  The rain had eased. Viv went inside, bought a bouquet of flowers and two cups of coffee. She got back into the Astra, cradled the cardboard drinks-holder on her lap and stowed the flowers at her feet.

  “Where to?” Pete asked.

  She directed him onto Seacoast Road and past the garden centre, travelling along winding roads, circumnavigating lowland farms, their fields dotted with cattle. The ragged brown and green table-top cliffs of Benevenagh mountain stretched overhead. A black and white road sign entreated, ‘Please Drive Slowly Through Dunross.’ “Pull over there please,” she said, pointing out a wrought iron gate with grey, flaking paint. Pete switched off the engine and she set the cup holder on the dashboard. “Hang on here please, I won’t be long.”

  The old church was set well back from the road. Five cathedral-shaped windows between lichen-stained stone with a single spire. Viv followed the gravel path, stones crunching under her feet. The graveyard was at the rear. The haunting cries of seagulls carried in from the lough shore. The sky had brightened but the wind was raw. She tightened the belt of her overcoat, searching for the familiar headstone. She remembered Carmen had said, as they’d got ready for the party, ‘You should look forwards, not back.’ Always easier said than done.

  The cold wind hurt her nose and fingers. Viv felt like she had stepped back in time. She remembered the prayers at the graveside, the lines of men and women in black, the bowed heads, the lump at the back of her throat that hurt so much. The living statues amongst the graves. The polished granite headstone was farther back than she remembered, the rows of plots expanding relentlessly. The silver letters, chiselled into the black, had aged well.

  Helen Hunter, a Much-Loved Wife

  and Mother, Aged 52 Years.

  Also Sean Hunter, A Beloved Husband

  and Devoted Father, Aged 64 years.

  Viv placed the flowers below the plinth. Where it met the earth, a strip of lime-green moss was flourishing. She took out her phone and stepped back to take a photo. So many happy memories. It was time to look to the future.

  The steam from Pete’s coffee cup had formed a circle of condensation inside the window. His arm was stretched along the door-ledge, fingers tapping to the beat from his stereo. He turned the volume down. “Are you okay?” he asked.

  “It’s just the wind,” Viv said, wiping her eyes with the back of her hand. “Could you drive a bit further on? There’s a car park beside the river. There are things we need to discuss.”

  “Uh um, sure.” Pete re-covered his cup and handed it over. “Lead on Macduff,” he said.

  “It’s lay on, not lead, but it’s no time to split hairs.”

  They crossed Swann’s Bridge and she pointed out the turning.

  “It’s a shame we haven’t brought anything to eat,” he said, pulling on the handbrake.

  “Are you always thinking about your stomach?”

  “Well, ye know...”

  “Look Pete…”

  “I wanted to tell you something…but you go first,” he said.

  She ran her index finger over her scar and watched the red tipped dial of t
he Breitling. Ten seconds passed. “So much has happened, I hardly know where to start.”

  “Yer telling me. There’s never a dull moment whenever we get together. Is there?”

  “Pete, please listen. This isn’t a joke. Look, you know I really appreciate your support and value our friendship. The work we put into the investigation was sound and we came up with a lot of good material, against a tight deadline,” she said.

  “If only Mitch hadn’t scuppered our story.”

  “Exactly. I don’t think The Boss, or Legal, would have backed our Conspiracy of Silence. A lot of the evidence was circumstantial. Although I’m no fan of Rhona Haslett, money’s no object to her. She could easily tie us up in red tape.”

  “So, what? You’re ditching the idea? If that’s what you think is best…I don’t mind. Now Doctor Haslett’s dead, the whole focus has shifted anyway. But it was fun…well, not the time when you nearly burned to death, obviously. That’s what I wanted to talk to you about…”

  “Not exactly. That’s what I want to explain. I need to tell you about my interview with Tania McVeigh, as well as about something else that happened at the party last night, totally out of the blue.”

  “No-one hurt you, did they? I really wish I’d been there…I’m so sorry I let you down.”

  “No, nothing like that. I’m perfectly fine.” Viv took a deep breath. “I sent Carruthers a feature, for release after Mitch is sentenced. The story of how Alice, Mitch and Tania McVeigh’s lives have been affected. How they were destroyed by Steven Haslett.”

  “Sound’s good to me,” Pete said.

  “There’s just one problem. I haven’t told the whole story…I met Tania at Botanic Gardens yesterday morning and I made a recording. You can listen to it sometime, if you like. The truth is… she was in on the whole thing.”