by Amy Cronin
Once the groceries were put away, Anna made herself a strong coffee and carried it upstairs and into the attic. The day was bright, though very cold, and sunlight streamed through the skylight window. The wooden attic floor was covered with linoleum, and Anna sat down, breathing deeply. Nausea crept up her throat, but she sat with her legs crossed and her eyes closed, concentrating on her breath until the feeling subsided.
When Anna opened her eyes, the first thing she saw was a box marked “FAMILYPHOTOS”. Very quickly she realised there really weren’t that many photographs of anyone besides her and Alex. Her parents had captured their every waking move when they were babies, and plenty of them sound asleep in a tiny cradle too. After that, as Alex and Anna got older, the photographs seemed confined to occasions. First days at school, holidays to West Cork or trips to Dublin Zoo. Anna usually sat atop her father’s shoulders, and it seemed her mother had been the chief photographer – she was in very few photographs.
Anna had never given it much thought until she was about eight or nine, but the realisation had come then that she and Alex had no cousins. She remembered doing a project in school, a type of “family tree”, and having the smallest one in the class. She had been very sad that all of her grandparents were dead, and she had no aunts or uncles, and no cousins to play with. She could remember being mocked about her family tree in the yard at breaktime and recalled Kate Crowley putting her arm around her shoulder.
“Natalie and I have only one cousin, and his breath smells like old socks!”
Anna had laughed heartily at that.
“Don’t worry about it, Anna – Natalie and me can be your cousins if you like.”
The next box Anna found contained clothes. Layers and layers of clothes. Helen Clarke had never liked to throw anything out, it seemed. Anna pulled out an old sweater that used to belong to her father – a round-necked navy-blue wool sweater that he used to wear over a shirt to work. Anna buried her face in it, hoping to inhale something of him, but whatever scent it used to hold had long since worn away. She dug deeper in the box, and gasped as she pulled out her mother’s winter coat. It had been her favourite. She’d had it dry-cleaned every winter, and worn it for three months, every day, always reluctant to put it away. It was a thick coat of the brightest, fire-engine red, with four jet-black buttons, and it had hung all the way down to her knees. Anna had loved that coat. In her childhood it had been a symbol of winter – whenever the temperature began to drop as autumn deepened, Michael would venture into the attic for his wife’s best winter coat.
As Anna bundled the coat and sweater back into the box, her eyes rested on her mother’s cello, propped up in the corner. She moved towards it, touching the strings gently. Helen had never played for them, in Anna’s memory, and had said it was a hobby she’d had as a young girl. Anna knew her mother had loved the sound of the instrument, and concerto music was played so often in their home that it felt like a soundtrack to Anna’s childhood.
She knelt at the cello for a few minutes, running her hands over the wood, trying to remember everything she could about her parents … how had ten years passed so quickly? Where were they?
Anna shook her head and moved away. Coming up here had been a mistake. This trip down Memory Lane was not doing her any favours. She felt deflated, and even more emotional than she had before. She resolved to find the Christmas decorations quickly and get on with her day.
As she searched, she pulled an old, faded bedsheet aside, and found a box marked “Anna’s School Things” in red permanent marker. It was her mother’s handwriting. Anna smiled. She reached forward and pulled the box towards her, taking things out one at a time. Report cards from her first to her final year in school – she had been a bright and well-behaved student, always excelling in maths. There was a medal she had won with a group of other students for a project on composting, and handwritten letters from her friends on fancy pink and purple paper, the scent they once held long gone. There were notes and letters from Vivian – who always signed her name with a love heart over the i’s instead of the usual dots – and Kate and Natalie. The notes were those that had been passed between the girls during class, and for some reason Anna had kept some of them. They detailed trivial irritations over teachers and homework and boys that were being particularly annoying. One set of notes, held together with a yellow paperclip, reminded Anna of a time when Natalie was being bullied by a girl a year ahead of them in school. Anna read through them, smiling at the childish handwriting, at their view of the world.
“You should tell Miss. Just get nasty Beth Willis in trouble – she deserves it!”
“Definitely! We’re all here to help you, Natalie!”
“We can sort it. We won’t put up with her!”
“Ugh! She’s the worst!”
Anna looked over the notes, at the words we, underlined. She thought it was Kate who had written that. She and Natalie had always spoken in terms of we instead of seeing each other as individuals. They had always had each other’s backs – Anna had felt many times that she and Vivian were on the edge of the world the twins shared. Kate and Natalie had been each other’s best friend, just as Anna and Vivian had been as close as sisters.
Anna pulled a framed photograph out of the box and a lump formed in her throat. Tears threatened to spill over again, but she was smiling. The four friends were standing together in Anna’s back garden, arms around each other’s shoulders, all grinning broadly. Anna marvelled at the image of herself, probably fourteen years ago – short with pale hair and big brown eyes. The Crowley twins stood in the middle, with identical bright-green eyes and long, curly red hair. Vivian stood on the far right, taller than the others, her brown hair in a high ponytail. Anna remembered her parents had thrown a barbeque to celebrate the end of primary school and had had the girls all sign the white cardboard surround of a photo frame, with copies given to each girl. Through tears of nostalgia Anna read the words they had written there, their friendship etched onto the card for ever. At the top of the frame, in pink marker and large bubble letters, Kate had written the caption: Best Friends For Life.
Anna put the photograph back inside the box and sat still, sipping her now cold coffee, her friends on her mind. Where was Kate now? Anna would do anything to help her. And, thinking of her date with Myles tonight, she realised she might soon get a chance to do just that.
Quickly checking the time on her phone, she hopped up with a start, bumping her head on the ceiling. It was practically lunchtime, and she had a hair appointment! She had been thinking about cutting her hair for a while now. She thought of her school-report cards and her routine life, and the way Frank Doherty had called her a “good girl”. She was ready to make a few changes, and what better place to start, she figured, than to update her look. She had worn her hair long for years. Perhaps shorter hair would make her actually look her age.
Quickly locating the boxes of tinsel and festive figurines, and with determination in her step, Anna headed back downstairs.
14
Tom Gallagher hated it when someone in his presence lost their temper. He saw it as the ultimate sign of weakness. It wasn’t that he couldn’t understand the urge to punch a hole through a wall. It was the loss of control that he disrespected. He cared nothing for men in positions of power who proved their “manliness” by lashing out. That was why he’d had trouble accepting David as a wife-beater. Natalie Crowley might not have been married to David, but she was the mother of his two daughters, of Tom’s own grandchildren, and as such deserved David’s respect. It made her part of the family and the Gallaghers never mistreated their own. And they never personally got their hands dirty; they hired men to dish out punishment beatings.
Tom had worked hard for years to earn and keep respect. He had a reputation for being brutal when crossed, but he liked to think those he had dealings with thought of him as an honourable man. Tom had always treated Mae like a queen; his own sons had witnessed nothing less. He had stressed to David that
if he felt the urge to knock a woman around, there were plenty of hookers on the payroll, plenty of junkies desperate for a fix. But it seemed David just couldn’t control himself, and that disappointed his father more than anything.
Tom maintained an office at the back of one of his clubs, the Oracle. The office walls and door were thick, turning the DJ’s efforts into a muted din. He had walked through the premises earlier, inspecting the bar and floor staff, and the podium dancers. He believed in being present, in reminding them he was the boss, always around. With one son dead and another missing, he needed to show control now more than ever. He had sampled a whiskey from a new supplier, and pressed the flesh, if you called squeezing the barmaid’s bottom that, and he sat now at his rectangular oak desk, in anticipation of good news.
Murray had taken four of his best men and they were positioned in the Mad Hatter. The manager of the club, Nick, was an old friend of Murray’s, and he was being more than accommodating. He had promised to stay out of Murray’s way, and turn off the CCTV recording system for the night. Nick was poised to point out Kate Crowley as soon as she arrived. Tom had decided to stay out of it – she was familiar with him; they had met at his granddaughters’ christening, and on a few other occasions. He didn’t want her to get spooked and run again. He expected to have her in his hands before midnight. There was still no sign of John – but Tom felt sure that once he had Kate he could unlock that mystery.
The telephone on his desk rang and he snatched it up. It was too early for his men to be calling him to say they had her in the back of a car. It was Mae.
“Tom!” she whispered urgently.
The hairs on the back of Tom’s neck stood on end. This sounded different to a whiskey-fuelled meltdown.
“Please come home. They’re here!”
“Who’s there?” he asked, rising to his feet.
“Two guys, eastern European maybe. They say they have John and they want to speak to you!”
Tom swallowed hard. His hand clenched tight around the handset. The Meiers.
“I’m on my way!” Grabbing his coat from the back of his chair, he bellowed to his driver: “Marco!”
For the first time in his life, Tom Gallagher felt close to losing control.
15
“What I don’t understand is how the fuck they got in!” Marco said.
As Marco sped through the streets of Cork, Tom stared out the window, his anger mounting. He had two men on the entrance to his house for protection. He had high electric gates and the two sentries had sat inside for over ten years. No-one had ever penetrated the security system, nor dared try. He didn’t answer Marco. Staring through the window, intently enough to burn a hole in the glass, he concentrated on quelling his anger and staying focused.
As they pulled into the property the double gate was wide open.
Where the hell were the security guys?
Marco drove along the winding driveway slowly. A black Range Rover was parked to the left of the front steps. It appeared to be empty. Marco stopped the car just before the front door, the headlights illuminating the wide flagstones. The steps appeared darker in one area. Tom exited the car and bent down to inspect them. Blood. There was a considerable amount of blood pooled on the porch step. He made a quick decision and held out his hand.
“Pass me your weapon, Marco!”
Marco had been manoeuvring his large frame out of the car. Without question he leant over to the passenger side and removed a handgun, fully loaded, from the glove compartment. He heaved himself out of the door and passed the gun to Tom. Tom tucked it into the back of his trouser belt. The front door was unlocked and slightly ajar. Together they entered the house.
In the wide tiled hallway, by the foot of the staircase, lay the crumpled bodies of the two security guards. Large dark gashes smeared their throats, their blood marking a track from the front door. Tom felt bile rise in his throat, quelled by his mounting fury.
“Take care of this! Get rid of the bodies!” he instructed Marco. “I don’t want the Guards here!”
Marco nodded and pulled out his phone. He was a big man, muscular, and one of Tom’s most loyal followers. He had seen his boss through many dark days, but these days seemed darker than most. He had cleaned up similar messes for Mr. Gallagher many times. Ely Murray and some of his best men were at the Mad Hatter. But there were others Marco could call to remove the bodies – he had no intention of leaving the boss here without protection.
Mae sat stiffly at the marble dining table. Her back was straight, her hands resting in her lap, her eyes cast down. She looked more sober than she had been in days. Facing her were two men. Although seated, Tom could see their long legs stretched out under the table, their broad shoulders pressed together. They were sallow-skinned and fair-haired. Tom had never met them before, but he assumed he was looking at two of the Meier brothers.
As Tom entered the room, they shifted their gaze from Mae to him, a half smirk playing on the elder’s lips.
“No need to stand,” Tom said coolly. “You can make the introductions from there.”
The older-looking of the men nodded. His eyes were hooded, the lids heavy. It gave him a sly appearance.
“I am Tobias Meier and you are Tom Gallagher. We’ve never met of course, although our intermediate has brought us together on many mutual business ventures. I think you’d agree they’ve been lucrative?” He gestured around the room and widened his hands, to take in the whole house. His accent was thick but his English perfect.
“Here is my brother Karl. He would shake hands but …”
Karl sneered and held up his hands to display bruised and cut knuckles. The message was not lost on Tom and Mae Gallagher – these were the hands inflicting savage pain on their son.
Mae whimpered and tears began to fall down her cheeks. Tom could smell whiskey as he sat beside her – he put a steadying hand on her knee.
Tom had never felt this level of fury before. He knew he would have to draw on the self-control he had practised all his adult life to get through this. It took all his effort not to pull the gun from his waistband and empty it into their faces.
“Where is John?”
Tobias Meier sighed in mock exasperation. “I have come to the conclusion that even if I remove every one of your son’s fingers, he will not tell me where the key is. I actually think he does not know.”
In the midst of Tom’s rage, two thoughts forced their way into his consciousness: John was still alive. What key?
“I gather from the information your son has managed to tell me that the items are perhaps lost. You may repay me for the money and diamonds of course, cover their value like for like, but the key I simply must have. Much less patient men than me need it very urgently. It must be returned.”
He spoke lightly, as if he were discussing the weather. He stood up, stretching his back from side to side, and began to move around the room, fingering photographs and ornaments, touching things gently. He stood at least six foot six and looked to be as broad.
Tom eyed him carefully, ready to move if he came too close. Mae kept her eyes on the marble tabletop.
“It’s very simple. You give me the key. I give you your son. In one piece. Almost.”
He winked at Mae and sat back down.
Tom sat as still as a stone, impassive, but his mind was racing, trying to recall the particulars of this deal. Ainsley, their usual middleman, had set it up. After a spate of robberies in Dublin, which the Meiers orchestrated from Munich, cash and diamonds needed to exit the city fast. David had driven to the capital, received possession of the goods, and was keeping them safe for a few weeks. It was a foolproof strategy that had worked many times. No-one searched the small city of Cork for items taken in the big smoke. After a period of time the items would be collected, the Gallaghers paid their holding fee, and the world kept turning until the next occasion their services were needed. Tom recalled the deal. Ninety thousand euro in cash, bundled in small notes, and four large dia
monds. Tom was ignorant as to the true value of diamonds – to him they were expensive trinkets he occasionally bought for Mae. David had spoken animatedly about the four stones, perfectly oval and flawless, stolen from a jeweller at gunpoint in O’Connell Street, Dublin. They were worth tens of thousands each, apparently. The Gallaghers were happy to charge an extortionate fee for hiding them, and happier still to hand them back. Except they couldn’t. The bag David had stored the items in was missing. Tom Gallagher had only one suspect. Kate Crowley. Natalie was too timid, too beaten down, had no spark left in her. But Kate, she was a sassy one, never leaving well enough alone.
This “key” Meier spoke about was news to Tom. David had never mentioned it. But how was he to gain information on it without alerting Tobias Meier that he wasn’t fully clued in, fully in control of the dealings of his own business? Tom cursed David – what had he got the family into?
“As I’m sure you’re aware, David is dead. He was murdered a few days ago. We are working on bringing his killer to justice. That same killer robbed him when she shot him. When we find her, we will have your key. Certainly, we will reimburse you for what you’ve lost right now. A Gallagher never reneges on a contract. We agreed to hold cash and four diamonds. I can compensate you for those. You can estimate the value of the diamonds.”
Tobias Meier nodded, looking more serious than before.
“As for this key, we can cover the value of that too. Plus ten per cent for the time you’ve wasted. And then I expect you will return my son without further harm.” Tom reasoned the key must surely be to a house or a building of some sort. He could afford to pay out. He wouldn’t lose another son.