Robert put the brandy glasses on the draining board. ‘We’re both tired,’ he said quietly. ‘It’s been a tough couple of days. Let’s just go to bed. I’m sorry for being short with you.’ He squeezed her hand. ‘Let’s go out for lunch tomorrow and talk when we’re not so upset. Okay?’
She nodded. ‘Okay,’ she said. She wasn’t giving in, not this time. ‘That’s a promise, then?’ she said.
He nodded. ‘Yeah. And try not to worry,’ he said.
She looked at him.
‘I mean it. You worry too much. About Ciarán. About Danny. About everything. It’s not as bad as you think it is.’
Lynda woke just before six. She’d slept better. Nothing had pulled her to the surface before she was ready. She glanced over at Robert. He seemed deeply asleep. She left the room quietly, making sure not to disturb him. She could hear voices as she approached the kitchen. She stopped, surprised. Ciarán: at this hour?
She opened the door and saw both of them, Ciarán and Jon, at the breakfast table. She looked from one to the other. ‘It’s Saturday,’ she said. ‘I thought you weren’t going to get up until lunchtime.’
Jon laughed. ‘Good morning. I hope we didn’t wake you?’
‘No, not at all. This is my usual time. I’m just amazed to see the two of you, that’s all.’
Ciarán jabbed his spoon in Jon’s direction. ‘His fault. We’re goin’ to see a match. Some mates of his are playin’. We’ve left you a note.’
‘But it’s only six o’clock!’
‘It’s in Galway. We’re taking the ten past seven train,’ said Jon. ‘Here – it’s all in the note.’ He handed her a piece of paper.
She waved it away. ‘It’s fine, it’s fine – there’s no problem. As long as I know.’ She looked at Ciarán. ‘I don’t think you’ve been to a match in years, have you?’
He grinned. ‘You can put it down to his good influence,’ and he pointed to Jon.
Lynda decided to say nothing about the previous night.
‘And we’re stayin’ over in Galway. We might even see Katie.’
‘Did you talk to her about her room?’ Lynda asked.
‘Yeah,’ he nodded, looking over at Jon. ‘She said it was grand with her, didn’t she? She just asked that we take away her teddies and dolls and all the girly stuff. We promised we’d keep them safe.’
‘Really?’ said Lynda. She was surprised. ‘Is that all? Didn’t she ask anything else?’
‘She was very generous,’ Jon said, quickly. ‘We had a long chat. She said she’s off to France soon for a residency, or something?’
‘Yes,’ said Lynda. ‘She won a scholarship to a college in Toulouse. A kind of exchange, for part of this term. Robert and I hope to fly out and see her.’
Jon smiled. ‘Well, I’m very glad to be taking her place here. And I’ll be very careful of the rest of her things.’
‘I’m sure you will.’ But Lynda wasn’t satisfied. She decided to call Katie herself, once the boys had left. She waited until she thought her daughter would be up and dialled her number.
‘I can’t talk for long, Mum. I’m giving a grind at ten o’clock. Is everything okay?’
‘Sure. Everything’s fine.’ Lynda paused. She knew that Katie had to get away to whoever she was tutoring – it was a great way for her to make some extra money. But she needed to know whether the two boys had been telling the truth. ‘I gather you spoke to Ciarán last night, and to Jon, his friend.’
‘Yeah,’ said Katie. ‘Jon sounds cool.’
Lynda smiled with relief. ‘Yes, yes he is. He and Ciarán get on really well. They’re thick as thieves. So you don’t mind him moving in, then?’
‘Of course not,’ said Katie. ‘Why would I mind? And even if I did,’ and here she laughed, ‘I’m off to Toulouse! I’m sooooo excited. You and dad still going to fly over for a weekend?’
‘Absolutely,’ said Lynda. ‘We’re really—’ There was noise in the background. Shouting, laughter.
‘Mum, I have to go. I’ll talk to you later.’
‘Do you need anything? I mean before you go to—’
‘I’m fine, I’m fine.’ Katie was impatient now. ‘Gotta go. Love you.’
‘Love you, too.’ But Katie had already hung up. Okay, Lynda thought. Ciarán’s happy. You’re happy. Jon is happy. I suppose I should be happy.
She was, as Robert liked to remind her, apparently worrying over nothing.
Now, before Robert got up, Lynda went out into the garden just for a couple of minutes. Last night’s heavy frost had made the deck dangerous. The sun wasn’t high enough yet to have made a difference, but the garden was beautiful: a stark, still-white photograph. The tortoise glistened; the gravel seemed even brighter than usual.
And she and Robert had a whole day together, on their own. She allowed herself to feel optimistic. They’d come through so much in the past. She’d have to believe they could come through this, no matter what Danny was threatening.
Without even glancing at next door, Lynda stepped back inside into the warmth of the kitchen and closed the doors firmly behind her.
At precisely five-thirty a.m. on Monday the ninth of February – according to instructions – the watcher tips six refuse-sacks full of rubbish over the garden wall.
He’d been concealing them, one by one over the past few days, behind a clump of spindly bushes. If anybody’d found them, they’d regard them as abandoned bin-bags. And no harm done. As it was, at five o’clock this morning, they were exactly as he’d left them, each of them filled to bursting point with Styrofoam containers from Burger King, food tins, used tea bags, vegetable peelings. Volume was all-important, according to Wide Boy. There was to be no ambiguity, as he called it, no chance of this being seen as a random lot of litter dispersed by the gales. This Event, he declared, would be the putting down of his marker.
The watcher looks at the garden below. He has cast his net wide, as it were, and a respectable amount of the gravel has been covered. The rubbish is smelly stuff, too. It has that peculiar, pungent smell that rotting vegetation has. Even from here, it catches him at the back of the throat. He folds the black bags carefully and puts them into a separate, clean sack, which he pushes well down inside his rucksack. He’ll dispose of them all when he gets home.
Wide Boy has been very specific about his instructions. It still feels strange, not having a real name to call him. But he refuses to give one, saying it is in everyone’s interest not to get too pally. That’s actually what he said: too pally. Pally, me arse, thinks the watcher. The thing is, he’d always been used to showing his employer a bit of respect. That’s the only reason he wanted a name in the first place. But he’s not getting one and so the watcher has kept on thinking of him as ‘Wide Boy’. It sounds good: just the right undertone of contempt. And he’ll find out his real name, soon enough. Someone, somewhere is bound to let it slip. And the watcher will catch it as it falls. That’s what good training does: keeps you alert to detail, makes you anticipate and add to your store of knowledge, bit by little bit.
Wide Boy reminds the watcher of a type, one he had come to know very well during the course of his more official working life. Smooth, big, probably good-looking once upon a time. Blue-eyed, dark-haired, still with an eye for the ladies. One who knows how the world works, who deals in cash and never pays full price for anything. Oh yes, the watcher has known plenty of pricks like that during his long career. Jumped-up, two-bit little gobshites who believe the world owes them a living.
But money is money and the bills still need to be paid. And at least Amy has stopped giving him grief about hanging around at home. You’re under my feet, she used to say. Go and find something to do. It made her cross, having him there. She had her routine, liked the house to herself. Without meaning to, he kept getting in her way, tripping over himself in his eagerness to help, to be useful. But she didn’t want help; didn’t need useful. His retirement, earlier than he had expected, a lot earlier than he would have l
iked, had left him feeling rudderless. He hated having nowhere to go.
Shame, that they never had any kids, Amy and himself. She’d have been a good mother. She always had a way with her. Tina’s three boys flocked to her, filings to a magnet. Children would have occupied her, kept her a lot happier than spending all that time celebrity-watching. He’s never really understood why babies didn’t happen for them. His brothers all had kids, large broods of them. And Tina had her three, bang bang bang. So it’s nothing that runs in either family, like. But anytime he tried to talk about it in the early years, Amy would just turn away from him. Her face would shut down. He’d get the silent treatment for days afterwards. It was eventually easier to let things slide. Easier than making her sad.
He jerks himself back to focusing on the job. Wouldn’t do to miss anything. But the garden below is still quiet; no lights yet, flaring upwards and outwards. He zips his jacket right up to his chin, and burrows further into the blanket. As soon as six o’clock comes, he’ll get the camcorder going. Wide Boy’s appetite for the recordings is insatiable. Name or no name, he’s probably right. It’s safer to keep the anonymity going. You can’t be too careful with freelance jobs like this. That way, there will be nothing to tie the two of them together if . . .
The watcher has never got around to finishing that thought. If what? he asks himself. He’s been told not to worry, that this isn’t really serious stuff, no big league crime or anything like that. Like he has needed to be reassured about that? But WB has taken the trouble to reassure him at almost every meeting. This isn’t about drugs, or protection rackets or extortion – nothing that will bring them face to face with Dublin’s criminal underworld, nothing like that.
Wide Boy laughs when he says that: ‘Dublin’s criminal underworld’. The most he’d known as a lad growing up, he says, is petty thievery, the occasional bits and pieces falling off the back of a lorry. The watcher says nothing to this. It is always best not to reveal too much about yourself. Best to remain in the shadows, on guard. Nevertheless, he can’t help but feel a surge of impatience when Wide Boy talks in that ignorant kind of way. He, the watcher, knows more about Dublin criminals – and more of them – than he can shake a stick at. WB isn’t even at the races, as far as that’s concerned.
Wide Boy keeps going on about the people in this house paying for their past crimes; about them showing him a bit of respect. The watcher wonders, though, how flat tyres and a few bags of harmless rubbish are proper payback for past crimes. And where does respect come into it? Keeping tabs on the enemy is one thing – but it’s all supposed to lead somewhere. But he keeps his powder dry. He’s felt from the start that this man is someone who needs to be humoured a bit; sometimes he’s even wondered if WB is all there.
The watcher recalls how Wide Boy has mapped out in great detail what he needs done, sitting in the back bar of O’Neill’s on Pearse Street, his ever-present notebook on the table in front of him. No text messages, he has warned, no calls, no emails. Ever. Memorize instructions and just do the job.
Or this tape will self-destruct in ten seconds, jokes the watcher. But WB looks back at him blankly and continues with his list.
Jaysis. Not even a glimmer.
But – hang on, here we go. It’s time for the watcher to get ready. Lights, camera, action.
The woman, whose name he’s known for some time to be Lynda, emerges onto the deck as usual. It has started to rain, that kind of fine misty rain that soaks everything, it seems, even more completely than a downpour. Visibility is poorish, but he is still able to see how her two hands fling up to her throat and her body jerks from side to side as she tries to take in whatever it is she believes she is seeing. The garden is a right old mess and the watcher now feels a kind of guilty pride in his work.
She screams ‘Robert, Robert!’ and a man, presumably the husband, comes charging out onto the deck, loses his balance on the wet surface and falls heavily onto his back, both legs flying out from under him. As the watcher watches, he thinks that this is an even better result than Wide Boy has asked for. There are raised voices then, and he distinctly hears the man called Robert cry out ‘For Christ’s sake, Lynda – someone has dumped their rubbish, that’s all. I thought you’d been attacked!’
But she is sobbing, weeping as though she has been attacked. She has helped her husband to his feet, and is clutching at his arms.
‘Look at it, Robert! Look at it! Are you still trying to tell me this is some sort of mistake? Are you crazy?’
He shakes her off, anger moulded into every movement. The watcher feels a new glow of respect for the man who is paying him. He should enjoy this one. He’s getting every detail now, rain or no rain. Wide Boy and his bags of rubbish have pushed Mrs Lynda’s buttons, all right. She is trembling, he can see it from where he’s crouching, can see the look of fear on her face. He is careful to keep the camcorder low, to make sure that no flash of silver gives him away.
‘Can’t you see?’ she is crying, shouting after her husband’s retreating back. She lifts her fists, shakes them impotently in the air. ‘Can’t you see that it’s him again? It’s Danny! His name is written all over this!’
Then he can hear no more. The husband comes back outside at once and puts his arms around his weeping wife. The watcher can see his attempts at comfort. He can also see that she is having none of it. She wrenches herself away from him and stumbles back through the doorway into their comfortable, warm, middle-class home.
Danny, eh? That’s a useful little bit of info. And the resemblance between the two men is unmistakable. Danny is heavier than this guy Robert, sure, and his jaw is more square. But the build is the same; even the way they hold themselves is the same. That makes Danny Mr Daniel Graham, brother to Mr Robert Graham. That might just come in handy. Might even get Jimmy to run a computer check, just in case. See what the files throw up. You have to cover your arse in this line of work.
Satisfied now, the watcher stands up, very slowly. He places the camcorder into his rucksack and secures all the straps. The Cantek has become as familiar to him as his own eyes, over the last few weeks. He likes the way he has really come to grips with the technology. And he’s proud of his ownership: single channel digital video recorder. Hard to say, easy to operate. The highest definition, all the bells and whistles. Jimmy and some of the lads at work recommended it for the last job and they were right. It was worth every cent of the four hundred and fifty bucks it cost. Nothing like the Internet. Buy what you like, no questions asked. He’s able to capture every movement, every gesture; he’s particularly proud of the close-ups.
Lights next door have just gone on – they must have heard the commotion. The watcher backs away from the wall and begins to make his way down the slope. A most successful morning. Wide Boy will be pleased. And so is he. Now he has a bit of information that Wide Boy doesn’t know he has.
Knowledge is power.
And Danny is pleased, very pleased. He spends the entire evening being pleased. But he is also cautious. They mustn’t lose the run of themselves, he says. Each Event must be followed by a long period of inactivity. Simple observation will suffice in the interim. Then, when things have settled back into predictability, it will be time to strike again. When the guard is down, that’s when the attack is most effective. Vulnerability is the greatest weapon of all. The more vulnerable your enemy, the less power you need to use.
On and on and on he goes; doesn’t even come up for air. Gets more excited with every thought, dragging on a cigarette as he paces up and down in front of the pub. As though he’s just discovered the greatest battle strategy of all time. Like Patton, lusting after glory. Teaching an old dog, the watcher thinks, but says nothing, as usual. It is manners to wait until invited so to do.
You just keep chipping away at things, Wide Boy is saying, over and over, his face glowing, and fear will do the rest.
5
LYNDA LEFT the curtains closed across the patio doors. She couldn’t bear to see her g
arden this morning, not after what had assaulted her yesterday. She didn’t want to look at what she might be forced to see.
She put on the coffee as soon as she heard Robert’s step on the landing. The images of the previous day haunted her. They kept returning, a jerky, hand-held camera, the pictures too bright, the colours gaudy. They hurt her eyes, even if she closed them. Last night, when she eventually slept, her dreams had been full of Danny.
Robert came into the kitchen now. ‘You okay?’ he asked.
She laughed shakily. ‘I don’t know. I haven’t looked out there yet.’
He went over to the doors and pulled the curtains across. Lynda sat at the table and kept her forehead in her hands. She wanted not to hear what he was going to say. If she kept her head down, maybe it would all just slide away, disappearing into the winter dawn. She heard Robert unlock the doors and step outside onto the deck. Then she heard the click and knew that the sensor light had just switched on. She held her breath.
She didn’t want to fight him again. Their recent rows had left her exhausted and trembling. She couldn’t remember the last time she had been so angry at Robert.
‘You just refuse to see it!’ she’d screamed yesterday. ‘You knew Danny was here and you kept on denying it! You wouldn’t even let me see the letters!’
‘I didn’t deny anything!’ Robert had blazed back. ‘I’ve no evidence that those letters were delivered by Danny! You’re obsessed by him!’
‘And you wonder why?’ she’d spat back. ‘He lies to us, steals from us, cheats us – we’ve even had to pay his debts. You just refuse to see how dangerous he is. Don’t you understand? He’ll stop at nothing to get revenge.’
Robert had stared at her. ‘Revenge?’ he’d said. ‘Revenge for what? Danny’s the only one responsible for what he did. No one else.’
Lynda’s anger had seeped away. ‘You don’t get it, do you?’ She’d looked at her husband’s baffled face. He doesn’t understand, she’d thought. He really doesn’t understand. ‘Danny wants revenge for this,’ and she’d spread her hands out. ‘He doesn’t just want money; he’s not looking just to be taken care of.’ She’d stopped, lowered her voice. ‘He doesn’t see the world the way we do. In his fucked-up head, we owe him.’
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