Falling Glass

by Adrian McKinty

  He had breakfast at the Jordy: Guinness pie and a coffee instead of a pint.

  He walked to the car rental place on Cornmarket Street.

  He wasn’t sure how he’d ended up in this town. He’d never liked it. It was the young people. Even the nineteen-year-old douchebag giving him the rental car was way too cool for school. There was more attitude in Carrick than Belfast or Dublin. First the kid said the place didn’t open until half past seven and then the car itself turned out to be a white Ford Fiesta when he’d specifically ordered a Land Rover over the web. He kicked a pro forma stink and the douchebag pretended to look for another vehicle on his screen.

  “Sorry, nothing else,” he said.

  “Okay,” Killian muttered.

  The Fiesta was parked at the far end of the lot, under a tree, covered in squirrel shit. Inside it smelled of aftershave.

  “Thanks for nothing,” Killian mouthed as he drove out of the car park.

  “Bye, and why don’t you go fuck yourself,” the douchebag mouthed from his booth.

  Killian, who’d been taught to read lips by Kev McDonnell in the pit at the Trump Atlantic City gave him the finger; the kid responded in kind, and at exactly the same time both of them laughed.

  “Carrickfergus,” Killian said, and suspected that he was only pretending not to like it.

  He drove north up the coast.

  The radio was no good. Politics, country, soft rock.

  There were mountains, glens, trees, cute wee towns and across the North Channel a fair of chunk of Scotland spectacular in the morning light.

  For a while it looked a little like there was a tail on him, a kid in a big SUV, but when he hit the Causeway Coast the tail was gone.

  Coleraine was students, civil servants and more students.

  Rachel Coulter’s last known address was a caravan park a little down the coast from the centre of town, not too far from the surfing and tourist spot of Portrush. Coulter’s boys had found her there but they had fucked up the get. Three of them on her and she’d got clean away and they didn’t even write down a licence plate. Well, as Sean would say, amateur hour was over.

  He hit the caravan park, knocked at a few doors until he was pointed in the direction of Anna, the next-door neighbour. He could tell straight away that money wasn’t going to be an incentive for her. She was poor and a Jehovah’s Witness, with a glint of eternity in the white of her eyeballs.

  There were a lot of kids running around; two of them were singing some kind of hymnal that would have sent Alan Lomax running for the tape recorder and the rest were playing a complex game that seemed to involve a lot of violent disputes about the rules. Consequently he had to give her the rap between screaming matches.

  Ten questions in he saw that she didn’t know anything. Rachel hadn’t trusted her, which was pretty smart.

  “You should ask Dave,” Anne said. “Him over there. She took his car.”

  Dave was the other next-door neighbour, the man who’d owned the trailer she’d rented and, yes, whose car she’d borrowed and sold.

  Coulter’s men had got nothing out of Dave which was only to be expected.

  Dave was sitting in a lawn chair drinking a beer and watching him while pretending to read Top Gear Magazine.

  “Mr Reynolds?” Killian asked.

  “That’s me.”

  “My name’s Killian,” Killian said.

  Killian reached over and offered Dave his hand. Dave left the hand hanging there.

  “What can I do for you?” Dave wondered. He was a tubby guy with a russet beard and an RN tattoo on an exposed forearm.

  “Navy, eh?” Killian asked.

  “What? Oh, aye, what of it?”

  “I was up on Caroline once,” Killian said.

  “Is that so?” Dave said, interested.

  “Very nice ship,” Killian said.

  Killian had indeed been on HMS Caroline once – the Royal Navy’s reserve headquarters in Belfast – when he was eighteen and him and a mate had paddled over there in a stolen rowboat, thrown a grappling rope over the side, climbed up, broken in and stolen five thousand quid’s worth of silver plate.

  “Ach, she’s a great oul girl,” Dave said. “The last of her class, the last commissioned vessel from World War One.”

  “Is that a fact? I did not know that,” Killian said with the appropriate amazement.

  Dave grinned. “She was in the Battle of Jutland was HMS Caroline.”

  More amazed nods. When Dave smiled he became a different guy, good-looking, with a pleasant face under the beard and the easy confidence of an ex-serviceman.

  He was drinking himself to death of course, but who wasn’t?

  “Were you in the forces then?” Dave asked

  “Nah, not me. Me ma’s da was a Yank soldier though. Passing through, you know? He was at The Bulge. Dentist, if you can believe it.”

  Dave nodded. “I can believe it. The fucking Bulge. I’ve read about it. Yon was a bad one. He and your gran not hook up after?”

  Killian laughed. “Are you joking? He had a whole other family Stateside. He sent me ma money, though, till she was eighteen, course by then she had two weans of her own, you know how it is.”

  Dave nodded. He did indeed know how it was.

  “So, what can I do for you Mr Killian?” Dave asked.

  “I’m looking for Rachel Coulter,” Killian said.

  Dave went all cold front and stroked his beard like he was trying to make a fucking genie come out of it.

  “Aye, you and everybody else.”

  “She sold the car you lent her in Derry,” Killian said.

  “I gave her the car. She didn’t do anything wrong,” Dave said, his eyes narrowing as his right hand crumpled his magazine into a tube.

  “Well, I think the cops have it now. You might even get it back,” Killian said.

  “I don’t want it back, I gave it to her,” Dave muttered.

  “Mind if I sit?” Killian asked.

  “Free country.”

  Killian unfolded a chair and positioned it next to Dave. He closed his eyes and breathed the air in through his nose. “Suppose you don’t know where she was going?” he asked after a minute.

  Dave shook his head. “Don’t know. Don’t want to know.”

  “Is that her caravan, there?” Killian asked, pointing to the only one in the place with its windows closed.

  “We prefer ‘trailer’ and yes that’s it yonder.”

  “Mind if I take a look inside?”

  “You got a warrant?”

  “I’m not a peeler.”

  “Then that’s a no.”

  Killian smiled and leaned back and contemplated the woods for a while. He liked it here. The ocean in the distance, big Scots pine trees that sloped up the hill, fresh air.

  “I’ll probably just break in when you’re gone some day, so why don’t we save ourselves the trouble? You already destroyed all the incriminating materials, right? Letters, maps, phone books with numbers circled on ’em, that kind of thing?” Killian said, after another pause.

  Dave said nothing, careful not to incriminate himself just in case.

  “You didn’t forget the phone books did you? Some of the best stuff is in the yellow pages,” Killian said.

  Dave looked uncomfortable. Killian yawned and Dave perhaps sensed that Killian’s patience was boundless and that if he wanted to he could sit out here all day. “Look mate, what is it you want, exactly?” he asked brusquely.

  “You see the thing is, Mr Reynolds, I want to help her,” Killian said.

  “You want to help her?” Dave said with obvious scepticism. “I work for her lawyers,” Killian said and handed Dave his card which was just a name, phone number and email address.

  Dave took the card, examined it and put it in his shirt pocket.

  “What we’re trying to do is establish contact with her before Coulter’s people bring her in, or before, god forbid, she harms the kids. I suppose you know she’s about
one jump ahead of a kidnapping rap,” Killian said.

  Dave nodded. “I heard that.”

  “It’s Interpol, and believe me they are cold characters. They’ll stop at nothing. They could charge you with being an accessory. It was your car, and from the report I read you weren’t exactly cooperative were you?”

  “I didn’t do nothing. Those bastards killed my dog. I’m putting together a lawsuit. Coulter’s fucking loaded so he is and I want compensation for Thresher. I loved that stupid dog. I’ve got a solicitor.”

  “I hear you, brother, I hear you,” Killian said, shaking his head.

  A minute crept by and they sat in the chairs, listening to the surf booming in the far distance.

  Killian felt himself relax. This was nice. Like old Boston Luke he really should put some ocean sounds on his iPod.

  Dave obviously appreciated the silence too because it was another full minute before he cleared his throat and asked: “What’s going to happen to her?”

  Killian shook his head. “I don’t know. Coulter’ll probably find her. If he doesn’t the peels will. I suppose Coulter gets the kids, she goes to jail. It’s not complicated.”

  “She says that Coulter hit her. That he can’t be trusted with the kids.”

  “Really? What did she tell you?” Killian asked, intrigued.

  Dave shook his head. “She didn’t spell it out. But she said that and she was afraid of him. You could see it in her eyes. And those guys he sent, Jesus…”

  Killian nodded. “He’s a first-class arsehole, that’s for sure.”

  After another silence Dave got up, went inside the trailer, came back with two cans of Harp. He offered one to Killian.

  “Don’t mind if I do,” Killian said.

  When the can was a third drained Dave looked at him. “If you guys get to her first what the fuck can you do?”

  Killian shrugged like it wasn’t a big deal to him. “Truth be told I don’t know if we can really do anything much. The whole situation is pretty far gone.”

  He finished the Harp and then as if the thought was just occurring to him he added, “I suppose if we get her to turn herself in we could put the kids in the custody of her mother and father in Ballymena, throw in a domestic violence complaint and the court will probably let them stay there until custody gets resolved.”

  “She talked about her da, said he was good people.”

  “Aye. Her da was an engineer for Hughes, her mum, her stepmum actually I think, played hockey for Ireland.”

  Dave smiled. “No kidding?”

  “Nope. Montreal Olympics.”

  Dave laughed. “That is wild. Montreal Olympics? She never told me that.”

  “Don’t think she would have been born would she?”

  Dave shook his head. “No, I suppose not.”

  Killian crushed his can and stood.

  He smoothed his jacket.

  He was wearing a suit for this gig. Blue suit, tie, black raincoat, black loafers. It was a nice ensemble. Throwback. If only fedoras had been in…

  “Thanks for the beer, partner,” he said. “I was kidding about breaking in by the way, and I’m sorry about your dog. Just another one of the things that eejit is going to have to pay for. You know what I told my bosses? I told them we should get her to turn herself in to Oprah. Coulter’s a pretty famous guy, this story isn’t getting the play it should. You gotta wonder about that.” He gave a bitter laugh.

  “Aye, you do,” Dave concurred.

  Killian offered Dave his hand again and this time Dave shook it.

  “And if you think of anything you give me a call, okay?” Killian said. It was canned dialogue and it stuck going out but adding to it would have made it worse, so he just started walking.

  Killian thought there was about a thirty per cent chance of a flip but when he’d gone almost to the Ford he’d diminished those odds to close to zero.

  He was wrong though.

  “Mister, hey mister!” Dave called.

  Killian turned. “Yeah?”

  Dave walked over. “Look, I don’t know if it’s any help but I told her about this sort of cabin my navy mate rents out near Letterkenny. You know, if the car showed up in Derry, she might have been heading out that way…”

  Big Dave handed Killian a piece of paper with an address on it.

  Killian nodded. “This is good.”

  They shook hands again. “I hope we get to her before he does,” Killian added.

  “If you see her, tell her I was asking about her,” Dave said. “And the weans.”

  Killian nodded and walked Dave back to his caravan. “Hey, you wouldn’t happen to have a recent photo would you? I’m working off wedding pics.”

  Dave nodded and came with a picture of her and the kids outside the caravan.

  Rachel looked nothing like the wedding picture. She was aged and pale – hollow. Her eyes were deep-set and dark. Her face had a faraway Dorothea Lange look. No, bad analogy. She was a modern girl, she looked modern. She was a beauty that had faded fast, “like Julia Roberts after the kids”, that eejit Sean would have said.

  “Ada ah roisin,” Killian said, much to his own surprise.

  It was thank you in Shelta. A language he hadn’t spoken for nearly twenty years. Now, why he had done that? What was his brain cooking up. What memories were fighting their way to the surface. Not the reference to his grandfather the army dentist? No, something else. Probably the caravans.

  Killian got back in his car and drove out of the caravan park and onto the A2 near Coleraine. He didn’t pick up the tail again until he’d been on the Derry road for nearly an hour.

  “Man, that boy is good,” Killian said to himself with a whistle. Good but not great. Item #1: Killian had seen him twice now. Item #2: he’d rented a honking big white Range Rover – maybe the only thing they had available, but even so.

  Killian drove for an hour and stopped for lunch at a McDonald’s. Killian was old enough to remember when this road had wee cafés and local chippies, but now it was all McDonald’s and KFC. Thirty years of low-level civil war had kept out the chains, but the peace dividend had brought them in with a vengeance. Drugs, new houses and McDonald’s – that was post ceasefire Northern Ireland.

  He ordered the Big Mac meal.

  It was years since he’d eaten at a Mickey D and he’d forgotten that he didn’t like the sauce on a Big Mac.

  He drank the Coke and did the crossword in someone’s copy of the Guardian and eventually the Range Rover driver came in to get food and take a piss. He was about thirty to thirty-five, a shaven bullet-shaped head, grey eyes, a paper-white, scarred face. Neck and knuckle blue-ink tattoos. Probably prison tattoos. You only got that pale and muscled on the inside.

  He was a scary dude.

  Either paramilitary thug or…

  Or what? Killian couldn’t place it.

  Killian watched him as he ordered a cheeseburger. He watched him still as he found a seat as far from Killian as you could possibly get in this restaurant. He was a pro – didn’t look once in Killian’s direction, not even by “accident”.

  Killian took a couple of photographs of him with his camera phone and sent them to Sean.

  “Urgent,” he texted as his subject line and added:

  TAIL – FRM CRRCK WHO?

  “Excuse me, sir, can we sit?” a woman asked Markov.

  She was with her son.

  It was his own fault, he was hogging a corner table for six. Markov glanced at Killian, but that old fool was still reading his newspaper, totally oblivious to the fact that there was anyone on him.

  Markov grunted and the woman sat down.

  The boy had red hair and a gap-toothed smile like a comic-book character. He didn’t eat his food, instead he played with the freebie, which was a plastic paratrooper with a working chute.

  Parachute.

  Markov flinched.

  He could see it coming: another voyage down into the dark of the lizard brain.

 
Perhaps Mexico had been a mistake.

  Getting soft was all right. Soft was good. Soft was the future. Marina wanted to get married and move to Henderson. He should marry her. He should marry her and get her pregnant and have kids and wait until the property market completely bottomed out and then buy in Henderson.

  He closed his eyes and thought about Marina riding her bike to UNLV in her pink T-shirt.

  Pink T-shirt.

  Marina smiling.

  Pink…

  Eventually the boy and the woman left.

  Killian was still reading his newspaper. Markov shook his head. How could a man like that who had never lived ever hope to outwit him?

  Killian’s phone rang.

  It was Sean.

  “Tell me about our boy,” Killian said.

  “Mary thinks she knows him from somewhere, I sort of think so too. He’s got that sort of face.”

  “Paramilitary?”

  “Definitely not Irish. Mary’s saying she knows him from the sheets. From America.”

  “Fucking Forsythe. This is him, I’ll bet you a ton. A tail on me. A fucking double cross.”

  “Relax Yojimbo, you don’t know anything.”

  “I know Forysthe, I know his ways. He’s tailing me to get an angle. I find the girl, our boy over there takes her in.”

  “I doubt it… however, if that’s the worst-case scenario, what are you going to do about him?”

  “Who knows? Keep an eye on him. For now.”

  “Do you have any leads on our girl?”

  “It’s not as cold as I thought it was going to be. A trail to Donegal.”

  “Coulter’s bound to have checked Donegal of all places.”

  “I don’t know. That’s why he came to us, isn’t it? He digs pyrites, we dig gold.”

  “Yeah. Okay. And if I can come up with a name I’ll call you back.”

  “Sure thing.”

  Killian hit the red button and folded the Guardian. He window-peeped. On the other side of the glass it was raining and grey and everything was falling back into the pattern. That oh-so-predictable pattern he’d left behind. Divorce work, missing persons, heavying. Him on a case in a McDonald’s on a highway in the rain with a girl at the end of it and some Aryan Nation nutcase on his ass. Where was this new life he’d promised himself? This new era that was supposed to be well in place before the time he turned forty? This? This was bullshit. Of course it wasn’t entirely his fault. No one could have foreseen the crash. What he needed was an older brother in the legit world or friends in the legit world, people who read the FT, people who could analyse trends, see ahead. Sean was connected but he knew shit about the world outside the racing pages of the Daily Mirror. You needed to spread yourself out.