Falling Glass

by Adrian McKinty

  He thought again about the photograph in his wallet and wondered if his grin was lighting up the beach. And the truth was, that right now, in these chairs, among his own people, with this woman, he was happier than he had been in decades.

  “I suppose not,” Rachel said and laughed and coughed. She threw away her cigarette.

  “Want another?” Killian asked, offering her the pack.

  “Nah, I’m giving those up too. I’m trying to be more careful about what I put into my body these days. I’ve gone straight before. But this time… this time I mean it. It’s different.”

  Killian liked to hear that.

  He smiled at her.

  “You know I went to university too. I studied astronomy for a year. I loved that guy Patrick Moore. Ever see him?” Rachel said.

  Killian shook his head.

  “I loved all that stuff. It’s not just looking in telescopes. There’s a lot of maths and forumulas.”

  “Why did you quit?”

  “Ach. I met Richard in the Beaten Docket. That was when he was just coming on the TV, you know? Completely fell for his act. The patter, the persona. He was still married then.”

  Killian concealed a yawn behind his hand.

  He was tired. He enjoyed talking to her, he was liking that cold breeze off the water, now, but it had been an exhausting few days.

  “What did you like about astronomy?” he asked out of politeness.

  She began talking.

  She talked stars and Doppler shifts and planets and the expanding universe and the possibility of life on Mars or on the frozen moons of Titan or Europa.

  Her voice was losing that neutral Anglo-Irish cadence it had acquired in the years with Richard and slipping back into pure Ballymena.

  He enjoyed that.

  She kept going and he found himself drifting.

  “Let’s go to bed,” she said.

  He nodded and followed her inside.

  “You go on, I’ll sleep out here,” he said.

  “No. Let’s go to bed,” she said.

  She took his hand and led him to the bedroom.

  They pushed the twin beds next to each other and stripped naked and lay together under the skylight.

  She showed him the constellations and she told him the Latin names and he told her the Shelta names, the Irish names, the real names.

  And they lay under Orion and Mars and Saturn’s spouse, King Jupiter.

  “I forgot to tell you something,” she whispered.

  “What?”

  “Thank you.”

  “For what?”

  “For saving our lives.”

  “You saved yourself.”

  “No. It was you.”

  Their hands touched.

  Her fingers in his big paw.

  Maybe he’s the one, she thought.

  And if he wasn’t it didn’t matter.

  They made love.

  And the planets turned in the Keplerian clockwork of their ellipses.

  And the moons about the planets.

  Their mouths meeting over the frozen oceans of Europa.

  She kissed his furrowed brow and his strong jaw and his hard lips.

  He kissed her back.

  And she said: “I’m afraid, Killian…it’s been a long time.”

  And he said: “I’ll show you.”

  And her legs wrapped about him and they showed each other.

  More increments of that raw time…

  And this time the seconds weren’t long enough.

  And then, when it was over, they lay in each others arms and slept.

  chapter 16

  ceilidh night

  KILLIAN WAS SITTING ON THE BEACH WATCHING THE OCEAN traffic and listening to the surf break along the shore. It was March in eastern Ulster which normally meant permanent drizzle but although it was grey and overcast, the rain appeared to be over – at least for now. Scotland was invisible this morning behind a line of magenta haze that hadn’t stopped the passenger ferries confidently heading in its general direction from the port of Larne.

  It was their third day on Islandmagee and Killian was relaxed but not at ease.

  He waved to Donal, who was making his way along the dunes towards him.

  The Pavee had given all of them a change of clothes so that now he and Donal looked similar, an elder and older brother perhaps, dressed in long German army surplus trench coats, boots and working jeans.

  Donal stopped next to him and took a pipe from his pocket. “Nus a dhabjon dhuilsha,” he said in Belfast Shelta and then in Irish: “Go mbeanna Dia is Muire duit.”

  “And to you,” Killian replied in English.

  Donal rubbed some uncut tobacco in his palm, filled the pipe and sat down next to him.

  “I got that phone you wanted,” Donal said.

  “Thank you,” Killian said. “Untraceable?”

  “It was only stolen this morning, it’ll take them a working day to switch off the service,” Donal replied.

  “Where’d you get it? They might be able to deduce my whereabouts if it was somewhere close.”

  Donal shook his head. “We got it in Belfast. You’re fine. But they might be able to triangulate you if they’re really clever.”

  “I won’t stay on that long,” Killian said.

  “Well, here you go,” Donal said.

  Killian took the phone. A shiny little red thing with a picture of Hello Kitty on it.

  “You’ve no idea how much I appreciate this,” Killian said. “Can I give you some dough? All I’m doing here is eating your food and sleeping in your house.”

  Donal shook his head. “Nah, you’re fine. You’re the Prodigal, it’s our job to take you in.”

  Killian tried to hand him a fifty-pound note but Donal wouldn’t countenance it.

  “Your money’s no good here, mate,” he said.

  Killian rubbed his chin and considered for a moment. “Can I at least give you a hand at the cemetery? I heard that’s what you were doing for cash.”

  Donal shrugged. “It’s not necessary.”

  “I’d feel better about staying here if I was doing something,” Killian said.

  “If you want to. I’m going out this afternoon. It’s just me and a spade, it’s tedious stuff. They’d get Poles for it if they could afford Poles.”

  “I’m not shy of a wee bit of sweat. Okay if I tag?”

  “Aye, if you want. Gimme someone to talk to.”

  “And me too, it’s an oestrogen fest at my house.”

  Donal yawned, wiped the sand off his bum and stood. “Well, things to do mate. We’re having a ceilidh tonight. Can you play an instrument?”

  Killian shook his head. “Not me.”

  “I’d make your calls now and toss it just to be on the safe side,” Donal said.

  “Aye, I’ll do that,” Killian replied.

  “Slainte.”

  “Slainte.”

  Donal wandered back to the camp puffing his pipe.

  A gang of kids and dogs came running along the beach in front of him. They were playing Kick a Tin, a complex hide and seek game Killian had played as a wean. Rachel’s girls were among them.

  In a couple of days they’d gone completely native. Their hair was braided, they’d swapped jeans and T-shirts for dresses and home-made wool sweaters, and shoes were an alien item of clothing. The big gang of Pavee children had taken the girls and made them wee sisters. Rachel of course still kept an eye on them, especially little Sue; not that Sue wanted her ma keeping tabs since this was her first chance to be a big lass with lassies younger than herself.

  Still, Killian mused, Rachel was right to be watchful, there was the sea after all and no Pavee could ever forget that the watery element was a dodgy place.

  Although Rachel tried to keep a discreet distance Killian could see her in front of the caravan, sitting in a deckchair, reading a novel. She too was shoeless and her hair was blowing about her face.

  “Hello Mr Killian,” Sue said br
eathlessly as she ran past.

  “Hi,” Killian said.

  “I’ve got the best place in the world to hide,” Sue shouted.

  “Where?”

  “In the old phone box!” Sue exclaimed.

  “Good idea,” Killian said, although that was the first place he would have looked.

  “I’m hiding in the phone box,” Sue said again, this time even more loudly.

  “Good idea,” Killian said again and now everybody knows it, he thought.

  Sue looked at him as if he was a great big eejit.

  “If anyone asks that’s where I’ll be,” she said ridiculously loudly.

  “Okay,” Killian said, still not catching on.

  “I’ll really be behind the skip in the car park, but when Tara goes to the phone box, I’ll run to the den, kick the tin and get in free!” Sue whispered.

  Killian grinned and slapped his thigh. “Genius!” he said.

  “Aye, I know,” said Sue, who not only looked healthy and happy but also appeared to have grown an inch over the last three days.

  “Olann an cat cluin bainne leis!” Killian said.

  “Meaow!” Sue agreed and off she ran.

  Picked up some of the lingo too, Killian thought. But his grin flatlined as he realised it was now time for his own phone shenanigans.

  He called Sean.

  “Hello?” Sean said.

  “It’s Killian,” he said.

  There was a long pause. A very long pause.

  “Where are you?” Sean asked.

  “I’d rather not say, mate,” Killian said.

  “You can tell me,” Sean insisted.

  “Better not.”

  “You’re with her now, right? Her and the weans. She fucking turned you, didn’t she?”

  “It’s not like that, Sean.”

  “What is it like, Killian?” Sean said, seething.

  “There’s a lot of information you don’t know.”

  “Try me.”

  “Like the fact that our friend pimped out kids in his care in the 1970s, like the fact that he’s got a collection of homemade pornographic images of children.”

  There was another long pause.

  “Can I ask you a question, Killian?” Sean asked.

  “Ask.”

  “Have you lost your fucking mind?”

  “No.”

  “You know who came to see me at my home yesterday?”

  “I’m guessing it wasn’t Cardinal Brady.”

  “Tom E and his new pal Ivan. In my house. In my fucking house with Mary in the back kitchen making tea for everyone,” Sean said, dripping poison.

  “I’m sorry, Sean.”

  “They explained how high up this goes. It’s not just Mr C, is it? It’s people just a wee toty bit scarier than that. And Ivan’s a pretty scary motherfucker himself isn’t he? Mate.”

  “Sean, listen, I’m sorry they’ve got you involved in all this but—”

  “You’re sorry? I was keeking my bloody whips. They call him the Starshyna, the Sergeant. The boy’s a vet. He’s a fucking hero of the Chechen wars. He’s worked in Mexico. He’s a pro, Killian. There’s me looking at him, remembering his play in Ballymena, thinking Mary and me are for the cold cold ground and you’re sorry? You’re fucking sorry? Do everyone a favour, mate, go for a long bloody drive somewhere and when you’re well away tell us where she fucking is.”

  “Look, the game’s changed, the laptop’s gone forever, it’s all over now. Finished.”

  “That’s not how Tom sees it.”

  “How does Tom see it?”

  “Call him. Call him now!”

  “I will.”

  Dead air.

  A sigh of disappointment.

  “How could you do this, Killian? After all I’ve done for you?”

  Killian shook his head. How could he explain? He had tried the legit universe and failed, his confidence broken, his faith in himself shattered along with the Irish economy. He’d taken one step backwards to work with Sean again, but coming here had transported him not one year but decades. Sean might be a surrogate father, but these were his people.

  This was a different world.

  This was a world that lived in a web of obligations, duties, lore, folk wisdom, tradition.

  This was a world where honour was not a concept heading for obsolescence.

  He liked Rachel and he liked the girls. He had taken them under his protection and he had given them his word.

  “I better go then, Sean, I’ll try Tom.”

  “Do that,” Sean said. “I wish you luck. Please don’t call me back until this is resolved.”

  Killian was more than a little upset by this…this betrayal from an old pal, but as if to an unseen familiar he said aloud: “Ach, he’s only protecting himself. Do the same thing myself more than likely,” which he and the ghosts and the familiars knew wasn’t true at all.

  He shook his head, took the wallet out of his pocket and found Tom’s number. He got through a secretary by saying “I’m Killian, Mr Eichel’s been waiting for my call.”

  “Killian,” Tom said.

  “Hello Tom,” Killian replied.

  “Where are you?”

  “I can’t tell you.”

  “Like fuck you can’t, you’re working for me.”

  “Not any more.”

  “You gave me your word. You made an agreement. Now, where are you?”

  Macau seemed a long, long time ago.

  “How about a new agreement,” Killian said.

  Instead of exploding, Tom hesitated. “I’m listening,” he said cautiously.

  “I take it our friend told you what happened to the computer?”

  “He did.”

  “As I see it that returns things to the status quo ante,” Killian said.

  “How so?”

  “Well, just like before, we’ve got nothing on you and you’ve got stuff on us, so why not just let things go back to the way they were?” Killian said.

  “It’s ‘we’ now is it?”

  “Cut that out, Tom, you’re a fucking grown-up. We’re talking business here.”

  Tom said nothing for a while.

  “You don’t have a backup of the computer’s hard drive?” he asked.

  “No.”

  “How do we know that?”

  “You can give me a lie detector test if you want. Why would she need a backup when she had the machine itself?”

  Killian could hear Tom pacing on the hardwood floor of that fancy office of his on Royal Avenue. Killian got to his feet and walked down to the water.

  Sue came running past him and made it to the den yelling, “One, two, three, I’m in free!”

  Killian stood in the wet sand, watching his army boots sink. The ferry had long since vanished into the pink haze and the seascape was empty but for a couple of gulls.

  “The way they were?” Tom said at last.

  “Yes.”

  “She’ll keep her mouth shut?”

  “She’ll keep her mouth shut and you’ll keep the stuff you have on her under wraps. She and he will agree to share custody with the girls. I can make her see that our friend’s predilections were all in the past and a long, long time ago.”

  “What about her parents?”

  “What about them? I’ve been watching the news. It’s still a blank sheet there, isn’t it? The cops are still treating Rocky as a missing person’s rap.”

  “Aye, but for how long? Five days? It’s not going to go a week.”

  “She’ll talk, I know she’ll talk. She’s the type.”

  “She won’t.”

  “This isn’t just about C. It’s about me, too. My life!”

  “I know. I’ll explain it to her.”

  “And then there’s our other friend. He thinks the films were burned up in an incendiary attack in 1982. An attack which him and his friends carried out. C has been lying to him and me for twenty years.”

  “Tell him that.”

&
nbsp; “No! I’m not telling him fucking anything. We’d all be fucking dead.”

  “Tom listen—”

  “No, you listen. I never trusted you, Killian. But I had heard you were a man of your word. You made a deal with us. Keep your end of it. It’s the right thing to do. You know it’s a ticking clock. As soon as she hears about what happened in Ballymena she is going to fucking squeal,” Tom said dismissively.

  “She won’t. Not if it’s to protect herself and her kids. And if she did say something she wouldn’t have the proof to tie our friend to it.”

  “She doesn’t need proof. The innuendo would be enough to destroy the share price, and my friend’s reputation. My whole fucking career. Our lives. It would be fucking catastrophic. I’m not prepared to take that risk.”

  “I’ll fix her,” Killian insisted.

  Tom coughed. “And there’s a third fucking problem isn’t there?”

  “What?”

  “You. You know about Ballymena. And she showed you the laptop. What do we do to keep you quiet?”

  “Are you kidding? I’m cheap, Tom, I’m cheap as dirt. A couple of grand will keep me happy. You can spare it.”

  Silence.

  The waves on the beach.

  Children’s laughter.

  Tom’s brain churning gears.

  “Well?” Killian asked.

  “Let me get this straight, you fix her, and everything goes back to the way it was?” Tom asked.

  “Aye.”

  “And the guarantee is what?”

  “Make her sign something. Something legal. You’re a lawyer. If she ever bad-mouths our friend or you in any publication then blah blah blah…”

  More silence.

  “Tom, I need to ditch this phone.”

  “Okay. It might be doable. Allow me to talk it over with our friend, will you?” Tom asked with less edge in his voice than he’d had all conversation.

  “Okay,” Killian said.

  “I’ll call you back in a couple of hours,” Tom said.

  “No, no, I’ll be trashing this phone as soon as we’re done here. I’ll call you back in a couple of hours.”

  “Our friend’s in London, I’ll have to track him down, why don’t you stay on the line and I’ll see where he is.”

  “Come on Tom, don’t play me—”

  “I’m not playing you, Killian, I’m a fucking glorified PA based in fucking Belfast; when he’s across the sheugh our friend has a million things to do, half the time his mobile’s off for an interview, I’ll have to call Paula and get his itinerary.”