Falling Glass

by Adrian McKinty

  “It’s finished,” Donal was saying.

  Killian nodded but it didn’t feel quite right.

  It was the old proverbial.

  Too easy.

  “We’ve got prisoners!” Tommy shouted.

  “Fuck that, let them go, we’ve got to get out of here,” Donal said.

  He turned to Killian. “None of those boys are gonna die, are they? We don’t need that trouble.”

  “I don’t think any of them will die and it was your actual fucking self defence—” Killian began.

  “Even so, Aidh. Better to do a quick triage on the fuckers, mate.”

  They did a twenty-second walk around. It was as Killian had thought. Kneecappings and shotgun pellets were painful but rarely fatal and all of them were making a lot of noise which was a good sign.

  “I think we can leave them. Their mates’ll come for them after we scarper,” Donal said.

  “How long will it take you to get on the road?” Killian asked.

  “Could be moving in half an hour. You’ll come with us?”

  “I don’t know, I—”

  Killian froze.

  Wait a minute.

  There’d been five men with shotguns, but one guy with a semiautomatic. In all the excitement he’d forgotten about him.

  Where was the guy with the pistol?

  He wasn’t here.

  And he hadn’t run.

  Where was he?

  Killian knew.

  He was going for the beach.

  He had outflanked him.

  Again.

  “Fuck!” Killian said and ran back towards the Pavee camp.

  Glass was buckling and exploding in the four burning caravans, metal warping and bending in on itself. The smell of the melting plastic furniture caught him and made him retch.

  But it didn’t stop his pace.

  He kept going towards the surf.

  Fifty Pavee waiting around the beach, trying to calm their crying kids…

  Fifty Pavee under the bright starlight.

  Where were Rachel and the girls?

  Where was she?

  Killian made it through the dunes, stumbled, got up and saw Sue playing leapfrog with another girl.

  “Where’s your mother, Sue?” he yelled at her.

  “She’s over there with Claire,” Sue stammered, a little frightened of him.

  Killian looked to where the shaking little white hand was pointing. Further down the beach, almost in the blackness, Rachel was sitting on the sand with her arms around Claire, both of them staring out to sea.

  “Thank you, Sue – go back to your game, everything’s fine,” Killian said quickly and stood.

  Killian scoped the crowd for a man wearing a ski mask.

  “Where are you, asshole?” he muttered.

  But he wasn’t here.

  “Where the hell are you?”

  Not one person in a balaclava, not a single…

  But of course he would have taken it off. The Pavee would have jumped him if he’d still been wearing it, even with a gun.

  Killian started eliminating individuals. He knew him, he knew him, he knew her, she was the mother of those kids, he knew that guy, who was that – oh yeah…

  And then there he was:

  It was Ivan, of course, or the Starshyna, as Sean had called him. The balaclava was rolled up to the top of his bald head so that he could spot Rachel, pull it down immediately, shoot her and run for it.

  Killian understood it all now.

  Tom had planned everything.

  Hired or rounded up the thugs through his paramilitary contacts.

  Probably UDA or boys from the British National Party. People who would enjoy it.

  Tom had hired a crew, paid them and sent Ivan with them.

  Let’s scare the shite out of some fucking gyppoes… And oh dear, tragically something goes wrong and a woman gets shot dead.

  By bizarre and tragic luck, the woman, unfortunately, was Richard Coulter’s ex-wife, who was in the middle of a month-long meth-amphetamine-induced nervous breakdown.

  Killian filled in the rest of the pieces as he ran.

  It had to be Sean.

  Tom must have found out where they were from Sean.

  Sean knew him better than anyone.

  “Tell me, Sean, if Killian was going to hide somewhere, where would he hide?”

  Sean knew there were only a dozen Pavee campsites in Ulster. From then on it was merely a process of elimination. Tom had known from this morning and he’d sent his boy posing as a DSS officer to confirm it.

  And now he’d sent Ivan.

  It was clear that Ivan’s mission was only to murder Rachel.

  He himself was irrelevant.

  After she was dead Sean had probably told Tom that he would play ball.

  “Killian? Nah, he isn’t in the grudge business, mate.”

  Fucker. But now was not the time to think about the insult.

  He had foolishly emptied the Heckler and Koch’s magazine after kneecapping the other attackers, but he checked it just in case.

  Nothing.

  “Shit.”

  This would have to be hand to hand.

  Rachel was hugging Claire tightly, both of them wrapped in a crimson shawl, her back to him.

  Her back to Ivan.

  Ivan was twenty feet away. Walking deliberately so as not to draw attention to himself.

  His instructions would be to spare the kid.

  He would shoot her in the head from point-blank range.

  Killian was sprinting.

  Ivan was fifteen feet away.

  Ivan’s big cannon was equipped with a silencer.

  Deliberately pacing the way a tiger might, paw in front of paw, head completely still.

  “Rachel!” Killian screamed but there was too much chaos. Too much noise.

  Ivan heard something though and looked to his left and right.

  It was okay, no one was nearby.

  Ten feet away he pulled down the ski mask, raised the .45 ACP and pointed it.

  Eight feet away he sighted her along the barrel.

  Six feet away he began squeezing the trigger and Killian slammed him into like a Samoan prop forward into a visiting scrum half.

  While they were still in the air Killian smacked the gun out of Ivan’s hand and the Russian stuck a finger in Killian’s eye.

  They landed hard on the wet sand.

  Searing pain along Killian’s cracked ribs and, still on the ground, the Russian headbutted him.

  “The game’s up, pal,” Killian said, pushing him off. “It’s all over.”

  Ivan got to his feet and scrambled for the gun.

  Killian grabbed his ankle and pulled him down.

  “Give it up, Starshyna,” Killian said, attempting to engage him.

  “My name is Markov, remember it,” Markov said, ripped his ankle out of Killian’s grip and kicked Killian in the chest with a full-force roundhouse kick.

  Killian winced and rolled away, attempted to stand, lost his balance and sat backwards on the sand.

  Markov attempted another roundhouse to Killian’s neck but this time Killian got up a block.

  With his big powerful hands Killian grabbed Markov’s calf and wrenched the Russian off his feet, punching him in the gut with two quick right jabs before he could recover. Very fast for a big guy, Markov thought, as he rolled to the side and got to his feet again.

  Rachel saw everything and began yelling for the others but no one could hear her over the fire. Markov launched a crescent kick at Killian which he dodged.

  “We don’t need to do this,” Killian muttered, scrambling to his feet.

  “You talk too much,” Markov said, kicked Killian in the shin, grabbed the drawstrings of his hoodie and pulled Killian forward into an elbow punch that broke his nose. Markov hit him again with a right hook and a left uppercut.

  Killian reeled.

  Blood poured from his nostrils.

  He gasped
air and breathed more blood.

  His eye was partially closed and couldn’t see but he could feel the punches raining in.

  He put his hands over his head, stepped back, pulled the hood from his forehead and tried to open his eyes.

  Markov did a knifehand strike to Killian’s throat and if it had connected properly that might have been it but Killian got up a partial block on pure instinct alone. His heart was racing. He was in full panic mode.

  This guy was destroying him.

  In a second or two he’d think to look for the gun again while Killian couldn’t see. And if he had a blade Killian was a dead man.

  Killian had one play.

  It was it or nothing.

  He ran at Markov, picked him up bodily in a bear hug and kept running until they reached the sea.

  Markov punched and hit him but Killian kept going until he could feel the surf about his knees and then he dumped the Russian in the water.

  Killian shoved Markov under the breakers and pushed down on his shoulders.

  He squeezed with those big butcher-boy fingers, holding Markov just beneath the surface while Markov punched and kicked and even screamed.

  Killian began counting in his head.

  Ten, twenty, thirty, forty.

  Markov looked up through the waves.

  He didn’t want to die here.

  In Ireland.

  So far from home.

  So cold.

  With this horrible man’s face the last thing he would ever see.

  He didn’t want to die.

  “Marina!” he screamed.

  So cold.

  So very cold.

  Like Volgograd in winter.

  Like Grozny.

  That stupid Irishman, so slow, so old.

  Look at him.

  Look at him.

  I should never have killed that priest.

  So cold.

  Marina…

  When Killian reached 150 in his count he pulled Markov out of the water.

  A crowd had gathered.

  Killian dumped the dead Russian on the beach.

  Rachel was up on the dune with Claire and Sue. As soon as she’d been able she’d gathered her girls and run. Good lass. He was proud of her.

  “Is he dead?” Donal asked from behind him.

  Killian turned, nodded.

  “I suppose now we’ll have to call the peelers,” Donal said.

  “Or just leave. Now,” Killian said.

  “Was he local?” Donal asked.

  “Russian. He was an iceman. He was going to kill Rachel. This whole attack was just cover for him,” Killian said.

  Donal nodded and said no more.

  Pavee didn’t pry. Killian fished out Markov’s wallet which contained a Nevada driver’s licence.

  “You think we should up sticks and go?”

  “Leave him here,” Killian said, his brain cooking. If I’m fast enough I can pin it all on Markov. This and what comes after.

  “Aye. We’ll go,” Donal said. “We’ll go to Donegal right now.”

  Donal gave him a handkerchief for his nose.

  “Thanks, mate. I’m sorry for all the trouble,” Killian said.

  “Brother, think nothing of it, we’re all still alive and more or less in one piece,” Donal said.

  “More or less,” Killian agreed.

  Killian offered Donal his hand. Donal shook it, smiled.

  “I’d be grateful if you’d take Rachel and the girls and look after them,” Killian said.

  “What about you?” Donal asked.

  Killian spied the Russian’s gun and used Donal’s handkerchief to pick it up out of the sand.

  “I’m going to finish this.”

  Donal nodded and pressed his forehead against Killian’s forehead.

  “God and Mary and Patrick,” Donal said.

  “Aye,” Killian replied.

  He walked over to Rachel.

  She was hugging her girls and crying. He kneeled beside her and wrapped his arms round all of them.

  “I can’t take much more of this,” she said.

  “Don’t worry,” he said. “You’re not to going to have to.”

  Rachel looked at him and she looked at the gun. “What are you going to do?”

  “I’m going to end it. Tonight.”

  “Tell me.”

  Killian shook his head. “It’s best that you don’t know.”

  Killian knelt next to Claire and Sue. “Goodbye girls,” he said and kissed first Claire and then Sue on the top of the head.

  Claire politely said goodbye and Sue looked at him oddly and hugged his legs.

  “I’m going to miss you, little one,” he said in Irish.

  “Me too,” she replied in the same language and burst into tears.

  He could feel his throat crack. “Now, now child,” Killian said and to Rachel: “Go easy on this one and she’ll be just fine.”

  “Girls, give me one moment,” Rachel said, stood, took Killian by the arm and walked a little bit away.

  “Where are you going?” she asked when they were out of earshot.

  “It’s like I said, I’m going to finish this.”

  “You’re going to see Richard? What are you going to do, Killian?”

  “I’m going to take care of it. Come on, Rachel. Trust me,” he said and smiled.

  She looked at him. Those dark eyes, that lunk jaw. He looked like a B-movie villain.

  But he wasn’t a villain.

  He had brought the best out of Sue.

  And Claire liked him.

  And he had saved their lives.

  And now he was going to go and risk his life again.

  For what?

  “What have you got from all of this?” she asked.

  Killian breathed deep and looked at her and the girls and he thought of the photo in his wallet. “I got plenty,” he said.

  “I don’t think I understand,” she said.

  “That’s okay,” he said.

  “Kiss me,” she said.

  “I can’t, I’m bleeding,” he said.

  She grabbed his shoulders and pulled him close and kissed him and held him and burst into tears.

  She knew that this was it for them.

  One way or another.

  But then it didn’t matter.

  He had already given her everything he had. He had given her his time and his patience and he was offering up his life on the altar of her and the children’s future. And she was changed by him, changed for ever. Never again would she put the gun barrel in her mouth, never again would she surrender to despair or to fear.

  As he said the great enemy was death.

  The great enemy was death and as long as you breathed you were his master.

  You could never forget that.

  To live at all was miracle enough.

  “I’m never going to see you again, am I?”

  “If it all works out… no,” he said and kissed her on the cheek and walked to the car park, hot-wired the Merc, and headed south with the burning caravans and the crowd on the beach and the men loading horses into horseboxes fading quickly in the glass of the rear-view mirror.

  chapter 18

  once upon a time in belfast

  IN PAVEE SOCIETY, LIKE AT ILIUM, A MAN AND HIS ACTIONS WERE identical. You didn’t think one thing and do another. If you ran, you were a runner. If you abandoned someone to their fate, you were a coward. You acted and the gods observed and Fate turned her wheel.

  It was time to act.

  Killian drove the Merc to Belfast along the A2.

  He pulled into a BP station and bought paracetamol, a balaclava and WD40. He gulped the paracetamol and cleaned and oiled the .45, being careful to leave Markov’s fingerprints on the grip.

  He drove to the Malone Road in leafy, wealthy south Belfast. He parked the Merc a street away from Tom Eichel’s house and put the gun in his pocket.

  It was a comparatively modest Georgian three-storey affa
ir with black, cast-iron railings and a door that opened onto the street. It was all location of course and around here it was two million five, easy.

  Killian walked up the steps and rang the doorbell.

  There was a pause before Tom opened it. He was dressed in a purple nightgown and holding a cup of tea. He should have thrown the tea and slammed the door immediately – his only chance, Killian thought.

  Killian pointed the .45 at him. “Turn slowly, and put your hands up.”

  Tom’s eyes were yellow and glazed. He seemed out of it.

  “Turn slowly and put your hands up,” Killian repeated.

  He set his teacup on the hall table and put his hands in the air.

  Killian closed the front door behind him.

  Tom was unmarried but you never knew who might be around. He made Tom walk him through the house and they finally retired to a book-lined living room where a peat fire was burning. They sat in leather armchairs on either side of the hearth. Killian made sure Tom was well away from pokers or fire irons.

  There was a strangeness to Tom’s face and his movements were like a man drowning in molasses.

  Killian looked into those yellow, beady eyes and noticed that the pupils were dilated. His face was flushed and there was sweat on his upper lip.

  “Are you high?” Killian asked.

  “Yes,” Tom said simply.

  “On what?”

  “H. Dragon chasing. Over tinfoil. Nothing too serious.”

  “You’re a drug addict?”

  “Oh, no, nothing like that. I have rigid discipline. Only in times of great stress or on special occasions. Half a dozen times a year at the most.”

  “Which one’s this? A time of great stress or a special occasion?”

  “A little of both.”

  Killian leaned back in the chair and examined him. He wasn’t on top form. He was like a melted candle with his hair draped over his face and perspiration on his face. He looked haggard, tired.

  “So,” Tom said at last.

  “I need to ask you something, Tom,” Killian said.

  “What?”

  “It’s about Richard. I know that you’ll never stop but I would really appreciate your honest assessment of Richard. I’ve killed Markov and I’m afraid I’m going to have to kill you but what will Richard do? He’s an unknown quantity. Can I let him live or will he keep going after her?”

  Tom’s eyes widened but he didn’t flinch.

  He thought about it.

  “I’ve put the fear of God into him. She’s a junkie, Killian. She’s capable of anything. If she told the cops or the papers there would have to be an inquiry. It took a while but I finally explained just how serious this all was to him. One of the girls in the house died during an abortion. She might be one of the ones in the tape. Jesus! It would be the end of everything.”