After the dishes, they gave presents to Nuala, like the girl needed more crap to take with her to Berlin. Flanagan hadn’t brought anything, figured he could be the first one to send cash when it was needed, and hoped his sister appreciated he wasn’t being so uncool as to burden her just as she was trying to shuck off the heavy skin of her old life.
“I never paid you for your translation services,” Flanagan said quietly once some of the hubbub had died down. “You’ll have to give me a billing address for the cheque.”
“I’ve got PayPal,” she winked.
“That’s … nice,” he said.
“Really, Mick, there’s no need.”
“Hey, it’s a business cost. I’ll claim it on tax.”
“I’m a thousand dollars per hour, then.”
They grinned. Obviously, she felt safe enough to ask about the trial. Flanagan’s expression darkened, and as usual, Nuala misread it. Sadly, no one had taken to Charlie Franco with a shiv. From all reports, he was doing pretty well in gaol, actually, and his little pal Roosveldt had made a full-enough recovery to join him. Doyle was responsible for the updates, which still put the trial toward the end of the year. Now they had Flanagan’s evidence, and Allyson’s corroboration, it was a field day with what else to charge the poor bastard. The papers were loving it, thanks to a pesky inside source.
“There’s one more present here, actually,” his mum called.
Flanagan and his sister turned. Derek had hauled in a big trunk from the shed. It was army green, the name Lysaght stencilled on the sides.
“What’s this?” Flanagan asked.
“It’s about time, that’s what,” Anne said.
Derek settled the thing down in the middle of the living room, groaning enough to suggest its weight might take the whole house down.
“Your grandfather left it to you in his will.”
“Errol left something to me?”
“Yeah. There was a letter, too. A note, really. Sorry. It’s gone.”
“Jesus,” he exhaled.
Derek’s daughter sidled over, her first genuine curiosity for the day. In cut-off shorts, she could have been a leggy distraction, but for Flanagan, the whole world contracted to that box. Errol may as well’ve been communicating with him from the grave, and if that was the intention, then he’d well succeeded. Flanagan knelt down, fiddled with the catches, and gently eased the dusty lid back.
An old army blanket, well-chewed at the edges, concealed a bunch of books, old newspapers, framed photographs, photo albums and tape-edged journals. On top of them all, the heirlooms he remembered from the wall of his grandfather’s house growing up. The holstered Luger, the Japanese officer’s cap, and the sheathed sword were an undeniable message from the past.
Flanagan lifted the katana with reverence.
“Why did he leave it to me?”
“Must be worth a small fortune,” Derek managed to get out before Anne elbowed his ribs.
“He was very clear, hon’,” she said. “It was for you, the whole trunk and everything inside. He said you were the only one who would really appreciate it. The letter said more, but I’m sorry. I’ve been holding this for nearly five years.”
Flanagan nodded. Daring to hope, he slowly drew the Japanese sword clear. To Flanagan at least, the katana seemed as fine as the day it was forged, wherever that was, near Kyoto probably, as the tiny fine markings near the rectangular crossbar suggested. He lifted the katana, scabbard gentle now on the carpet, and still kneeling, he held it upright in both hands.
“And now I can see why,” his mother said dryly. “Mad bastard. Used to get a look in his eye just like that before he chased us kids with that.”
Derek, Isis and Nuala laughed, each more uneasily than the other. Flanagan ignored them, a kid’s lolly-shop grin broad across his face.
“This is going straight to the pool room,” he said.
In the meanwhile, his newly-painted living room wall would have to suffice.
** *
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Hard Light- Infamous Page 27