by Alex Barclay
Shaun climbed back over and as soon as he turned to walk back in, Duke put a foot in the small of his back and sent him forward, landing against Joe, who stumbled backwards with the weight. Shaun staggered away and Joe lunged for the door, but Duke was too quick, out onto the balcony and gone.
Joe turned to Shaun. ‘Get help. Tell the police what’s happened. She’ll be OK.’ He went outside, pushing against the wind. It whistled through his mouth, finding the gaps to create more agony, layering it on top of pain he had never before experienced. When he looked around, the balcony was empty and a lone rope swung in the wind. Joe turned to run back through the lighthouse when he was lit from behind by flashes of blue and white.
‘It’s the guards,’ he shouted to Shaun. ‘They’ll send an ambulance. I have to go.’ He looked down as someone climbed out of the car. ‘Fuck,’ he said. ‘It’s Richie.’ The guy would never believe him.
O’Connor pulled out a cigarette and lit up. He closed his eyes and sucked in a deep breath. His mobile vibrated once, then rang at the highest volume he could have set.
‘Myles, it’s Frank Deegan.’
‘Where have you been?’ barked O’Connor. ‘I’ve been trying to get through to you all afternoon.’
Frank hesitated. ‘The Ballyhoura mountains, the coverage is up and down like a yo-yo. I’m nearly back now. I’ve a bit of news for you. I’ll tell you when I see you.’
‘No, you fucking won’t,’ snapped O’Connor.
Frank was stunned. ‘Pardon?’
‘You’ll tell me now, Frank, what the hell is going on.’
‘What do you mean? About what? I was finding out about that Mary Casey woman in Doon. That Duke Rawlins man that Joe Lucchesi was talking about – I’ve seen what he’s done to women back in the States. And it’s exactly what happened to that woman in Limerick, except the Americans were arrow wounds, instead of knife wounds. But if all someone had was a knife…I’ve a feeling this crime was more about opportunity than anything else. The man’s in the country. I’ve no doubt about it.’ He couldn’t hear O’Connor shouting over him to shut up and listen.
‘That’s Limerick’s case,’ boomed O’Connor when Frank stopped talking. ‘If you kept your eye on the fucking ball here—’
Frank’s face burned.
‘Look,’ said O’Connor, ‘you’ve passed on the information and that’s enough—’
‘What?’ said Frank. ‘But what about Katie Lawson? I think he changed his M.O. to make us think that Shaun or Joe—’
‘Something’s come up with Katie Lawson,’ snapped O’Connor. ‘Just go straight to the Lucchesi house. Don’t go in. I’ll see you there.’
Joe ran towards Richie, ready with his explanation, but he didn’t need it.
‘What the fuck was that?’ said Richie. ‘Some psycho pulled open my door and smashed in my radio.’
‘I need an ambulance for Anna,’ said Joe. ‘It was him. Rawlins. He’s done something to Anna.’ They both looked at the shattered radio, sharp shards of plastic sticking out, its wires hanging, useless.
‘Where is she?’
‘With Shaun in the lighthouse. But…’ Panic flared in Joe’s eyes.
‘I know,’ said Richie. ‘You need to get the fucker. Get in. The ambulance won’t take long. I’ll use my mobile.’
Richie moved away from the car to find a signal. He spoke urgently, then ran back to the car, starting the engine and screeching across the grass and onto the road.
‘He’s in a white Ford Fiesta van. He only has about five minutes on us,’ said Richie. ‘He’s gone up the hill. I won’t use the lights or siren, he’ll panic. Where do you think he’s headed?’
‘He knows he’s screwed,’ said Joe. ‘He’s wanted for too many crimes back home, he knows that now. He’ll want to get the fuck out of Dodge, but he won’t make it onto any plane.’
‘But he could get to England or Wales,’ said Richie.
‘On the ferry.’
‘From Rosslare? Would he know that?’
‘The guy is not stupid. He would have planned every bit of this.’ ‘Do you think we should call Frank?’
Richie raised an eyebrow, ‘And follow the rules?’ He glanced over at Joe. ‘This guy tried to kill your wife…’
He got his answer in Joe’s silence. They rounded the next bend and sped past the right-hand turn into Manor Road that would have brought them past the church and up through the village. They both glanced right. Richie braked.
‘Jesus Christ,’ said Joe, slamming his fist onto the glove box. Richie reversed and the abandoned white van came into view. ‘What the fuck is he doing in the village?’
Shaun cradled his mother’s head on his lap, feeling strange to have her so close. Her eyes were shut, her face pale. He had been rubbing her forehead compulsively for the fifteen minutes since Joe had left. A chill wind was whipping rain around the lighthouse and his ears hurt. He stopped and put his hand over Anna’s ear so she wouldn’t feel it. His sweatshirt lay across her stomach. He pressed it against her wounds. But he knew there was blood everywhere and he couldn’t look down.
Richie parked the car at an angle, its headlights trained on the battered van. Joe jumped out, quickly wrenching the back door open with a crowbar. Empty, the small space seemed huge. He ran back to Richie, squinting against the light.
‘Go! Let’s go! There’s nothing there. He’s gone.’
‘Fuck,’ said Richie, turning the car towards the village, flooring the accelerator.
He hit seventy as he took the next bend, his mind on the chase, not on his driving.
‘Jesus Christ, look out!’ said Joe.
Richie jammed on the brakes, stunned by the scene ahead. There was no way through. The road outside the church was filled with cars, most of them parked, some of them moving and one at a ninety degree angle, its driver frozen by the speeding squad car bearing down on it. Richie jerked the steering wheel to the left and they spun out of control, skidding across the wet surface, sending up a spray of muddy rainwater, finally shuddering to a stop inches from impact.
‘This is fucked up,’ said Joe.
Richie jumped out and slammed the door violently. The glove box popped open. An icy fear flooded Joe’s body. He grabbed Richie’s mobile from the dash and ran. All around him, people were rushing for their cars, struggling with umbrellas in the wind. Drivers flashed headlights and honked their horns. As he ran, Joe hit redial to find Frank’s number. Rain splashed onto the screen. He wiped it away and read through the list of dialled calls. Then he bolted, past the church steps where the crowd was at its thickest, where people were beginning to notice something wasn’t right. He kept running. A cigarette tip caught on his sleeve, shedding a spray of sparks. Someone cursed behind him. As the crowd thinned out, he caught up with Richie. He dived for his legs, tackling him to the wet tarmac. He turned him over and punched hard, splitting the skin under Richie’s eye.
Shaun heard the wail of a siren. Tears started to stream down his face. Lights flashed again outside the lighthouse. He heard the engine cut and shouts in the distance, slowly getting closer.
Joe sped through everything he knew. Richie’s anger, his road rage. Ray’s puzzled face when he had mentioned it. Ray hadn’t said road rage, he’d said ’roid rage. Steroids. Drugs. The edgy cokefuelled arrogance. Jumpy Richie by Mariner’s Strand a month after Katie’s death. He was probably there a month before, and would be there the following month too…a regular meeting with a dealer he could tip off. An image of Katie standing alone in the dark flashed into his mind. She was holding her mobile and she was calling Frank Deegan because she knew he was the only person she could trust. But she never got the chance to finish the call because a drug-addled six-foot-three keeper of the fucking peace—
Richie punched him in the jaw, sending pain rocketing through him. He staggered backwards and landed hard. A reluctant crowd had started to gather and Richie gestured for them all to stay back. He walked over to where Joe was lying and cr
ouched down beside him.
Frank Deegan took the steps, two at a time, up to the lantern house. He climbed the ladder and raised his head carefully through the trap door. The first thing he saw was blood. He had to put his hands in it to push himself up. He had to sit in it before he could stand. His voice cracked as he called down to O’Connor,
‘Get an ambulance, for the love of God, Myles.’
‘Shaun,’ said Frank gently. ‘Who was here?’
‘The guy who did this,’ he whispered, squeezing his mother. ‘My dad’s gone after him. He’s with Richie.’
Frank looked down at O’Connor. Their eyes locked. O’Connor grabbed his radio.
Joe leaned up into Richie’s face. ‘I saw your cell phone.’
‘Give me that fucking phone,’ said Richie, slamming his elbow onto Joe’s wrist, releasing his grip.
‘You didn’t even call Anna her ambulance, you evil son of a bitch. They’ve found prints on Katie’s sneaker from the harbour. Frank told me they’d ruled Shaun out. And you were hoping you could pin this on Duke Rawlins, get me to take care of that—’
‘Oh, I think I could pin it on you after this,’ he said, nodding towards the people who were starting to move up around them.
Joe snorted. ‘They’ve got no respect for you.’
‘Says the loose cannon murdering cop? I’m the one in uniform here, remember,’ Richie hissed. ‘You haven’t a fucking hope. There are no prints, Joe. And you’re covered in blood, for fuck’s sake. You’re in a strange country. And we look after our own here. No-one’s going to believe you. Watch this.’ He looked back over his shoulder. ‘Someone help me out here,’ he shouted, his voice full of authority. ‘This guy’s a maniac.’ Joe looked up at him, amazed. Anger flared inside him. He heaved Richie off him and struggled to his feet. Two stocky men stepped forward to face him, but were blocked by Petey Grant. Petey leaned forward awkwardly, his big hand holding the lapels of his coat tight under his chin. Rain streamed down his pale face.
‘You didn’t help your friend,’ he said, pointing at Richie.
‘Joe’s not my friend,’ said Richie, standing up slowly.
‘You didn’t help him.’
Richie ignored him and turned back to Joe, his fists clenched.
‘You didn’t help him!’ shouted Petey. ‘Your friend! Justin Dwyer. In the sea. I saw you. You stood there. He died.’
‘What are you talking about?’ said Richie.
‘He was crying and you didn’t help him—’ A gust of wind caught his coat and it swung open, rain soaking quickly through his white shirt.
‘It was an accident—’, said Richie.
‘I know, but you didn’t help him. You can swim. Why didn’t you help? Why? You were watching him drown. I saw you. I was there. Hide and seek…’ Petey started crying.
‘Shut up, you idiot,’ said Richie. ‘Just shut the fuck up.’
‘No,’ sobbed Petey. ‘I can’t. No.’
For seconds, the only other sound was the falling rain. The crowd stood suspended in confusion, thrown by the violence in Richie’s tone, unsure of who the victim was in all the chaos. Mrs Grant stepped forward and reached for Petey’s shaking hand. Before she had time to pull him back, he locked eyes with Joe, his face pleading and uncertain. Joe reached out and gripped Petey’s shoulder, nodding to him proudly. Then he turned to Richie. ‘You son of a bitch,’ he said, charging him to the ground. He looked back at the crowd. ‘Don’t even think of trying to stop me. Your guard here…’ He wanted to roar what Richie had done, but he could see Martha Lawson clinging, terrified, to her sister’s arm and he knew he didn’t want her to find out this way. Richie got back up quickly. Joe’s hand shot out and clamped around his neck.
‘You better let me after that bastard or…’
‘Or what?’ smiled Richie, looking over Joe’s shoulder. The two men rushed past Petey and grabbed Joe, yanking his arms behind his back.
Anna was rushed from the ambulance into the resuscitation area of Waterford Regional Hospital. Shaun tried to follow, but a nurse laid a gentle hand on his arm and guided him down the corridor to wait in the relatives’ room.
Richie was quick with the handcuffs. Joe struggled wildly, pleading with the other men. ‘Don’t fucking do this to me. Please don’t do this to me. My wife is dying. Anna is dying, you fuckers.’ He was roaring.
‘That’s what happens when you attack your own wife,’ said Richie. He nodded at the others. ‘This is a sick man we’re dealing with here.’
‘You son of a bitch! At least call an ambulance,’ said Joe to the men. ‘Someone call an ambulance to Shore’s Rock.’
‘Don’t worry, guys,’ said Richie. ‘I can take care of that on the radio.’
‘He’s broken his radio,’ shouted Joe hysterically. ‘He broke his own radio with his torch. It’s in the glove box. There are pieces everywhere.’ But Richie was shouting louder, telling the men Joe was unstable, gesturing them away from the car, slamming the door shut, putting his foot to the floor.
The nurse slipped quietly into the relatives’ room. She faltered when she saw the blood soaked into Shaun’s T-shirt. He made a move to stand up.
‘Stay where you are,’ she said, sitting down beside him. ‘Your mother is very sick. She’s critical.’
Shaun thought he was going to cry again. What he didn’t realise was that since he got into the ambulance he hadn’t stopped.
Joe was paralysed by anger and frustration. He had to get to Anna. His mind sped through options he didn’t have.
‘Finally,’ said Richie.
Joe looked up, but Richie was speaking into his mobile: ‘I’ve been trying you all fucking day.’
Joe remembered the mobile and the fifteen dialled calls to someone called MC.
‘Where the hell are you now?’ Richie was saying. ‘Yeah? Well you stay right fucking there. I’m on my way.’
Shaun rushed into the corridor as soon as he heard the knock on the door.
‘What’s going on?’ he said.
‘Is your father here yet?’ said the nurse.
‘No.’
‘I’m sure he’ll be here any minute, don’t you worry.’
‘I hope so.’
‘OK, with the type of injuries your mother has suffered, we need to take her to theatre now.’
‘What do you mean, the type of injuries?’ said Shaun.
‘A wound that could seem quite small on the surface, may have caused some internal damage. Maybe not, but it’s something we have to look out for.’
‘But all that blood…’ He pointed at his T-shirt.
‘Yes, she has lost a lot of blood, but she’s also been given six units.’ She paused. ‘Come on, if you’re quick, you can see her before she’s brought up.’
Richie drove the car carefully around the deserted square at the centre of the rundown council estate. Weeds pushed up through cracks in the concrete, litter was strewn everywhere and in the corner, Marcus Canney leaned against the last garage in a row of five. Richie made the turn and slowed, pulling to a stop and jumping out of the car. He walked over to Marcus.
‘What’s the story?’
‘No story,’ said Richie.
‘What have you been up to?’
Richie looked at him. ‘Just give me the fuckin’ gear.’
‘Hold on a minute.’
Marcus stepped sideways, the garage door shot open and four guards burst out, honoured to make this one of Richie Bates’ most memorable arrests.
Shaun could barely get past the shock of tubes and wires that connected Anna to monitors he didn’t understand. He didn’t know where he could touch her. He eventually reached out and put a hand on her forehead. He could sense the urgency of the staff. He didn’t want her to go anywhere. She was alive now. He wanted her to stay that way. Surgery might make it worse. People died in surgery.
The tears still fell, but he wiped the last of them away and let out a shaky breath. He knew his words to his mother wouldn’t b
e eloquent and if they were the last words she’d ever have to hear, he knew she wouldn’t expect them to be.
He reached down and gently squeezed her finger tips. ‘You’ll be OK. I promise.’ He hesitated. ‘You will, Mom. I know you will. You’re Lucky too.’
Joe burst through the hospital doors. He was covered in blood – his, Anna’s, Richie’s.
‘I’m so sorry,’ said Frank, rushing up to him. ‘Rawlins got away, but every guard in the country has been alerted. Anna’s just gone to theatre. Shaun’s in the relatives’ room.’ He looked down. ‘We had no idea about Richie…’
‘I know,’ said Joe.
He kept walking. He took a left through the door Frank had pointed to. Panic hit him in waves. He rounded a corner. Further down, an elderly woman was leaning against the wall, her body twisted in grief. A young man was trying to support her. Joe’s heart lurched. He looked at the row of doors. He knocked on the first one and it was empty. He tried three before he heard a muffled yes. He walked in. Shaun raised his head, then rushed towards him.
‘What?’ said Joe. ‘What?’ Shaun clung to his shoulders, sobbing.
Richie Bates was led through the doors of Waterford Garda Station with his hands cuffed behind his back. His jacket gaped where the buttons had been pulled loose and his skin was split from temple to jaw. An old classmate stood by the front desk, slowly shaking his head.
Shaun spoke in anguished bursts, each breath quick and shallow.
‘She was messed up real bad. They worked on her in the ambulance…and here…and now she’s in theatre.’
Joe watched Shaun trying to be a grown up. It almost broke his heart. He wondered where he had found the strength after everything he had been through.
‘Come here,’ he said, pulling Shaun close. ‘Come here. You shouldn’t have had to deal with this on your own.’
‘I’m OK,’ said Shaun.
Joe wanted to cry at the simplicity of it. ‘That’s good,’ he said. ‘You did good.’