by Declan Burke
I swore at my stupidity, slipped my hand inside the jacket, folded my hand around the phone to muffle the sound. It was a smart move. At that hour, down at the docks with no traffic, no one around, the chirping would have sounded like a twenty-one gun salute.
I didn’t take the call. I’d had enough bad news to do me for the rest of my life, and the call meant bad news. Whoever the pros were, they knew Gonzo – had known Gonzo – well enough to know his mobile number. When the phone stopped ringing I dialled a number, the phone buried deep inside the jacket. It took her maybe ten or twelve rings to answer.
“Dee?”
“Who’s this?”
Her voice thick with sleep, sounding nervous.
“It’s me. Harry.”
“Harry? What’s wrong?” She paused. Then, coming back stronger, accusation in her voice: “What’s wrong, Harry?”
“I’ll tell you everything later. Right now you have to get dressed, pack a bag, get Ben out of the house.”
Silence.
“Dee?”
A deep sigh, then: “Harry, I don’t know how long –”
“Just take the car and get out of town. It doesn’t matter where.” A light bulb popped – Brendan and Maura had a holiday home about an hour north of town. “The bungalow,” I told her.
“Stop it, Harry. You’re scaring me. What’s going on?”
“I’ll explain it all later, Dee. Okay? Right now I need you to pack a bag and get out of the house. It’ll be alright tomorrow, I swear.”
“What will?”
“Jesus fucking Christ, Dee! Get Ben out of the fucking house now! Fucking now!”
“Okay. Jesus.” She sounded sullen. “Where’ll I go?”
“I told you, the holiday home. Tell Brendan our place flooded, that I’m staying behind to keep an eye on the place until it gets sorted.”
“They’re away for Christmas, you know that. They’re gone to Dallas, to Marian and Jeff.”
“Fuck.” I’d forgotten they were away. “Okay, that’s even better. You have a key, don’t you?”
“Yeah, but –”
“But nothing. I’ll come and pick you up tomorrow. Alright?”
“What about the presents?”
“What presents?”
“Ben’s presents, Harry. Jesus.”
“Fuck the presents, Dee! Just get out of the fucking house!”
“It’s Christmas, Harry!”
“Jesus H.” I took a deep breath. “Alright, grab something small and get out. I’ll bring the rest.”
“Okay, okay. Harry?”
“What?”
“Where’s Gonzo?”
“I’ll tell you everything tomorrow. Okay?” I gave her the mobile number. “Ring as soon as you get there. And go now.”
She hung up. My knees buckled and I keeled over against the wall. Rolled a smoke, the tobacco still dry, buried deep in the Puffa’s pocket beside the mobile. Considered my next move. If I stayed out all night in my condition, hypothermia was the best I could hope for. And if the pros knew where I lived, chances were they knew where I drank, which ruled out Dutchie’s place. The office was a non-starter, if the Dibble could find me there anyone could.
When I finished the smoke I dug out my wallet, checked behind the condom. Dialled the number, and either the phone was in the bedroom or Katie was a late-night kind of girl. She answered on the third ring, cautious.
“Who’s this?”
“It’s Harry. Harry Rigby?”
“Jesus, Harry. You frightened the life out of me. What time is it?”
“About three. Listen, Katie, I need a big favour.”
“How big?”
“Huge. Can you put me up for the night?”
“Yeah, yeah. Sure.” She hesitated. “Why, what’s wrong?”
“I’ll explain when I get there.”
“Alright.” She laughed, sounding nervous. “You haven’t killed anyone, have you?”
“Not yet, no.”
“Alright then.”
She gave me the address, an avenue off Northlands Estate, a plush neighbourhood on the far side of town with a commanding view of town and bay.
“Okay, I’ll be there in a while. And Katie?”
“What?”
“Thanks.”
“De nada.”
The door opened a crack. Haunted eyes peered through the gap. I was shivering hard, slumped against the wall. It had taken fifteen minutes to wake him up, get him to the front door.
“Who’s there?” he whispered. He probably intended it to sound fierce but his voice was cracked, brittle.
“It’s me, Joe. Harry Rigby. From the pub?”
The crack widened.
“Harry who?”
“Harry Rigby, Joe. Can you let me in? I need –”
Somehow I couldn’t finish it, couldn’t say the word out loud, but maybe he saw something in my eyes he saw every day in the mirror. Or maybe nobody had asked him for help in a long, long time. And maybe he was always disposed to being a Good Samaritan and no one ever took the time to find out. Whatever it was, he opened the door, gave the street outside a quick scan, dragged me inside.
It was no warmer in the hallway. The house, three stories of faux-Georgian craft, had been condemned ten years previously, still standing only because the rear of the train station didn’t exactly inspire the Celtic cubs with notions of urban chic. Joe was the sole occupant, a squatter who’d never need to assert his rights unless rats ever became a must-have townhouse accessory.
He was wearing the same overcoat and soiled pants from the day before. Hair rumpled, eyes raw, bloodshot. His bristles rasped as he rubbed his chin, none too sure of the next step in the hospitality game. The smell of cheap cider breath was foul.
The hallway was high, long and dank. Mould oozed up the walls. The stench of cat piss seeped into my pores. A battered black pay phone was bolted to the wall, one of the ancient ones that had a Button A, Button B and
a barbell receiver. There was a scorch mark just inside the door, but apart from that the carpet had no discernible pattern. He noticed me staring.
“Lighter fluid,” he said. His voice was gruff now, no self-pity. “Couple of years ago, at Halloween. The kind of thing they do nowadays.”
A bare bulb hung low over the kitchen table, at which a single chair sat guarding an empty bottle of stout. A line of washing – a pair of faded pink long johns, two shirts with yellowing armpits – stretched from over the cracked porcelain sink to the glowing Sacred Heart on the far wall. Other than that, the kitchen was as neat as it was empty. He looked at me and frowned, bushy brows knitting.
“Christ, son. What happened to you?”
I sat, gingerly, on the chair, tugged my shirt out of my jeans. His eyes widened and he disappeared back into the hallway. When he returned he had a grimy sheet that he’d torn into strips and a tub of foul-smelling orange cream that I didn’t ask too many questions about. He sat on an upturned wooden box, cleaned the wound, applied the grimy bandages. His hands shook but his movements were deft, his touch sure. When he was finished he sat back and lit the butt of a cigarette.
“You were lucky, son. It was a big one but it went through clean. If it had hit anything it’d have blown your back out.”
“Felt like an electric shock when it hit. Thought I’d been fried.”
“Seen it happen. He went berserk, charged off into the jungle on his own, just screaming.” He stubbed the butt, looked away. “None of my business, son, so you tell me what you like. But I never put you down for running with a bad crowd.”
I kept it short. When I was finished he shook his head but didn’t start any sermons.
“You keep your head down, son. If it comes looking for you, kick it in the balls. But don’t go looking for it.”
It was good advice, the sage words of an old man, the kind I particularly hate passing up.
“Thanks for everything, Joe. I really appreciate it. No kidding, I thought I was dying out
there. But I have to shoot through.”
“Want to kip here? There’s plenty of room.”
“Cheers, Joe, but no. I don’t want to put you out anymore than I already have.”
Mischief blazed in his eyes.
“A night like this, and you with holes back and front? She must be some woman.”
“Aren’t they all, Joe?”
“True as God, son. True as God.”
He stood up and left. When he returned he was carrying an oil-soaked rag, carrying it careful in the crook of one arm. He sat down, put the rag on the table. Looked at me, folded back the rag. An old cowboy’s gun sat there, a Colt Peacemaker .45, a six-shooter, oiled and gleaming. The barrel wasn’t quite long as a piece of string.
“Mad what you find in the jungle,” he said. “There’s three bullets to go with it. If you’re interested.”
I was tempted, I really was, but Prothiaden and guns are a bad combination. Anyway, I wasn’t sure I had the strength to point it anywhere but the floor.
“I’ve never used a gun in my life, Joe. Wouldn’t know where to start.”
“It’s knowing where to finish, son. Starting’s the easy bit. You just make sure the safety’s off and let your mind go blank.”
I shook my head again. He didn’t push it.
“You need anything again, son, you don’t worry about putting me out. I’ll be here, or you’ll know where to find me.” He gave me the number of the pay phone in the hall. “I think it still works,” he said, his tone matter-of-fact. “Haven’t heard it ring in years.”
He didn’t have to tell me, he’d never had any reason to make a call himself. I slipped the number into my wallet and left.
It was an hour to Katie’s, giving the centre of town a wide berth, and uphill all the way. She answered the door in her dressing gown, a short cream kimono belted at the waist. As far as I could make out she wasn’t wearing anything underneath, but I was too shattered to investigate properly. Besides, I had one or two things on my mind. She toasted me with the glass of wine in her hand.
“Come on in,” she said, breezy, flirting. Then, when I stepped in under the hall light: “Jesus Christ, Harry! What… Jesus!”
I could see myself in the mirror at the end of the hall. Hunched over, sopping wet, the side of my face bruised and swollen, hair plastered tight to the skull. It wasn’t a pretty sight and I was no oil painting to start with, unless Bosch had turned his hand to portraits. I tugged at my jeans.
“Can I change out of these?”
“Of course. Upstairs. March.”
She gave me a T-shirt and her biggest sweater, a pair of powder-blue tracksuit bottoms. I stood outside the shower, poking one limb inside at a time, trying to keep Joe’s bandages dry, but I hadn’t even started to thaw out by the time I crawled back downstairs again.
She had made a pot of coffee, a bottle of Jameson and a packet of painkillers sitting beside it on the low table between the plush armchairs. I sat down, poured a third of the bottle into the coffee pot, gulped down a mug and then looked at her. I hadn’t wanted to before. Katie was something of a distraction at the best of times, and the loose kimono was destroying what little concentration I had left.
Tiny worry lines creased her forehead. I didn’t blame her. If someone I barely knew turned up at my front door at five in the morning, I’d have been worried too. Worried he might freeze to death in the cold outside, because the only way he’d have got in was on the other end of a battering ram.
“Bren okay?”
“Ben. He’s fine.” Rather, I hoped Ben was fine, hoped with every fibre of my being that Ben was just fine and dandy-o. A little tired, maybe, but still in possession of all his limbs and his endearing innocence. I acknowledged that Katie was due an explanation of sorts. I poured another mug of coffee, popped three painkillers and gave her one, of sorts. I told her what I thought she needed to know, leaving out the bit about Gonzo screwing Celine all those years ago, not because I respected Gonzo’s memory, but just because. She didn’t reach for a notepad and pen but her eyes sparkled all the same.
She was cool. Once I’d reassured her that the pros wouldn’t be kicking her door down, she accepted the situation, started dealing with it.
“He’s dead?”
“Him, O’Leary and romantic Ireland.”
I was trying to be cool myself. I knew I was teetering on the abyss, that I’d tip over into the maw if I tried to make sense of it all. I’d hated Gonzo, my own brother, hated what he was, who he was and what he represented. That didn’t minimise the shock of his death. Whatever he was, or became, Gonzo was my brother. My only brother. My only family.
“And then someone tried to kill you?”
“The fucker was maybe ten yards away when he fired. Pointing at me. Even I can work that one out.”
“What about the Guards?”
“What about them?”
“You have to tell them.”
“Of course. Once I know it wasn’t them doing the shooting.”
“The Guards?”
“This isn’t South Central, Katie. The only punters use machine guns around here are Provies and Special Branch.”
“The Provies?”
“Yeah. Dissidents, call them whatever.” I shrugged the possibility off. Things were bad enough without dealing with the prospect of Provies chasing me down. “I’ve done nothing to piss them off, though. Far as I know.”
“But the Guards?”
“Branch. Thing is, I had that chat with Galway and Brady this morning, about Frank Conway. Except nothing got said, because Conway is a client of mine who happens to be involved in some very dodgy dealings. Maybe the Dibble aren’t getting their cut, maybe they think I’m in on it and taking me out was supposed to be some kind of warning to anyone who was thinking of doing the same. And maybe not. All I know is, they let me go quick smart after Gonzo died. They didn’t even search me properly. Either way, if the shooters were Dibble I won’t have to go to them. They’ll come looking for me.”
She sipped her wine, peeking out from behind the bob, which had fallen in front of her face. Sitting forward, chewing the inside of her lip. She looked vulnerable, tender and intensely desirable. I marvelled at the mind’s ability to create diversions in order to stave off self-destruction. To distract myself, I dug out the mobile and punched in a number. She answered on the second ring.
“Dee?”
“Harry?”
“Yeah. You okay?”
“Okay?” There was a short pause. Then: “You got me out of bed to drive eighty miles in the middle of the night, Ben developing pneumonia the whole way, and you won’t tell me why. Would you be okay, Harry?”
“Maybe not. But you sound fine. You’re there already?”
“No traffic. Why would there be? Any normal person would be tucked up in bed, asleep.”
“You’re different, Dee. You’re special. How’s Ben?”
“He’s asleep. What’s going on?”
“I’ll tell you everything tomorrow, I swear. When I get there. Don’t leave the house, keep the doors locked, curtains pulled. Okay?”
“No it’s not ofuckingkay. Harry –”
“Have to go, Dee. Chat to you in the morning.”
I hung up, heaved a sigh of relief, switched the mobile off. A huge weight lifted off my shoulders. Then the weight changed its mind and sandbagged me across the back of the head. I slumped back into the armchair.
“You okay?” she asked. Again with the lip chewing and the peeking out from behind the bob.
“I’m grand. Really. I’m just too tired to deal with it now. It’ll hit tomorrow. All I need now is a quilt and a pillow.”
She put the glass of wine on the coffee table, held out her hand. I reached too. It felt soft and cool. She squeezed gently.
“The couch is too small. You’ll sleep better in bed.”
The couch you could have rafted down the Amazon but I was too tired to argue. I let her drag me out of the armchair and up th
e stairs to her bedroom. She went to the bathroom, which I took as my cue to get into bed. She gave me plenty of time to do it, which was just as well, every joint in my body was locked solid. There was some blood seeping through the bandage but it was nothing to write home about, not that there was anyone at home anymore. The pain had just about subsided to a tolerable throb.
When she came back she was wearing an over-sized T-shirt, a panda bear on the front. She got into bed, tucked me in, turned her back, staked a claim to some duvet.
“Katie?”
“Don’t spoil it, Harry.”
“No disrespect, but I’m a dying man.”
“Good.”
She slept. I lay there, floating above the big empty, hearing Gonzo call my name from its gaping maw.
17
I dozed fitfully, twisting myself into a swastika, waking fast every time I turned onto the wound. Morning was a shaft of light angling through a chink in the curtains, right between the eyes.
I rolled a cigarette, checked the bandage. The blob of raspberry jelly had settled, hardened. Katie still had her back turned to me, like she hadn’t moved all night, even though she’d been out to the bathroom twice. She had rucked the quilt and her hip was exposed all the way to the white cotton of her panties, the skin warm, downy and golden. I watched her until the outside world grew jealous and started to punch her doorbell. I was up and dressed before the next buzz sounded. Katie tugged the quilt tight under her chin.
“Katie?” I tucked my T-shirt into my jeans. Both were still damp but pneumonia was the least of my worries
“What?” Eyes closed, pawing at her fringe.
“There’s someone at the door.”
The buzzer rasped, paused, sounded again, angry this time. Which was bad news, they weren’t going away. The good news being, if they hadn’t already kicked the door down, they were unlikely to do it at all.
I peered through the narrow gap between curtain and window frame. All I could see was an empty front garden, a tiny lawn that needed its grass cut, tiny drifts of sleet in the corners. It looked like we were in for a white Christmas but the prospect didn’t fill me with the innocent glee it should have, mainly because there was a blue Mondeo parked in the street.