Frankie glanced up and down the street. No sign of a uniform. The driver of the Toyota that pulled in behind, a plump young woman with short, dark curly hair and dark glasses, was unhooking the petrol pump.
Frankie said to the mad old man, ‘You’re mixing me up with someone else.’
‘I know who you are.’
Shit. The pictures in the newspapers.
‘Nothing to do with you, old man. Mind your own business.’
The old man jabbed the gun towards Frankie, like he wanted Frankie to stop talking. The old man’s hand was trembling. Frankie’s muscles tensed. Near enough now for a hand moving fast enough. Give it a second.
His arm down by his side, he made a fist.
One-two-three.
Something changed, a movement he didn’t quite see, and Frankie was lying on the ground, on his side, facing the back of the car. The woman from the Toyota was standing twenty feet away with both hands clapped flat to the sides of her face. She was looking at Frankie, she was screaming, but Frankie couldn’t hear anything except the hissing sound that seemed to come from inside his own head.
Burning smell.
There was something hot and wet on Frankie’s face.
Jesus.
The old bastard was stepping over Frankie, the gun hanging down by his side. He looked right down at Frankie and he said something.
Frankie couldn’t hear the words.
He tried to say something but he wasn’t sure if any sound came from his lips and he wasn’t sure what he wanted to say. The old man was bending down, leaning over Frankie.
Stupid old bastard, tears in his eyes.
Frankie saw the muzzle of the gun coming round.
Wait—
Twice Stephen Beckett declined the offer of a cup of tea. The third time, they brought it anyway. Now, it too had gone cold, and the ham sandwich they left with it remained untouched. For the first time since they brought him to the little room at the back of the garda station, Stephen stood up. The room was warm. It took him a couple of seconds to steady himself, then he took off his overcoat and the young uniformed garda standing just inside the door took it and brought it outside. When he returned he looked at the cold tea and the sandwich and he took those away, too.
Stephen sat down again in the chair behind the worn-out table. Over the couple of hours since he’d been brought here he’d been visited by a number of gardai, including a uniformed superintendent and a couple of detective inspectors. None of them had asked him anything about what happened. Mostly they asked if he was OK, if there was anything he needed. The superintendent asked if he had a solicitor. Stephen said he didn’t want a solicitor. The superintendent said he’d better have one, anyway. By and by, a thin man in a grey suit came and introduced himself as a solicitor. He said something that Stephen didn’t catch, then he said he’d be back in a little while and he went away.
The young uniformed garda brought in yet another cup of tea and left it on the table, then went back to standing beside the door.
‘Won’t be long now,’ he said. Stephen was about to ask him what it wouldn’t be long until, then he didn’t bother.
He was aware of a great calmness surrounding him, like the silence immediately after an explosion. He’d first noticed that sense of calm as he walked back from the garage, the sound of the second shot ebbing away, the crumbled figure on the ground behind him.
They’ll ask me why, and anything I say will sound like an excuse.
He didn’t want to make excuses, or pretend that what he had done was the right thing to do. He knew it was the wrong thing to do and he knew it was what he needed to do, he thought it was right that he should do it and he knew that in a couple of weeks he wouldn’t believe that any more. He knew he could never explain this, he wasn’t sure anyone could, and he knew it didn’t matter to him now.
After a while, the solicitor was standing in front of Stephen, introducing a tall plainclothes policeman with the bearing of the officer class, but Stephen didn’t catch the name. He saw that the uniformed garda by the door was standing with a very straight back.
The grand panjandrum.
Stephen noticed the detective’s thin brown hair was dyed. The man nodded at Stephen, sat down, took out a notebook and said, ‘Let’s get started, shall we?’
Acknowledgements
Thanks to Julie Lordan, who encouraged Little Criminals from the beginning; to agent Peter Straus, who took the book on; and to Jason Arthur, who published it. Their advice was invaluable. Along the way, Evelyn Bracken, Pat Brennan, Tom Daly and Rowan Rowth were generous with their support. Thank you all.
Little Criminals Page 31