Wilson and Dove walked up the alleyway in silence.
“Well,” said Wilson, “that went well.”
“Oh, I don’t know,” replied Dove. “While you were having your chat, I was enjoying the decor. Especially the picture of Simone Delamere that was in that collage above the bar.
“Right. Well, I guess we’d better go and give Mr Graffoe’s barrister a call then.”
Chapter Thirty-Two
Bunny took a nip from his hip flask and placed it back in his coat pocket. It was a cold night now; it felt like it might snow. He needed gloves. He’d had gloves. What had happened to his gloves?
Zayas sat on the garden wall outside the row of redbrick Georgian houses. “Out for a walk, Detective?”
“Ara shut up, ye dead prick.”
Bunny looked at the garden path leading up to the steps. His foot was killing him now, and he leaned on his hurling stick for support. The walk here had been filled with memories. They had made it together many times, he and Simone. He had come here on a few occasions since Simone had left – or, rather, he’d been summoned. Sister Bernadette was not someone you said no to. It had been several years since the last time, though. They had not left things in the best of states. Still, they needed to know.
“Ah yes, Detective, coming to warn your co-conspirators. Very wise.”
“Would you ever fuck off!” He said it with real venom and then turned at the exclamation from an elderly lady who had been walking one of those tiny little dogs down the pavement. “Oh God, sorry, I didn’t mean to…”
She rushed by, pulling the dog away from Bunny as she went.
Zayas clicked his tongue in disapproval. “Drunk and disorderly. How unbecoming, Detective.”
Bunny rubbed a hand across his face. Since the call from Noel, he had gone to the pub to find some peace. A few drinks to steady his nerves, give him time to think. The Gardaí had been in Charlie’s, asking questions about Simone. Noel had said there’d been an FBI agent too. Said they’d been talking about murder. So he’d decided to walk out here, to the home of the Sisters of the Saint. It had seemed like a better idea at the time; he wasn’t so sure about it now.
He steadied himself and took a deep breath. Sister Bernadette did not approve of drinking. Bernadette did not approve of many things.
He opened the gate and started to walk down the path. They’d put a load more flowers in since he had last been here. Repainted the door too. He rang the bell and waited.
“Are you going to ask them to hide you, Detective? They have a history of protecting murderers, after all.”
“I’m getting royally fucking sick of you, y’know? Just piss off.”
“You can’t get rid of me, Detective, and you know why. Your own mind isn’t on your side anymore.”
“I wish you weren’t dead. I’d fecking love to kill you again.”
“Hello?” The voice came from behind the door. Female. Nervous.
“Howerya. I was looking for Bernadette, please.”
“There is no one here of that name.”
Bunny took a step back and looked around. He hadn’t gone to the wrong house, had he? He looked in both directions. No, this was it. This was definitely it.
“Is Sister Assumpta there then?”
“No. I don’t know that person either. It’s just me. I mean, it’s just me and my husband. He’s here as well. You have the wrong address.”
Bunny moved towards the peephole. “Look, it’s OK. It’s me. I’m Bunny McGarry. Ask the sisters. I’m OK. I’ve helped with a few things. I’m – I’m one of the good guys.”
Bunny tried to ignore the sound of Zayas’s laughter.
“Why’ve you got a weapon?”
Bunny held up the hurling stick. “It’s not a… I just carry a hurley about. It’s…”
“Look, go away, or I’m calling the guards.”
“I am the…” Bunny stopped himself. He wasn’t. Not any more.
“You sound drunk. Go home.”
“No, look… You’re one of the Sisters of the Saint. I know it’s all…” Bunny put his fingers to his lips. “It’s all hush-hush. That’s fine. I get that.”
Bunny turned at the sound of a throat being cleared behind him. An elderly man was standing there, eyeing him suspiciously. “Is there a problem here?”
“No,” said Bunny. “No problem. I’ve just come to talk to the sisters. I’m not… I’m not…”
“A couple of old nuns used to live there, but they moved out about seven years ago.” “But… sure, I was…” Bunny thought about it. Could it really have been that long? “D’ye know where they went?”
The man shook his head. “No. I think you’d best be off now, don’t you?”
Bunny nodded, feeling embarrassed. “Right, yeah, sorry.” He stopped and turned back towards the door. “Sorry about… Sorry.”
The older man stood to the side and waved him down the path. Bunny limped away.
“Oh dear, Detective. Are you embarrassing yourself?”
“Feck off, ye…”
“What was that?” asked the man.
“Nothing,” said Bunny. “Sorry. Merry Christmas.”
“Yes. Goodbye.”
Bunny limped off down the pavement, back towards town. Once he’d gone about a hundred yards, he dipped his hand into his pocket without conscious thought and withdrew the flask. It was nearly empty. He unscrewed it and, with a swift jerk of his head, knocked back the last of it. He grimaced as the whiskey burned through him. He belched and got a sting of heartburn.
Then he saw it again. The motorbike. He’d noticed it more and more over the last few days. It seemed like it was there every time he turned around. The rider would pretend not to be watching him, but he was always there.
Bunny started hurrying towards it. “Come ’ere, you.”
The rider was holding his phone in his hand and looked like he was texting – or pretending to. He was parked outside a row of three shops just down the road, beside the traffic lights. This time, he was in a leather jacket and leather biker trousers or whatever you called them. Yesterday he’d been dressed as a courier.
Bunny stepped between the parked cars, jumping back as a vehicle swerved to avoid him as it headed down the Rathmines Road. There was a plaintive honk as the driver drove on.
Bunny looked both ways and then hurried across. He could see the biker looking at him now.
“Come ’ere, you. I want to talk to ye.”
The biker put his phone into his jacket and placed his hands on the handlebars. Bunny was maybe thirty yards from him now. He tried to run towards him. A loose paving stone snagged at his foot and he stumbled forward, but managed to right himself without falling.
Then he looked up to see the rider kicking the bike into life.
“No! Wait!”
The bike was onto the road, speeding past him. Bunny tried to get in front of it, flag it down, but it went by too quick. The biker didn’t even look in his direction.
Bunny stood on the road behind it, waving his hurley.
“Come back, ye fucker, come back. Face me!”
A horn honked loudly.
Bunny turned to see a shaven-headed man with his head out the window of his car. “Get out of the road, ye mad old bastard.”
“Yeah, alright. Alright!”
Bunny moved aside. There were people looking at him now. A couple on the far side of the street. A man putting his bins out just down the road. And there. There she was. The woman.
He’d seen them all over the last few days. The tall man. The short man. The woman. They always looked different, of course. They’d have goatees sometimes, different coloured hair. She’d been pregnant once, after having a pram the day before. Now she had neither the bump nor the buggy. She was wrapped up in a thick brown winter coat and a bobble hat, but it was her. She was coming out of the takeaway on the corner. He hurried towards her.
“You. It’s you.”
She stopped to look at him an
d then started to hurry away.
“Wait. No. Who are you? Why don’t you just talk to me? I know you know. I know you know.”
Chapter Thirty-Three
“Wakey, wakey.”
The first thing he noticed was the stale taste in his mouth.
The second thing was the pounding in his head.
The third thing was the smell. That was different.
The first two things were old friends, but the smell… It was a mixture of body odour, piss and disinfectant. That was the new part, the disinfectant.
He clenched his eyelids tightly closed against the harsh light.
“C’mon, get up ta fuck!”
A boot pushed against his back.
Bunny tried to turn his body, but the moulded plastic bench he was sleeping on wasn’t exactly spacious. With a yelp, he fell the eighteen inches onto the lino floor. His coat, which had been bunched under his head for a pillow, fell on top of him.
“Good God, man, look at the state of ye.”
Bunny pushed the coat off himself and opened his eyes to see a familiar figure leaning casually against the wall. He looked around and realised where he was. Oh dear.
Taighe Fitzgerald had been a desk sergeant at Pearse Street for as long as anyone could remember. So long, in fact, that it was quite possible he’d always been standing there and they’d simply built the station around him. It had been a few years since Bunny had seen him, and the time hadn’t been that kind to Taighe. But then, seeing as Bunny was in a heap on the floor, he was in no position to judge. Taighe’s black hair had thinned in some places and greyed in others, and his paunch had expanded. There were a few more lines around his eyes too. You’d have called them laughter lines if anyone had ever seen him laugh.
It had been a while since Bunny’s last visit, but the holding cells hadn’t changed much. Previously, if he had slept in one, it had always been with the door open. He had also, no matter how much he’d had to drink, remembered how he got there.
“Howerya, Taighe, good to see ye.”
“I wish I could say the same.”
“I love what you’ve done with the place.”
“Oh yeah, we’re all mod cons now. Wi-Fi access and lattes. It’s like Starbucks.”
“Thanks for having me.”
“Get up off the floor, would ye?” There was an unmistakable look of disgust on Taighe’s face as he said it.
With difficulty Bunny dragged his bulk back up onto the bench. He had to pull his trousers up too. His belt was gone. His shoes also sat in the corner, laceless.
Bunny rubbed his hands up and down his face, then scratched at his beard, trying to will himself back into some form of life.
“Sorry if I was any trouble.”
“Trouble? Trouble, he says. Do you remember much of last night?”
Bunny stared at the linoleum floor for a few seconds. “I’m a bit vague on a few of the finer points.”
“Well, let me fill you in. Two uniforms responded to a call of a mad man ranting and raving up on the Rathmines Road. Chasing after some poor terrified French tourist, here for a bit of Christmas shopping. Accusing her of following him. From what I hear, she was actively trying to get away from him.”
Bunny tried to recall it, but no memories came back, save for a flash of a woman’s terrified expression as she looked at him in horror.
“I can…”
“Then, when the two Gardaí tried to calm the man down, he assaulted them.”
Bunny closed his eyes and leaned back, feeling the cool of the wall against his back. “Oh shite.”
“Yes. A broken nose and a sprained wrist.”
Bunny looked up at the ceiling and immediately regretted doing so. He was betting the cleaners hadn’t looked up there in quite some time.
“Bunny, look at me.”
Bunny turned his head back down and looked at Taighe.
“No bullshit. Are you OK?”
“I…” Bunny looked over at the metal toilet in the corner, considering how best to answer the question. “I’m going through a bit of a rough patch.”
“Rough patch? They were all set to have you sectioned. They were looking for a doctor willing to take the call when someone recognised you and I got the shout. I told them to hold off.” The volume of his voice dropped a notch. “I’m not sure that was the right thing.”
Bunny looked back at him. “Honestly, I’ll be OK. I just overindulged in a few Christmas drinks. Lost the run of myself.”
“Are you sure you don’t want to go somewhere for a few days? Rest up? There’s no shame in it. I can have a word. Make sure you’re taken care of. You know we mind our own.”
“Honestly, I’ll be fine. A shower and a bit of proper kip and I’ll be right as rain.”
“Anyone else did what you’ve just done, they’d be up on charges.”
Bunny opened his mouth and closed it again. He lowered his eyes to the floor, the smell of sweat and shame coming off him filling his nostrils.
“As it happens, the broken nose belonged to John Doyle Junior, son of John Doyle, aka Ditty Doyle.”
“Christ, I walloped Ditty’s young fella?” The memory of a young kid sitting on his lap at a Christmas party many moons ago flashed into his mind. Bunny had been Santa Claus for the kids’ parties for several years in a row. It had been great craic.
“You did,” replied Taighe. “He’s none too pleased with you, but nobody’s going to press charges.”
“Tell him I said sorry.”
“Which one?”
“Both of them, I guess. Everyone.”
Taighe placed a cardboard cup of tea down on the bench beside Bunny. “Who can I call to come get you?”
“No need,” said Bunny, picking up the tea.
“There is.” Taighe said it in such a firm voice that it stopped the tea on its way to Bunny’s lips. “To be honest, Bunny, the way you were carrying on – it’s touch and go me letting you walk out of here as it is. I’m not doing it unless you give me the name of someone who can come and pick you up.”
“Gringo.”
“What?”
“G…” The word died in Bunny’s mouth.
Taighe leaned in and placed a hand on Bunny’s shoulder. “Bunny, Gringo is gone. You know that, right?”
Bunny nodded quickly. “Course I do, don’t be daft. I was only, y’know, messing.”
“Right. Yeah.” Taighe gave him a long, hard look.
Bunny gave him the only name and number he could think of and Taighe left him alone with a weak cup of tea and a strong sense of shame.
“Oh dear, Detective. This is a bad look for you.”
Bunny closed his eyes and lowered his chin to his chest. “Oh, for… Could we not do this now?”
Zayas laughed. “Ah, don’t you want to play anymore? You were so much more fun last night. And besides, this is excellent practice for you. Incarceration is undoubtedly in your future.”
Bunny tried to hum to himself.
“They know who I am now, and they know about Simone. They were at Charlie’s bar. It’s just a matter of time before they find out about you.”
“Just piss off.”
“A few people know about your little gun, don’t they? The murder weapon. Who did you show it to? All those nights drinking, you probably told a lot of people.”
“You’re not real.” Bunny opened his eyes to see Zayas leaning against the wall, in the same spot Taighe had been.
“No, I’m not. I’m just your mind’s way of telling you what you refuse to think about, Detective. Forget the gun. What did Gringo do with my wallet after he left you that night? That’s the first big question, isn’t it?”
Bunny hummed more loudly to himself. He hadn’t realised it until now, but he was humming “Auld Lang Syne”.
“That’s not the really big question though, is it? No. That’s not the one that scares you. In all of this, you’ve never really cared much about yourself. So noble in that way.”
S
hould auld acquaintance be forgot?
“You know what they’re after, don’t you? Those shadows just out of reach. They’re not coming for you, are they? They’re coming for her. Maybe they think that if – ha, sorry, when – you get arrested, she’ll come back. Explain what happened. Then she’ll go to jail, or… Well, whatever was chasing her will find her, won’t it? Eighteen years running and she gives herself up, to save you.”
And never brought to mind…
“That’s your thing, isn’t it, Detective? Being that knight in shining armour. But you’ll have failed. Failed utterly to protect her. Your one job. The one woman you ever truly loved.”
We’ll take a cup…
“Then there’s the even worse option: they arrest you and she doesn’t come back. You were just convenient. A useful idiot to protect her. She left you so easily back then, and it’ll be just like she’s doing it again, only worse. It’ll be like it’s happening every day. Every day in that cell, you will know, know for certain, that she never loved you. That will be your real punishment.”
Of kindness yet…
“That’s why you can’t keep me out. Because to close me out is to close out that whole time. Getting rid of me means getting rid of her. And all she left you with is your sad little memory.”
“Shut up, shut up, shut up, shut up!”
Bunny’s right fist flailed out and punched the wall where the dead man stood. He felt the crack of bone as it thumped into the plaster.
He let out a yelp of pain.
“Are you alright in there?”
Bunny cupped his hand to his chest and tried to regain control of himself. “Yeah, I’m fine. Just stubbed my toe.”
The mocking laughter cascaded around him.
Chapter Thirty-Four
Paul felt like crap.
Last night, the boiler in his flat had packed in. After leaving several messages on the letting agency’s emergency number, which nobody seemed to be picking up, he had put on a couple of layers of clothing and huddled up under his duvet.
That had lasted all of fifteen minutes before a German Shepherd, who didn’t like the cold any more than he did, had dragged the duvet off the bed. After something that could be described as a negotiation-cum-fight, they had both slept under the duvet. Or rather, one of them had slept while the other spent the night dreading the next funky eruption from the other one’s arse.
Last Orders (The Dublin Trilogy Book 4) Page 19