by Paul Cuddihy
‘Jack, just let him go,’ she said quietly.
She was getting closer to Duffy, repeating her mantra of ‘please’ while he continued to hold Mick in his gaze. Standing directly in front of him, she came up to his chest and she stared up at him.
‘Please, Jack,’ she said. ‘For me…’
Duffy began nodding, looking down at Kate and for a split second Mick thought he might actually be allowed to leave. Then Duffy gripped Kate’s arms and moved her aside, letting her go and striding towards Mick in the same movement. In two steps he was in front of Mick. His right arm stretched out and a massive hand gripped Mick’s throat. He couldn’t breathe and his own hands grasped frantically at Duffy’s arm as fingers tightened and red spots appeared before his eyes.
Mick could feel his feet being lifted off the ground. Any strength he had seeped out of his body and he stopped clawing at the grip that was crushing him. With barely any effort, Duffy pushed Mick’s body away, releasing his hold and firing him through the window. Mick was flying and for a few seconds he actually managed to smile though he didn’t know why. The grin was soon wiped off his face as he dropped like a stone to the ground. He wanted to think of Kate, or of his mother. Even an image of Galway would have comforted him but all he could picture was the football match he’d just left and he wanted to curse O’Rourke for having taken him in the first place.
He closed his eyes and began to pray, though he’d barely managed to mouth the words ‘Hail Mary…’ before he hit solid ground. He lay perfectly still on his back, eyes closed, and held his breath for a few seconds, not sure whether this was how it felt to be dead. Then he groaned, opened his eyes and saw the grimy building he’d just been thrown out of. He glanced to his side and realised that he’d crashed through the empty cart that had sat outside the house. It was enough to break his fall and even as he lay on the road, his body still aching from the impact, he knew he was still alive and he thanked Our Lady.
It was a premature prayer of thanks, however, as Duffy burst out of the close-mouth, bounding over and kicking him hard in the ribs. It felt like he’d been shot and Mick struggled to find even a tiny breath. He braced himself for another blow, knowing Duffy was standing over him, but nothing came.
Slowly, Mick rolled onto his side, letting out a scream as his body weight rested on his left arm, which he guessed was broken. Still, he managed to push himself onto his knees and crouched in the street on all fours like a dog. He barely had time to draw breath before Duffy’s boot crashed into his body, sending Mick sprawling across the road. He heard a crack and was sure that a few ribs had just been broken.
He was on his front now and lay still, reluctant to move again. He guessed that Duffy was waiting to pounce again and he wanted to delay the inevitable. Screaming suddenly filled the air, building up to a crescendo as Kate rushed down the stairs and out into the street.
‘Don’t kill him, Jack,’ she shouted.
Mick glanced up at the same time as Duffy looked round and he saw the bald man point at Kate. It was enough to halt her in her tracks. She was brave enough to plead for his life but not stupid enough to risk her own. Duffy still stared at Kate and Mick tried to grab the window of opportunity, slowly crawling towards the pavement on the other side of the road.
His fingertips had just about managed to touch the kerb when he felt his ankles being gripped and he was dragged back across the cobbles, the rough stones attacking his face as it scraped along their surface. His body shuddered to a halt and Duffy pressed a boot down on his broken arm until he began to scream like a starving child. When the pressure was lifted, Mick’s screams evaporated into groans while Kate sobbed helplessly. Then it started again and it felt like his arm was going to fall off. Duffy seemed to know exactly how long to apply the pain and after it happened a fourth time, Mick was praying that it would all be over soon. He wanted to die.
Voices began hovering above him but he was drifting into unconsciousness and couldn’t really make out anything that was being said. He was grateful enough for their arrival, however, if only because it had distracted Duffy’s torture, for a few moments at least.
His left arm was useless. He’d have been worried the damage was permanent if he thought that he’d have use of it in the future, but since that future looked set to last for only a few more minutes, it was not a great concern. He stuck his right hand into his trouser pocket, as much to try and conceal it from Duffy so that he wouldn’t alternate between either arm.
He heard a voice say, ‘Not out here, Jack,’ and suddenly he was floating as several pairs of hands grasped his limbs and hoisted him off the ground. He relaxed and let them carry him back into the building, past Kate, who stretched out an arm and briefly touched his cheek, before she was pushed away. He knew they were taking him inside to kill him and he suddenly realised too that it had nothing to do with the man in black. This wasn’t his style, or if he had been intent on exacting such a brutal revenge, then he would have emerged from the shadows himself, even if it was only to fulfil the role of gleeful spectator.
He was dropped callously onto a wooden floor and he lay perfectly still, breathing heavily even though every time he inhaled, a pain shot through his body from his broken ribs.
Duffy crouched down and pushed his face close to Mick’s so that he could feel the warm breath of his tormentor on his cheek. A stale odour of tobacco and whiskey washed over him and he noticed Duffy’s teeth were a combination of yellow and black. A crooked grin broke out across his face and Mick knew that it was time. Duffy had tired of him and was now going to put an end to this torture. The sharp point of a blade pressed into his cheek and Duffy pressed hard until Mick sensed his skin being punctured.
‘Now, should this be quick or slow?’ Duffy said. ‘What do you think? Should I slit your throat or cut out your eyes and tongue first?’
Mick automatically clenched his fists but he knew it was a pointless exercise. He’d barely have enough time to swing a solitary punch before Duffy would dispatch him with his knife. Or worse, it would convince him that mutilation was better than murder. He relaxed his hands, feeling in his pockets as Duffy stood up. The bald man grabbed Mick’s jacket and hauled his broken body to its feet. If he let go Mick knew that, in all likelihood, he’d topple over.
‘I’ll make it quick for you,’ Duffy said with a grim smile.
Mick closed his eyes just as the sound of urgent banging on the door invaded the room.
‘What is it?’ Duffy growled.
A muffled, nervous voice shouted something from the other side of the door though Mick couldn’t make it out.
‘I’ll be right there,’ said Duffy, turning back to face Mick who threw a handful of pepper into the bald giant’s face. He let go of Mick and began clawing at his face with his hands, groaning furiously. Mick fell to the floor at the same time as the knife that Duffy had dropped and he immediately grasped it, thrusting his arm out and lodging the blade in Duffy’s thigh. It provoked a scream to scare the devil himself, but Mick was already at the window which bore the signs of his previous exit, clambering over the ledge and dropping out without a moment’s hesitation. He knew he never would have made it to the door and, even if he had, Duffy’s men were on the other side.
That argument still seemed to make sense to him as he tumbled once more to the ground, knowing that there was no cart to break his fall this time and accepting that he was going to die. He was glad that he had deprived Duffy of that particular pleasure, however, and as the bald man continued howling in the room above, Mick closed his eyes and smiled. The footballers he’d seen before had disappeared. Now there was only Kate, who stood waving from outside a cottage, like she was welcoming him home after a hard day’s work in the fields. It would be a comforting image to take to his grave.
11
HEAVEN CAN WAIT
It was a strange feeling to be dead. It wasn’t how Mick imagined it would be, though it still made him smile. Thomas stood at his side, rosary beads entwin
ed between his fingers, lips moving in silent prayer. He wanted to ask his brother what he was doing here, but when he tried to speak no sound escaped from his mouth and he had a sense that he wouldn’t be able to hear Thomas either if he said anything. He guessed it was just another comforting image, like Kate waiting for him in Galway, and that if he closed his eyes for a few seconds Thomas would be gone when he opened them again.
He didn’t want to lose sight of his brother; perhaps he was offering up last-minute prayers to let Mick into heaven? He would need more than that to persuade Saint Peter to open those gates, and even then Mick still didn’t fancy his chances.
He could feel his eyelids growing heavy, like someone had placed a couple of pennies on them. He remembered they had done that to his daddy as he lay in bed, dressed in his Sunday best. If it wasn’t for the coins resting in his eye sockets, it would have been easy to think his daddy was only sleeping. His hands were joined together in prayer though it had been a long, long time since that had happened when he was alive and Mick knew that if his daddy was at that moment praying for his own salvation, he’d be slurring over the opening words to the Our Father.
His mammy sat on a chair at the side of the bed, her head bowed. She wore a black lace veil that concealed a face that had shed barely a tear for her dead husband. Not that Mick blamed her. She’d suffered enough when he was alive. Maybe God had finally answered her prayers after all this time.
Mick hoped someone would be crying at his bedside but he couldn’t think who that might be. His mammy would, if she knew what had happened, but those tears would be spilt on Galway soil when she heard the news. He barely dared to hope that Kate would take on the role of chief mourner, and why would she? She no more knew his last name than he hers, so she would be crying for a stranger, their only connection one night of messy passion, the details of which were already beginning to fray at the edges.
Mick couldn’t fight the pressure any more and his eyes snapped shut. He hoped his brother was still conducting a prayerful vigil over his body. He would miss him, of that he was absolutely certain. There was ten years between them and Thomas had been absent from the family home for as long, given up to Holy Mother Church like any good Irish family would do.Yet there was a bond that had never been broken and Mick wished that they could have spent more time in each other’s company. Now it was too late.
His brother stood over his body and would no doubt stand over his coffin when it came time for the funeral. Mick wondered whether Thomas would be able to perform the ceremony in his usual cool, detached manner or would he shed a tear or two for his dead brother? Thomas Costello was a Galway man, Mick thought, so there would be no tears, at least not in public.
Would they be spilt on the letter he’d have to write home, probably to John McDonagh, who would be the man to break the news to his mammy? McDonagh would like that, Mick realised with a grin. The old man had been hovering round their mammy from the moment their daddy’s coffin had been dropped into the ground, or at least that’s what Mick had always believed, so he would relish the opportunity to provide a shoulder to cry on for a grieving mother. The rest of his family would mourn too, he realised, but they were younger and in time memories of him would fade. The thought that he would one day be forgotten made him sad.
He managed to open his eyes again and Thomas was gone. Mick smiled and tried nodding his head as if to say, ‘I told you so,’ though he found it impossible to move it at all. Kate glided into view. Her eyes were glistening – well, the one that could open was – while she kept wiping her nose on the dirty bandage covering her left hand. Mick tried to speak but he didn’t know if his lips even moved. Certainly he realised that no sounds escaped from his mouth, but as he tried again to say something, even if it was only an incoherent grunt, Kate smiled, a relieved grin breaking out across her bruised face, and Mick knew at that very moment that she had been the most beautiful girl in the world. The realisation that he wouldn’t see her ever again brought tears to his own eyes.
Kate leant over and began kissing his wet cheeks, which only made him cry harder, and as she moved closer to him, her leg pressed against his arm, sending a pain shooting through his body and he screamed, loud enough to be heard in Galway. Kate staggered back and suddenly the room seemed to be filled with a thousand noises, as if someone had unblocked Mick’s ears. Maybe they had pulled the tatties out of them? He could now hear his brother’s voice.
‘Thank goodness for that,’ Thomas said. ‘I thought we were going to lose you.’
Mick strained for another sight of his brother but it was sore moving his eyes, never mind trying to manoeuvre his head. His arm, meanwhile, continued to throb but he had a growing sense things were not as he’d imagined them.
‘Is this heaven?’ he whispered.
‘No, it’s Glasgow,’ said his brother and Mick smiled.
12
LOVE ME TENDER
Mick had drifted back into unconsciousness almost as soon as he spoke and nothing Kate or Thomas could do or say would drag him out of it. Still, a sense of relief washed over her like a warm bath and she smiled, though almost immediately she began crying. Heavy sobs shook her body violently and although Thomas guided her gently towards a chair, she could sense the awkwardness in his touch. Slumped on the seat, tears continued to run silently down her face, yet she refused to look away from the now hazy image of the body on the bed.
Thomas remained standing, the low murmur of his prayers the only sound in the room. Kate found it strangely comforting and her gaze would occasionally drift to the priest, whom she studied with curiosity. There was no obvious resemblance between the two men that would suggest they were brothers, yet it was clear that Thomas’ vigil was more than that of a concerned pastor. He was praying for his brother, as a brother, and she was glad that someone was.
She tried doing so as well, though the words just seemed to stay jumbled up in her head and she eventually resorted to mouthing, ‘Thank you, God,’ silently a few times as she watched the unconscious Mick. It felt like all her dreams and nightmares had rolled into one long and exhausting fantasy and she still couldn’t quite believe what she’d seen when she thought about it again.
He had dropped out of the sky, landing on top of one of Duffy’s men who’d been standing outside the building, making sure she couldn’t get back inside to try and save him. Mick cracked his head off the ground, the sound like a gunshot making Kate flinch, and he lay perfectly still. She feared he was gone but she wasn’t sure she had the strength to try and thump his body back to life and she only had the use of one good hand.
She looked at Duffy’s man and knew for sure that he was dead, a sliver of blood flowing out his ear as he lay, crushed and broken. Duffy’s terrifying scream had subsided and he leant out the window as Kate glanced up. He said nothing but she knew that look on his reddened face. There was murder on his mind.
She looked round helplessly, knowing he’d catch her if she tried to flee; she wasn’t leaving Mick behind either, not after he’d finally found her. It was better that both of them met the same fate, though from the state of the Galway man, he’d feel the wrath of Duffy a lot less than she would. The clatter of urgent hooves grew louder and she glanced up as a horse and cart drew to a stop beside her. Two men jumped out of the back and roughly grabbed Mick’s arms and legs, bundling him into the cart. Kate started to protest but the driver climbed down and took a firm grip of her arm.
‘Come with us now, miss.’
She tried to shake off his hand, which remained clamped to her limb.
‘You’ll be safe.’
Still, Kate resisted as the man tried dragging her towards the cart. He stopped with a sigh.
‘You can choose the easy way or the hard way. It makes no odds to me, but you’re getting on that cart.’
The man had a quiet determination in his manner and Kate was reluctant to see what the hard way was. She started to move when Duffy staggered out into the street, holding his bloody leg
and breathing heavily.
‘Kate,’ he snapped and both she and the cart driver stopped. He stepped forward, edging Kate behind him. Duffy limped towards him.
‘Not today, Jack,’ the man said in a firm voice, thrusting his hand in his jacket and producing a gun. Duffy stopped and stretched himself to his full height, grimacing with the pain of putting weight on his wounded leg.
‘Is that a wise thing to do?’ Duffy said.
Both the driver and Kate inched towards the cart, and she quickly climbed on board, stumbling over the step as she moved across the seat. The gun was still pointed at Duffy, who was edging forward as well.
‘Don’t be daft, Jack. Stay where you are or this’ll stop you.’
Duffy stopped, a grin breaking out across his face.
‘Another time, then.’
‘I wouldn’t count on it,’ the driver said, now sitting up beside Kate. He grabbed the reins and snapped them, the horse immediately sprinting away, leaving Duffy standing on the pavement, oblivious to the dead man who lay at his feet.
‘You can run but you can’t hide, Kate,’ he shouted after her and she put her head in her hands, not looking up until the cart drew to a final stop. Her sight was blurry at first when she looked up but her eyes quickly focused as Thomas stepped forward from the front of the church.
‘Good man, O’Connor,’ he muttered, shaking the cart driver’s hand. ‘Bring him into the house,’ he said to the two men in the back, and they immediately jumped to attention, nudging Mick to the edge of the cart before they grasped his limbs again and began manoeuvring him towards the front door of the house which sat directly next to the church.
‘And it’s good to see you again, Miss – ’