Short Storm

by Hegarty, David

  He kept his eyes on the window. Then he saw it again: the faint shadow crossing the curtain. It was tall — too big to be John or David. Perhaps it was Doyle checking on the children? He crept forward, not wanting to alarm them. Perhaps Maguire hadn’t come. Maybe Gustav had got it all wrong. An easy thing to do with the obvious language difficulties. He was beginning to feel relieved when he saw the hole in the window.

  Fresh spasms of alarm rang through him. Slowly, easing his hand forward, he fingered the latch. With breathless care, the pressure of his thumb eased on it. It lifted quietly. He pushed his arm gently against the door. For a moment, nothing. Then, that point of resistance was reached when the door would move or stay. His heart quickened as the wooden door gave way under his pressure and opened up to the dark before him.

  Letting his eyes get used to the dark, he stood for a while listening. Nothing moved at all downstairs. He could see the front door at the far end of the hall. He took a step forward, then turned, laid his hand on the door and slowly pushed it shut behind him. He was certain now that there were visitors in the house, for the unlocked door told its own story.

  To the right was the kitchen, to the left was the dining room. He heard sounds from upstairs. Quickly he stepped into the dining room, pressing close to the wall, out of view from the hall.

  A door opened upstairs. Cullen could hear the quick step of a child in the long upstairs corridor. Another door opened and a man’s step followed. He could hear the splash of the child urinating in the toilet. The man’s step stopped. A voice spoke low, but crossly.

  “Hurry up. Don’t be hanging around there. C’mon, get a move on!”

  It was Pritchard’s voice. It seemed to Cullen that neither Sean or Eileen were in the house. Doyle must have gone off, perhaps with Eileen. Maybe he had left Pritchard in charge of the house and to look after the boys. It seemed a reasonable assumption. Then why was the window broken? Why was the door unlocked? He was tempted to move and make his presence known to Pritchard, when he heard the child’s voice.

  “Where have my Mammy and Daddy gone? Why are you here? They never said they were going anywhere.”

  Pritchard’s voice came down to Cullen again.

  “Never mind. They’ll be back with you soon enough. Now do as you’re told and you’ll have nothing to worry about. Are you finished there?”

  The boy’s voice answered.

  “I want a drink. I’m going to get some milk.”

  The sound of his bare feet going out into the hall thudded to a halt as a hard slap echoed in the quiet.

  “Shut up! Do as you’re told!”

  Another crack came and the child’s voice cried,

  “I want John! Leave me alone!”

  Another boy’s voice, older, called, “Davy? Davy?”

  Cullen heard the second boy’s feet running through his parents’ room and down the corridor.

  “Davy!” he called again.

  Pritchard’s voice, sharp with anger, called,

  “Shut up! Now look at what you’ve done. You’ve woken your brother.”

  Another sharp slap followed and a voice cried out.

  “Leave him alone!” shouted the older boy. “Where’s my mom? Where’s Dad? What are you doing here?”

  Cullen heard two swift heavy steps and a loud slap of hand on soft flesh. The slap was followed by the older boy’s cry and the sound of a stumbling fall. Cullen moved out to the doorway. Pritchard’s voice was growling to the boys.

  “Now, you two, if you want to see your ma and da again, you’ll do exactly as you’re told, because if you don’t, I’ll skin you alive. Now, move!”

  The children’s feet stumbled out into the corridor as if they were about to fall again. Cullen heard a loud whimper from one of them. He guessed the younger one. As far as he could make out, the younger had taken three hard clouts from Pritchard. Cullen got the picture. Pritchard had been left to watch the house all right, but not at the order of Doyle or Eileen. Instead, it looked strongly like he had been left there by Maguire. If that was the case, then Gustav had been absolutely right in his story that Maguire planned to meet Cullen and get the information as to where Cullen had put his money. Maguire knew of the closeness between Cullen and Eileen, probably was well aware that the only people in the world Cullen cared about were his sister and her family.

  The voice of David came down to him again, crying and pleading.

  “Please let me have a drink, please?”

  The other boy’s voice cut in, trembling but defiant.

  “Davy always has a fresh drink in the morning — milk from the fridge.”

  The younger sobbed uncontrollably. Cullen ducked back into the dining room. He heard Pritchard’s voice again, gruff and mocking. The words were indistinct, but he could hear the tone of ridicule as he mimicked the elder boy in a barbed parody of his statement. But Pritchard was bringing them. The sound of the man’s footfalls and the two children irregularly thumping their heels on the wooden floor, came to him, sending him flat against the wall in the dining room. The man spoke roughly once or twice, each time followed by a stumble of the children’s steps. He was pushing them as they started down the steps.

  “Get a move on!” rasped Pritchard. “Stop acting like babies. What the two of you need is a good hiding now and then. That’s what would make men out of you.”

  Cullen heard the bare feet of the children pad onto the concrete ground at the bottom of the stairs. They approached the kitchen.

  The grey of the early dawn spread in through the windows. Shapes of furniture, walls and objects were becoming visible. In seconds, the children would be in arm’s reach of Cullen pressed flat against the wall. And so would Pritchard. He heard the big man’s steps come down the stairs, treading carelessly on them, then striking loudly on the concrete floor. He heard the feet smack quietly on the linoleum in the kitchen. Like all young things, their eagerness increased as they neared their goal. They were rushing at the fridge, grasping at the handle, pulling the door open. The bottles clinked on the edge of the box. Pritchard was right behind them, talking roughly, hauling them off the fridge.

  Cullen moved instinctively. As Pritchard neared the children, ordering them from the fridge, catching the older one by the hair. Cullen walked in soundless, easy steps.

  Pritchard was halfway through his sentence, working his voice to a harsh command.

  “Come here you…”

  Cullen’s arm wrapped around his neck, his other giving a hard punch to the kidney. The other man’s breath sucked in surprise. Cullen’s forearm clinched tightly on the man’s throat. He kneed Pritchard’s leg joints and Pritchard sprawled helplessly, hitting the floor head first. Cullen was on him, the .45 jammed hard on the man’s forehead.

  Pritchard’s shocked eyes blinked. Cullen pressed the barrel of the gun harder, forcing Pritchard’s head back. He was aware of the children sidling up to him, but he kept his eyes on Pritchard’s.

  “Johnny, Davy, go get Wally Malone. Get your shoes and your coats on and run like hell. Stay in Malone’s. Tell Wally to get here as fast as he can. Speak to no one else. Tell him your Uncle Steven is here with this thing.”

  He nudged Pritchard’s head with the gun.

  “Go on now, as fast as your legs can carry you. We’re going to get your Mom and your Dad.”

  Young David began to speak, but his brother caught his arm.

  “C’mon Davy! It’s Uncle Steven! C’mon!”

  Cullen was relieved to hear the sense of excitement in the boy’s voice. The younger one fell in with the change and they both scampered from the kitchen to do as they were told.

  Holding Pritchard by the hair, Cullen moved the barrel, covering the man’s eye.

  “Now, my fine brave patriot, perhaps you’ll tell me a little about your pals and what they’ve done and where they’ve brought my sister and her husband.”

  Pritchard’s head jerked back from the sharp pull Cullen gave to his hair. The barrel jabbed lightly at
his eye and the man gasped and blinked, moving his hands close to his head in instinctive protection.

  Cullen jabbed again.

  “You’re a brave one with the kids all right, aren’t you? You had a lot to say to them. Let’s hear what you have to say now.”

  He released his hold on Pritchard’s hair and slapped him hard on the face. He grabbed the hair again and pressed the gun hard on the eye socket.

  “Right, you little fucker. Let’s hear it. Where are they? What has Maguire done with them?”

  Pritchard’s mouth was open. His jaw was trembling and incoherent sounds were coming from his throat. Cullen, astride his chest and alert to any move Pritchard made, could feel the resistance lessen in his quarry, could feel the panic setting in, confusing the man’s reactions, not letting him think. Time to push, drive the point home. He twisted the barrel cruelly on the man’s eye, then leaned down, putting his face close to Pritchard’s.

  “I could kill you — no bother, no problem at all. You’re a shithead. You always were and you’re destined to be one for the rest of your life. Tell me! Where are they?”

  The feet of the boys came running down the stairs. They hardly stopped at the door. They hauled it open and scuttled across the gravel in a wild run, leaving the door wide open and the wind rushing into the house.

  Pritchard croaked, drawing in breaths. He gave a brief cry, then jabbered. Cullen leaned back, eased the pressure on his eye, then shifted the barrel to the bridge of his nose.

  “Don’t whine or bellyache. Just tell me. Where’s Sean and Eileen?”

  Pritchard’s mouth shook. His lower teeth were bared and his tongue lolled out.

  “Where?” rasped Cullen.

  “The beach.”

  The sound was desperate, almost hissing from the man’s throat. The words fell in a torrent of release.

  “You were meant to be there with Gustav. Larry’s after the money you and the lads knocked off last week. He brought Sean and Eileen to make you tell him where it was.”

  His voice, though only a guttural whisper, rose to hysteria.

  “Honest to God, I didn’t mean any harm. They’ll be all right. Larry said he would find the money and let you and Sean and Eileen go. Honest.”

  He foundered to silence and his head fell back.

  “My eye! I can’t see with it!”

  His hands went to cover the injured organ. Cullen slapped them away, then put the gun back on the socket.

  “Where did they go? Who’s with him? How did they get there?”

  Pritchard gave a cry. He put his hands on his temples, eyes squeezed shut against Cullen’s attack.

  “About an hour ago, maybe less. Please! It’s killing me! My eye!”

  Cullen lifted the gun off the eye. Pritchard’s hands shot in again and the big fingers formed a canopy over the injured eye. Cullen rapped the knuckles with the butt of the gun.

  “Who’s with him? How did they get there?”

  “Fred. Fred Boylan and Willie Maguire. No one’s been hurt. Honest to God. It was only to frighten you into telling where the money is. They went in Willie’s car. You know it. The old one that was auctioned off from the Guards — the one stolen from Bill France and used in Waterford on the creamery. You remember it. The robbery, a few years ago?”

  “Shut up,” said Cullen.

  He knew it all right. He had been involved. Himself and Louis Kelly. They had never been touched for that one. A wave of resentment swept over Cullen at Maguire, Willie and Boylan. They had no right to be in that old car. They had doubly offended him through the use of the car. First, they had kidnapped his sister and her husband — invaded their lives, abused their children. Second, they did it with the aid of a vehicle for which Cullen had a sentimental fondness. He slapped Pritchard hard on the mouth.

  “Where were they headed?”

  “I dunno! I dunno!”

  Cullen raised his hand, drew back the gun, aiming for the injured eye. Pritchard could see with his good eye.

  “Nolan’s Gate! Nolan’s Gate! That’s where they went. Quiet, no one around!”

  Cullen looked at the terrified eye as it danced. That would be right, he thought. That would be exactly where they would go to get to the beach. Even if daylight came before their business was completed, there would be less chance of being seen there. The car could be hidden safely in the hills for hours in this weather.

  Cullen’s thoughts were interrupted by the sound of rushing feet. They came at a full run over the gravel at the front. The door was pushed open, banging against the wall.

  “Steven? Steven?”

  “In here. In the kitchen,” called Cullen.

  The steps came into the hall at a fast stride, halting at the door.

  “Jesus, what’s going on?”

  Malone stood in the doorway, looking at Cullen sitting on top of Pritchard.

  “Mind him. It’s Maguire and his bunch. They’ve got Sean and Eileen. They’re at the beach — Nolan’s Gate. I’ll need help, but I have to hurry. A car — where can I get one?”

  “Go to Peter McCann’s. T.J. Wills is at his house tonight. What’s he up to?”

  Cullen nudged Pritchard with his .45.

  “This cunt is in with Maguire and his crowd. They’re using Sean and Eileen to get to me. They’re waiting for me at the beach.”

  He took out the Webley, threw it to Malone.

  “Keep him here with this. If he tries anything, shoot him in the legs. For fuck’s sake, don’t let him out of the room. I’m taking his gun.”

  He frisked Pritchard and removed his small handgun. “Is there anyone else at McCann’s?”

  “Only the old woman. Knock hard on the door and Peter will come down. He’ll get you to the beach in the wagon,” said Malone, speaking of McCann’s old van.

  Cullen was already moving to the door. He noticed the swelling and cuts on Malone’s face. He was about to ask, when he decided he had enough to do. Indicating Pritchard, he said,

  “He gave the kids a bit of a time. Don’t bother being gentle with him. Just stay here and don’t let him talk. Don’t let him move. Got it?”

  Malone nodded.

  “Aye, the kids were upset. Did he do it?”

  Cullen glanced at Pritchard, let the loathing into his voice.

  “He did it, and more. He’s a fuckin’ traitor.”

  Cullen was heading for the front door when he heard the hard smash of knuckle on flesh, the sharp cry of Pritchard’s, then Malone’s angry voice.

  “He said no movin’.”

  Cullen went out into the pouring rain. The wind was hurling the clouds into a low, thick sky. He knew that Pritchard wouldn’t go far, that the children were safe. All he needed was the van. He ran through the gate.

  The village streets were deserted. He could see McCann’s old van outside his cottage. He reached it and looked inside, but the ignition key was gone. He felt under the seats. Nothing. He turned to the house and banged hard on the old wooden door. He waited a moment, then raised his arm to bang again. A window opened and McCann looked out.

  “Steven, what are you doing here? You’ll get arrested. I thought you were…”

  Cullen cut in.

  “Peter, give me the keys to the van. I need it. It’s Maguire. He’s got Sean and Eileen. Quick, give me the keys.”

  For a second, McCann just stared from the window.

  “For God’s sake, hurry and give me the fuckin’ keys!” Cullen shouted.

  McCann disappeared and came back in a second, throwing the keys to Cullen. As Cullen caught them, he started talking.

  “Wally Malone is at Sean’s. He’s holding Seamus Pritchard. Pritchard’s gone over to Maguire and his crowd. The kids are in Wally’s house. I’m going to the beach — Nolan’s Gate. They’re somewhere around there.”

  The front door of the cottage opened and Wills emerged, rubbing his eyes.

  “What’s up?”

  Cullen climbed into the van as Wills arrived at the ope
n door.

  “What is it?”

  “Sean and Eileen. The Maguires and Fred Boylan have them over at Nolan’s Gate. Get Bill France. Tell him he’ll need guns.”

  He groped for the ignition and rammed the key in, twisting it. As the engine coughed into reluctant life, he turned to Wills.

  “Don’t just fuckin’ stand there, get moving! Now!”

  He threw the old gearstick into first and let out the clutch. He shouted as he leaned out of the cab:

  “Tell him to bring guns! Bill France! Get Bill France!”

  The van roared off, rattling and shaking over the uneven street surface. Cullen drove her hard, tearing past the church. Swinging wide to the left, he aimed the shuddering vehicle into the old back lane that led to the coast road. Recklessly he ran her through the twists, brushing the ditches, jarring her through the potholes. He hit the wiper switch. The heavy old blade dragged across the windscreen. It flapped back, the rusty metal holder screeching on the glass as the worn rubber flailed in the wind and rain. His eyes were pinned on the winding old road ahead, the drenched dawn giving him all the light he needed.

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Doyle wondered if he was dying.

  A slow dawn was seeping into the night. He wondered how long he had been lying here like this, his head on the wet grass, his bloodied hand in front of him. He could see the rain sweeping down on the dock leaves and the bush beside him. He remembered the car — and Eileen. His breath caught at the thought of her. The pain that hit his knees seared through him. A long moan rose from the depths of his chest and he listened in wonder as it sounded out into the early day. It gave him hope. He wasn’t dying. He was too sore to die. The shoulder hurt all the time. That was Boylan. Doyle was sure he had shot to kill. Maybe he was dying. Maybe the pains he felt were tricks to keep him awake, to keep him resisting. He didn’t want to resist. He would rather sleep. But the shoulder wouldn’t let him. He winced in pain and anger as it throbbed. He wanted to curse, but had to keep his mind on gritting his teeth, squeezing his eyes, letting his mouth twist in agony. That took all his energy and thought. The throbbing eased and he wondered if it had been his imagination. It was so painful that it had not only hurt him, but frightened him. It couldn’t have been as bad as that. Maybe he had passed out and dreamt it. He blinked his eyes in relief, feeling a chilled sweat on his face and brow. He focussed on his hand. It had moved. The fingers were closer, the thumb was loosening. He could see it had been clenched, that he had been squeezing the wet grass. The rain was becoming heavier. The drops splashed incessantly on his hand, running in and around then off the crannies and finger-joints, giving a faint pink tinge to the blood-clay stain.