The ache in his shoulder had receded, but he knew it wouldn’t last. It was only a short remission, long enough to let him see Eileen in his mind again. Then the first of the shocks returned. A wave of anger washed over him, touching and setting off pain points as it passed.
Easing his weight onto both elbows, he raised his head from the ground. He was surprised at the rush of cold air on his cheeks. He wondered again how long he had been there and how badly he was injured. The shoulder grieved with a sharp stab. His breathing fast and shallow, he halted his movement, but the pain subsided and he tried again. It wasn’t as bad the second time. He tried a slow turn at the neck and was unprepared for the lifting dawn. His eyes searched the dense blanket of falling rain and all he could see was the grey-green sodden grass.
The shadows of the hills showed against the wet rainy background. He heard his own groan as he raised himself slightly higher. The rain blew in a cooling shower on his face. He turned his head around some more until he could see his hurt knee. The lower part of the leg was twisted out, his foot grotesquely turned, indicating the damage at the knee joint. A few yards back, farther than he had last remembered it, was the car. He tried to remember. Vague pictures and thoughts came into his mind. Had he been running? He thought so. Or he had tried to, anyway. Loud staccato explosive barks came back to him. He remembered the feeling that his leg had been kicked out from under him, groping, twisting, another bark and thump in the shoulder. Why had that been? The effort of remembering exhausted him. He let his head back down on the grass, panting, feeling the need for air and the necessity of not breathing too hard because it hurt. His head lay on the grass, this time facing the other hand, the left one. The rain swilled directly on his face.
As he lay resting, the memories trickled back in without any more effort on his part. It was as if they only needed the first show of effort by him and his brain would carry on its own of its own momentum.
After Maguire had stomped off over the hills with Eileen, they had been waiting for a while. It was only when Maguire disappeared that Boylan told him what was going on. It was Boylan who baited him, hoping he would make a break, even a suspicious move, so he could happily riddle Doyle’s legs with bullets. Just as long as he could justify it to Maguire.
When Doyle had found out what Maguire was up to — that Eileen was to be the lever in getting information about the money — that was the beginning. Doyle had little doubt that Steven would tell Maguire where the money was hidden. Steven would do anything to save Eileen.
Then the memories wafted apart again and he was aware only of his hand in the blades of grass. He moved the fingers, curling them in a clench. There was no pain in that hand or arm, but even the tightening of the fist, the tensing of the muscles in his forearm was enough to send a quivering shockwave over to the other shoulder. He relaxed his hand, feeling a fresh wave of sweat surge onto his drenched brow. He lay his head back on the grass with his eyes closed. Breath suspended, he lay motionless, waiting for the pain to pass. The first drift of relief came and his lungs opened again. He would have to watch how he went, choose his moves. He would lie quietly for a while, let the turbulence subside.
The memories came back. He had been sitting on the grass, facing the other two in the car: Willie Maguire in the front seat, Boylan half out of the back door. They had mocked and jeered at him from the safety of their positions. Boylan’s teasing had kept Doyle in the right frame of mind. The barbed questions were meant to draw him out, to provoke an answer that could be construed as an insult.
Boylan’s remarks kept Doyle occupied, kept the panic from rampaging through his system. He had been close to despair when Maguire had gone off with Eileen. It had been a lonely moment. Curiously, Eileen seemed more confident and hopeful than he. Maybe she had some insight into Maguire, he thought. Perhaps she had perceived something that augured well for their safety, and that of their boys.
Whatever it was, she had seemed brave and Doyle had a strong feeling for his wife, for her courage, for her calm, for her ability to cope. She was calmer than he, in spite of Maguire’s roughing up.
“I’d bet yer wondering how Larry and yer mot are gettin’ on.” Boylan had said in his Dublin accent, strong in the morning quiet.
Willie Maguire had remained quiet. Boylan wondered aloud whether Maguire had met Gustav on the beach yet, whether Cullen had been with Gustav, whether they had got the information they were seeking.
Boylan became restless as the other two remained quiet. He moved about the car, walked around Doyle, nudged him with the automatic. Doyle had been wary, sensing the nervousness in the man, feeling his brittle tension building as the first dull grey appeared in the dark sky.
It was that first tint of early light that had diverted Boylan’s attention from Doyle. His normal place was in the night and in the dark. His life was lived in shadow, below the eyeline of everyday activities. He was becoming unsure and flighty outside his familiar framework, uncertain in the clarity of the daytime.
The rain had started quickly, moving from a few sweeping drops to a windy downpour. Willie Maguire had stayed in the car, while Boylan stayed outside, watching for Maguire, circling the car and Doyle, talking less.
It had been Doyle who brought Boylan’s attention to the figures on the hill.
“Look! Up there!” he had shouted.
Willie jumped out of the car in one movement.
“Where? Where?” he asked.
The three of them had watched the hill, seeing them clearly. Eileen was first. She had emerged from a dip in the hill, a couple of paces ahead of Maguire’s huddled figure. She was moving at a stumbling run, the man keeping up in a fast, but uneven stride. Even in the poor light and the distance, they could see Eileen was having difficulty keeping on her feet. Once she tripped, staggered and almost fell, doing an awkward walk on all fours as the man closed up on her. Then she was up and off again, pushed by the man, moving faster until she disappeared into the shadow of the hill, making her way down the sheltered side.
Boylan had turned to Doyle, a lively malice in the words he spoke.
“It looks as if yer missus is in one piece. I doubt it’s the same for yer brother-in-law. Larry’ll have looked after him OK. Maybe he’s feeding the fishes now, or will be soon.”
He had just gotten the words out when they heard the shot.
Willie turned to Boylan, covering Doyle with his shotgun.
“Jesus, Larry’s shot her!”
Boylan had galvanised into alert readiness, facing Doyle in anticipation of the move he thought Doyle was sure to make.
For a moment, Doyle stood still. Then the fear and anger and hate he was feeling exploded into a roar that bellowed into the rain and wind.
“Eileen!”
The fisherman took a step forward, his eyes peering intently into the wet wind of the first light.
Boylan waved the Uzi and took a step back.
“Easy,” he said, his voice tense and alert.
Then he spoke rapidly to Willie.
“Cover him. I’m goin’ up to Larry. He might want a hand. He won’t want to leave her there. Keep yer eye on this one.”
In spite of the words he had heard, in spite of the gun pointed in his direction, Doyle began to move. It defied all logic, but it had nothing to do with judgement. He was reacting. Just as he would raise a hand to slap a fly from his head, or blink if he was blinded, he was reacting to the needs of his own self and his wife. She was out there in the rain. Shot, wounded, maybe dead. Here was a fellow in his own presence, talking about her like she was a bit of garbage to be cleaned from the scene. His limbs had moved, there had been a shout, and a shot, then another shot, one in the leg. He had stumbled and said something, then the next one had hit him in the shoulder and spun him to the ground.
It couldn’t have been that long ago. It was still just daybreak. The rain was heavier and the wind had risen. The other two had gone and left him for dead. Gone after the body of his wife and, if she w
asn’t dead, to finish her off, then come back for him. The Maguires and Boylan would dump them in a river or lake, or bury them in a remote wood. That would be it. Forever. Over. Finished with all the living and life, with its best and worst, left to the boys at their age. The thought of it — of Eileen, of the boys, of himself — moved him to try to rise. The only feeling he had was to fight for the four of them. Whatever it was he was against, he had to fight it. He eased his weight onto his elbows, started to raise himself. He heard a noise.
The pain of the effort shook his wounded shoulder. He shifted his good arm, preparing to turn, preparing to face the car, to crawl there, to drive it, to find a gun, to get a torch, to fire the petrol, anything, anything at all. Just as long as he was fighting for Eileen, for David, for John, for himself.
He heard the noise again. It was nearer, a familiar voice. He must get to the car. The pain filled his shoulder, reached down into his spine. A new pain, sharper, hotter and faster, seared up from his knee and circled his hip and groin in spiteful menace. But he must keep moving. He would call Eileen, tell her he was coming. The rain and the dawn and the wind were disappearing. It was all going black again. Though he had felt the rain a moment before, all he felt now was the wet earth in his tortured grip. Waves of grey and black hurtled over his mind, sucking out sanity and reason, leaving only a trailing froth ebbing at his consciousness. But a voice was saying something. He knew the voice. It was not mocking him, or jeering, or taunting. It was low and spoke warmly to him. He was being touched. He could feel an arm around his waist, the weight taken from his arms and shoulder. He was dragged, carried, dragged again. He had a vague notion of a car seat. But he had to get to Eileen. He tried to call her to let her know he was coming. His mouth wavered as black emptiness filled his vision. No sound came from his own lips, but he heard the voice again, soothing, sympathetic. He recognised the words “…stay there, old son.” For some reason, just as the black void of unconsciousness cruised in and blanketed out the world around him, he thought of Cullen.
Chapter Thirty-Two
Cullen stopped on the part of the back road where it left the rock cliffs to run behind the beach and the hills that rising behind. He was about a mile from Nolan’s Gate. He killed the engine and got out. The rain swept almost horizontally over the low hills of the burrow. The wind drove hard squally blasts, whipping bushes and flattening reeds. He set off at a fast trot. Whatever he would find at Nolan’s Gate, he would be the one to see her first. He would make certain of that.
As he ran on the old tar road, he patted his pocket for the comfort of the .45. It was there, reassuring in its bulk.
The drizzling rain he would use to his best advantage. He knew he would be unexpected. Maguire had come here to meet him, and meet him he would, but not in the way he thought. There would be no planned inquisition with Maguire and Gustav holding court, deciding which questions to ask and which answers they would accept. No, by God, it was going to be different.
Now there was only the wind and the rain and the sound of his feet, the rubber soles splashing lightly on the shimmering wet black tar. The dawn smells of furze and grass came to him between the forceful gusts of wind blowing in his face, sucking the air from his lungs. He arrived at the end of Nolan’s Gate. From here on, there was only a low stone wall and shoulder-high grassy banks behind it. Beyond that was an open field running to the back of the burrow hills. He would need to stay down. It was not yet bright and he wouldn’t be expected, but you never know. Shady doings make men nervy, alert, insecure. They might have a watch on the road. He stopped and leaned his shoulder against the wall. He breathed lightly and normal. He was debating whether he would go in now over the wall and along the bank of grass, or if he would stay on the road, when he heard it.
His first reaction was to duck. He knelt by the wall, holding his breath. He waited for the next shot, for the sudden sting and pain, or for the zip in the ditch or the dull ricochet on the wet road.
Nothing.
He wondered if he had imagined it. He was sure he hadn’t. He knew shots. No matter how far or near, gunfire had its own distinctive deadly sound. Even the distant pop of a light pistol was unmistakeable to a trained ear. Cullen had spent many years of his life listening and remembering what they sounded like. The one he had heard was a heavy handgun maybe, like Gustav’s .45. He waited one cautious moment searching the bank and beyond. He tried to guess, with a little deduction for wind and rain, where the shot had been. He watched the rain, felt the wind, viewed the terrain. It had come from somewhere in the hills over the bank on this side. He ducked down again and moved fast under cover of the wall before he took another look. After a couple of hundred yards, he halted, knelt and breathed deeply. Slowly he rose, peeping over the top of the wall. He was able to see into the lowland field that spread up into the hills. The day was still dark, but he thought he made out the shape of a car in the field. He squinted at the shape through the dark eddies of rain.
A light gun fired and he saw a brief flash. The next second, there was another a few feet away. A brighter, harder flash. Dimly he saw a figure move from the far side of the car. There were two guns in action — a handgun and an automatic. The automatic flashed and fired again. There was a movement in the line of fire that stopped. Quickly he moved over the wall and crawled to the top of the bank on his hands and knees, flattening himself as he got closer to the commotion. In the grey light he could see a still figure lying at the side of the car.
Movement on the far side of the car caught his attention. There were two figures on their feet, moving off at a trot in the direction of the hills. He thought he heard a shout, carried indistinctly in the wind.
Cullen got to his knees and started forward, peering at the figure beside the car. It rose a bit and then fell again, prostrate. He hunched and ran to the shelter of a high clump of ferns. He could see the car quite clearly now. For a moment he wondered if there was someone in it, but it was just the door swinging irregularly in the wind. It was, along with the stretched figure, deserted.
Checking that the other two were gone, he rose from the ground and — half sliding, half running — moved down the wet slithery incline until he was at the bottom. He was near enough to see that the figure on the grass was a man, naked from the waist up.
Briefly indecisive, he watched for a moment, then went ahead. With his gun drawn, he moved forward at a crouching run, keeping his eyes on the windscreen of the car. He reached the bonnet and raised himself over it, gun held in front, finger gently on the trigger, ready to squeeze even before his mind would register anything. But he didn’t have to. He checked the back seat, reached in and picked a shotgun off the floor behind the driver’s seat.
A moan came from the side of the car. As he moved over, he checked around him again. No sign of the others. In a few strides he was beside Doyle.
Cullen had had an idea that it might have been him. The anger at the wounds in his brother-in-law’s body was mollified slightly by relief. He was alive. That was a start. He leaned down to listen to Doyle’s breathing. Fast, immoderate gasps and indistinct mumbles reached his ears. He caught one word:
“Eileen.”
Where was she? Cullen reached along Doyle’s back and felt him jump as he reached the wounded shoulder. He looked at his legs. Even in the dim light, he could see the distortion of the leg. He guessed Doyle had been left for dead, or for finishing off when the others came back.
“Eileen,” Doyle mumbled.
Cullen leaned down again.
“Where are they, Sean?”
The fisherman moaned again, tried to rise, then fell from his efforts, panting shallowly and fast. Cullen tried speaking to him, his tone low, the words distinct and slow.
“Where are they, Sean? I need to find Eileen. Where has Maguire taken her? Are they at the beach?”
Doyle only moaned. Cullen tried again, stroking the man’s head.
“The boys are fine, Sean. They’re OK. Wally is in your house and the
boys are with Mrs. Malone. They’re all right. They’re waiting for you and Eileen.”
He wasn’t sure if Doyle understood or not. The man seemed to respond, lifting his head and flickering his eyes in vague recognition of the voice of a friend. But beyond that there was no indication of any comprehension. One word came again.
“Eileen,” said Doyle, his head falling on the grass as if the effort had overwhelmed him.
It struck Cullen how helpless a man was once he was shot or hit, the object of any violence. We all bleed. We all die.
He reached an arm under the man’s stomach, dipped his body, and put Doyle’s good arm around his neck. He dragged the limp body forward, enough to get the injured leg off the ground when he straightened, then carried the wounded man towards the car. As he reached in with his free arm to open the door, he held Doyle under the armpits. He climbed into the car back first, hauling Doyle after him.
He tugged a few times on the fisherman, eventually getting him in enough so that only the wounded leg lay out in the driving rain. Cullen pushed open the door behind him, backed out into the weather and pulled Doyle in a bit further on the seat. The fisherman groaned and shuddered. Cullen spoke in remonstration.
“Don’t you fucking well die now, Sean. You just stay there, old son. I’m off to find your missus.”
He pushed the door shut and went around to the other side. Doyle’s feet were still outside, but most of the injured man was inside. The parts that mattered anyway. It would have to do.
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