"Sounds... expensive."
"Ach, these were fellahs I grew up with. It was nice to treat them."
Lydia knew the night had been more about rubbing his friends' faces in his success than anything else. Altruism was not one of his strong points.
Rory shifted away from Lydia and looked out the window at the passing scenery. A blur of red bricks and paramilitary murals. Welcome to Belfast. There'd been a distinct lack of that sort of thing on the Discover Northern Ireland website.
Lydia slipped her mobile out of her bag and checked it again. Good network coverage – not always the case on the outskirts of Belfast. Still no fucking call from the bastards.
Rory maintained his silence until the gates of his old primary school were in sight. Then he needed her reassurance.
"They're going to hate my guts in here."
"Rory. You're a superstar. These kids will be falling over themselves for a quick chat and an autograph."
"You don't know what it's like on the Lower Falls. People don't like to see you do too well, you know?"
People don't like to see you do too well. She'd heard the phrase before. Her husband, John, was particularly fond of it. John's mother and father were from Belfast; the same neck of the woods as Rory. And even though John's Northern Irish accent had softened to a weird London Irish hybrid, he still had a rattlebag of phrases and sayings that he unconsciously drew on from time to time. Mattie loved to mimic his dad's sayings, though his impressions had got more sarcastic in recent years.
Lydia imagined Mattie's smartass sideways grin. She would do whatever was needed to see it again.
The driver navigated the little street, narrowed further by lines of parked cars on either side, and stopped at the school gate.
An impressive gabble of blasphemy rolled off Rory's tongue.
Lydia cleared her throat and pitched her voice just a little too high. "Yes, I can see what you mean, Rory. I imagine you'll be torn apart here."
It looked like every kid in the school and all related to them had turned up for Rory's visit. Kids, teenagers and adults stood crammed together in the primary school playground. The majority held banners and picket signs with Rory's name on it but a fair number of the adults had turned up in Manchester United jerseys to welcome City's latest addition. This would be the Northern Irish sense of humour she'd heard so much about. She didn't really get it.
Lydia instructed the driver to move off and find somewhere safe to park for an hour. Then she practically shoved Rory out onto the footpath. A roar lit up among the crowd and he flinched. Confident as he was, Lydia worried for a second that it was all going to be too much for her boy wonder. But he turned to her and flashed that imperfect set of teeth.
"Look at these pricks. Go and tell them I'm not setting foot in that school until they get rid of those United tops."
"Are you serious?"
Rory winked at her, popped the collar of his suit jacket for the bad boy effect, and shrugged.
"What do you think?"
###
Cormac snapped out of a dazed half-sleep. Paddy stood by the bedroom door. He cleared his throat.
"All right, Sleeping Beauty?"
Cormac tugged at his ski mask. "Just checking my eyelids for holes."
Paddy nodded towards the man and boy on the mattress. "No trouble, then?"
"None. I think the kid needs a toilet break, though."
"I'll get him a bucket, maybe."
Cormac wanted to smack him in his stupid grinning mouth.
Paddy leant against the door frame. "Jesus, don't be so serious, big man. We'll sort them out in a bit. You've to go downstairs first. The boss is back."
Cormac stood up and stretched. His spine popped and crackled. Bliss. He tucked the Ruger into his waistband and scooted past Paddy.
"Keep my seat warm, eh?"
Cormac closed the door and whipped off his ski mask. He rubbed some life into his cheeks and ran a clawed hand through his hair. A quick trip to the bathroom was the top of his agenda. Ambrose O'Neill would have to wait two minutes for him; bad tempered wee shite or not.
The whole gang, bar Paddy, were clustered around a poker table in the kitchen. A game of cards was the last thing on O'Neill's agenda, though. He sat with the air of Christ in Da Vinci's Last Supper. But with his slicked-back hair, widow's peak and thick mono-brow he looked more like the messiah's counterpart. His three unlikely apostles sat in reverential silence, Big Frank at his right hand and the brothers grim, Mick and Pete Scullion, on the left. The brothers' cherubic cheeks and soft brown eyes lent them a look of innocence. Cormac knew their form, though. They'd gut you as soon as look at you.
"Cormac Kelly." O'Neill indicated a chair directly opposite him. "Take a seat, young fellah."
Cormac sat, mindful of his body language. He'd long since learned the importance of primal posturing to men like his current "boss". Men who detested weakness and craved admiration. Alpha morons.
"Cheers, Mr O'Neill."
O'Neill sniffed and scanned the faces of his cronies. "You hear that, boys? A bit of respect. There's hope for these young ones yet."
A couple of grunts and nods acknowledged the boss's approval.
O'Neill laid his broad hands on the table and edged forward on his chair. "How's the family, Cormac?"
"Mine or the one upstairs?"
Big Frank groaned. "Just answer the question, smart-arse."
O'Neill shushed the cranky giant and waited for Cormac to respond.
"They're grand. Very quiet and it looks like they're going to behave. The da knows not to try anything stupid." He thought about mentioning Mattie's edginess but decided against it. He didn't want the young fellah to get slapped around.
"That's good," O'Neill said. "Let's hope they stay that way. They're going to be here for the long haul."
Cormac scratched his head. "How long?"
"You'll know when you need to."
"Am I on babysitting duty for the whole job?"
"Yes."
"Then I need to know how long, Mr O'Neill."
"No, you don't. We've all got our areas and that's yours. You stay available until the job is done and then you get paid. Next time you might get to know a little more. For now you're on the bottom rung. Be a good boy and you won't get knocked off it."
Eat shit and smile, in other words.
"Okay, Mr O'Neill. But we need to sort them out with food and water if they're staying any longer."
"We've thought of that, Cormac. This isn't amateur hour."
"Fair enough." He rubbed his stomach. "I'm a bit hungry myself, by the way."
O'Neill licked his thumb and smoothed the spot where his eyebrows met. "Put on the kettle, then. We could all use a refuel. There's bread in the cupboard and ham in the fridge."
Big Frank pushed his chair back and raised his arse off the seat. "And for dessert, you can suck my dick."
Mick loosed a camp whoop and Pete made kissy faces at Cormac. Such wit. Cormac looked to O'Neill to gauge an appropriate reaction. The boss gave him nothing. Pure poker face. Cormac bit back a quip about Big Frank's sexuality and kept his cool. They wanted to put the new kid in his place. He could play along for now. His time would come soon enough.
Cormac set the crew up with a tall stack of sandwiches. He laid the heavy plate on the table and almost lost his arm in the feeding frenzy. At least he'd had the foresight to hold a few rounds back for himself. The first bite barely touched the sides. He'd just sunk his teeth into the second mouthful when the screaming began.
Cormac spat out the sandwich and bolted for the stairs. He took the steps three at a time. The commotion in the bedroom kicked up a gear. Cormac drew his gun and shoved open the door.
Paddy towered above Mattie. The young fellah was curled up on his side, red-faced and wheezing. The fat bastard launched a kick into the boy's ribcage. John, the father, was on his knees. His nose had been bust and blood streamed through his fingers. He tried to get to his feet but pain an
d panic slowed his actions. Useless. Paddy drew his leg back to deliver another kick. Cormac hammered the butt of his revolver into the back of Paddy's skull. The fat man wobbled on his feet. Cormac snagged him by the back of his collar and jerked him away from the kid. Paddy landed flat out on his back and Cormac raised his foot to stomp on his face.
"Don't even think about it, big lad."
O'Neill, ski mask in place, snatched a handful of Cormac's hair and dragged him out onto the landing. Cormac grabbed at O'Neill's wrist with his free hand and broke the shorter man's grip. O'Neill tried to sweep the legs out from under Cormac with a low roundhouse kick. Cormac folded the boss's arm and trapped it against his heaving chest. He raised the Ruger and pointed it at O'Neill's face.
The metallic swish of a well-oiled automatic slide sounded in Cormac's ear.
"Let go of your gun," Big Frank said.
O'Neill, teeth bared in anger, pain and frustration, raised one side of his mono-brow. Cormac's millisecond assessment: cornered rat in front of him, in his ear an automatic pistol with one round chambered, huffy gorilla at his shoulder with a trigger finger set to twitch – check. Too close to checkmate to risk another move.
Cormac lowered his weapon and uncurled his grip. The revolver hit the carpeted floor with a thunk. Big Frank swept up the abandoned Ruger and returned to the background. O'Neill snatched his arm from Cormac's grasp and rotated each joint in turn; wrist, elbow, shoulder. His dented pride raged in his eyes.
O'Neill pushed Cormac aside and went into the bedroom. Cormac watched through the open door as the boss hunkered down beside his cousin and checked his neck for a pulse. He grunted and slapped Paddy about the jowls.
Cormac couldn't see the kid from his vantage point but the sound of Mattie coughing reassured him. The father sobbed.
"Is the boy all right?" O'Neill asked.
He didn't get an answer.
O'Neill didn't ask again. He clicked his fingers and the Scullions barged past Cormac to get into the room.
"Carry this fucking lump into the next room," O'Neill said. "Frank, you watch these ones for a bit."
"No sweat, boss."
O'Neill pointed a thick finger at Cormac. "You. Get downstairs and wait for me in the kitchen."
Cormac knew he'd fucked up big-time. It'd be a scramble to maintain some semblance of cover in a face-to-face with O'Neill. He had to put Mattie and John out of his mind and focus on self-preservation. Without him, the boy and his father were as good as dead.
Tighten up. There's worse to come.
###
Lydia wiped watery puke from her lips with a scrunched-up sheet of coarse toilet paper and dropped it in the bowl. She pulled the chain and negotiated her way out of the miniature cubicle. Her lower back strained as she stooped low to rinse her mouth out in the little sink. She straightened and checked her face in the mirror. Her lippy was slightly smeared. Nothing a quick touch-up wouldn't fix, but she didn't reach into her handbag for the makeup right away.
Rory's little book signing in the assembly hall had bought her some quiet time. She'd slipped out while he held the audience's attention with stories about scratched knees in the playground, jumpers for goalposts and teachers who'd encouraged him to develop his natural abilities. As an oasis of calm, the school WC left a lot to be desired. The infant-sized cubicles and sinks made for slightly ludicrous surroundings. Ordinarily she might have made the appropriate clucking noises at the cutesy proportions, but with the taste of vomit still fresh in her mouth and a ball of tension rolling about in her stomach, the diminutive porcelain facilities mocked her. Jangled the emotional wounds the men in ski masks had left her with.
She deep-breathed her way through another wave of nausea. There was nothing in there but bile and it would burn its way up her oesophagus if she didn't regain some control. Falling to pieces wasn't going to get her family out of trouble.
A rumble of applause from the assembly hall got her moving again. She fixed her lips and ran a brush through her chestnut layered bob. There wasn't much she could do about her breath until she got her hands on some gum. She'd just have to avoid face-to-face conversation until then.
The assembly hall began to empty out as Lydia left the little bathroom. She negotiated her way back towards the hall against the flow of noisy munchkins. Rory, a yellow indoor football tucked under one arm, looked a little lost among the remaining teachers and local politicians who competed for his attention. His face brightened when he caught sight of Lydia. He raised his eyebrows and she zeroed in for a subtle rescue.
"I hate to drag you away, Rory," Lydia said. "Unfortunately, we've a timetable to stick to."
Rory passed the ball to the local priest, shook hands with the men in suits, promised to stop in again and managed a sincere-ish look of regret as Lydia led him out of the school. The driver was parked across the school gates, all the better for a quick escape. They waded through the growing cluster of children and hopped into the back seat of the Merc.
"Have fun?" Lydia asked.
"What a load of shite."
Lydia thumbed through the organiser on her phone. "We've an hour and a half before you visit the secondary school."
Rory groaned. "Thank fuck I didn't go to university, eh?"
"Hmmm. You have a little time to recharge your batteries. Do you want to grab a bite somewhere?"
"If we can find a quiet place. I can't be arsed putting on the PR face."
"Here," the driver said. "What about the Manchester United supporters' bar? It's not far from here."
Rory sighed. "Ha-fucking-ha."
He told the driver to take them to Andersonstown and find a quiet café. The driver nodded at him in the rear-view mirror then went back to cursing at black taxis and pink buses under his breath.
"Is your son enjoying the wee trip?" Rory asked.
Lydia fixed her eyes on the driver's headrest. The thought of Mattie's "enjoyment" drove a jagged icicle through her heart. "You know what kids are like. He's bored to tears without Sky TV and Xbox Live."
"I kind of miss my Xbox too. Is thingy... um, John. Is John not dragging him to all the usual spots? The Causeway and all that."
"We're trying to save that sort of stuff for when I can go. When your schedule clears... in a day or two." She checked her phone. "Are you doing anything tonight?"
Rory didn't register the subject change. "Clubbing, probably, if I can find somewhere with a bit of life. I'd forgotten what a backward shithole Belfast was. It doesn't even have any strip clubs, like."
Yeah, that's the worst thing about this country, you spoiled bastard.
The car juddered to a halt on a bus lane. The driver shut off the engine and Lydia realised they were parked. She glanced out at what looked like a construction site. Beyond the mess of red and white plastic barriers and temporary steel fencing was a squat building that claimed to be a leisure centre. The driver pointed to a row of houses converted to shop units a few yard up the street.
"Not the best place in Andytown," he said, "but they do a decent cuppa, you know, like?"
Lydia couldn't figure out if he required some sort of response. She avoided eye contact in the rear-view mirror.
"They do an all-day breakfast with a pot of tea for £3.95."
Rory patted his stomach and gave the driver the thumbs up.
"That looks like the business to me. Haven't been to a good old-fashioned greasy spoon in years."
Lydia's stomach lurched at the thought of an Ulster Fry, but she reckoned she could manage a cup of tea. "Yes, great. Let's go."
"Driver, come on in with us," Rory said. "I'm sure you could use a bite yourself."
The driver didn't need to be coaxed. He was the first one out of the car.
They sat at a small square table in the far corner of the café, Rory and Lydia beside each other and the driver opposite them. The table was one of half a dozen lined in rows of three along splotchy magnolia walls. Worn lino barely covered the floor. Three of the tables were yet to
be cleared of the leftovers from the last wave of customers. The elderly lady behind the counter seemed to be in no rush to remedy this. The driver reached over to the next table and lifted a coffee-stained copy of The Sun. He started reading it from the back page.
"I don't suppose you're a City fan?" Rory asked.
He barely looked up. "United."
"Right."
"Always have been. No offence, like."
"Hey, I wasn't always a City lad myself."
The driver perked up a little. "Aye?"
"I followed Liverpool when I was a kid."
"Oh." He went back to his paper.
Rory turned to Lydia and crossed his eyes, his signature expression of exasperation.
"What are youse having?" The elderly lady's voice clawed its way out through a sixty-a-day ravaged throat. She hadn't moved from her spot behind the counter. Probably would have been too much for her lungs to handle.
"Three fries," Rory said.
Lydia cut in. "Make that two. I just want some tea."
"Ach, come on," Rory said. "When in Andytown..."
"I ate a big breakfast earlier."
"But we might be—"
"Just tea, please."
Lydia turned away from Rory and fiddled with her phone. She imagined him giving his cross-eyed look to the driver. Let him put it down to PMT. Her phone vibrated in her hand and squawked the chorus to Lady Gaga's Bad Romance.
Lydia stared at the display. Private number. It was them.
"Jesus, Lydia," Rory said. "Lady Gaga? Do us all a favour and answer it, will you?"
She jolted upright and was out the door before her toppled chair hit the linoleum.
Chapter 3
It's hard not to feel sorry for some of the international players. A few of these guys really do miss the family they left behind. It can be tough. They must get at least a little comfort from drying their tears with fifty pound notes, though.
Rory Cullen, CULLEN: The Autobiography
Cormac waited: controlled, quiet, calm. He was back at the round table in the kitchen, seated at O'Neill's instruction. The boss paced a short stretch of tiled floor on the opposite side of the table. His natural boxer's strut did not go unnoticed. Cormac predicted that fists would fly before the end of their chat.
Undercover Page 2