Undercover

by Gerard Brennan

  Cormac could no longer wait for the perfect opening. He charged the Scullions and tried to clock Mick with a straight left. Mick bobbed and the blow glanced off the top of his head. Cormac moved to his left and stuck close to Mick. Pete tried to weigh in but couldn't get past his brother. Cormac threw a jab. Mick swatted it away and countered with a right cross. Landed it on Cormac's cheekbone. He followed up with a left hook. Cormac, barely fazed by the first strike, ducked and came up with an uppercut. Connected clean to the chin and Mick staggered backwards. Pete pushed his stunned brother to the side and leapt at Cormac. The enraged Scullion absorbed a couple of tight left hooks and wrapped his opponent up in a clinch. Cormac struggled against Pete's berserker rage but couldn't get a handle on him. Mick rallied and returned to the fray. He rounded the wrestling pair and got to work. Cormac took a couple of blows to the kidneys. He allowed his knees to buckle and Pete let him drop to the floor. The brothers kicked and stomped but Cormac rolled out of their path.

  Cormac drew his knees up to his chest and tumbled backwards onto his feet. Adrenaline took the edge off his pain and honed his vision. He embraced it. Cormac beckoned the brothers with his open-handed guard. Taunted them. They edged towards him, lead feet testing each floorboard as if they expected mines.

  The brothers' reluctance allowed Cormac a few seconds to focus beyond them. He saw Paddy slap Mattie's already bloody face. Then the bastard took the young boy's left wrist and wrapped his fat hands around his little fingers. Cormac snarled and clenched his fists. He collided with the Scullions but couldn't get through them quick enough to prevent the snap of bone. Mattie shrieked.

  Cormac took it up a gear. He lashed out and landed strikes. Felt their resistance sag. He pushed them to the limit. One of his obstacles went down. Cormac trampled over him and fought harder. Another fell to the wayside. And he was on the fat, useless bully that had damaged the kid. Paddy's face squished under Cormac's left-handed grip. He swung down hard with his right elbow.

  There was screaming. Some sort of explosion. More screaming. Cormac was dragged backwards. He railed against the unseen force and it almost withered.

  Then nothing.

  Chapter 4

  No, I've never been in the IRA. Growing up on the Falls Road isn't the only qualification required for the job. Can we put that question to bed now?

  Rory Cullen, CULLEN: The Autobiography

  Lydia stood in the living room in front of a blank television screen. She held an unfamiliar remote control in her hand. Her thumb hovered over the red standby button.

  She'd parted ways with Rory after his book signing at the secondary school. The format had been much the same as the primary school visit, but Rory's short attention span had sapped his enthusiasm. He'd rhymed off his speech about the "Explosive!" autobiography to the pupils with a weary lack of enthusiasm and rushed his way through the meet and greets that followed. They were in and out in double time, and Lydia was left with extra hours to pass on her own.

  Lydia let the remote fall to the floor. It bounced off the carpet and the batteries popped out. She considered the sofa but her nerves jangled too much to allow her to sit.

  In the kitchen, she opened the fridge door and peered inside. Her stomach rumbled at the prospect of food but she just couldn't be bothered with fixing herself something. Didn't even have the drive to butter a slice of bread. She considered a half-empty bottle of chardonnay but nixed the notion pretty quickly. What if they phoned and she didn't have her wits about her? She'd never forgive herself.

  The old cottage brimmed with weird noises that Mattie's natural clamour would have covered. Lydia knew that the sounds she heard were nothing more mysterious than a clanking pipe or a shifting floorboard, but every little creak tingled down her spine. She'd never felt so lonely.

  Lydia paced the house, up and down the narrow hall, in and out of the rooms. She straightened pictures on the wall, adjusted and readjusted the hang of the curtains in each room and stripped down all the beds so she could make them all over again. It passed an hour.

  When Lydia finished her series of utterly pointless tasks she felt like she could actually sit for a bit. She flopped down onto the sofa and placed her phone on the armrest. The same spot where one of the masked men had rested his pistol the night before. She lifted the phone and placed it on the opposite arm. Then she sat back and waited.

  Lydia snapped back to life from a muzzy drowse at the sound of her Lady Gaga ringtone. Her collar was cold and damp with sweat and her mouth tasted of morning breath. Her voice cracked a little as she answered the phone.

  "I want to speak to Mattie."

  "Whoa there, missus. You'll talk to the boy soon enough."

  "What do you want from me? Where's my family?"

  "Two of my men will be there soon. Be a good girl and let them in, will you? You don't want them kicking the door down."

  Lydia sprang off the couch. "Why are they coming here?"

  He killed the connection.

  She thought about the chef's knife in the kitchen drawer. A true-blue Norman Bates effort. Considered hiding it up her sleeve.

  Get a grip. You'll probably end up slashing your own wrist with it.

  She knew it was stupid. What would she do with a knife anyway? Kill the two visitors and then try to find her family? Kill one and torture the other for information? They had her family and the blade would do nothing to change that fact.

  A ruckus erupted out in the hall. A boom at the door followed by a splintering crack and a crash. Lydia screamed and fumbled her phone but managed to hold onto it. She slipped it into the pocket of her trousers and swallowed hard. The bastards had kicked the door in without as much as a warning knock. She heard their boots on the hallway's laminate floor and tried to brace herself for more terror. When they entered the living room she realised that there was no preparing for certain things.

  The sight of them in their dark clothes and ski masks combined the memories of the previous night's fear with a brand new sense of dread. Lydia wished she'd fetched the knife after all. Her sudden vulnerability wiped her mind of all thoughts but survival.

  Judging by their height and build Lydia placed them as the sofa jockeys. She got a better look at their eyes in the early evening light. Both men had distinctly dark brown irises that might have been attractive if they weren't framed by ski mask eye-holes set above maniacal grins.

  The one on the left spoke first. "How'd you get on today?"

  She offered a blank look in return.

  He elaborated. "With Cullen, you stupid bitch. Did you get anywhere with Cullen?"

  "How could I? We—"

  "That's for you to figure out. Our job is to remind you that we have your family and we won't let them go until you've given us what we want."

  "But you can't expect—"

  The man on the right slapped Lydia's face. "Shut the fuck up."

  Lydia stumbled backwards. The masked men closed the gap she created right away. Lydia was painfully aware that they were maintaining a striking distance. She raised a hand to her hot cheek.

  Lefty waggled his finger at Lydia. "The longer it takes you to get us what we want, the longer we keep your family."

  Righty's mouth contorted into a killer clown smile. "Have you nothing to say for yourself, gorgeous?"

  "She's probably afraid you'll smack her again," Lefty said.

  "Sure that was only a wee love tap."

  "Got a wee thing for her, have you?"

  Righty tugged at the crotch of his jeans. "Nothing wee about it, kid."

  Lydia felt grimy as the two thugs looked her up and down, tongues practically lolling from their smirking mouths. She drew her knees together and crossed her arms in front of her breasts.

  Lefty nudged his partner like they were in some twisted version of the Monty Python "say no more" sketch. "You can see where her son gets his looks from, can't you? Could have a thing for him and all."

  And with that they'd crossed the line. Lydia curled her
fingers into claws and went for their eyes. She cut off their demonic cackles with an alley cat attack. Lefty jerked backwards and dodged her swipe. Righty wasn't fast enough. Lydia grunted with satisfaction as her fingers slipped into his eyeholes and tore flesh. Righty screeched and backpedalled. He pulled off one of his gloves, cupped his hand and pressed it against his left eye. Blood ran through his fingers.

  "She fucking blinded me!"

  Lefty tutted and turned on Lydia. "That was stupid."

  He put all his weight behind a solid body shot. Lydia wheezed and went to her knees. She fought for air but couldn't draw anything into her winded lungs.

  The uninjured thug left her gasping on the floor, turned to his partner and examined his eye.

  "The eye's still there. It's just scratched."

  "Hurts like a bastard."

  Lefty clapped Righty's shoulder and for a second Lydia thought they might hug. But then Lefty curled his fist to grasp a handful of Righty's sweater. He dragged him over to Lydia.

  "I think you should put some manners on this bitch."

  Righty stared her out with his one good eye. Lydia renewed her effort to get her lungs working properly. Her mind screamed at her to get up and run but she hadn't even the juice to stand. Righty placed the sole of his boot between her breasts and pushed her backwards. She toppled over and continued to wheeze.

  "Get up."

  Lydia rolled on to her front and pushed herself up onto her hands and knees. One of the men behind her whistled.

  "Not a bad view, eh?" Lefty said. "Looks like she spends a lot of time at the gym sculpting that arse."

  "It'd be a lot nicer if I could see out of both my eyes."

  Lydia used the couch for support and fought gravity to get to her feet. She turned to face the men. Righty closed in on her. He took his hand from his injured eye and reached out towards her face with it. Lydia could smell his blood. He brushed back a strand of her hair with his bloodstained fingers and sighed softly. Then he leant in as if to kiss her cheek. Hot breath dampened her ear.

  "If you're still here by tomorrow night I'm coming back to fuck your brains out." He traced the line of her jaw with his bloody fingertips. "You've work to do in London, bitch. Get that lovely arse in gear."

  ###

  Cormac woke up with cotton-mouth, a thumping headache and pins and needles prickling the length of his right arm. He tried to shake some life into the sleeping limb and blanched. It felt like his brain had been shook loose and it rattled in his skull with every movement. The pain blew the cobwebs from his mind. He realised he hadn't come out of a deep slumber. He'd been knocked out and had regained consciousness. It was a wonder he'd come to at all.

  He pushed himself upright and sat with his back to the bedroom wall. Scanned the room with blurred vision. Mattie was on the mattress, pale and in obvious discomfort. His dad hadn't returned and the little guy looked even smaller in his isolation. He looked to Cormac and nodded a slight acknowledgment. Cormac tried to smile but his face wasn't having any of it. The skin on his cheeks tingled with each fresh thud from his heart and his lips were thick with swelling.

  "You look fucked," Mattie said.

  Cormac surveyed Mattie's face. A purple bruise blossomed around his left eye and there was dried blood under his nostrils and in the corners of his mouth. His left hand rested in his lap, badly swollen yet still slender and birdlike.

  "What age are you, kid?" Cormac asked. "Twelve?"

  Mattie bristled. "I'm thirteen."

  Cormac had figured the boy was closer to eleven but had upped the number to compliment him. Still, it was good to see that Mattie had enough fight left in him to be insulted by Cormac's faux pas.

  "You're a bit young to be using the F-word."

  "I'm a bit young to get my fingers broke by that shower of cunts as well. Didn't make much difference, though, did it?"

  The boy had a point. And the fact that he referred to the rest of the crew as "that shower" implied that he didn't count Cormac among their number. Small comfort though it was, Cormac entertained hopes that he could form some sort of alliance with Mattie.

  "Cormac, isn't it?"

  "Aye."

  "Thanks for standing up for me."

  Cormac laid his head back against the wall. "For all the good it did either of us."

  "Still..."

  Something clicked in Cormac's mind. He sat up straight and looked from left to right. "Did they leave us here on our own?"

  Mattie nodded. "I heard some of them go out a good while ago. They left the bastard with the big muscles to watch us but he's been downstairs for a while now."

  Cormac's eyes went to the door.

  "It's locked," Mattie said.

  The door was a whitewood panel effort and would have been no bother to get through, locked or not. But Big Frank would be up the stairs at the sound of the first kick and Cormac was in no shape to deal with him.

  "How long was I out?" Cormac asked.

  Mattie shrugged then winced as it reminded him of one of his injuries. "I don't have a watch."

  Cormac looked to the window. An orange streetlight glow crept under the curtains. Hours had passed but it could have been anywhere between ten o'clock at night and three in the morning.

  "No sign of your da?"

  "I heard him shouting a while ago but I don't think anybody was hurting him or anything. I didn't want to shout back in case we got in more trouble."

  Cormac cocked his head to listen for life beyond the bedroom. Deathly silence. He figured it'd be safe to move about without attracting immediate attention. Safe but not easy. The full extent of his injuries began to make itself known with every slight movement he made. His lungs couldn't hold a deep breath without complaint from his ribcage. The muscles in his legs were cramped up and his lower back ached. He longed to empty his bladder but suspected his piss would be tinged crimson with blood. Nausea tightened his stomach. He battled against his gag reflex and stood.

  "You look like my granny trying to get off a beanbag."

  Cormac grunted. "Funny little fu-fellah, aren't you?"

  "Fu-fellah?"

  "Shut up."

  "You can curse in front of me. I won't tell, like."

  Cormac moved to the window and whipped back the curtain. A couple of hooks pinged loose but it held on to the rail. The PVC window had a little lock on the catch. Cormac tried to turn the handle but it held firm. He pushed the bottom corner of the frame and it gave way slightly under the pressure. One good shove would probably pop it.

  "What's the point in that?" Mattie said. "We're upstairs."

  "You're a very negative person. I'm just weighing up the options. Have you a better idea in mind, like?"

  "We could take the legs off that chair and brain the next bastard that comes in here."

  "Chair legs against guns...? Yeah, I can see how that trumps the window."

  "They're going to kill us anyway. May as well go down swinging."

  "Nobody's going to get killed."

  "Wise up. Maybe there's a chance that I'll get out of this, but you're definitely fucked."

  Cormac didn't know whether to hug or strangle him.

  Chapter 5

  They'll name an airport after me some day.

  Rory Cullen, CULLEN: The Autobiography

  The hired Merc swept into the M3 fast lane. A long distance lorry flashed its lights in protest as it was forced to shift down a gear. Just a couple of yards later, the driver slotted the Merc back into the inside lane, this time upsetting a Fon-A-Cab driver who laid on his horn for a good five seconds. The sideward momentum from the lane-hopping rocked Lydia and Rory in the back seat. Lydia welcomed the distraction but Rory looked a little green around the gills as he clenched the door handle for support and assurance. She thought about asking the driver to slow down but didn't want to risk missing the flight back to London.

  "I still don't understand what the big panic is." Rory's voice croaked from the punishment of the previous night's deba
uchery.

  "You can't keep these people waiting, Rory. When a slot comes up in their schedule, you have to jump at it. Your book's in everybody's mind this week. Next week they'll have wrung it out."

  "But I have commitments here."

  "Nothing that can't be postponed. You've done the important ones, anyway. It's forgetting where you came from that's the cardinal sin. After the school visits the corporate events don't really matter."

  "They were paying gigs, though."

  "Oh, please, Rory. Peanuts compared to what this crowd can bring in for you."

  "But you've always handled my sponsorship deals. Won't you be out of pocket if this thing goes through?"

  "I still get a cut of what they make for you, and believe me; it'll be a lot more than I could ever pull in. No, unless you want to end up doing ads for crisps, this is the agency you want on your side. They've the contacts to land you your own clothing line."

  Rory opened his window, hawked and spat a gob that got whipped away in the slipstream. "Fashion shows, though? Wouldn't that be a bit gay?"

  Typical footballer bullshit. Lydia never met a client she didn't want to strangle at some point in their dealings.

  "You'll not be expected to sit by the catwalk. It's just your name, Rory. Come on, is it fair that it's always the United boys that get these gigs? Think of the pride you'll bring to the City of Manchester when you top the biggest transfer deal in Premiership history with the biggest sponsorship deal. The fans will think the sun shines out your arse."

  "They don't care about that shite. It's how many goals I score that'll matter."

  "Football's not that simple anymore. Everything matters. And the more popular you get, on and off the pitch, the bigger the bargaining chip you arm me with next time your contract is up for renewal."

  "I've only just signed this one."

  "And you pay me to think of the next one."

  Rory fiddled with the rear passenger air vent in the car's door pillar. To Lydia's relief, he'd asked enough questions and his interest was spent. He fished a can of Red Bull out of his hand luggage and cracked it open. His face crimped as he took his first sip.