Undercover

by Gerard Brennan

  "Where's Frank now?"

  "Don't know. Cunt left me here to die."

  Cormac rubbed the back of his neck. "Fuck."

  Paddy pawed at Cormac's lower legs with his free hand. "Will you call the ambulance now? Please?"

  "Sorry, Paddy." Cormac smiled down at him. "I've no phone on me, mate."

  "Use mine, you stupid prick."

  "Aye, I suppose I could. First things first, though."

  Cormac raised his boot off Paddy's gun hand and slammed it back down. Paddy's bones cracked and crumbled. He let loose a squeal that erupted into a coughing fit. A blood mist sprayed from his mouth and rained down on his face. It thickened with each cough. And then his eyes glazed over. He'd a few shallow breaths left in him, but they faded too. Cormac blessed himself and stooped to take the gun from Paddy's mangled hand. Then he rifled through the fat man's pockets until he found his mobile phone. It had been smashed by a bullet. Useless. As he stood up he saw Mattie come to the bedroom door.

  "Stay in there for a minute, kid. Please."

  Mattie ignored him and stepped onto the landing. His gaze passed over Paddy's corpse and came to rest on the other body, sprawled out at the top of the stairs.

  "Dad?"

  Chapter 6

  Irish, British, Northern Irish... who gives a shit? Last year I was a Londoner and this year I'll be a Mancunian. It's just geography.

  Rory Cullen, CULLEN: The Autobiography

  Stansted Airport was a world apart from the almost serene Belfast airport Lydia had left behind little over an hour ago. She moved from left to right to avoid blinkered travellers willing to walk through rather than around her while Rory waited for his case at the baggage reclaim carousel. Somehow, above the hustle and bustle, she heard her ringtone sound.

  Private number.

  She took a deep breath before answering the call.

  "Hi, gorgeous."

  It was one of her visitors from the night before. Just hearing his voice made her crave a shower.

  "I'm in London," she said.

  "I know. That's a nice suit you're wearing. Black pinstripe... very businesslike."

  Lydia wheeled around looking for her caller. "Where are you?"

  "Close enough. Just keeping an eye on you. The one you didn't try to claw out of its socket, you know?"

  Lydia scanned the seething masses moving in and out of her view. Tried to locate the caller but it seemed like every other person had a phone pressed to their ear.

  "I'm doing what you want," she said. "Leave me alone."

  "Aren't you going to ask me about your family?"

  "Would you tell me anything if I did?"

  "No, but it strikes me as a little cold that you wouldn't even ask."

  "Fuck off."

  "That's lovely, that is. I might call you later for another dirty phone call. Your toy boy's on his way back."

  The line went dead. Sure enough, Rory was headed her way. His little wheelie case trundled behind him.

  "That's me all set, Lydia. Will we head on out?"

  Lydia nodded and turned to lead the way to the exit. Rory laid a hand on her upper arm to halt her. She shrugged it off without thinking. He rubbed his palm down the front of his shirt as if to wipe off whatever Lydia found so repulsive.

  "Are you okay, Lydia?"

  "I'm fine."

  "You look like you're about to cry."

  Lydia shrugged. What could she say?

  "Was that John on the phone or something? Everything okay?"

  "Don't worry about it." Her voice cracked. "I'll just nip to the ladies and sort myself out."

  Rory called after her as she hurried off. She stopped for a second, held up her hand with her fingers splayed and mouthed, "Five minutes."

  It the bathroom she stood at the sink furthest from the door and ran the taps. The hot water was scalding but she dampened her hands with it and patted her face. She looked in the mirror and cringed at the sight of her puffy eyes. And through force of habit, she lightly touched her finger to the corners of her mouth. Not exactly marionette lines yet, but she could see their ghostly potential.

  She tousled her hair to give it a little life then unzipped her hand luggage and retrieved some makeup from its clear plastic bag. As she worked on a quick facial spit-shine the puffiness in her eyes began to retreat. In a few more minutes she managed to make herself halfway presentable. She studied herself in the mirror and was satisfied that she looked calm and collected again. The luxury of a breakdown would have to wait until she was on her own. In the meantime, for the sake of John and Mattie, she had to smile on the outside and choke down the bile that burned her insides.

  When she left the ladies toilets she found Rory with a balding man and a young boy. A quick look was enough to tell they were father and son. They bore identical close-set eyes and pudgy red cheeks. The father's mouth twisted in distaste at something Rory said. She guessed the boy was about ten years old. He fiddled with the hem of his T-shirt, embarrassed by whatever his father was saying to Rory.

  Rory spotted Lydia as she approached and moved away from them. The father waved him off with a two-fingered salute."Chelsea don't need you anyway, you stupid Paddy bastard."

  "You'll not be saying that come the end of the season, mate." Rory's voice boomed with theatrical cocksureness. "The title's ours this year."

  "It'll never happen, dickhead."

  The boy blushed and drew his shoulders up to his scarlet ears. His father grabbed a random man by the arm and pointed Rory out to him. The unimpressed traveller shrugged Mr Rosy-cheeks off and rushed on. The Chelsea fan cupped his mouth with his hands.

  "Your book's a load of bollocks as well, Paddy."

  "Thanks for buying it, though," Rory gave him a little wave, "ball-bag."

  Rory swaggered alongside Lydia like James Bond's slicker older brother. The little battle of wits had shifted his attention away from Lydia's tears and she was happy to let him replay it for her. They moved through the terminal as he gabbled, occasionally stalling to look for exit signs.

  They eventually found themselves in the cancer cloud that hovered around the smokers gathered at the terminal doors. Downwind a few paces, they stood for a minute to suss out the day ahead.

  "Home sweet home," Rory said. "Well, sort of. Home away from sweet home, really." He crossed his eyes at his own drivel. "Anyway, do we have time to go freshen up before we meet these people?"

  "First meeting's not until three. We've hours yet."

  "Great stuff. I'll meet you at your office about half two, then."

  Rory reached into a pocket at the front of his case and pulled out his car keys. Then he flipped open his wallet to search out his car park ticket. Lydia pretended to hunt about in her handbag and hand luggage for her own keys. After a plausible amount of time she cursed softly, but not too soft for Rory to hear.

  "What's the matter, Lydia?"

  "I've not got my keys with me."

  "Your car keys?"

  "Car keys, house keys... nothing. For God's sake. I must have left them at the cottage."

  "You should phone John. Make sure you haven't just lost them."

  "Yeah, yeah. I'll text him in a bit. What the hell am I going to do right now, though?"

  "Can I help?"

  Lydia rapped her forehead lightly with her knuckles. "So stupid... I don't know, Rory. Do you think you could give me a lift to a hotel or something?"

  "A hotel? Wise up. I've tonnes of room at my place. You can stay with me until you figure out how to get your keys."

  "I couldn't put you out like that."

  "Are you kidding? After all you've done for me over the years? I insist."

  Lydia stood on her tiptoes and gave Rory a little peck on the cheek. "Thank you."

  Rory smiled and a faint blush showed through his sunbed tan. It hurt Lydia deeply to know that he was so pleasantly surprised by her little scrap of forced affection. Her Judas kiss.

  ###

  Cormac checked John fo
r a pulse. He found it right away. Mattie stared, expectant. Cormac gave the kid a nod.

  "He's still alive."

  Cormac knew the safe house was bang in the middle of a vacant terrace and so it was unsurprising that the police hadn't flooded the scene. But they had to get moving before Big Frank came back with a small army.

  "Did he get shot?"

  Cormac nodded. He pushed up John's bloody shirt and found a wound to the left of his bellybutton. Mattie took a step closer and hissed at the sight of it.

  "Hold on," Cormac slipped his hands under John's back. He planned to roll him onto his side and check out the wound.

  John howled.

  Cormac covered John's mouth with the palm of his hand. "Take it easy, mate."

  Mattie pulled on Cormac's arm. "Stop it, you'll hurt him!"

  "He needs to calm down or he'll do damage to himself. Just stand back, Mattie. I'll take care of this."

  Cormac removed his hand when he felt some of the tension leave John's face. His palm was slick with the other man's sweat. Cormac looked him in the eye.

  "You're in shock, John. I'm going to roll you onto your side in case you throw up. I'm hoping to see an exit wound on your back. Do you understand?"

  John didn't answer.

  "I'm taking that as a yes. Brace yourself."

  Cormac moved John with one steady push. John grunted and cursed. The exit wound was as big as Cormac's fist. He was glad to see it, ugly as it was.

  "Okay, John. It's as good as it can be. I'd tell you you're lucky but..."

  "Fuck yourself."

  "There you go. Mattie, I might need your help, kid. Do you think you'll be able to stomach it?"

  "What do you need me to do?"

  "Put pressure on your father's wounds until I can cobble together some sort of dressing."

  Mattie nodded. "I can do that."

  Cormac went to Paddy's body and tore strips of material from his XXXL T-shirt. He folded them into a pair of thick pads and handed them to Mattie.

  "One for the front and one for the back. Squeeze them together as hard as you can. I won't need you to do this for long, okay?"

  The kid went right to it. He used the heel of his left hand for the entry wound to protect his broken fingers. There was pain in his expression but he didn't complain. Cormac returned to the mammoth task of tearing cloth from a dead fat man. Sweat sprang up on his forehead. It was like manhandling a small whale. The slow burn of a vigorous weightlifting session warmed his muscles.

  "You nearly finished?" Mattie's voice was edged with strain.

  "Two seconds, Mattie. Hold on."

  Cormac kicked it up a gear and knotted together a bandage.

  "My dad just puked."

  "That's forgivable kid. He's been gut-shot. Hang tight."

  They worked together to get the bandage around John's waist. Cormac did the heavy work – compared to lugging a dead Paddy about John seemed as light as a rag doll – and Mattie pulled the makeshift dressing tight and tied it up with admirable efficiency considering he had to work with one hand. He compensated for his broken fingers by pulling one end of the bandage with his teeth.

  "Okay. Nice work, Mattie. You ready to get moving?"

  "Why are you helping us? You're one of them, aren't you?"

  Cormac held his hand out. "Detective Cormac Kelly. Pleased to meet you, Mattie."

  Mattie looked as serious as a funeral director as they shook.

  "Are we safe now, then?"

  "Almost. We need to get your father out of here and get him some medical attention, but we're nearly home and dry."

  So long as we stay a few steps ahead of Big Frank.

  ###

  Lydia eyed the security cameras above Rory's front door. Her client unlocked three bolts and then, just inside the hallway, he tapped a seven-digit code to disable his alarm system. She felt something tug on her stomach. The kidnappers wanted her to breach this system? Rory directed her up the stairs to the guest room.

  Lydia dropped her overnight bag at the foot of the bed. The floorboards creaked under a threadbare carpet as she crossed the room to the window. She drew back the heavy homemade curtains to reveal an old-fashioned net blind, yellowed with age. Parts of it stuck to the condensation-slick window pane. She pulled the blind away to look for weak spots. The window was double-glazed and the frame rigged with security sensors.

  The guestroom was at the front of the house and it looked out on an idyllic leafy suburb complete with smiling kids on bicycles, and old codgers walking dogs. Teddington seemed like an odd place for a professional footballer in his twenties to put down his roots but Lydia could see the appeal. Merely a stone's throw from Kingston upon Thames and a short trip into central London, it was a peaceful spot that didn't seem like the arsehole of nowhere.

  The guestroom would have benefited from an aesthetic update. From the built-in wardrobes to the bedside cabinets, none of the furniture matched. The walls boasted two wallpaper designs separated in the middle by a chipped dado rail. And little reminders from the previous occupants remained; peeling football stickers on the inside of the door, tears in the wallpaper where posters had been removed and a burnt patch on the carpet in front of the mirrored wardrobe door. This house had been lived in.

  Rory's voice rang loud from the bottom of the stairs. "You want tea or coffee?"

  "Tea, please."

  "Milk?"

  "That'd be lovely."

  Lydia checked her mobile. No missed calls. Like she could have missed one. She scrolled through the text messages she'd received on the drive to Teddington from a withheld number.

  Watchin u

  No cops

  Dont make us hurt ur boy 

  She noticed that the battery was down to its last bar so she rooted out the charger from her bag and took it downstairs with her. Rory buzzed about the kitchen putting together a plate of sandwiches to go with the tea. Her stomach rumbled at the sight of the thick white bread, the slabs of cheese and fresh slices of ham. Simple, wholesome food. Lydia's mouth watered and she hoped she might actually be able to handle a couple of bites. She needed fuel.

  "Can I plug my phone in somewhere, Rory?"

  He plonked the plate of sandwiches on the tabletop and pointed towards the microwave on the countertop. "There's a free socket there."

  There was a bunch of brown envelopes propped against the side of the microwave. They had all been opened, the contents removed and stuffed back inside for future consideration. It looked like a mixture of bills and credit card statements to Lydia and her heart beat out a quick drum roll. But she didn't linger. She took a seat opposite Rory and loosed a little sigh of gratitude as he poured her a cup of tea.

  "Everything okay for you upstairs?" Rory asked.

  "Yes. Thanks." She tried to come up with a compliment. "The bed looks lovely and comfy."

  Rory blew on his tea. "I know it's not exactly the Ritz, like..."

  "It's fine. Really."

  "I'd always meant to get the place redecorated, you know. Never got around to it. Maybe if I'd picked up a WAG she'd have sorted it out for me."

  "Yes, I suppose so." Shut up, shut up, shut up.

  "Well, I'll be looking for a new place in Manchester now. Don't want to have to travel every day for training." He pointed to the plate. "Help yourself."

  Lydia hefted a sandwich. The weight of the cheese surprised her a little. She bit a small piece off the corner and chewed. It was better than an orgasm.

  Rory choked down a hunk of his piece and chased it with a gulp of tea. He patted his chest and said, "What about Mattie, by the way? He's a Chelsea fan. Is he pissed off that you sold their best player to the enemy?"

  Her stodgy snack stuck to the roof of her mouth. She washed it away with a mouthful of suddenly over-milked and tepid tea. It took all her might to hold back a grimace.

  "Well, he's probably not your biggest fan these days."

  Rory shrugged and went back to attacking his food while Lydia broke
up what was left of her bread and fillings to make it look like she'd eaten more than she really had. When Rory was finished he eyed her leftovers, pinched a particularly inviting chunk of cheese off her plate and popped it in his mouth.

  "You're not eating enough," he said between chews.

  "No appetite. Think I might have a stomach bug or something."

  Rory wrinkled his nose. "Well don't give it to me."

  "Relax. If it was contagious my whole family would have it and they're... fine."

  "I was going to suggest we head out for dinner after we've been to those meetings, but if you've a dodgy tummy it might not be such a good idea."

  "That's a nice thought, Rory, but you're right. Why don't we pick up a bottle of bubbly, though? Have a few celebratory glasses here tonight? I'm sure I could handle that."

  "Now there's a plan. A wee champers or two would go down a treat."

  Lydia winked at him. "An early night wouldn't do us any harm either."

  Rory cleared his throat and regarded Lydia, his eyebrows drawn downwards as he tried to figure out if she'd just flirted with him. Lydia did nothing to clear up the confusion. It hadn't occurred to her until then, but she knew that if it came down to it she'd do anything to get her family back from the kidnappers. Anything.

  Chapter 7

  Sponsorship is great, like. Very lucrative. I just don't understand what football has to do with crisps, though. Surely as role models we should be promoting apples and bananas or something like that.

  Rory Cullen, CULLEN: The Autobiography

  Paddy's car handled like a half-charged mobility scooter. It was an old white Suzuki Jimmy, some sort of dwarfish SUV, and everything about it was inept and sluggish. Much like its former owner. Cormac looked forward to dumping it and getting into his own car. They were closing in on his house on the Lisburn Road. His plan was to get his Police Service of Northern Ireland ID out of his safe and his police issue Glock 17 along with a few boxes of ammo. The PSNI ID would cut through any bullshit hospital red tape and get John's gunshot wound seen to quicker. Cormac still had the pistol from the safe house but it didn't have a full clip and he wasn't sure how well cared for it had been. He wanted his own, reliable piece.