by Chris Simms
Forty metres away. He could see the front of the queue waiting to join from Mauldeth Road. Six vehicles back, a white van. Yes! The pain in his legs instantly vanished. Got you, you bastards. He was floating, balls of his feet barely connecting with the ground. He became aware of the muscles in his shoulders and upper arms. The sensation he always felt on the rugby pitch before smashing a member of the other team. Seeing only the driver’s side window, he closed in on the vehicle.
The driver, drumming his fingers impatiently on the top of the steering wheel, glanced to his side. His eyes widened. Jon was now close enough to see the movement of the man’s lips as he mouthed a single word. Fuck.
Immediately, the engine revved and the driver’s hands started pulling at the wheel. The vehicle veered round the car in front, horn blaring as it moved quickly along the gap between the two lanes of traffic and out on to the roundabout itself.
Ten metres away. Jon watched as the van – rather than trying to negotiate the roundabout’s curve – cut straight onto the circular patch of grass at its centre. Cars started slowing in confusion. He dodged into the path of a Volvo, one hand slamming on its bonnet as he jumped round its front end. Then he was on the grass, too. The van’s tyres were spinning uselessly as he came up alongside the driver’s door and reached for the handle. Locked. Shit.
Glaring through the glass, he could see the driver hunched over the wheel, cursing with frustration. From inside the van came the booming sound of the creature’s barks. Keeping his grip on the door handle, Jon lifted his free hand and punched the window. Fire-like pain lanced his wrist. He swung at the glass again and felt something in his hand give.
Then the van’s tyres bit and he was yanked forward. He desperately tried to keep hold of the door handle. The metal was too smooth and it started sliding from his grasp. Stumbling alongside the vehicle, he landed a last, futile slap on its side. A red smear of a palm-print was left on the damp metal. Punch’s blood, he thought, toppling forward.
The corner of the van’s rear bumper narrowly missed his head, and in the split second before the vehicle went beyond his grasp, he saw the dirty rag covering its registration plate. He lunged at the scrap of material, feeling cloth tear in his fingers as his face ploughed into the grass.
The van bumped onto tarmac once again, the dog inside going ballistic as the vehicle accelerated towards the main road which led out of the city.
Jon raised himself onto his elbows. The rag was flapping about, leaving the registration plate exposed. A series of numbers with a single letter in the middle. Irish. The vehicle was from Ireland. He closed his eyes. This was revenge, he realised. Revenge for what I did in Clifden.
Chapter 2
Four days earlier
Jon held the phone slightly away from his ear, toes flexing against the front hall carpet. ‘Slow down, will you? I can’t understand what you’re saying.’
‘I said my name is Siobhain. I knew Zoë from when I was in Manchester. We… we…’
Yeah, Jon thought, I know. You were homeless, like Zoë. Did you end up on the game, same as she did? Forced into working for that greasy pimp, Salvio? His mind jumped back to the incident in the half-derelict tower block. When Salvio had realised Jon wasn’t a punter, it was too late for him to get away. ‘She mentioned you in a couple of postcards she sent. You were both sleeping rough in Manchester.’
‘That’s right.’
Jon nodded. ‘So where are you now?’
‘It’s a town called Clifden. Connemara?’
‘I know it – at least I know where it is.’ Somewhere near Roundstone, he thought, where Mum’s side of the family were all originally from.
‘Right. Well there’s a nightclub here called Darragh’s. That’s where you’ll find her. You need to get her out of there.’
Jon heard a creak at the top of the stairs. He peered up between the spindles of the banister. Alice was bending forward, head cocked to one side. Who is it? she mouthed.
He held up a hand and shook his head to indicate it was no one she needed to worry about.
‘Did you get that?’ the voice at the other end of the line asked.
‘I heard,’ Jon replied. And I hear your southern Irish accent, too. Soft and lilting. God, he thought, how I love the way you lot speak.
‘The owner is a right head-banger. She doesn’t know the danger that she’s in.’
Oh Zoë, Jon thought. Wherever you go, you end up in the shit. A shiver took him. No wonder. I’m stood here stark bollock-naked and it’s freezing cold. He hooked his jacket off the end of the banister and shrugged it on. ‘What kind of danger’s that, then?’
‘I can’t go into it. Will you not come and get her?’
Jon took a deep breath in. ‘How did you get my number?’
‘She’s talked about you. A lot. The time you dealt with Salvio for her. Did you really do those things to him? Snap his wrist and that?’
Jon said nothing for a moment. ‘So what did you do, look me up in the phone book?’
‘I did. On the internet, anyway. There aren’t that many Spicers in Manchester. Zoë said you lived in a place called Heaton Moor.’
‘I see.’
‘Will you not come?’
Jon thought about how his mum and dad now looked after the boy left behind after their own son’s death. The young lad had taken over their lives. The thought of returning from Ireland with Zoë in tow would hardly fill them with delight. Maybe she wouldn’t be keen on seeing her son, he reasoned. After all, she hadn’t exactly shown much interest in the last few years. ‘What’s the name of this club again?’
‘Darragh’s. There’s only one nightclub in Clifden and that’s it. I know this is weird me ringing like this but…’
Her voice had taken on a forlorn note. He sat down on the third step of the stairs and placed his elbows on his knees. ‘Siobhain, I can’t just drop everything and rush over there. I’m in the police – I’ve got cases to work.’
‘It’s Saturday tomorrow. You could be here and home again by Sunday, easy. Flights go from Manchester to Galway Airport all the time, so they do.’
He realised he was not due back on shift until the following Wednesday. And even then he was only in for the day before taking his family for a short break at Center Parcs. ‘Say I came. Zoë’s not going to just pack her bags and return to England with me. How long has she been living in Clifden for now? Almost six months?’
‘She’s desperate to get out, Jon. She’s been sucked in, slowly and surely. She needs your help.’
Sucked in? Unease rippled through him. Sucked in to what? ‘Who owns this club?’
‘Darragh. Clifden is only small, but he’s the biggest thing here. Outside this place, he’d be nothing. A thug, that’s all he is. You’ll be dealing with ten times worse than him every day in Manchester.’
‘What’s wrong with the local police?’
She didn’t reply. That figures, Jon thought. Zoë’s choices in life rarely meant going to the police was an option. ‘Tell me what he’s dragged her into.’
‘Listen,’ she whispered. ‘I have to live here. I need to– ’
‘I’m not coming if you don’t.’
She sighed. ‘Smuggling stuff, mainly. Pirate DVDs. He’s making her take a load up to Nutt’s Corner market in Belfast. But if the boys running things up there get hold of her, they’ll…I don’t know what they’ll do to her.’
Jon closed his eyes. ‘Is she using?’
A slight pause. ‘What do you mean?’
‘Siobhain, don’t piss me about here. She’s used heroin in the past. Is she on it again?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘Then how else has this Darragh bloke got a hold on her?’
‘He’s a powerful man. At least in these parts he is.’
Jon cursed under his breath then lifted his eyes, picturing his dead brother looking down. Feelings of guilt started to unfurl in his head, same as they always did. I wasn’t there for you. When yo
u needed me most, I wasn’t there. Ah, Christ. He closed his eyes, but his younger brother’s face was still there. Dave, if it weren’t for the fact you loved this girl so much, I wouldn’t be agreeing to this. ‘So you reckon she’d be happy to come with me?’
‘Yes.’
‘But this Darragh bloke wouldn’t be.’
‘He wouldn’t need to know. She could just pop out for a cigarette break – you’d be in your car waiting. She jumps in and you’re away.’
You make it sound so easy, Jon thought. ‘What about her stuff?’
‘She hasn’t got much. A small bag, she could have it with her.’
Jon tapped a finger on his knee. ‘When is she making this delivery?’
‘Sunday.’
‘This Sunday?’ There goes my weekend, he thought, standing up and padding into the front room. He turned the computer on in the far corner. ‘What’s your number, Siobhain? I might need to call you when I get there.’
‘So you’re coming?’
‘I’m checking flights now. What’s your number?’
‘Listen, I can’t get involved in this. I have to be careful – I said, I have to try and live– ’
‘I’ll be discreet.’
‘No. I’m out of this. Sorry.’
‘Siobhain, I’ll just use the last-number-called function. I’ll keep the phone you’re on ringing all night.’
‘Go ahead. It’s the public one outside the post office.’ The line went dead.
Jon held the handset away from his ear. ‘Great,’ he sighed, pressing red and turning to the computer monitor. Using the forefinger of each hand he typed, ‘cheap flights to Galway’.
He clicked on the site that topped the list and, as the page began to load, freeze-frame memories of when he’d got hold of Salvio started appearing in his head. Two of the man’s teeth flying from his mouth, the bloke’s choked pleading, Jon’s hands as they’d struck him about the head, forcing him back. Then Salvio crashing down the concrete steps, his screams filling the stairwell.
Chapter 3
The port of Dublin drew closer. Jon leaned his elbows on the ferry’s handrail. Cheap flights to Galway. He shook his head. Only if you’re booking something for the following bloody decade.
The tone of the engine dropped as the vessel cut speed. Looking towards the port of Dublin itself, a chimney with faded red and white stripes at its top dominated the skyline. He breathed deeply. Alice hadn’t been happy when he’d told her about Zoë’s predicament.
The first thing that had shown on her face was alarm, followed quickly by a look of resignation. From across the breakfast table, Jon read her thoughts. Guilt panged him. She knows, he realised. She knows that I want to go over to Ireland. And only her refusal to give permission will stop me.
‘You mean to go, don’t you?’ she’d asked in a neutral voice, a piece of toast half-raised.
He tried to read her expression, but she was keeping her face blank. ‘What do you think I should do?’
‘Does that matter? You decide on something, you go ahead and do it. Simple as that.’
He shook his head. ‘That’s not true.’ Their recent near-divorce raised its ugly head. The reason she had kicked him out was largely due to his habit of going off and deserting her. ‘I promised you, Ali. I’m never going to make those mistakes again.’
‘So it’s all on me now, is it?’ Her smile was sad. ‘You want to go, but not without my say-so. Thanks.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘If I say no, you’ll mope around resenting it. And God forbid something bad happens to Zoë; then I’m responsible for that, too.’
He sat back. ‘OK – I believe I should help her out. I won’t deny that. She’s family of sorts, Ali, whether we like it or not. She was my brother’s partner and she’s Jake’s mum.’
‘Jon.’ Her voice was an urgent whisper. ‘It was not your fault Dave died, OK? You have to stop blaming yourself. He didn’t want your help – he only wanted your cash.’
‘He was in trouble, Ali. And his own big brother…I should have done more.’
She let out a long sigh. ‘We’ve been over this so many times. He chose to avoid you, your family, everyone from his old life. Anyway, Zoë…what about her own family? Why can’t they drop everything and rush to her aid?’
He began to rotate his cup of coffee, eyes lowered. ‘She has no family, Ali. She went into care when she was four.’
Alice’s shoulders slumped forward. ‘Christ.’
‘I saw her file. She started absconding from her care home in her early teens – from there it was the usual path into drugs and prostitution. Until Dave came along and got her out of it.’
Alice put the piece of toast back on her plate and closed her eyes. After a few moments, she raised both hands and ran them down the sides of her face.
He took a sip of coffee, giving her more time.
Her hands dropped into her lap and she stared at the far wall, eyes unfocused. ‘Say you go. What will you do when you find her?’
Wasn’t that obvious? ‘I’ll get her out of there.’
‘Yes,’ she answered. ‘And once you’ve done that?’
He paused before replying. That’s a very good point, he realised. ‘I don’t know. Take her to…wherever she wants to go.’
‘Jon, you just said – she’s got nowhere else to go. In fact, take her away from this place in Ireland and she’ll probably end up back in her old Manchester haunts. It’s all she knows.’
‘She wants to get out of there; Siobhain said so. I can’t leave her swinging in the wind. There was an aunt mentioned in her social services file – Rochdale or somewhere. Maybe she could take her in.’
Alice seemed to slide an inch lower. ‘This is…there’s the potential for this to go really wrong.’
‘Meaning?’
‘She comes back to Manchester. What if she wants to see Jake?’
Jon shook his head. ‘I can’t see it. You want my opinion? It was Dave that wanted that kid, not her.’
Alice pursed her lips, looking unconvinced. ‘What other choice is there? I always knew we hadn’t seen the last of her. I just thought when she came back, it would be for her son. Not…not because of something like this. You’d better warn your parents.’
Holly wandered in from the telly room and climbed on to Jon’s lap. He adjusted her weight. ‘You are getting such a big girl,’ he murmured into her ear. ‘Daddy’s legs are hardly strong enough.’
Unconcerned, she picked up a piece of toast and took a bite. Punch quietly uncurled himself from his basket in the corner and took up position by their feet, eyes glued to Holly’s hand. She waved the crust back and forth, the dog’s eyes tracking it like someone watching a tennis match.
‘Don’t tease him,’ Jon said.
She pushed the rest of it into her mouth and wrinkled her nose at Punch who took on a mournful expression.
‘They always took him on knowing it would probably be a temporary thing,’ Jon announced quietly.
‘That was years ago,’ Alice replied. ‘A lot has happened since then. They’ve probably come to assume they’ve got him for good.’
Jon lifted his cup and took another sip, knowing his wife was right.
Holly looked round. ‘When are we going to Center Parcs?’
He smoothed a hand over her straw-coloured hair. ‘Not for a few more sleeps. Daddy’s got to go away for a night or two, first. OK?’
‘Where in Connemara?’ his mother’s voice was flat.
‘Clifden?’ Jon let the word hang a moment, eyes fixed on the side of her face. ‘Not far from Roundstone, isn’t it?’
She laid another child’s T-shirt on the towel spread across the dining-room table, picked up the iron and began to run it over the garment. ‘What’s she doing there?’
He regarded the makeshift arrangement for a moment. Despite his many offers, she wasn’t interested in having a proper ironing board; this was the way it had always been done in her family
. Why spend money on an item that would only create clutter? ‘Working in the town’s one-and-only nightclub, apparently. She’s got herself involved with a bad lot. I’m nipping over to get her out of there.’
She glanced at him. ‘Why? Why has it got to be you?’
Jon shrugged. ‘Mum, she’s got no family of her own– ’ He stopped as he saw her eyes lift to the other side of the room. Jake was sitting on the carpet in front of the television. A remote from the Wii Jon had bought him for his birthday was in his hand. Perched uncomfortably on a footstool next to him was Alan, Jon’s father.
‘Grandad, you missed the power pill!’ There was a reediness to Jake’s small voice. Jon gazed affectionately at the boy’s wavy brown hair. Just like Dave’s, he thought. Jake’s shoulders jerked as he carried out some kind of manoeuvre. So different, Jon reflected, to the emaciated little scrap I found in the flat in that tower block. On the TV screen, the dinosaur driving Jake’s cart hit a ramp and the vehicle soared above the other competitors.
‘Woo-hoo!’ the boy cried excitedly.
He turned back to Mary. ‘She won’t be interested in having him back, Mum.’
She placed the iron upright on the towel, beckoning to Jon as she stepped through into the kitchen.
Jon followed her, bracing himself for what was coming.
When she spoke, her words were clipped. ‘She’s not having him back. I’ll contest it if she tries. Involved with a bad lot. That’s the story of her life, isn’t it?’
If it is, Jon thought, would that include our kid, Dave? He resisted the temptation to ask. His younger brother may not have been a saint, but it was him who’d put a roof over Zoë’s head.
‘I bet she’s still pressing muck into her veins,’ Mary continued, arms crossed tight. ‘I will not allow our grandson to be taken away by a junkie like her.’