by Alan Gorevan
So much for a subtle approach.
“Don’t move,” Joe shouted, coming around the corner, with the Sig raised, pointing it right at them.
Then everyone was shouting and running. Barrett gave up on the backpack and dived into his BMW.
The second BMW veered sideways and screeched to a halt across the footpath in front of Joe. He ran toward the back, but the car reversed, blocking him again, nearly hitting him.
Barrett’s car was speeding away.
Boyle hurried to his car. He had nothing in his hands. No backpack. He got behind the wheel and pulled away.
Joe ran up to the driver’s door of the BMW blocking his way. He was tempted to shoot the guy behind the wheel.
He didn’t even get a look at him.
As he came alongside the passenger window, the car tore away with a screech of rubber, speeding the wrong way down the one-way street. Joe chased it for a short distance. The car slowed as it passed Joe’s Honda. There was a bang and a hiss of escaping air as they shot his tire out.
Chapter 21
Christopher O’Malley was breathing hard by the time he neared home. The big red-brick on Belmont Avenue wasn’t the prettiest house in the world, even if his Mum loved it. Christopher would have preferred a gothic mansion, far away from people. But this was home for the time being. Once he was behind the house’s solid oak door, he would be safe.
He increased his pace, pausing only to look over his shoulder and check that no one was following him.
No, he was okay.
For the last two days, Christopher had stayed at school during lunchtime so he could fit in some extra violin practice. The Mozart recital was coming up on Friday and Christopher was struggling to master his part, first violin in The Hunt, String Quartet No. 17. Today, though, he’d forgotten to bring lunch, so he had to go home to eat.
Reaching his house, Christopher opened the door and stepped into the hall.
“Mum?”
He never knew when she’d be there. She often worked from home but some days she visited clients. She didn’t drive a car, so the front driveway gave no clue about whether she was home.
Christopher walked down the hall to the kitchen. All was quiet. He glanced out the window. The door to the shed was closed, so maybe Graham wasn’t around. Christopher didn’t know why Mum let her boyfriend use the shed as a studio. Graham wasn’t really an artist. He’d never sold a picture. Mum had hung up one in the hall, but only out of pity.
He opened the door to the American-style fridge freezer. As usual, it was well-stocked. Mum had started to order food online twice a week, and had it delivered on Mondays and Thursdays. It saved time. As a web developer, she was enthusiastic about automating stuff.
Christopher pulled out a packet of butter, a half-empty jar of mayonnaise and a plate with slices of cooked chicken, covered in plastic film. Setting them down on the kitchen table, he got a loaf of bread from the cupboard. Next, he got a knife out of the drawer. He was struggling to spread the hard butter when he heard laughter from upstairs.
People always talked about fight or flight, but Christopher had a third “f”: freeze, and that was what he did now.
Upstairs a door opened and closed.
Was it a burglar?
Or Mum?
Holding his breath, he set down the bread knife and tiptoed out into the hall. Someone was peeing loudly into the toilet bowl. The toilet flushed and Christopher heard the door open immediately. No hand washing. Yuck. Christopher stepped back so he wouldn’t be seen from the top of the stairs.
“Alright,” Graham said. “Where—”
A door closed, cutting him off.
Christopher crept back into the kitchen. Was Mum up there with Graham? Were they having sex? If they found out he was here, it would be so embarrassing.
Could he just slip out without anyone seeing? No one had to know he’d been home. He only needed to hide the evidence.
He put away the loaf of bread, the mayonnaise and butter. The two slices of bread he’d already taken out were a problem. As quietly as he could, he eased open the drawer next to the sink. He took out a plastic lunch bag and dropped the bread inside. He took a few slices of chicken and dropped them into the bag too. There. He had a sandwich after all, or the makings of one, at least. He could eat it on the way back to school.
Upstairs, a door creaked open.
Christopher covered the remaining chicken with plastic wrap and put it back in the fridge, as footsteps started down the stairs.
He’d never get out in time – unless he slipped through the back door and went around the side of the house. He’d have to be quick.
Bringing the plate he’d dirtied to the sink, he rinsed it under the tap, running the water at low pressure so it would be quiet.
The footsteps were coming closer.
Moving faster.
Christopher felt his breathing turn shallow.
The footsteps reached the bottom of the stairs.
Mum was humming. Christopher had never heard her hum.
He quickly pushed the hall door shut, so she wouldn’t see him, then grabbed his bag and hurried to the back door. He turned the key as quietly as he could. Wait. If he went out, how could he lock it again? They always left the key on the inside.
The footsteps were coming up the hall.
The humming grew louder.
He’d have to worry about the key later. He opened the back door. In his peripheral vision, he saw the door to the hall open behind him.
A high-pitched shriek stabbed his ear drums.
“Oh shit,” Christopher muttered, as he tripped over the door saddle and fell out, tumbling down the steps to the patio. Just two steps, but that was enough.
He hit the ground hard.
A female voice shouted, “Graham, some creep is breaking in.”
Christopher twisted around to see a young blonde standing in the doorway, wearing Mum’s silk dressing gown. Through the gap in it, Christopher could see a bright red bikini.
“Hey pervert. Who are you?” she said.
“I live here. Who are you?”
Graham appeared, wearing a T-shirt and shorts. He was a big man, standing six feet tall, with a meaty head and thick arms and legs. He was brandishing a crowbar.
“Alright, you bastard,” Graham said, stepping forward, ready to bring the crowbar down.
Christopher raised his hands to shield himself. “Stop, Graham, it’s me!”
Graham hesitated. He said, “Chris? What are you doing?”
“T-trying to eat lunch.”
“I never heard you.” Graham lowered the crowbar. He rubbed his stomach thoughtfully with one hand. “So you’ve met Crystal.”
Christopher got to his feet. His hands were cut and his legs felt like jelly.
“Who is she?”
“My model, of course. I’m painting her.”
Crystal had found the belt of the dressing gown and was tying it shut. Christopher noticed she was chewing gum.
“Where’s Mum?”
“She’s out with a client.” Graham turned to Crystal. “Why don’t you go on out to the studio? I’ll be there in a minute. You can do your meditation stuff for a while.”
“Fine. But don’t keep me waiting.”
Crystal gave off a strong strawberry scent as she walked past.
“You want lunch? Come on, let’s order a pizza,” Graham said. He ushered Christopher into the kitchen, as if rescuing him from a sinking boat.
Christopher said, “I can’t. I have to be back to school soon. I don’t want to get into trouble.”
“You worry too much,” Graham said. “Come on, what do you fancy?” He dug out a take-away menu from on top of the fridge and set it down on the kitchen table. Christopher didn’t need to look. He often browsed the digital version of the menu on his phone while he lay in bed at night.
“Pepperoni with jalapeños,” he decided.
“Good choice.” Graham rang the take-away place and
placed the order. He asked for a Hawaiian for himself. “All done,” he said, ending the call. “Be here in fifteen minutes. You’ll have enough time.”
“Cool.”
“How’s school?”
“Okay,” Christopher said. He hadn’t told his mum about the bullying, so he certainly wasn’t going to tell Graham. He got himself a bottle of lemonade from the fridge.
Graham said, “Do me a favour.”
“What?”
“Don’t mention Crystal to your mother. I don’t want her to get the wrong idea. Know what I mean? She’s awful sensitive.”
“Oh,” Christopher said.
“I didn’t tell her Crystal would be posing in her swimsuit.”
Christopher didn’t like the sound of that. He said, “It’s a secret?”
“Not really,” Graham said thoughtfully. “I’ll show your mother the painting when it’s done. You see, I asked your mother to pose for a beach scene, but she didn’t want to stand around with her bits hanging out. So I’m going to use Crystal for the body.”
“Does Crystal know you’re not using her face?”
Graham winked.
“Not yet. Let’s keep that between you and me too, alright?”
“I guess,” Christopher said slowly. But he felt a stab of unease. What had the two of them been doing upstairs?
“Good man,” Graham said.
“Are you coming?” Crystal called. She was standing at the door to the shed, down at the end of the garden. “I’m bored.”
Graham sighed.
“Give me a second, Chris,” he said.
He stepped out into the garden.
Christopher went to the drawer by the window to get some antiseptic. He looked out the window as Graham reached the shed. His artist’s studio. Crystal jabbed Graham’s chest with her index finger. Half playful, half accusing.
“Come on,” she said. “Let’s go.”
Christopher rinsed his cuts under the tap and dried himself with a tissue. Then he got the antiseptic out and dabbed it on his wounds. It stung like hell, but he had to do it. Only then did he look out the window again.
Crystal looked angry now. She was arguing with Graham.
Christopher stopped breathing. That was part of his normal reflex when faced with something that made him anxious. Freeze and hold your breath. Pretend not to exist.
Graham was looking to the side while Crystal talked. When she jabbed him in the chest again, Graham gave her a shove that sent her reeling back into the shed.
Graham closed the door.
Then he slipped the padlock on and clicked it shut.
Chapter 22
After the cars sped away, Joe scoured the area for the backpack. Boyle hadn’t taken it, and Barrett’s hands had been empty when he dived into his BMW. Joe figured the backpack had been ditched somewhere nearby.
It hadn’t been thrown over the chain mail fence, so Joe turned to the concrete wall on the other side of the road. Seven feet tall. No grip, except the top. Joe took a running jump. Lucky he was tall. He grabbed the top and pulled himself up.
The garden on the other side was so overgrown it could have passed for a forest. A house lay at the top of the garden, but Joe ignored that. He only cared about the backpack caught in a bush.
He snapped a couple of photos of it on his phone, then dropped down to the ground. Pulling a pair of gloves from the pocket of his jeans, he walked over to the spot where the backpack had landed. Slipping on the gloves, he looked inside, and saw cash in neat bundles of fifty-euro notes. Joe wasn’t sure exactly how much the backpack contained. Maybe ten or twenty thousand euro.
He jumped the wall again, and brought the backpack to the Honda. He returned his pistol to its case, put the backpack into an evidence bag and threw it on the back-seat.
Time to call this thing in, get some uniforms after Ger Barrett and Kevin Boyle.
Before he could do that, his phone rang. The screen said it was Detective Inspector David O’Carroll. Curious timing. Joe hit the green button and placed the phone to his ear.
Joe said, “I want to put out a bulletin for Kevin Boyle’s arrest—”
He didn’t have a chance to explain what had happened because O’Carroll cut him off.
“Kevin just called.”
“What?”
“He’s on his way to the station and he’s making very serious allegations about you.”
“I’ll be there as soon as I can.”
Stewing, Joe ended the call.
He’d almost forgotten about his front right tire, the one Barrett’s pals had shot out as they got away. He popped the boot open. His spare tire lay under a sheet of rough plastic which he used to line the boot, protecting the interior of the car from his dirty boots.
He worked fast, getting more irritated as he thought of how much time he was losing.
After five minutes, he felt like smacking Boyle around. After ten, he felt like killing him. But after eleven minutes, the tire was on. It was a personal best.
He stowed everything away, slipped behind the wheel and got moving. Fast. He turned on the lights and the siren.
Boyle was on the take. Now he was trying to drag Joe down.
Not going to happen, Joe thought.
Chapter 23
Barry Wall shuffled out of the building, the cuffs biting into his wrists as he walked. The thick beard he had grown during his time in prison was itchy in the heat. He rubbed his face with the back of his hand and peered at the ambulance waiting at the kerb.
Mountjoy Prison’s population gave everything a nickname, even the ancient ambulance the prison service used to transport inmates to the hospital. Wall wasn’t sure if it had been dubbed “Death on Wheels” because it was so close to the end of its own mechanical life, or because you were taking your life in your hands when you travelled in it.
He didn’t much care. He was going to give the name a new meaning in the next five minutes.
His escort consisted of Lauren Fairview, who walked ahead of him, and Timmy Martin, who was behind.
A clear, blue sky reared up overhead. For a second, Wall closed his eyes and savoured the warmth of the sun on his cheeks.
Then he continued to follow Lauren to the ambulance. He moved slowly, as if he were in great pain. Not that Timmy was going any easier on him. The little rat-faced man had insisted on cuffing Wall. Standing up to him, Lauren had insisted they do it at the front, not the back. Wall was glad of that. The back was a lot more uncomfortable.
He decided that Timmy deserved to die first.
Lauren was part of the sham justice system, so she deserved to be punished too. It was a pity. Wall had almost grown fond of her. He’d even taught her to play chess, though only on paper.
As they reached the ambulance, Timmy Martin leaned in close and hissed in Wall’s ear.
“I know you’re faking it, Barry, you piece of shit.”
Wall said nothing.
No one here called him Barry.
He’d earned a nickname the afternoon he arrived in Mountjoy. A belligerent junkie walked into him and tried to knock him down.
It was a stupid idea.
Wall, at the time of his arrival, had consisted of 230 lbs of muscle. The junkie bounced off Wall’s chest and hit the floor like he’d slammed into a tonne of bricks.
Wall picked the guy up and landed three sledgehammer punches before the prison officers pulled him away. Messed the guy’s jaw up badly. His brain too. As far as Wall knew, the guy was still in a coma. After that, his name was “Brick Wall”.
Timmy Martin held the chain cuff in his hands, jingling it as he walked. They planned to use that in the hospital. Either Timmy or Lauren would cuff themselves to Wall once they were inside. But they’d never get that far.
In four minutes, Wall would be free and they would be dead.
“Does it still hurt?”
Wall looked up. Genuine concern showed in Lauren Fairview’s eyes. He nodded. Said nothing.
He
’d done a pretty good impression of pancreatitis, he thought. Even going so far as to plant an empty bottle of booze in his cell and skip the last two meals.
He knew he didn’t have to go to such lengths. Anyone who complained of chest pains was sent to the Mater Hospital, directly across the road from the prison. No prison officer wanted to be responsible for failing to help a prisoner who might be having a heart attack.
If a prisoner complained of an injured wrist, he wouldn’t even be cuffed. But the officers would watch him extra carefully, especially if he had a long sentence still to serve, like Wall did.
Lauren helped him into the ambulance.
“It’s probably not worth lying down on the stretcher,” she said. “Sitting might be easier. What do you think?”
This would be a very short journey. They only needed to head around the block to the emergency department entrance.
Wall nodded. “I can sit.”
“Okay.”
Two seats were attached to the side of the ambulance. Wall eased himself into one, resting his cuffed hands on his knees.
Lauren sat next to him. The fine hair on her arm brushed against Wall’s arm. They were very close but he couldn’t help the way he filled the seat. Six months in Mountjoy’s gym had only made him bigger.
Timmy shook his head.
“You’re too soft, Lauren,” he said, then slammed the door shut.
As far as Wall could tell, it was four in the afternoon. But the exact time didn’t matter. Whatever time it was, there were three minutes to go. The clock would start ticking as soon as they went out the gate.
Timmy got behind the wheel, started the engine, and they got moving towards the gate. Wall could see nothing from where he was sitting, but he could picture what was happening, every step of the way.
Waiting for the gate to open, then passing the guard box. The Mater Hospital was dead ahead, while Mountjoy Garda Station was just to the left. Everything was close together, making it an extremely unlikely place for an escape attempt to succeed. But succeed it would.
Timmy tackled the first corner the way a rally driver might.
Lauren sighed. “Christ, Timmy, learn to drive.”