by Alan Gorevan
The neighbours included embassies and fancy white-collar firms, though there were also some residences. Mum made plenty of money, but she said they couldn’t afford to live here. She was struggling enough to pay the tuition fees. Christopher didn’t know why she bothered. It wasn’t like he wanted to come here.
Finally, the bell rang to mark the end of the period. Mrs. Dresden, the music teacher, was speaking to Clara Fry, a cello prodigy from the west end of London. She’d arrived in Dublin the previous year after her mother’s job in financial services was moved.
Christopher hated the stupid Highfield uniform, with its pretentious navy blazer with the school crest, but he thought Clara looked pretty good in hers. Her haircut was a complicated up-style. For Christopher, there was nothing more beautiful or fascinating on earth. He couldn’t keep his eyes off her.
“Are you alright, Mr. O’Malley?”
Mrs. Dresden’s voice cut through his daze. Christopher blushed, realising that she was talking to him.
“Oh, y-yes, Mrs. Dresden.”
“Good.” The teacher looked around. “Alright, class. You may go.”
Christopher packed up his violin and his sheet music. He walked out the door, past the secretary’s desk, and outside.
He hurried down the tall flight of granite stairs to the ground, his steps a little unsteady, as he was getting used to his new glasses. He hitched his violin case over his shoulder as he crossed the gravel driveway.
Once out the gate, Christopher turned left, headed for home. Belmont Avenue was a short walk away through the park. He hoped Graham wouldn’t be at the house.
Christopher hadn’t stopped thinking about Graham and Crystal. He kept repeating in his mind that moment when Graham had locked Crystal in the shed.
It was the weirdest thing ever.
Graham came back into the house as if nothing had happened. Then the pizza arrived. Christopher couldn’t eat, and Graham didn’t seem to know why.
“Is she okay?” Christopher had finally said, glancing at the shed from which banging sounds were coming.
“I’m only messing with her,” Graham said, winking. “Women need a firm hand. They enjoy it. That’s a rule you can live by.”
Christopher nodded, feeling sick to his stomach.
After eating two slices of pizza, Graham had gone outside and unlocked the shed. He’d somehow calmed Crystal down, and, after a little coaxing, he got her smiling again, then finished eating and dropped Christopher to the school.
Things seemed okay.
Sort of okay.
But Christopher hadn’t been able to shake the uneasy feeling he’d had since he’d heard that lock click shut.
He pushed those thoughts from his mind. He had to hurry. John Kavanagh might be just steps behind him. The thought made Christopher’s blood turn icy. Kavanagh was two years older than Christopher, a foot taller, and mean as hell.
Christopher turned onto Pembroke Park, a broad road lined with tress, and hurried past the big houses. Though it was mid-May, some cherry blossoms were still blooming and light-pink petals stuck to the soles of his shoes.
Why did Kavanagh have to live near him? Every day Christopher struggled to get home unscathed. Even when Kavanagh didn’t lay a hand on him, he still made Christopher’s life hell.
Christopher felt the sun on his cheeks as he walked along. Vitamin D, he thought. That should help his skin. He should try to soak up more sun. When Christopher was in his twenties, he would be clear-skinned. Or perhaps he’d grow a beard. He’d have a beautiful girlfriend and they’d drive around in a red Lamborghini. Maybe his girlfriend would be Clara, with her long legs and her London accent.
Christopher would be a professional musician by then. Clara could meet him at the National Concert Hall after his violin practice. Everyone in the orchestra would see them together and be insanely jealous.
Christopher would work out. He’d develop bulging biceps and a well-defined six-pack. He’d be untouchable, able to outrun or outfight anyone. In his fantasies, Christopher would jump in the sports car with an easy grace. Clara would lean over, put a hand on his rock-hard chest and kiss him. That would be nice. That would be—
Bam.
Christopher slammed into someone.
His head jerked back, and his hands shot up. The violin case flew through the air and skidded across the footpath.
He blinked in confusion and surprise. A larger boy was standing in his way, at the corner of Pembroke Park and Herbert Park.
Of course, it was John Kavanagh.
The older boy turned around and a malicious grin stretched across his lips when he saw Christopher. Somehow, Kavanagh and his lackey Colin Harrison had managed to get out of school ahead of Christopher.
“You dipshit,” Kavanagh said. “You walked into me.”
“Sorry,” Christopher said, bending forward to pick up his violin. Kavanagh stood on the case before Christopher could take it.
“That’s mine now,” Kavanagh said. “As compensation.”
Chapter 30
A cluster of pyjama-clad smokers stood outside the doors of the hospital. Joe pushed past them. He was shaken after his conversation with Timmy Martin – and the hospital was stifling. Joe needed a minute alone to collect his thoughts.
Outside, the sun beat down relentlessly.
Joe opened the Honda’s door to let the hot air out, and stood beside the car. He was sweating more than the heat alone could explain.
Somewhere nearby, Barry Wall was sweating under the same sun. Joe thought of his conversation with Timmy Martin about Wall.
What did he say?
That he was going to kill you and everyone you love.
He checked his notebook. Breda Murray was the name Timmy Martin had given for Wall’s ACO. Joe dialled the number and tried to tune out the wail of approaching sirens. The phone just rang and rang. He hung up.
Joe couldn’t see Mountjoy Prison from where he stood, but it was nearby, on the other side of the hospital. He’d have to pay it a visit.
The longer Barry Wall was free, the harder it would be to catch him. And the more of a danger he’d be. It was safe to assume that Aidan Donnelly would be Wall’s number one target, so Joe wanted to get eyes on him soon. Joe would probably be the next target.
What if Wall was able to do what Joe had failed to do? What if he was able to find out what had happened to Valentina?
Joe’s phone buzzed with a text message from Lisa.
Can you get birthday candles on your way?
Sure, he texted back.
Joe had forgotten Christopher. Maybe if he hurried, he could still make it back to Donnybrook for six o’clock. But he had things to do first.
The Honda hadn’t cooled much, but Joe couldn’t wait any longer. He jumped in and drove around the block to the prison.
An ominous red-brick wall surrounded Mountjoy. The country’s most serious male offenders were housed here. Bad vibes radiated off the place.
Joe felt it, even out here.
He drove up to the big metal gate, showed the security guard his ID and explained that he wanted to speak to Breda Murray. He stressed that it was urgent, that he was investigating Wall’s escape. The security guard got on his walkie-talkie. After a bit of to-and-fro, he raised the barrier and pointed to a parking space in front of a building.
Joe parked there and got out. He was wondering where to go when he heard a woman’s voice.
“I don’t suppose you’ve found him yet.”
Joe spun around to see a grey-haired lady in a navy uniform. She looked a bit like KD Lang. She smoked a cigarette as she walked towards Joe.
“Not yet.”
“Breda Murray.”
“Joe Byrne.”
“I know who you are.”
Joe sighed. Everyone seemed to know who he was.
An irreverent twinkle shone in Breda Murray’s eyes.
“Let’s talk inside.”
She flicked her cigarette butt away and se
t off for one of the prison buildings.
“Wouldn’t it be easier to talk here?”
“My break’s over,” she said without looking back.
Joe followed her inside the building. He presumed they’d talk in her office. Instead she led him through a series of locked doors. Joe found himself in front of a security guard, manning an X-ray scanner. Joe didn’t like leaving his gun behind, but he wasn’t allowed take it in. He wasn’t even allowed to bring his phone in. He left it there and followed Murray.
She said, “You might see some old friends here.”
Joe realised she was taking him onto the block, past the cells. The place was on lockdown, so no prisoners were roaming free. That was probably a good thing. Still, he didn’t like being paraded in front of them. After you’ve caught a criminal, you never really want to hear from them again.
“Hey, Joe,” someone shouted.
“Fuck off,” Joe said.
Murray flashed a smile, then led him down a flight of stairs.
Joe said, “Barry Wall had help escaping. Two accomplices. I thought it might be some of the men he met here.”
“Don’t you think that’s a little judgmental?”
“Being judgmental saves time,” Joe said. “Half of prisoners re-offend within three years of being released.”
“Forty-seven percent,” she said.
“Whatever. I’d be surprised if Wall didn’t source his accomplices here.”
“It’s possible,” Murray said. “He didn’t get a lot of visitors.”
“Who came to see him?”
“Just his brother.”
“Ken?” Joe said after a moment. “Is that the brother’s name?”
“Think so.”
“Do you think he could be involved?”
“I doubt it. Doesn’t seem the type to get his hands dirty. Too fond of his nice clothes. And he didn’t visit often.”
“Was Wall close to any of the other prisoners?”
“At the start he kept to himself, but you can’t survive here like that. After a few months he got a job. In here.”
They passed through a doorway. Joe found himself in a big industrial kitchen, where a prisoner was mopping the floor. He must have had special privileges, not to be on lockdown like the others.
“That’s why you brought me here, through the cell blocks?”
“Why else?”
“I thought you were pulling my chain.”
The ACO smiled. “I have better things to pull than your chain, Detective. Brick Wall got transferred to C Wing where all of the kitchen workers have their cells. If he was close to anyone, it must have been someone from the kitchen.”
“Brick Wall?” Joe sneered. “That what they call him here?”
Murray nodded. She turned and called over the man mopping the floor. “This is Toby O’Neill.”
“Alright?” O’Neill said, approaching the counter from the other side, like he was about to serve Joe dinner. He was middle-aged, average looking. Didn’t look like a criminal, but they often don’t.
“Toby, this is Detective Sergeant Joe Byrne.”
“You’re the fella Brick blew up.” It took Joe a moment to realise that the man was talking about the explosion in Wall’s house. His grey eyes looked Joe up and down. “I thought you’d be bigger.”
Chapter 31
Christopher stared at John Kavanagh and his friend, Colin Harrison. Kavanagh still had his foot on Christopher’s violin. Christopher realised that Kavanagh really wasn’t going to give the instrument back to him.
Christopher said, “I need it.”
“I need it,” Kavanagh echoed.
Christopher felt himself blush. Did his voice sound whiny like that?
Harrison said, “The little pussy needs it.”
“Well, he can’t have it. Because he’s a blind dope. Even now that he has four eyes, he still can’t see a thing.”
Harrison said, “Don’t worry, Chris, you’re too fat to play violin anyway.”
“Yeah, he is,” Kavanagh said with a laugh. “A fat piece of shit like him is never going to be any good at the violin. His fingers are too thick. Look at those fat sausage fingers.”
Christopher swallowed. He tried to think of a way to get his instrument back. Not only did he need it for school, but it was a family heirloom.
“You know what else?” Kavanagh said. “He really doesn’t need those glasses. They don’t seem to work so good.”
“That’s true. We should take them too.”
Kavanagh came forward. His fingers reached out, ready to pluck the glasses right off Christopher’s nose.
Christopher started running, around the two older boys, down the road towards the park. His black leather shoes slapped the road’s surface harder with every step.
He heard footsteps behind, but the older boys soon stopped chasing him. Kavanagh’s voice followed him though.
“Hey, thanks for the violin.”
Christopher ran for as long as he could. Herbert Park’s thirty-two acres opened up on both sides of him. The park was cut in two by the road, and the bulk of the park lay on the right side. That was the way Christopher walked to get home.
At the gate, he stopped. He had a stitch in his side from running, and he tasted pepperoni from the pizza he’d eaten for lunch, as it threatened to come back up.
He entered the park and walked a little way down the path, before sitting on the grass with his back pressed against a hawthorn tree. His chest heaved as he caught his breath. After a minute’s rest, he forced himself to his feet. He had to get moving again. His breath was ragged as he hurried down the path, leaves overhead fluttering in the warm breeze.
He walked past a pedestrian gate and on by the side of the club house, next to the sports fields. The whole way, his heart was racing.
How could he explain the loss of the violin to Mum? He’d have to make something up. And what would happen tomorrow? Would Kavanagh take his glasses? How could Christopher explain that?
As he came to the edge of the park, he stopped. The tears came quickly, so quickly they took him by surprise.
He couldn’t take it anymore.
The fear, the stress, the humiliation. It had been going on for so long. He squeezed his eyes shut.
And his stupid dreams… Clara was never going to gaze in awe at Christopher as he jumped in a Lamborghini. More likely, horrible people like Kavanagh would enjoy such a glamorous life. Just look at Kavanagh’s dad, who was some bigshot in the Gardaí. People said he was a jerk too.
More tears came.
And with them, a decision.
Christopher pulled himself together, then walked out of the park and headed to the nearest pharmacy, on Morehampton Road.
He bought a pack of pills. Twenty-four tablets, each containing 500 mg of paracetamol.
Then he went to the next pharmacy, down the road, for a second pack. Sanjeev, the pharmacist behind the counter, smiled at Christopher when he entered the shop. Mum had built the pharmacy’s website last year.
“Happy birthday, Christopher,” Sanjeev said. “Sixteen? Today you become a man.”
“How did you know?”
The pharmacist tapped his nose, giving Christopher a conspiratorial smile.
Mum must have told him. Maybe this was where she had bought that meal-replacement shake the other day, the one Christopher insisted on trying, so he’d slim down before his birthday. But the shake had tasted horrible, and he was hungry again an hour after drinking it. After two meal shakes, he’d gone back to eating normal food. In fact, he’d eaten more than normal to make up for the shakes.
He thought of Kavanagh and Harrison.
A fat piece of shit like him is never going to be any good at the violin.
Christopher hurried out of the shop. He was afraid he’d cry again if he didn’t keep moving, and that would be pathetic. He just needed to hold it together a tiny bit longer.
Forty-eight pills.
Christopher figured
that ought to be enough to do the job, even if he was a fat piece of shit.
Chapter 32
Joe couldn’t tell exactly what age Toby O’Neill was, but the prisoner’s face was more weathered than Tommy Lee Jones’s. Beneath heavy brows, his pale grey eyes peered at Joe.
Joe said, “Barry Wall escaped custody today while being taken to hospital. Do you have any information that might help us find him? He had help from two men. Perhaps former prisoners.”
“I don’t know anything about that.”
“He worked here?”
“Yes.”
“Was he close to anyone?”
“I wouldn’t say close, if you know what I mean. But he hung around with a few of the lads.”
“Were any of those men released recently?”
O’Neill put his hand to his chin.
“Well, Buzz was released a few weeks ago. He worked here. Handsome too. And, last month, Leech.”
Joe took out his notebook.
“Real names, please.”
O’Neill listed them off. Gar “Buzz” Butler. Johnny “Handsome” Westfield. Larry ‘Leech’ Beech.
“Oh, and Dinky,” O’Neill said. “William ‘Dinky’ Talbot. Big lad, him. Joyrider. I can’t think of anyone else. But why would they help him escape? They were already on the outside. Why risk it?”
It was a good question. One that Joe had been asking himself.
“What do you think he’ll do now?”
The prisoner stroked his chin. “Go abroad? He mentioned Spain before.”
“His wife was from there,” Joe said, almost to himself.
“Yeah. He wanted to go there.”
“If you think of anything that might help, please let Ms. Murray know, and she can contact me. Parole hearings look kindly on prisoners who’ve made themselves useful.”
“Yeah, no bother.”
Murray said, “Go ahead and finish up, Toby.”
The prisoner nodded and walked away.
Joe turned to Murray and said, “Could you check if any of those men visited Wall here after they were released?”
“I can tell you right now. They didn’t. As former prisoners, they wouldn’t have been allowed to visit.”
“Could they have phoned him?”