by Matt McGuire
She hadn’t told Zara. Hadn’t told William either. This was for her.
William Spender saw the smoke drift past his office window. She was at it again. That frigging detective and his questions.
Spender was going over the profit projections for Laganview. They were back on schedule with the build. They’d pulled in more labour. These Eastern Europeans were grafters, all right. Would work their fingers to the bone and never complain. They’d sold six more apartments in the last week, four of them on the back of chatting to people at the awards dinner. No matter what anyone said, there was money to be made in this town.
Out the back Karen Spender took a last drag of her cigarette. She stubbed it out on an ashtray on the patio table. The rain had made a small puddle in the glass bowl, mixing with the ash and old fag ends. She shivered, rubbing her hands up and down her arms before turning back inside.
Michael Burke opened the doors at the back of the white Transit. It had taken him two hours to get to Dublin, plus another hour trying to find the place. He was at a building site for a new hotel on the south side. It was going to be a high-end gig, catering for pop stars and businessmen. The kind of place where people didn’t blink at 500 euros a night and would boast about having stayed there.
Paddy Hewson was in his early thirties. He wore a suit, tucked into a pair of brown construction boots. He was the principal engineer or architect or something. He looked at the three large drums of copper. They were fifteen hundred quid a pop from any wholesaler. It had been a walk in the park getting them out of Laganview. Spender knew about it. He was taking 50 per cent and then claiming the whole lot back again on insurance. Six grand a week. This was a test run and they planned to go for more, next time around. The site had a hundred grand’s worth of copper on it. Tony had knocked the cameras out the week before and they had used his keys to get in on the Saturday night. The kid getting killed was unlucky, but it meant no one else at Laganview had noticed the copper was missing.
The man rubbed his chin, shaking his head. He had a Dublin accent, all smarm and honey, like he couldn’t do enough for you. Burke had heard it all before. These guys would put a knife in your back if they thought it would make them a few quid.
‘I dunno now. We could go five hundred euros.’
‘Each?’ Burke asked, incredulously.
‘No. For the lot of them.’
Burke sighed, shaking his head.
‘Take it or leave it,’ the man said, all nonchalance.
He would take it, of course. There wasn’t a lot of choice in the matter.
Lynch stood in the bedroom of his house in the Markets. They would have had neighbours watching the place so he had left it a few days before sneaking along the rear entry. It was after 10 p.m. and he’d left the lights off as he stuffed his clothes into a sports bag. It was the same worn Adidas bag that he had used when he first walked out of the Maze. He reached under the bed and pulled out a brown envelope. It contained the five hundred pounds McCann had given him. He took a hundred and left the rest sitting on the bed. He would call Marie-Therese, tell her he was sorry, that he’d left something for her and the wee one.
He sat down on the bed and lit a cigarette. This was it, he thought. He’d burned all his bridges. There’d be no coming back this time. Lynch lifted the cigarette to his mouth. .
A fist hammered urgently on the door downstairs. Lynch turned his head, instinctively reaching for the Browning at the small of his back. He got up and peered round the door of the bedroom and down the stairs. More hammering.
The noise was light. A woman’s hand.
‘Joe!’ It was Marie-Therese. She was crying, hysterical. ‘It’s our Ciara. She’s not breathing.’
Lynch took the stairs two at a time. When he opened the door, Marie-Therese was halfway across the street, running home. He took off after her, catching up just as she ran through the front door into her place. He burst into the living room, simultaneously speaking and looking round for the baby.
‘Call an ambulan-’
Molloy sat on the sofa, bouncing little Ciara up and down on his knee. In his right hand he held a handgun. Little Ciara cooed and yelped, completely unaware of the story unfolding around her.
Marie-Therese stood at the edge of the room, crying.
‘I’m sorry, Joe. They made me do it. They were going to hurt her.’
Molloy smiled, looking up, the gun trained on Lynch. ‘Birds, Joe. What can you do, eh?’
Marie-Therese stepped forward and lifted the child from him.
‘Afraid this is it, Joe. You picked a side. Only it turns out your team lost.’
‘So what?’ Lynch said. ‘You’re going to do me here? In front of the wee one?’
‘No. Outside.’
Molloy nodded to the door that led through to the kitchen and the back of the house. Lynch imagined himself being discovered by the peelers, lying in the wet entry, discarded next to rubbish bags and old newspapers. He thought about going for the Browning but Molloy would have a bullet in him before he even got it out of his belt.
Lynch walked through the kitchen and out into the cold night air. The door on the far side of the yard was already open. Molloy followed at a safe distance. Lynch slowed his pace slightly, allowing the other man to get closer. As he reached the door to the entry he kicked backwards and lunged at Molloy. A shot went off. Lynch kept struggling. He hadn’t been hit. Lynch was on the other man, managing to get hold of the hand with the gun. He smashed it against the wall of the yard and Molloy dropped it. Lynch punched him in the face and Molloy wobbled. Lynch grabbed a handful of hair and struck Molloy’s head against the wall. Once. Twice. At the third time of asking, Molloy’s legs went out from under him and he fell to the ground.
Lynch ran out of the yard and off down the entry. It was dark in the alley, the moon obscured behind a ceiling of thick cloud. Lynch could just make out the River Lagan as it flowed by at the bottom of the entry. When he was 20 yards from the end, a figure stepped out of the dark. Lynch slid to a halt. The figure raised its arm, pointing a gun at him. McCann stepped forward and shook his head.
‘It’s like I told you, Joe. You just can’t get the staff these days. If you want something done properly. .’
A pair of gunshots punctuated McCann’s words.
Lynch flew back off his feet. He didn’t feel his head strike the concrete. The wind had been blown out of him. His chest heaved as he tried to suck in air. A warm wetness began to seep through his jacket. He tried to reach for the Browning but couldn’t make his arms work.
McCann walked forward and stood over him. He pointed the gun at Lynch’s forehead and pulled the trigger. ‘. . you have to do it yourself.’
Marty looked up and down Damascus Street. It was all clear. He ducked in past the hedge and rang the doorbell of number 9. A guy in his early twenties answered full of fake friendliness.
‘Marty, big lad. What about you? Come on in.’
In the front room three students sat like zombies on a sofa, staring at a large television. A bong, full of brown water, sat next to the coffee-table.
‘How’s business these days?’ the guy asked as he followed Marty into the room.
‘All right.’
They each bought a quarter and a couple of pills. Seventy quid’s worth. One of the stoners looked up as the notes changed hands.
‘Don’t go spending it all in the one shop now.’ He sniggered a stoned laugh at his own joke.
Marty thought about smacking him in the head. They could do all four of these wankers. I mean, what the fuck did he know? He held himself back, thinking about something he’d seen on a billboard — the customer was always right. He wasn’t though. No. The customer was a cunt.
‘See yous around,’ Marty said, making his way to the door.
Back on Jerusalem Street he unzipped his tracksuit and pulled out the book he’d stolen from the flat.
‘Dopey bastards.’
It was a present for Petesy. Help him o
n his way. He’d started doing it the week before and had five books piled up at home already. This one was by some Chinese guy.
Sun Tzu. The Art of War.
‘Fuck,’ he said to himself. ‘I might have a go at this one myself.’
Marty checked up and down Damascus Street. It was all good. He zipped up his top and turned his collar up. He pulled his cap down and rolled on. There were calls to be made.
FB2 document info
Document ID: fbd-a611ec-11ff-ef4a-0a95-dba8-7e24-ec18ff
Document version: 1
Document creation date: 08.07.2013
Created using: calibre 0.9.37, Fiction Book Designer, FictionBook Editor Release 2.6.6 software
Document authors :
Matt McGuire
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