Maggie hesitated as Frankie’s face rose sharply in her mind’s eye. ‘I think you’re right.’
There was silence again for a while then Graham said quietly, ‘He’s very good-looking, isn’t he?’ Again, she hesitated. ‘Mmmm. Yes, I suppose he is.’ And she blushed in the dark.
25
The vet, Peter Culling, had monitored his food and alcohol intake closely over Christmas. Since his late thirties, death had never been far from his mind, and he’d formed the habit of counting down the days between Christmas and New Year. The annual achievement of waking up on 1 January brought mixed emotions. He was relieved to have survived into another year, to be able to build up his savings for the crucial ‘suspension’ of his life, but New Year’s Day also brought the spectre of death closer, edged him toward his next birthday, dragged him nearer the cliff edge of mid-forties and certain heart failure.
He knew as well as any doctor what physical measures were needed to protect his heart as long as possible; he could have lectured on the subject with the confidence of knowing he practised what he preached. His diet was high in vegetables, omega-3 oils, and wholemeal bread. He took little fat and his weakness for alcohol was served by two glasses of red wine each evening - another heart booster and one of the few comforts in his life - and the occasional glass of cognac. He didn’t smoke and he took regular exercise, always reaching, but never exceeding, the recommended pulse rate to maintain fitness safely.
What he wasn’t so good at handling was the stress, which he knew, could be as bad for his heart as twenty cigarettes a day. And he found the stress unmanageable because it came from the fear of death that was with him almost constantly. The thought of not having enough money to pay the Everlasting Life Company of Michigan to preserve his body tormented him. The deadline for getting that money shortened every day. Culling’s interpretation of ‘deadline’ was literal; a hanging rope. In his mind, he saw nature herself hitching the noose that little bit tighter daily. Now there was added burden of Monroe knowing what he was doing. A ticking bomb, indeed. So with New Year’s Day looming, he had decided to take a chance and do one at Kempton on Boxing Day
This was one of the biggest racemeetings of the year, and it took Culling far outside the guidelines he’d set himself. His scheme had been designed to work on smallish racecourses in bread-and-butter races, preferably not televised. He’d taken a slight chance at Ascot with Colonialize, but that race hadn’t been on TV. This was Kempton’s major meeting. They’d have their biggest crowd of the season and the TV cameras would be there. The press room was certain to be full and all eyes would be focused on the racing. When his chosen horse won, at the usual big price, the performance would be dissected much more carefully than if he’d chosen a little race at Huntingdon.
On the positive side, betting would be so heavy that day that he could charge Breslin, the fat bookie, a considerable premium for the information. Culling reckoned that this, plus maybe just two more in the next six months, would see him with enough money to feel secure. Every time this thought came, he wanted to put his head in his hands and cry with the relief of it. He longed for that day when he could finally stop all this, empty the stress from himself safe in the knowledge that the future was his.
Culling chose a horse called Gallopagos. As with the others, it led all the way. The winning margin was twelve lengths, the price 20/1. After the race, Culling was approaching the stables when he heard a Stewards’ Enquiry called over the PA. He stopped, choosing not to enter the stables as mild panic hit him. What had the stewards found out? Had anyone seen him in the stables earlier? He knew he shouldn’t have risked this one; it was too big a meeting. This was the one that would finish him. The panic was swamping him now, affecting his breathing, thumping his heart against his ribs.
Hurrying to his car, he locked himself inside. If anyone saw him like this, that would only add to suspicion. Five minutes later he heard the announcer say that the stewards had enquired into the poor performance of the favourite in the last race and had accepted the trainer’s statement that he had no explanation.
Culling laid his head back and moaned in relief deciding he simply could not put himself through any more of these.
On Boxing Day, Graham Cassidy rose earlier than usual to feed the horses; Jane’s ferry was due to leave Holyhead at ten-thirty and it was a long drive. Just the two of them were in the car and Graham was glad of that. The tension between Jane and Maggie had still been fizzing that morning. Jane hadn’t spoken at breakfast despite urgings from her parents to talk about her trip. She had been so looking forward to seeing her cousin Poppy again, and had been confident she could help Poppy over her injury better than any doctor could. But she’d remained stubbornly silent other than to mutter the odd please and thank you, yes and no. And she’d taken leave of her mother coldly with a brief hug and a turned cheek.
Graham left her to her silence as he drove, knowing that she’d come out of it in her own good time. It was almost an hour before she did and when she spoke, she sounded sad. ‘Dad, do you think we’ll get Gabby back?’
‘I don’t know. I hope so.’
‘What if we don’t?’
He shrugged involuntarily. ‘Then we’ll get on with things.’
‘With things?’
‘With our lives. It won’t bring the world to an end.’
She turned now and he didn’t need to take his eyes off the road to know she was angry. ‘How can you say that, Dad? You’re the one who dreamed all your life of winning the National. You’re the one that said Gabby was a miracle sent to us to help us get your dream, make it come true.’
‘That’s right. I was. I still have the dream but somebody’s put it on hold for us for whatever reason, and there’s nothing we can do about it.’
‘So you just accept it?’
‘What else should I do?’ Graham had never found it difficult to stay calm, and it helped that he could easily anticipate most of his daughter’s questions.
‘You could tell mum to pay the ransom.’
‘I wouldn’t pay it myself if I had the money, so why should I tell her? If we pay the ransom, we’re just sending the message that it’s OK to kidnap someone else’s horse and make even more money. Do you think that’s right?’
‘I think anything that gets Gabby back is right.’
He paused for a few seconds then said quietly, ‘You don’t really think that. I know you don’t.’
‘I do! How can it be wrong to do whatever needs to be done to get him back?’
‘Well, where do you draw the line? Would you kill this man who has him to get the horse back?’
‘Yes, I would!’
‘Oh, come on, Jane. Nobody loves the horse more than I do, but he’s a horse, that’s all. Even if he hadn’t been taken, he could have walked out this morning and put his foot in a hole. Then we’d just need to get used to the thought of him not being there.’
‘But Dad, that’s not the way to look at things! You can’t go through your life just accepting everything bad that happens to you! You’ll just get dumped on all the time! What would you do if it had been me that had been kidnapped? Would you kill the kidnapper to get me back if you had to?’
‘Oh, stop being so melodramatic!’
‘I’m not! I want to know! I want to know if there is at least something in your life that will make you angry and make you stop being walked over! ‘
‘The best I can offer you, Jane, is that I’d gladly give up my own life for you and for Billy or your mother. Gladly.’
She folded her arms, lowered her head and stared to the front again, and Graham felt the tension increase one more notch. He drove on in silence, angry with himself for having to play the dutiful father, having to try and give his daughter, his children, a perspective on life that would help them handle all their own disappointments. Inside he raged over the loss of this wonderful horse, cursed himself for not taking more precautions, hated the kidnapper with an intensity that made him f
eel that he too could easily kill the man. Above all, he wished he had the money to pay the ransom.
26
Sean Gleeson was worried. It had been almost three weeks since he’d seen his father. The word on the street was that he’d ripped Kelly Corell off for ten grand. Pat Pusey had already been at the flat three times looking for him. Sean had opened the door for the first time and Pusey had told him to tell his ‘oul’ fella’ that if he didn’t get the money back to Corell before Christmas then he wouldn’t be seeing the New Year. The next twice, Sean had locked up and crouched below the window. Pusey roared through the letterbox so hard his spit ran down the inside of the door.
Sean was scared of him. He used the flat now only to sleep in, spending the day wandering the streets with Pegasus, riding him down by the canal and around Fairview Park. Sean had some money left, saved from his winnings over the summer on the ponies and from the hundred pounds Cosgrave had given him for riding at Laytown. Even if his father never came back, he’d survive. It wasn’t as if he ever gave Sean any money anyway.
Life hadn’t been too bad since his mother had left, but sometimes he missed her. He didn’t want to lose his father too. Sean knew he could still be taken into care, and he couldn’t face disappearing into the system to end up in some Jesuit-run place where he’d need to rise at five every morning and wear his knees out with the praying.
There was just Sean and Kevin’s family left now in the Mansions, and the Corporation had boarded Sean’s place up once already. But his mates had helped him rip the boards off and they’d burned them and roasted potatoes on the embers. Anyway, plenty of people just squatted in empty flats and houses and if he had to join them for a while, he’d cope, so long as he had somewhere to keep Pegasus. He’d handle it because it was what he was used to, and it would make his dream all the sweeter when he became a top jockey and bought a big house where you could stay in all day if you wanted without having to worry about the Corporation or the likes of Pat Pusey.
Sean untied Pegasus from the railings and scrambled onto his bare back. A tiny spur of rubber protruded from the heel of each of his black wellies and Sean prodded Pegasus in the ribs with them. The grey pony moved forward in a steady walk through the archway onto Killarney Street. Sean looked to his right, to the twinkling Christmas tree that bore the names of all those from St Joseph’s Mansions who’d died from drugs. Dozens of names. He’d known them all; there was no need to read the list, which grew longer every Christmas. But he knew that no more names would be added after this year. He might not be here much longer, especially if his father never came back. And that only left Kevin and his parents. Rochelle, Kevin’s ma, was the best fighter against the dealers the Mansions ever had. There’d be none of her family’s names on any Christmas tree.
Sean turned left onto Portland Row, wondering where best to look for his father today. There was a rumour he was back in Dublin and Sean supposed it could be true. The last place he’d have tried was the flat, because he’d have known Corell’s men would come there looking for him. But it would have been a brave or very stupid thing to return at all, unless he had Corell’s cash. Sean knew what the gangster was capable of.
There were lots of stories about Corell. He was supposed to have killed his own girlfriend, cut her throat and left her on the stairs in St Mary’s Mansions. The word was that two of his men had held Lampy McGurk off the top of one of the blocks by his shoes while Corell made poor Lampy watch him untie the laces. And what about the fella he’d nailed to the snooker table? Sean hoped his father wouldn’t come home until Corell was dead, although Corell had a fear of nothing, they said, and he had a few of the Garda in his pocket so he could live a long time.
The pony’s spine felt sharper than usual beneath him and Sean shifted to try and ease the discomfort. He’d noticed lately that his ankles touched Pegasus’ sides a bit lower than they used to and he hoped he wasn’t about to start sprouting.
It was teatime and the streets were quiet. The pony’s hooves echoed off the tarmac. Sean thought of his father again. All he knew was that he’d left on the boat to Holyhead three weeks ago on a job for Corell, and hadn’t been seen since. Something in Sean hoped that he’d stolen the money to use it trying to find his mother, who was in London somewhere according to his Auntie Phoebe, but he guessed the bookies would have given big odds on that one. He had probably drunk half of it and lost the other half on the horses.
He’d gone away on a boat. If he ever came back, it would probably be by boat too. For want of anything better to do, Sean turned the pony south and headed for the ferry terminal at Dun Laoghaire.
It was dark when he arrived there, and raining steadily. He sat on Pegasus close to the bus stop, and when everyone got on the first bus that came, he urged the pony beneath the green plastic canopy, taking up all the shelter and ignoring the mumbled complaints of the first three people who came to wait for the next bus. They moaned among themselves about it and Sean sat smiling, watching the comings and goings through the terminal doors, trying to recall what his father was wearing when he’d last seen him.
Four more people came toward the bus shelter. Steam was rising from the wet pony, filling the shelter. The queue frowned and held their noses and all joined in the grumbling. ‘What the feck’s goin’ on here?’
‘Bloody stinkin’ horse!’
‘Is that fella mad or somethin’? Waitin’ to ride a pony onto a bus?’
‘Hey, get that stinkin’ gypsy horse outta here! This is for folk that can pay their fares!’
Sean turned to them, a glint in his eye. ‘Ahh, sure we’d love to move, but hasn’t the pony got well and truly stuck to the pavement here? The blacksmith was testin’ out a new kinda glue, so he was, when he put shoes on him yesterday, and the stuff’s gone and mixed very badly with the rainwater and stuck us to the tarmac as tight as yer own hair is stuck to yer head! ‘
The people looked at each other in puzzled silence. A woman said, ‘Ahh, away wi ye! Yer havin’ us on, so ye are!’
Sean raised a finger to his breast. ‘Cross me heart and hope to die! It’s the truth. The guards have gone to find the blacksmith and bring him up to set us free.’
‘And how’s he gonna do that if the horse can’t pick his feet up?’
Sean said, ‘D’ye see that manhole back there?’
They all turned.
‘He’s goin’ down there with the fire brigade, so he is, and they’re gonna bore up with a special tool and operate on his hooves from underneath.’
Some of them now looked as though they thought there might be something in this. Some said ‘Now yer takin’ the piss’ and other such comments. At this Pegasus raised a hind leg in the way ponies do when they want to rest their weight for a while, so that the toe of his hoof was barely touching the ground. The queue moved forward as one, with a mixture of shouts and laughter and pushes and urgings to ‘get out and give us peace’.
Laughing lightly, Sean nudged Pegasus in the ribs. As the pony ambled out in the rain, some people across the street stopped to see what the commotion was. One of them walked briskly across the road and was almost next to Sean before the boy noticed that it was Pat Pusey, Corell’s hired thug. The plunging weight of fear in Sean’s stomach dragged the laughter back into his throat.
Pusey gripped Sean’s left calf as he walked beside him. Looking up he said, ‘Here to meet yer da, Sean?’ There was a triumphant note in Pusey’s voice; otherwise, it was cold and hard.
‘No, I’m not. I don’t know where he is! Honest!’
‘Don’t lie to me, son! What boat’s he on?’
‘Honest, Pat, I don’t know. I mean I don’t know where he is. He’s not on any boat, I don’t think! ‘
‘So what are ye doin’ here, entertainin’ the feckin crowds?’
They’d walked half the length of the terminal building on the opposite side of the road. Plenty of people were still around. Pusey reached for the reins and tugged viciously on them. Sean pulled Pegasus
to a halt. Pusey looked up. ‘Where is he, now?’
‘I don’t know, Pat! If I knew I’d tell ye, sure I would! I haven’t a bleedin’ clue. I just came down here to give the pony a bit of a walk out! ‘
‘Walk out my arse!’ And he reached and grabbed Sean by the front of his denim shirt and yanked him off to land sprawling in a puddle. Pegasus trotted quickly away, ears pricked, tail up. Pusey hauled Sean to his knees and started dragging him across the road toward the terminal entrance. ‘Come on, I’m gonna be with ye when ye meet yer da in here! ‘
Sean stumbled after him shouting, ‘Get off me! Leave me alone!’
Pusey forced him through the doors into the main terminal. People turned to watch and to tut disapprovingly, but nobody tried to help. Pusey went along the wall where the luggage trolleys were then stopped and spun Sean, forcing him against the hard tiles. ‘Where is he? He owes us ten grand!’ Pusey was really hurting him. Sean’s jacket wasn’t that thick, and the way Pusey was gripping him made his shoulder blades protrude and rub against the wall. Tears came to his eyes, though he tried to stop them, and he answered as he had all the times before, ‘Pat, I don’t know where he is. Honest!’
‘You’re a liar!’
Suddenly there was a female voice, angry, shrill, young, and a hand on Pusey’s arm. ‘Hey, leave him alone! He’s just a child! Stop hurting him!’
Pusey, surprised, stopped shaking Sean. He relaxed his grip although he still held the shirtfront. Sean eased forward off the wall and stood balanced again, relieved, curious yet worried still. He saw the very angry, very pretty face of Jane Cassidy. Her eyes looked a sort of blue-green and Sean saw fearlessness in them. He wished she’d look at him but she just stared at Pusey, her hand still on his arm.
Pusey glanced around him, and saw some people nearby look away and shuffle off to distance themselves from this embarrassing scene. He glared at Jane and in almost a whisper said, ‘Piss off, you little nuisance.’
For Your Sins: previously published as Joseph's Mansions Page 14
