He comes to less than four minutes later.
For a few brief, euphoric seconds he feels nothing except puzzlement. He staggers back through the broken breezeblock wall into Oil Street before the excruciating pain from his hand hits home and he opens his mouth to scream. Except there's something inside, something blocking his mouth. He spits the object out into his hand.
And now Big Niall does scream.
Eleven
The morning crawls past like a beaten dog.
Somehow, Frank's not really sure how, he makes it to lunchtime and knows that's it for him. Stacked desk or not, he's taking a sickie this afternoon and getting some sleep. One of the advantages of his promotion is a little more leeway at moments of crisis like this. He'd had a call from Harris about two hours ago but let his mobile go to answerphone. In his hung-over state he doesn't know if that's because he wants to avoid her, or if he just wants to avoid hearing her say that's all there will be after last night. Either way, he doesn't pick up.
Bed is a must or he's going to fall down. He's only taken a couple of steps out of Canning Place when it happens.
'Frank Keane?' says a voice behind him.
'Yeah?' He turns and sees a blonde, thirty maybe, good-looking, wearing her hair short, razor-cut on the sides and back. He only has time to register her angry, contorted face before she throws a cup of cold vinegary-smelling liquid in his face.
'Burn, you bastard!'
'What the fuck!' Frank wipes stinging fluid from his eyes, his vision blurred, panic already building.
'Who'll have you now, you bastard! Burn, you fucker! Burn!'
Acid.
The word flashes neon in Frank's mind and he feels himself shrink. He swivels, panicking, into the Canning Place foyer just as his eyes begin to seriously hurt. The security door is locked and the plod on the desk looks at him blankly for a moment until Frank, his eyes streaming, screams, 'Open the fucking door! Do it!'
There's a fumbling second or two wasted before the buzzer sounds. Frank pushes through the security door and runs, stumbling, for the bathroom across the width of the foyer, each valuable second allowing the acid to take hold. He slams into the toilets like a drunk, banging his shoulder on the tile wall, his panicky fingers scrabbling uselessly for the taps.
Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck.
He squeezes his eyes shut and wonders if they'll ever open again.
And then there's water and he splashes it over himself, frantic, can't get enough, quick quick, turns on another tap and fills a second basin while he's got his face under this one. Plunges his head under and opens his eyes, willing the water to wash away whatever filth that crazy bitch threw. He holds it as long as he can and then stands. He rips his jacket off and then his shirt. His shoulder feels sore and he scoops handful after handful of water onto the skin. He can't tell if the pain's from the hit against the wall or from something else.
Acid. Shit.
'You all right, boss?' It's the uniform from the desk. Hastings.
Frank doesn't trust himself to speak; the adrenaline is making him tremble so much but he manages to blurt 'hospital'.
Hastings clatters out and as the door opens Frank can hear the commotion in the holding area. A woman's voice, hysterical, the bass voice of the duty officer talking.
Frank's breathing slows a little and he risks a look in the mirror, expecting to see some molten horror show. A wave of naked relief sweeps over him as he sees no obvious damage. He continues to cradle handful after handful of water onto the affected areas. His pants are wet and he takes them off too. He tries to replay the woman throwing the liquid over him. It hit his face, his shoulder, a little on his forearm and hand.
Panting, Frank leans on the porcelain of the basin and tries to get himself under control. His heart is banging around inside his chest cavity as if it has broken free of its moorings. Hastings comes back in and Frank stands.
'Er, we've got a car outside, sir. Be quicker than an ambulance.'
Frank nods. 'You get her?'
'She's been taken to the holding cells, sir.' Hastings hesitates, uncomfortable. There's something else.
'What?' barks Frank. Deep down, he already knows.
'The woman who attacked you? She's DI Harris's partner. Linda Black.'
Frank nods and then puts his face back under water. He holds it there, his eyes open, as long as he can.
Christ. What a day.
Twelve
By Friday, Dean Quinner's regretting involving Big Niall and his cretinous mate in this thing with Noone. Sleep, never a frequent visitor for Quinner, hadn't come easy last night and when the morning arrives, things don't look better. Lying awake, his decision now looks like one of the dumbest things he'd ever done.
What if Niall ends up hurting the actor? Won't that be as disastrous as anything that would happen if the theft came to light? It's only a fucking wallet. Quinner wonders if it's himself he should be worrying about, not Noone. What kind of lunatic puts his faith in someone like Niall?
Shit.
Quinner looks at his watch and reaches for his phone before stopping, his hand in midair. Anything that's happened will be over by now. It can wait. With luck the big idiot won't have done anything and Quinner will be able to call off the dogs with no one any the wiser.
He leans back in the chair and closes his eyes. As he does, the quiet of the flat is cut by Quinner's ringtone signalling an incoming text. Quinner reaches across the coffee table and picks up.
It's from Niall.
Quinner presses 'open' and the message appears. There are no words. Instead an animated hand walks onscreen, forms itself into a fist and then flips Quinner the finger.
Quinner closes the phone and switches it to silent.
Fucking Niall.
Thirteen
The doctor at the Royal, a young Asian woman wearing a headscarf who looks more tired than Keane, sees him immediately. A uniform from Canning Place drives him direct.
'No permanent damage.' The doctor peers into Keane's eyes using a powerful light which feels more painful than the acid. 'You'll need to make a follow-up appointment with an ophthalmologist to double-check in case there's been any tissue scars caused by scrubbing at the eyes, but I think you'll be fine.'
She stands and passes Frank a paper towel.
'Thanks.'
Something occurs to him as the doctor turns to leave. 'What was it she threw at me? Do you know?'
'Not sure. But I would guess something like surgical spirit, or white vinegar.'
'Vinegar? I could smell vinegar but I thought acid just smelt like that.'
'It does, sometimes. But in this case I think your attacker may have been just trying to scare you.'
Frank levers himself off the examination couch.
'She succeeded.'
The doctor smiles bleakly and leaves.
Frank picks up his damp jacket and looks at his watch.
Fifteen minutes later, he's walking down Copperas Hill towards Lime Street. He could call a car but the walk will help clear his head. He cuts past the faded grandeur of the Adelphi and then through the shoppers on Ranelagh Street, heading for the Pier Head. There are a few half-glances in his direction at the damp patches on his shirt.
His phone rings as the Cunard Building comes into view.
It's Harris. Frank hesitates before pressing the answer button.
'Frank,' she says and he knows instantly that she has heard. 'Where are you?'
'I'm going to sleep. Call me in, say, three weeks.'
'We need to talk about Linda. She's in the lock-up at Canning Place. I just got a call from her. What happened, Frank?'
'Didn't she tell you?'
'Yes, sort of. Not really.' There's a pause. 'She mentioned acid.' Frank hears the fear in Harris's voice. It's not something he's ever heard before and it's something he'd rather not hear again.
'She threw what I thought was acid at me. Outside HQ. It wasn't, but I had a nasty couple of minutes until I worke
d that out. She knows. About last night. Did you tell her?'
'No. She was in a car outside the flat when you left. She'd been there all night.' Harris sounds as vulnerable as Frank's ever heard. 'We've been having some trouble recently. Linda's . . . well . . .'
'It doesn't matter. Get her out as quickly as you can. I'll call Canning Place and speak to the duty officer.' The thought of getting into all that crap now doesn't bear thinking about. 'I'm not pressing charges. It wasn't acid and neither of us needs any more attention, do we?'
Harris doesn't reply for a moment.
'She'll be sorry, Frank. If that's any help.'
'Do what you need to do, Em. Take her home. And you stay home too. We both need some sleep. I'll be back down at Stanley Road tomorrow. If you get in before me look after everything.'
'OK,' says Harris. There's a pause.
'I enjoyed last night, Em,' says Frank. Even as he's saying it the words seem flat. But it's all he's got. 'I don't regret it.'
'Yeah,' says Harris and ends the call leaving Frank looking at the phone.
He crosses the street towards the hulking black Mann Island monolith squatting next to the Liver Building, lets himself in using the security card and heads to the third floor. The apartment blinds are closed and the place is a mess compared to Harris's flat.
The block of apartments and offices is relatively new, built in a rush of misplaced pre-GFC confidence, and is generally regarded by the citizens as a hideous eyesore. Buoyed by a couple of pay rises, and what now appears an inexplicable phase of optimism around the time that Liverpool became European Capital of Culture, Keane had bought a small flat in the development, hoping to rent it out and watch it steadily increase in value. It was a decision he has spent almost two years regretting: he'd seen the investment stutter and fade, and renters had proved more elusive than the Yeti. After the split with Julie he'd moved in, thinking it would be temporary, that he'd get somewhere more permanent, but here he was. Now, alone in the flat, dog-tired and smelling of vinegar, Frank wonders what kind of relationship he and Em might have after what happened.
Frank goes into the bedroom, takes off his clothes and gets into the musty bed. He's asleep inside two minutes.
Fourteen
Once she'd spoken to Frank, Em takes Linda back to the flat. Linda lives in Aigburth but Harris's place is closer.
Linda, her crying jag subsided, is almost catatonic during the agonisingly embarrassing process of getting her released from the building. Harris will be using up almost all her brownie points to limit the fallout from this. And, after last year's disaster with Perch, she doesn't have too many left in reserve.
'What's going to happen?' says Linda as they reach the flat on Falkner Street.
For once, Em doesn't have an answer. A wave of fatigue sweeps over her.
'I'm not sure. Frank told me he's not pressing charges but there could still be trouble. You attacked a police officer, Lin.'
Linda starts to cry again and Em guides her into the bedroom. She undresses her and puts her into bed. Em goes into the bathroom and finds her sleeping pills. She takes one, fills a glass of water in the kitchen and walks back into the bedroom.
'Take this,' she says and Linda swallows the pill without a word. Em goes back into the living room, checks her watch and calls MIT. Linda's attack on Frank will be all over the place and Harris is in no shape to deal with it.
'I'm sick,' she tells DC Rose in a voice that stops any amusement in his voice dead in its tracks. 'I'll be in over the weekend.' She rings off before Rose replies and puts the phone on to charge. She undresses and gets in beside Linda. The two women have their backs to each other but lie close together, skin to skin. Em's not quite ready to let Linda off the hook but wants her to know it will be OK. They both have things they need to say.
'We'll talk when we've had some sleep,' says Em and closes her eyes.
Fifteen
Quinner's phone beeps and he checks the message. Two words: Ghost Ninja.
Before he can reply, the phone rings.
'I'm outside, man,' says Ghost Ninja.
'Then why did you text? Wait, never mind. What is it?'
'Buzz me up. I need to talk to yer.'
'I'm not in the mood for this shit. Not today, mate. You'll have to get Niall to sort you out. It was a stupid idea anyway. Tell him to leave it now. It doesn't matter.'
'I can't,' says Jason. 'You need to talk to us, man.'
Fuck.
'OK,' says Quinner. He moves to the intercom and opens the door for Niall's mate. He can see him on the CCTV camera shuffling gormlessly in the foyer. His eyes keep darting to the sides.
'And it's not the money, man,' he says once he's inside. 'It's Niall. He's been . . . well, he's been all weird since last night.' Ghost Ninja drops his voice conspiratorially. 'The mission! You know. Followin' that feller.'
'For fuck's sake, stop hopping about.' Quinner shakes his head. 'You're making me feel dizzy. And what do you mean about Niall?'
'It was fucken mental, brother. Niall just dived right in. Fucken mental.' Jason points vaguely in the direction of the city. 'Down on the dock road, man. Not good. Bad juju.'
'Bad fucking juju? What the fuck are you talking about?'
'Niall!' Jason looks at Quinner like he's stupid. 'That's what I'm tryin' to tell you, man. Niall's all. . .' Jason's voice trails away as he struggles to articulate it.
'Niall's all what?'
'He's fucked up, man. Proper, good-style fucked up, I mean. No messin', chief. Like somethin' off the fucken telly. Or the films! Yeah, like in the films.'
Quinner looks at Jason and purses his lips. He tries to remain calm but it's difficult. 'What are you talking about? What's happened to Niall?'
'You'll have to see, man,' says Jason. 'You gotta see.'
'All right . . . Ghost Ninja.' Quinner shakes his head. 'Wait. I'm not calling you that. What's your name? Your real name.'
'Jason. Jason Reeves.'
'Listen, Jason Reeves, we'll call round to Niall's now, OK? He still above the shops in Old Swan?'
Jason nods. 'Yeah.'
Outside the flat Quinner gets a cab. On the journey over to Niall's Quinner makes the cabbie stop at the pharmacy for some paracetamol and a can of Diet Coke. His headache's been building since this morning. Quinner rips open the foil around the paracetamol, wincing at the noise, and gobbles three of the pills. Nursing the Coke he cradles his head as the cab bounces over the potholes all the way down Prescot Road. He fishes out his phone and calls the production office to tell them he won't be on set today. Sore throat. Like they give a shit. He's the writer.
'You're good at making shit up,' says Jason. Quinner doesn't reply. He wants to ask Jason some more questions about last night but is wary in front of the cabbie. He should have done it back at the flat but it's too late now.
Big Niall lives above a bookie's facing a busy intersection. When the cab pulls up Jason hops out, an excited expression on his weasel face. He looks like a dog presenting its owner with a dead rat. Jason presses the bell for Niall's place and holds it down. Even with the noise of the street, Quinner can hear the bell upstairs.
'He's not answering the door.' Jason looks at Quinner.
'No shit,' says Quinner. 'Have you tried his phone?'
Jason shakes his head. 'He's lost his phone.'
Quinner hesitates. 'Lost it?'
'Said he had. Then he just, like, stopped talking.'
'Let's give it another go.' Now he's here, with Jason prancing around like a spaniel, all Quinner wants is to leave. But he can't. Not without seeing what his dopey cunt of a cousin's done.
They push open the battered outer door and head up the narrow stairs to a small landing. Quinner knocks on the door.
'Niall, it's Dean.'
Nothing.
'Niall, you twat. Open up!'
'Told yer,' says Jason, his eager face at Quinner's shoulder. 'He's been like this since this morning, man.'
'You s
ure he's in?'
Jason's head bobs. 'Deffo.'
'Niall!' yells Quinner, so loud it makes his head throb.
An age passes. And then the door's cracked open an inch. Niall's eye appears and looks at Quinner and then at Jason.
'Well, aren't you going to let us in?'
Quinner realises that Niall's thinking it through.
'For fuck's sake, Nially.' Jason's voice is all false jollity. 'Let's in.'
The chain is lifted and Niall opens the door.
The flat's cramped, the rooms above the shops having been almost endlessly subdivided, but tidier than Quinner had expected. Niall's got the shoebox in reasonable shape, considering. The giant TV is on but there's no sound. Quinner gets the impression that Niall's been sitting with it like that for some time. He has his hands plunged into the pockets of his hoodie and is staring vacantly at the screen, where two orange-faced morning TV idiots are gurning desperately at the camera.
'How did it go, Niall?' Quinner sits down on the sofa at an angle to his cousin. Jason leans his narrow arse against the window ledge and lights a cigarette, his hand tapping out a doof beat against the sill. Everything feels like it's too close together.
'Your mate here says something happened.'
Nothing.
'Come on,' says Quinner. 'It can't have been that bad.'
Niall lets out a long breath. 'I don't want to talk about it,' he says eventually. He fumbles with something in his pocket and pulls out some money, holding it out to Quinner with his left hand. 'And I don't want the fifty. Keep it. I don't want anything to do with any of this shit.'
'I'll fucken have it,' says Jason. Quinner can't work out if Jason's joking. One glance at his face tells him he's not.
'Don't be a dick, Niall. That's yours.' Quinner's starting to get seriously concerned. For a while the three of them sit there, the only sounds the surf from the traffic outside and the rapid rat-a-tat of Jason's hand against the window.
Down Among the Dead Men Page 5
