Undercover

by Gerard Brennan

  Mattie was in the back seat. He propped up his injured father and winced along with every pain-ridden moan that slipped from between John's clenched teeth. Cormac watched Mattie's young face in the rear-view mirror. The kid looked utterly lost. Cormac trawled his mind for some words of encouragement, wisdom, comfort... anything. Nothing occurred. It wasn't a typical enough set of circumstances to warrant cliché.

  "We'll get your da sorted, Mattie. Don't worry."

  The kid didn't acknowledge him.

  Cormac lived in a mid-terrace house. Parking at his front door during office hours was never a guarantee. He slowed the Suzuki a little at the start of the terrace and sought out a gap wide enough to dump the piece of shit. He made momentary eye contact with a hard-faced man in a blue work van. His passenger played with a mobile phone, unaware of the driver's sudden interest in Cormac. They were parked just a few doors down from Cormac's house, the van's nose pointed out towards the road for a quick exit. All the better to get the drop on somebody.

  His house was being watched.

  Cormac neither sped up nor slowed down. He needed time to think. At the end of his terrace he took a right and entered the network of housing estates just off the Lisburn Road. He took a right and a left and another right, found a barley legal parking spot on the corner of the street and killed his engine.

  "Is this where you live?" Mattie asked.

  Cormac shook his head. "There's somebody at my place." He checked his mirrors. It didn't look like the blue van had pursued them. But they might not have been the only ones set to watch his house. How had the bastards closed in on him so quickly? They weren't cops, Cormac was sure of that because he'd caught them on without even trying, but O'Neill's crew had no way of knowing that Cormac's actual home was in South Belfast. He'd joined O'Neill's crew with the back story that he'd come from Newry, a border city with a growing Dissident Republican support network. His softer South Down accent had lent strength to this, as had the backing of a colleague deeply immersed in the investigation of the Real IRA.

  Maybe he'd read too much into the look that passed between him and the man in the blue van. A lot had happened and his adrenaline levels were tweaked. Paranoia may have gotten the better of him. Still...

  He reassessed his situation. He was basically on the run with a beat up kid and his bleeding father in tow. It was too big a risk to go to the house and hope that his gut instincts were off. They rarely were and going against them would most likely get him and his charges in even deeper shit. And if he took them to the hospital, could he be sure that his handler had his back if he needed to call through a favour or three? The information on his likely whereabouts had to come from somewhere. If somebody at the station had ratted him out to O'Neill and his men he couldn't risk reaching out for that particular lifeline. He'd get Mattie and John somewhere safe first and then see what they had to say back at HQ.

  Cormac restarted the Suzuki. "We have to go somewhere else."

  "Where?"

  "A friend's house."

  He looked into the back seat at what he was about to bring to Donna Grant's doorstep. She would be less than thrilled.

  ###

  Jeremy Quentin, the Q in PHQ Publicity, stood up as the final slide of the PowerPoint presentation faded from the screen, and offered his junior colleagues a quick clap. The three bright sparks seated at a little round table by the huge office window lapped up the praise. Then the two young men of the group high-fived. At least the young lady had the wit to look embarrassed for them.

  Lydia groaned internally as Jeremy cleared his throat. Was there more to this fucking circus?

  "I could talk some more about what PHQ can offer you, RC," Jeremy said. "But I won't."

  Thank Christ.

  "I think our presentation said everything that needed to be said. What do you think, RC?"

  Rory looked to Lydia and crossed his eyes, then back to Jeremy with his business face on.

  "Aye, I thought it was class, like. How'd you get my picture onto that aftershave ad?"

  "Photoshop, RC."

  "Magic." Rory fiddled with a lever under his chair and it sank with a pneumatic hiss. "One small criticism, though... I don't know what you did with the aul' airbrush, but I looked a wee bit like a fruit. Do you not think so?"

  Jeremy shot a glance at one of his cubs; a young man with thick glasses and a mane of cartoonish spiked hair. The Photoshop wizard, Lydia assumed.

  "That was by no means a finished piece, RC. Consider it a mock-up. Just a thrown together image to give you a taste of what—"

  "Chill out, Jeremy," Rory said. "I was only slegging."

  Jeremy's brow knotted. "Em..."

  "Slegging means taking the Mickey," Lydia offered.

  Jeremy's lips parted in a quick and easy fake smile. "I see. Irish, is it?"

  "Belfasty," Rory said.

  "Oh? Is that a thing?"

  "Oh, aye. Some people call it Norn Iron spake, but Belfasty's more... specific, you know?"

  "Fascinating." Jeremy's head bobbed for a little too long. "So, anyway, we've said our bit. We'd love to work with you, RC. And now you have an idea of what we can do for you if you do sign with us. I guess the ultimate decision is yours. You tell us what you want and we'll hammer out the details with Lydia."

  "You mean LG, here?" Rory asked.

  Jeremy paused for a second then he raised a long, slender finger and waggled it. His well-practised smile returned. "Ah, more slegging, eh?" He turned to his people. "We'll have to watch this one, folks."

  The young lady's giggle seemed a little too shrill to Lydia's ear but Rory gave her a look of interest. Cool as a Trebor mint, the PHQ girl flipped through a file on the table in front of her and pretended not to notice Rory's attention.

  "Okay, Jeremy," Lydia said as she stood up. "Thank you for that. We'll be in touch, then."

  Jeremy spread his arms. His palms turned out as if he wanted a hug. "You're leaving already? I thought we could all head out for a spot of dinner."

  "Sorry. No rest for the wicked, right, Rory?"

  "Yeah. Another time maybe, J-man."

  Jeremy crossed the office floor and grasped Lydia's hand in both of his. He pumped her arm with too much enthusiasm and leant in close. She caught a whiff of his aftershave. Subtle. "Are you in talks with somebody else?"

  "Of course," Lydia said.

  "McGoldrick?"

  "Maybe."

  "The old Scot, eh?"

  "Like I said, maybe. We'll be in touch soon."

  Jeremy turned to shake Rory's hand and found an empty space. Lydia looked over at the little round table where Rory had pulled up a chair beside the trendy young thing who had pretended not to notice him. Her blonde hair was short and carefully shaggy. Corporate punk. She wrinkled her nose when she smiled and something about her reminded Lydia of Tinkerbell, the fairy from Peter Pan.

  "Quick on his feet, isn't he?" Jeremy said.

  "It's why City paid so much for him."

  Rory took a business card from the blonde, squeezed her hand and whispered something in her ear before he left the table. As whatever he said registered, her hand went to her mouth and she blushed.

  "Looks like you made that worth your while," Lydia said while they waited for the lift.

  "You mean the girl?" Rory yawned. "Ach, you know me when I get bored."

  "Pretty distraction."

  "Aye, she gave me her number."

  "Of course she did. You meeting her tonight?"

  "No, sure me and you have plans, don't we?"

  Lydia felt as if she'd lost a golden opportunity. If he went out with the corporate punk it would make her task for the kidnappers easier. She swallowed the lump in her throat and prayed the moisture in her eyes didn't show.

  "They were pretty loose plans, Rory." Her voice came out a little higher than she'd expected. She dropped the pitch and tried to soften her words. "If you think your luck's in with this one, don't let me stop you."

  "Not at all.
I'm looking forward to a chilled out night. Don't know why we haven't done something like this sooner."

  "Probably the fact that I'm a wife and mother got in the way."

  "Well, you're a free woman tonight."

  They stepped into the lift and Lydia considered Rory's statement. A free woman. Had she ever been trapped? She might have often felt that way, especially when Mattie was younger, but he'd come into the world on her terms. He hadn't asked to be born. How could she consider that entrapment?

  Mattie loved her unconditionally, a concept she'd heard about but hadn't experienced in her own childhood. It surprised her how much he needed her and how much she needed him and how much satisfaction that dynamic brought. She'd fretted over her son turning thirteen, imagining an overnight transformation that replaced her sweet little boy with a smelly, surly teen, but that hadn't happened. He had gotten a little quieter, maybe. More thoughtful. And more intriguing.

  Rory bumped her hip with his and knocked her out of her reverie.

  "Hey, where are you? Cloud Cuckoo Land?"

  "Sorry, Rory. What were you saying?"

  "Those guys seemed all right. Do we really have to go to this next meeting?"

  "Rule one, Rory. Never accept the first offer."

  "Fine, but if there's another presentation like that one I'm going to fake explosive diarrhoea."

  "McGoldrick's old school. I don't think he knows what PowerPoint is."

  ###

  Donna wasn't in. It came as no great surprise to Cormac. She worked unsociable hours at the hospital. Combined with his own random work pattern and unsettled lifestyle it was little wonder that they couldn't keep it together as a couple. It'd been a couple of years since they'd broken up but Cormac still knew her number off by heart. A small blessing since he'd been denied access to his mobile phone along with the gun and ID he had stashed in his safe.

  He'd gone to the garage across from the Malone Road apartment building to use their payphone. There was no queue. Even with the high population of university students in the area. It seemed that a mobile had become one of life's essentials, not just a luxury. The conversation had been cold and efficient. She didn't even register surprise that he was calling her in need of a favour. Maybe she'd have more to say in person. Her part of the phone call had been a series of affirmations. "Yes, I can get off a little early. Yes, I can bring some stuff with me. Yes, I can be subtle."

  She was probably playing it cool in case anybody overheard her.

  Mattie and John were asleep in the back of the Suzuki. Cormac craved a steaming hot coffee. Nothing fancy, just some decent instant in a polystyrene cup. A splash of milk and maybe half a sugar. Just to get the heart pumping. He reached out and fiddled with the car stereo again. Settled on a local phone-in talk show.

  The current caller spoke with a thick North Antrim accent that made Cormac want to punch the windscreen. Shrill indignation and gap-toothed whistles, like an old kettle. He had a beef with the local hoods, who were probably three quiet kids and a BMX bike if the caller was as backwater as he sounded. But it wasn't the voice or the stupid things he said that twanged on Cormac's last nerve. It was the wheezy inhalation he took between sentences. Each one came as regular as a pendulum swing creating a monotonous rhythm in the speech.

  Cormac thumped the volume knob with the side of his fist and the radio powered down. What he really needed was some sleep but he couldn't see it coming any time soon. A burst of rain drummed on the roof of Paddy's car. He felt the little white motor stuck out like a sore thumb and he wasn't exactly a hundred miles away from his staked-out house on the Lisburn Road. If the feelers went out, it wouldn't take a fantastic stroke of luck to happen upon him. Getting rid of the little shit-box would be top of his to-do list once he got Mattie and John into Donna's apartment.

  A silver Seat Leon pulled into the car park just a tad too quickly. It jerked to a halt in the space next to Cormac's – nose in where he was facing out. He didn't get a good look at the driver through the tinted windows but the blare of an ABBA CD put all doubts to rest. It was Donna, and if her less than smooth driving was anything to go by, she was pissed off.

  ###

  "Would he be willing to get his teeth fixed?"

  Rory smiled at McGoldrick and tapped one of his incisors. "They're not broken."

  McGoldrick was dressed in khaki chinos and a striped green polo shirt, ready for the golf course as usual. He ran a little hand through his thick white hair. It flopped back into a perfect side parting. "Is this kid for real, Lydia?"

  Lydia wished she'd listened to Rory and skipped the meeting. McGoldrick was a rude little bastard at the best of times but something seemed to have crawled right up his backside that day. And what if the kidnappers called? She wanted to know if John and Mattie were still safe.

  "Lydia," McGoldrick's bark pulled Lydia out of her murky thoughts, "I'm talking to you, hen."

  She shook her head. "Rory's not Beckham, Mr McGoldrick. And not everybody wants one of the pretty boys. Asking Rory Cullen to fix his teeth would be like asking Wayne Rooney to pin back his ears."

  "It'd take more than that to give Rooney the Hollywood look," McGoldrick said. "Rory's almost all the way there. He's a handsome kid. Great skin, good hair but he's got woeful teeth."

  "Here, you," Rory said. "I'm standing right here, like."

  "Kid, shut it. The grownups are talking."

  Rory stood up. "I liked Jeremy better. Let's go back and seal the deal with him."

  McGoldrick popped up from his leather chair. It rolled back on its castors and butted the wall behind him. He straightened his back and stood his full five foot five. Spittle flew from his mouth as he shouted at Rory. "Don't push my buttons you little shite. Sit your arse back down. I'll tell you when this meeting's over."

  Lydia threw her hands in the air. "What the hell's going on, Mr McGoldrick? I've come here as a favour to give you a chance to woo my client and you're acting like he stole the cream out of your coffee."

  "What's the matter, kid? Can you not fight your own battles?"

  Rory unbuttoned his suit jacket and let it fall off his shoulders onto the floor. He popped his cufflinks and started to roll up his sleeves. "Fine, then. Come on and have a go, mate. But I'm not going to go easy on you just because you're a little old fucker."

  McGoldrick nodded and rounded his huge walnut desk. Lydia jumped up to intercept him before they kicked off and Rory got himself arrested. McGoldrick looked past Lydia at Rory and flashed his dentures for the first time since the meeting began.

  "The kid's got balls."

  "He's Northern Irish," Lydia said. "I'm told it comes with the territory."

  McGoldrick shook Lydia's hand, his grip a little too firm. "I like him."

  "Glad I meet your approval, you old fart. Does this mean we're not going to dig the heads off each other?"

  "And damage that pretty face?" McGoldrick said. "How will we make each other rich if I leave you looking like a gurner? Of course, if I knocked out a few of those teeth it might be an improvement."

  "Don't take this meeting as a foregone conclusion," Lydia said. "Nobody's signed anything yet, Mr McGoldrick."

  "Oh, yeah, I forgot." McGoldrick laid a hand on his cheek and rolled his eyes in a surprisingly effeminate way. "Jeremy Quentin wants a piece of this. How will I ever compete with that slick bastard?"

  "How indeed?" Lydia asked.

  "Five phone calls I made this morning. Two sportswear labels, a hair product brand, a car company and a video game developer. Three of them have pretty much dropped their knickers for the kid and the other two are ready to play ball."

  "Fuck," Rory said.

  "‘Fuck' is right, kid. While Jeremy and his munchkins were dicking about with projectors and presentations I was playing the field. There's no substitute for good old-fashioned juice in this industry, no matter how many computer whizz kids you employ."

  "How do you know what Jeremy was doing?" Rory asked.

  "I play d
irty," McGoldrick said. "Something you know all about judging by your record at Chelsea last season."

  "What about the details?" Lydia asked. "You got a percentage in mind?"

  "My number crunchers are working on that. They'll have a contract for you to consider by close of play today. And I'll be expecting an answer some time tomorrow. The older I get the less time I want to waste pussyfooting."

  "No problem. We'll be in touch with you tomorrow, Mr McGoldrick."

  McGoldrick walked them out of his office. His PA waited on the other side of the door, armed with a notepad and pen. She asked Rory for his autograph and led him to her desk. While the PA gabbed with Rory, McGoldrick laid his hands on Lydia's shoulders and kissed the air at both sides of her face. Then, with his hands still resting on her shoulders, he looked Lydia deep in her eyes. His face turned to granite.

  "You're up to something, aren't you?"

  Lydia gently removed McGoldrick's hands from her shoulders, gave them a friendly squeeze and let them go. His arms fell to his sides and Lydia noticed his short fingers curl into fists.

  "I don't know what you're talking about," Lydia said.

  "Don't insult my intelligence. I know you were working L'Oreal. And even though you went at it like a sledgehammer to a walnut, you were actually getting somewhere. Why would you throw all that work away on what seems to be a whim?"

  "Maybe I had an epiphany? I wasn't doing Rory any favours in that area of his career. Figured we'd both make more money if I outsourced."

  "I don't believe you. We'd have been in talks long before now if you were that clever."

  "But look how eager you are now that I've held out this long. All suspicious but ready to snap him up anyway."

  "Don't get too cocky, hen. I know a good deal when I see one, so I'm going to welcome Rory into my fold even though I'm sure you're not one hundred per cent legit. But consider this a friendly warning. When I figure out your angle, and I will, you'd better hope that it doesn't hurt our friendship. I could do your career a hell of a lot of damage."

  Lydia's career was the least of her problems, but she gave McGoldrick a suitably grave nod before she turned away from him.