It was then that she saw a dark shadow flicker across the windshield. The next thing she knew there was a sharp rapping on her side-window. She turned, and through the brown, particle‑filled water, she saw Lucy, her eyes wide, her face colorless.
Lucy opened the Mondeo’s door. Katie pointed to the seatbelt buckle and Lucy nodded. Katie saw the glint of a knife, and Lucy cut through her harness in two quick strokes. Then she took hold of Katie’s arms and pulled her out of the driving-seat. She kicked up for the surface, supporting Katie all the way, like an angel carrying her up to heaven. As they appeared beside the quay, there were shouts and whoops and applause, and Katie saw to her amazement that the whole quay was already crowded with people and cars. Lucy swam to the side with her, and helped her onto the rusted iron ladder.
“Paul,” Katie coughed. “Did you see what happened to Paul?”
“I’ll go look,” said Lucy. Two men came halfway down the ladder, took hold of Katie under her arms, and lifted her bodily onto the quay, with water pouring from her sodden coat.
“Are you all right, girl?” one of them called to Lucy; but Lucy, without another word, turned and dived under the water again.
“My husband’s still down there,” said Katie.
“Sacred name of Jesus.”
Further along the quay, three men who looked like merchant-seamen had taken a small boat out, and one of them was repeatedly diving where the Range Rover had gone down. Its roof was still visible under the water, like a submerged coffin. A squad car arrived, and then another, closely followed by an ambulance. Detective Garda Patrick O’Sullivan was in the second car, and he came over to Katie immediately.
“My God, are you all right?”
“We were rammed, deliberately rammed. That Range Rover went into us, tried to force us over the quay. Paul’s still down there.”
“They’re sending the divers. Look – hold on – I’ll get you a blanket.”
Katie stood shivering on the edge of the quay. Over three minutes had gone by and there was still no sign of Lucy or Paul. One of the gardaí dived into the river, but almost at the same moment as he hit the water, Lucy reappeared, supporting Paul. Paul’s face was so blue that it looked as if it had been painted for a Hindu festival.
The garda helped to bring Paul over to the ladder, and he was heaved up onto the quay. His eyes were closed and his arms and legs were floppy. The paramedics got to work on him right away, emptying the water out of his lungs and giving him expired-air respiration. Katie stood well back, but in her head she was repeating the mantra, Please, Holy Mother, don’t let him be dead, please don’t let him be dead.
Lucy came up to her, still panting and spitting out river-water. Katie took hold of her hands. “You’re freezing! Patrick, will you fetch a blanket for Professor Quinn, too?”
“How’s your husband?” coughed Lucy.
“I don’t know yet. I don’t even know if he’s breathing.”
One of the gardaí brought a heavy gray blanket and draped it around Lucy’s shoulders. Lucy put her arm around Katie’s waist and held her close, and they both shivered in unison.
Katie said, “You saved my life, Lucy. You were amazing.”
“College swimming champion, two years running.”
“Well, thanks be to God.”
“How about the people in the other car?”
“They’re still trying to bring them up.”
“Who were they? Why were they trying to push us into the river?”
Katie ran her fingers through her wet, stringy hair. “I think Paul knows the answer to that.”
One of the paramedics came over, a small freckly girl with dark red ringlets. “He’s breathing unassisted, superintendent, and his heart-rate’s as good as you could expect. He’s still unconscious, though. How long was he under the water?”
“Five minutes, not much more.”
“We’re taking him to the Regional. You ought to you come along with us, both of you. You’re going to need a check-up and inoculation against infectious hepatitis.”
“I’m fine, thank you,” said Lucy. “I just want to get back to my hotel.”
“We’d really like to make sure that you haven’t suffered any injuries,” the paramedic insisted. “And hepatitis can be fatal if you’re not inoculated.”
“I don’t need a doctor and I don’t need a jab in the ass, thank you,” Lucy retorted. “I need a brandy and a hot shower, that’s all.”
The paramedic was about to argue, but Katie said, “Professor Quinn doesn’t have to have a check-up if she doesn’t want to. Lucy – I’ll ask Patrick to take you back to Jury’s. I’ll go with Paul to the hospital and I’ll talk to you later.”
Lucy gave her an unexpected kiss on the forehead. “You’re safe, that’s all that matters.”
Paul’s stretcher was lifted into the back of the ambulance. As Katie climbed in after him, she heard shouting down by the quay. One of the passengers in the Range Rover had been brought up, and lifted into the boat. From where Katie was standing, it looked almost certain that he was dead.
41
Katie stayed at the Regional until 11:00 pm that night but Paul still didn’t recover consciousness. The doctor said, “I have to warn you that there may be some brain damage, due to oxygen deprivation. But it won’t be possible to assess him properly until he regains consciousness.”
“He will regain consciousness?”
“Well, again… that’s difficult to tell.”
“All right,” said Katie. She was suddenly beginning to feel light-headed, and unsteady on her feet. “I’ll call in tomorrow, if I can. Meanwhile you’ve got my cellphone number, haven’t you, and you can always get me through Anglesea Street.”
“Of course. We’ll take v ery good care of him, Katie. Don’t you worry.”
A young woman garda was waiting outside in a squad car to drive Katie home. She was rosy-cheeked, with fluffy blonde hair drawn back in a pleat.
“Have I seen you before?” Katie asked her.
“No, ma’am. I’ve just been transferred up from Bandon.”
“Ah, so you’re getting some experience of the big bad city.”
“Oh, it’s great here,” the garda smiled. “At least you get a bit of excitement.”
They drove in silence for a while, but then Katie said, “What made you join the Garda Síochána?”
“I didn’t want to work in a shop. All my friends work in shops. I didn’t want to do that.”
“Is that all?”
“I wanted to do something to help people.”
“Ah, yes. Helping people. I remember that.”
“Pardon?”
“Oh, you mustn’t pay any attention. I’ve had a difficult night, to say the least. What’s your name?”
“Kathleen, ma’am. Kathleen Kiely. Most people call me Katie.”
“Do you want some advice, Katie? Some really good advice?”
The garda glanced at Katie apprehensively.
“Never forget that you have limits, Katie. The more you give to people, the more they’re going to take.”
“Ma’am?”
“I don’t expect you to understand what I’m telling you, Katie. But just remember that you’re not a saint, or a sister of mercy, or a holy martyr. You don’t owe the world everything, because if you think you do, you’ll end up with nothing at all.”
The garda looked embarrassed, and obviously didn’t know what to say.
“One more thing,” said Katie, as they crossed the bridge onto Great Island. “Never go swimming in the River Lee with your overcoat on.”
Her cellphone rang as she was putting the key into her front door. It was Liam Fennessy. “How’s Paul?” he wanted to know.
“It’s difficult to say. Very poorly at the moment. He still hasn’t regained consciousness.”
“I’m sorry about that, Katie. Listen, I’m up at St Patrick’s Morgue. We’ve just had formal identification of the driver and the passenger in the Range Rover.”
“Oh, yes, it certainly was. Two very good friends of yours, in fact.”
“I’m too tired to play guessing-games, Liam.”
“What if I told you it was Dave MacSweeny and his muscleman Fergal Fitzgerald.”
“You’re not serious. Dave MacSweeny?”
“No mistake whatsoever. Earring, tattoos, stigmata and all. That should take a load off your mind now, shouldn’t it?”
Katie hung up the raincoat she had borrowed from the Regional. “What are you getting at, Liam?”
“I’m not going to say too much over a cellphone, Katie, but I know that it was Eamonn Collins who had MacSweeny nailed up in that cell in the City Gaol and I know why he did it. There was only one man in Cork who was rash enough to mess with Geraldine Daley, and there was only one man who thought he could get away with lifting nearly a million euros’ worth of building supplies from MacSweeny’s yard and selling it on to Charlie Flynn.
“Likewise, there was only one woman in Cork who was in a position to ask Eamonn Collins for a very special favor. Come on, Katie, I’ve known Dave MacSweeny ever since we were in high babies together. Eamonn Collins had no other business with Dave MacSweeny except your business.”
Katie was silent for a moment, and then she said, “What will you do?”
“Nothing. Why should I? If one scumbag decides to nail another scumbag to a prison wall; and the second scumbag ends up drowned in the river with a third scumbag, who cares?”
“You could report it to Dermot.”
“I could, of course, but I’m not going to. I have my loyalties, Katie; and my first loyalty is to An Garda Síochána. Whatever I think about, it would be a public-relations disaster if our first-ever woman detective superintendent was compromised in any way.”
“I could report it myself.”
“Yes, you could. But what good would that do us? You’d lose your career, and we’d lose one our best detectives. You should think of your father, too. He’d be heartbroken.”
“You can be very creepy at times, Liam.”
“Creepy? Hah! I’m perceptive, that’s all. Keeping the peace doesn’t just mean throwing people in the slammer. Keeping the peace means compromising, doing what’s practical, and having infinite patience. Eamonn Collins may have something on you now, but you’ve got plenty on him, haven’t you, and your time will come. Anyway – look on the bright side – Charlie Flynn doesn’t have to stay in Florida any longer. None of the rest of Dave MacSweeny’s riff-raff is going to have the nerve to threaten old Charlie for money, especially when the goods were nicked in the first place. Dermot can tell the Lord Mayor that his brother-in-law has been discovered safe and well, and you can take all the credit.”
“What’s this leading to, Liam?”
“I told you, Katie. Nothing at all.”
“You know I went round to see Caitlin.”
“Yes, I do.”
“I was going to talk to you about this yesterday.”
“That’s right.”
A long, tense pause stretched out between them. “Caitlin thinks you’ve changed. She feels that you’re frustrated at work. That’s why you can’t keep your temper.”
“I have my own feelings about things, Katie. But this is my private life you’re talking about here, and what happens between me and Caitlin is frankly none of your business.”
“You assaulted her, Liam.”
“At least I didn’t nail her to a prison wall.”
Katie didn’t answer. It was quite clear, the position she was in. She carried the phone over to the sideboard and opened the vodka-bottle one-handed, and poured herself a large measure in one of her heavy cut-crystal glasses.
“Any news of Siobhan Buckley?” she asked.
“Not much. Three eye-witnesses saw a white Lexus being driven erratically along the Lower Glanmire Road about five past nine in the morning. That was only shortly after Siobhan Buckley is supposed to have accepted a lift in a white Japanese-type saloon. There was a man and a girl in the Lexus, and the woman in the car behind them got the impression that they were struggling. The car was swerving from side to side. It struck the nearside curb and almost drove head-on into the oncoming traffic.”
“Any sight of it after that?”
“None.”
“I see. I think I need to talk to Tómas Ó Conaill again.”
Liam said, “Listen, Katie… however things are between us, you need some rest. I can talk to Ó Conaill tomorrow. I can also co-ordinate the search for Siobhan Buckley. You’ve just suffered a really traumatic experience, and you’ve got Paul to think of, too.”
“Very compassionate of you, Liam. I just wish you’d show the same compassion to Caitlin. She’s my friend, remember.”
“Katie – ”
“I’ll be in tomorrow at nine. I want a report on today’s accident on my desk waiting for me. I want an assessment of Dave MacSweeny’s family and his remaining gang – who they are, where they live, and whether you think they’re still likely to be dangerous.”
“You’re the boss.”
Katie switched off her cellphone and put it down on the sideboard. Sergeant roved around her, snuffling and whining. “It’s all right, boy. You’ll have to do your business in the garden tonight. I don’t think I’ve got the strength for a walk.”
She took her drink upstairs to bed. She was too tired even for a shower. She undressed, put on her large blue-and-white striped nightshirt, and climbed under the thick, chilly duvet. She fell asleep almost at once, with all the lights still on.
She had the Gray-Dolly nightmare again. She was walking across a wet, gritty yard toward the door of a factory building. High above the factory roof, black smoke was rolling out of tall brick chimneys, and she could hear the clanking of chains and heavy machinery, and despairing screams.
“Paul?” she said, stepping inside the door. “Paul, where are you?”
Around the corner, she heard the shriek of bandsaws, cutting through bone. She made her way around a huge heap of bloodied sacking, and then she saw the slaughtermen in their bloodstained aprons and their strange muslin hats, cutting up lumps of dark maroon meat – legs and arms and partially-dismembered torsos.
“Watch out for the Gray-Dolly Man!” somebody whispered, close to her ear. But she continued to walk toward the nearest of the slaughtermen, even though she was chilly with fear. “Watch out for the Gray-Dolly Man!” The slaughterman was sawing up what looked like a woman’s leg – Katie could even see the dimples in her knee – and tossing the bloody pieces into a sack.
Katie came right up behind him. “Armed Garda,” she tried to shout out, but her voice came out distorted and unintelligible, like the voice of somebody profoundly deaf. “Armed Garda, you’re under arrest.”
The slaughterman didn’t show any sign that he had heard her, so she cautiously reached out and laid her hand on his shoulder. He stiffened. Then he laid down his butcher’s saw and turned around. His face was invisible behind his muslin veil. Her heart stopped, and thumped, and then stopped, and thumped. She felt fear hurrying down her back like woodlice.
Slowly, finger by finger, he tugged off his thick leather glove. He reached up and lifted the veil away from his face. Oh God, she tried to say, but she couldn’t.
It was Dave MacSweeny, dead, with his eyes as white as a boiled cod’s, his face gray, and filthy brown river-water pouring out of the sides of his mouth.
She yelled, “No! Get away from me!” Downstairs, Sergeant heard her and let out a sharp bark. She opened her eyes and for a split-second she didn’t know where she was. But gradually her bedroom resolved itself, and the bedside lamp was still shining, and the alarm-clock said 3:43; and a photograph of Paul was still smiling at her from the side of her dressing-table. One eye looking in a slightly different direction, as if
he could see something over her shoulder.
She went to the bathroom and brushed her teeth. She drank two glasses of water and then she went back to bed, switching off the lights. It took her another twenty minutes to fall asleep, but this time she dreamed only of running along a deserted seashore, running and running, hoping to run so fast that her footprints couldn’t keep up with her.
42
Siobhan was woken by a blinding flashlight shining in her eyes. She whimpered in protest and tried to turn her face away. She was half-covered by a grubby cellular wool blanket but she was still so cold that she could hardly feel her feet.
“What time is it?” she asked. Her mouth was so dry that she could barely speak.
“It’s almost time for you to start on your journey, Siobhan,” the man told her. “You’ve managed to get some shut-eye, that’s good. You’re going to need all the strength that your soft little body can muster.”
“Please,” she croaked.
He sat down next to her, balancing the flashlight on the arm of his chair. She could only see him as dark outline. “It’s strange, that,” he said. “How people who are being mistreated are always so polite. You’d think they’d get angry, wouldn’t you? You think they’d rant and rage. You’d think they’d blaspheme, and rail against God. But they never do. They always say ‘please’ and ‘thank-you’. On the other hand, maybe I’m just lucky. Maybe I only ever abduct the meek and the courteous.”
“I just want to go home,” sobbed Siobhan.
The man put his hand out and caressed her prickly scalp. “Of course you want to go home. But the sad thing is that you can’t. You have another destiny to fulfill. I’ve arranged a meeting for you – a rendezvous with Auntie Agony. She’s going to take you into her arms and give you the most exquisite pain you’ve ever known.”
“Please don’t hurt me. I’ll do anything.”
“I know, I know. But that’s not why you’re here. You’re here to open up the door for me – the door that was sealed so many hundreds of years ago. You’re the one, Siobhan. The last of the thirteen, a seamstress with hair as red as any fire. I am going to hurt you. I’m afraid. I’m going to hurt you very much. But it’s part of the ritual. It’s the point of the ritual. And it will give you an experience that hardly anybody is privileged to enjoy. It will take you beyond yourself, to a place where you will understand that pain can be an end in itself, even more glorious than death.”
White Bones Page 23
