“Mr Myers,” she greeted. “Mrs Myers?” she asked as much with her eyes as her tone.
Esmée nodded.
“I’m Imelda. How can I help you?”
“I’d like to access my safe-deposit box,” Harry stated confidently, placing his attaché case on the countertop.
“Well, you’ve come to the right place anyhow,” Imelda returned with a professional well-groomed smile. “May I see your account number and your identification?”
“Certainly,” Harry replied, opening both latches of the attaché case with an abrupt click. He took out the statement Paul had given Esmée and Philip’s passport and handed them to the still beaming Imelda. Both he and Esmée tensed as they waited for her to inspect the documents.
Then, as practised back at the house the day before Harry turned to Esmée and asked her quietly, “So, Es, what time is our appointment with Dave?” His familiar tone and the use of Philip’s pet name for her sent shivers down her spine. They hadn’t practised that.
From the corner of her eye Esmée watched Imelda open the passport and glance up briefly at Harry.
“Eleven, we’re meeting him at Luigi’s,” she replied to Harry, ignoring the sudden urge to vomit.
“Are you sure you want to do this? We don’t have to buy it if you don’t want to.”
The meaningless words sounded casual enough, she thought. They were performing well. Harry launched into his rehearsed response while she watched and waited.
Imelda had pretty hands, Esmée thought, with beautifully manicured nails and long slender fingers. Weird the things that pass through your mind as you’re waiting for the world to crash down around you. Her knees threatened to give way, the suspense killing her nerves. She steadied herself against the desk and watched. She could feel Harry beside her but couldn’t hear a sound. Was he even breathing?
“You have your key, Mr Myers?” Imelda asked politely, bringing Esmée back to reality with a slight start.
“Yes, of course,” Harry replied, immediately taking a set of keys from his pocket and selecting the smallest on the ring – the one Esmée had noticed on Philip’s keyring that evening in the car. She didn’t recognise it then, but knew instinctively on leaving Paul’s office what it was for: the key to her very own Pandora’s box.
“That’s perfect,” the lovely Imelda claimed, laying a document on the countertop. “If I could get your signature here – and here,” she said, pointing to two ‘x’s.
Harry took the pen and signed Philip’s name. Almost perfect, Esmée noted, seeing the familiar loop of letters.
“If I could ask you to be patient just a little while longer, we’ll get your box ready for you. Please take a seat.” She indicated the comfortable couch. “Can I get you anything? Tea? Coffee? Water?”
“No, thanks,” Harry declined. “We’re grand.”
Careful not to give it all away, they shared a discreet gleeful glance to celebrate but no more. They were nearly there.
Intensely curious about the contents of the box and aware that the reason for its surreptitious concealment was not likely to be a good one, Esmée was nevertheless distracted by the thought of Philip and his likely return. Although happy that by the time they managed to find and repatriate him he wouldn’t be her problem any longer, there was still a worry about how he would react when he realised she still didn’t plan on having anything more to do with him. She doubted he would take it well and, if his behaviour in Spain was anything to go by, it wasn’t going to be an easy journey. Part of her, a not so savoury part, wished that he’d stay right where he was, not come back at all, and found a bizarre irony in the fact that not so long ago she was willing him to turn up alive and well. But his presence now, given all she knew, was likely to cause her more grief than his absence. Maybe she wouldn’t say a word at all: she could just leave him there. He’d never be able to come back here, not with Brady looking for him, whatever about the authorities. But they were fleeting thoughts, ridiculous notions arising from an even more ridiculous predicament.
A serious-looking young man, dressed in a pristine charcoal-grey suit, sky-blue shirt and a deep-blue tie decorated with a neat pattern of the bank’s circular emblem, eventually emerged from behind a thick door clad with timber panels to conceal its secure fabrication. They matched, he and Imelda, their uniforms perfectly co-ordinated. He was hardly out of school, and with such a serious face Esmée wondered what made such a handsome young man look so surly.
“Mr Myers, Mrs Myers, I’m Andrew,” he said without so much as a smile “Please follow me and I’ll take you to your cubicle.”
In a booth no bigger than a toilet she and Harry stood and stared at the box laid in the centre of the table. A small thing, no bigger than a shoebox but stronger, formed out of some kind of grey metal.
The door gave a quiet thud as it closed and the room acquired a claustrophobic oppression. They both remained standing and stared at it for a while, Harry relieved he’d got away with the deception and Esmée nervous of what was contained in the box. Slowly she reached her hand forward and placed it on the metal lid. It was cold to touch but very smooth. She circled her fingers cautiously then taking its edge lifted it only inches at first to peek inside, afraid of what might jump out at her. When nothing moved and her nerve grew, she opened the hinged top fully.
There were two things inside: a notebook bound in black leather and an object wrapped in what looked like a white cotton tea towel. She put her hand in and lifted it slightly and, as soon as she touched it, felt its weight, recognised its shape beneath the rough cloth, she knew just what it was. Aware of Harry looking at her eagerly she cast him a glance to which he responded with a slow nod. She removed the bundle from the box and undressed it slowly, holding her breath as she removed the folds of cloth. The gun sat black, solid and menacing, dangerously alluring against the white cotton fabric. She knew what it was and exactly what it meant. The ramifications of the find and conclusion she reached about its association settled with repugnant certainty.
“Holy shit!” Harry exclaimed. “What the fuck?”
“Come on,” she said, the air in the room beginning to thicken around her, the breath tightening in her chest. “I need to get out of here or I’m going to suffocate.” Re-wrapping the gun, she placed it and the notebook in her bag.
Harry took her hand as they marched down the steps of the bank.
For a fleeting moment Esmée had almost felt sorry for the lovely Imelda as she waved them to the lift. She would be in some mess when eventually it was discovered that someone other than Philip Myers had breached the bank’s thankfully pretty-damn-lax security systems.
“Are you okay?” he asked, squeezing her hand gently.
“Not really.”
“What are you going to do with it?” he asked.
“I have no idea. Just please don’t tell your mother.”
“Don’t worry, Esmée. I understand the implications of our find. I’m not going to tell anyone. Especially not my mother – she’d have a breakdown. She says she’s okay, but she’s not. This might push her over the edge. I have to think about Beth too – she mustn’t know. I’m not going to say anything. You have my word.”
She had no option but to trust Harry. He was no threat, his focus being his mum and protecting her.
* * *
Julie was waiting for them when they arrived back.
“Thank God you’re okay! You made it!” she cried, relieved they had returned alone and without a police escort.
“He was brilliant,” Esmée enthused, following behind. “I literally couldn’t have done it without you both! Thanks.”
“Well?” Julie asked expectantly, looking at Esmée. “What was in it?”
“Not what I was expecting, that’s for sure!” Removing only the notebook from her bag, she handed it to Julie. She and Harry had already examined it in the car and could make nothing of it. Inside the pages were filled with names and dates and a series of disjointed words.
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“Yeah, a complete waste of time and effort!” said Harry.
“I was expecting so much more,” Esmée said sadly.
“Like what?” Julie asked.
“I have no idea,” she shrugged, “but just something more than this.”
Julie was flicking through the pages of the notebook. “It doesn’t make much sense, does it?”
“A code?” Harry offered.
“Absolutely no idea,” Esmée replied, not caring one bit about the black book. She just wanted to get out of there. To be alone. To think.
“What do we do about this?” Julie asked, waving the book. “It must mean something to someone?”
“We can’t do anything,” Esmée said. “If we do they’ll know we got into the box.”
“Right,” Julie signed. “Duhhh!” she laughed, relieved that the ordeal was over.
* * *
Robert watched the mayhem unfold as Tommo walloped the guard and Brady yelled at him.
“What the fuck did ya do that for?” he shouted, pointing at the unconscious guard and whimpering Mike, bloodied after the kick to his head.
“He was goin’ for me,” the aggrieved Tommo complained.
“For fuck sake! We agreed no shit would go down today! And you morons have already done damage to yer woman and maybe her kid.” Brady whacked him hard across the face.
Tommo dropped the gun as he struggled to remain standing. He put a hand to his face and just as he turned his head to object he saw her reaching out. Amanda had freed her hand and was straining towards the panic button fixed to the underside of the table. Tommo yelled and lunged forward but Brady got to her first.
“You stupid cow!” he yelled, grabbing her wrist.
In the ensuing panic nobody noticed Robert pick up the gun and didn’t heed when he left the room and closed the door. He hurried to the window and checked through the blades of the blinds if anyone had heard the shrieks.
Frank Gill was walking across the small asphalt car park. He’d done the cash run a few months back and Robert recognised immediately who and what he was. Why was he here? Could he hear the commotion inside?
Robert panicked as the undercover garda leaned down to the window of the silver Golf, their supposed getaway car, glistening in the glorious sunshine, and looked towards the bank.
He was coming over. He’d be at the door in minutes to investigate the delay with the delivery, to see where the helmeted men with the empty steel cases were. He’d see. He’d ruin it. Ruin it all. Silently he willed him to turn around and leave. He wished him away but he kept coming.
“Turn around – turn around,” Robert whispered.
The alarm bells shattered the morning air.
Ironically it was Brady himself who had set them off. Having successfully stopped Amanda’s attempted lunge for the panic button, he had stood upright and as he fixed his flopping hair looked down with contempt at the cowering woman. He didn’t heed Mike sitting behind him, his back to the wall. He didn’t notice as Mike raised his leg and foot, pulled back, aimed then pushed forward to reach the target of Brady’s backside. Instinctively Brady’s hand reached out to brace his fall and grasped the edge of the table, his thumb pressing against the discreet little white button underneath.
“Fuck,” Brady whispered to himself.
The loud bellow of the alarm erupted into the early morning, causing everyone to jump, including Frank Gill who stopped for only a brief second before putting his hand to his hip. Robert mistook the reach for his phone as a reach for a gun. Adrenaline rushed to his head. Rushing to the door he unlocked and yanked it open it a crack, raised his arm, gun steady in hand, and pulled the trigger. No one was going to screw this up for him, especially some curious Pig. No way. There was still time, they could take what they needed. The gun fired and the projected bullet reached its target. Clean. Decisive. Deadly.
The banking hall was empty. All the activity was out the back. No one saw him do it. Firing from inside the door, he was out of the line of vision of Maurice Mahon, the driver of the undercover police car, who didn’t even hear its loud recoil with the banging din of the bells. He watched him fall and cursed the silver Golf as it jerked into gear and accelerated away. The gun. What to do with it? Where would he hide it? He scanned the room quickly, looking for a spot. He knew they’d search the bank, then he’d be snared without doubt. An immediate calm, an almost psychotic moment of clarity, came over him: he was still the victim, he was his own cover. He quickly pulled up his trouser leg and pushed the gun into the leg of his sock, firmly wedging the nose into his shoe. He was still the victim. They’d not search him. And he was right. They didn’t. His decision to keep the gun was a calculated one. He might need it again. It had both Brady’s and Tommo’s prints all over it: good security, if needs be.
* * *
Through the night she sat on the floor, her back to the wall, watching her children sleep soundly. She couldn’t sleep. How could she? This was where she felt safest. She didn’t want to be alone but couldn’t call anyone. Philip had destroyed her and there was no way she could tell anyone that she had, albeit unintentionally, brought her father’s murderer into their fold.
As soon as she’d left Harry and Julie, no longer buoyed up by their company and the excitement of their joint enterprise, her spirits had taken a plunge. Now, vulnerable and alone, she sat out the dark hours with tears streaming unrelenting down her face. She had reached the bottom of her endurance reservoir, with nothing left to give. She prayed for an epiphany, the moment where a solution would appear like an apparition to set everything right.
When it did come, there was no blinding flash of inspiration but rather a dispassionate logical reasoning that made perfect sense.
The sun was rising when she powered up her computer and Googled his name. She had come across a wealth of information about him before so she knew what she was looking for. He was a dangerous man, but Esmée knew that this was the best thing, the only thing to do. Terrified, but focused, she played out the morning as usual, taking the children to school, and then booked herself a cab, leaving a handwritten note on the kitchen table, in case she never came back.
“Where to?” her driver asked as she climbed into the back seat, his eyes meeting hers through the tinted rear-view mirror, dark but smiling.
She felt in her bag for the comforting bulk of her gym weight, foolish protection she knew, but reassuring all the same.
“Town, please.”
“No problem, love. Grand day, isn’t it?”
“Sure is, great to see the sun for a while.” Deep breaths, she told herself, settle into the journey and when we’re halfway in, then ask.
She could feel his eyes on her reflection and worked hard to combat the magnetic urge to look back. She needed to pee.
“Going anywhere nice?” he asked as they passed through the third set of lights.
“Eh . . . Nowhere special really, just a trip into the shops, that’s all.”
“My wife loves the shops, she does,” he enthused. “She’d spend all me cash in those posh boutiques if she had her way. Does your hubby not mind ya visiting shops in the middle of the week?”
The mere mention of the word hubby and her heart skipped. A coincidence? Probably. Possibly not.
“Do ya not have a taxi company of your own out this way? It’s a fierce journey all the way out here then back again. Gonna cost ya!” His head shook. He was laughing at her.
It was too soon, she knew, but she came out with it anyway.
“Actually, I like, I mean prefer, this company. A friend of mine owns it.”
“A friend, you say?” This time she caught his eyes flicking at her. “Are ya sure ’bout that? You don’t look like the sort to be hangin’ out with my boss, and I’ve known Jimmy a few years now, I’ll tell ya!” He held her stare for seconds that went on for hours.
“I haven’t seen him in a while.” The shake in her voice a dead giveaway. Her knees trembled and her heart ticked lik
e a time bomb – any more and she, if not her bladder, would burst. “I wouldn’t mind catching up with him again. Is he about?” She held her breath.
An electric silence prevailed for another three sets of lights. Red, Red, Amber. He didn’t reply.
“Well, if you do see your boss, tell him I’ll see him, today, same place as last time at twelve noon.”
He dropped her, as requested, at the corner of O’Connell Street, taking her fare, and a considerable tip. She watched him drive down the quays then made her way to the station to catch the train home. She could hardly believe what she had just done. Her own audacity amazed her while the quake in her knees threatened to topple her altogether. Calm yet scared, she wondered what kind of a fall she was setting Philip up for, or herself if it all went wrong.
* * *
It felt odd to be in the park without the children. Rogue hollers of “Mum” triggering the instinctive reflex of her head while she sat on the same bench as last time, patiently, waiting. She had no idea if he would turn up, didn’t know if she’d given him enough time. He was obviously a busy man. Her sudden empathy disturbed her.
She sat down on the bench in the middle of the playground and waited. Almost half an hour had passed when she spotted the taxi driver from her morning trip standing at a distance from her. Hands in his bomber pockets, he nodded to her and then walked in the direction of the exit. Assuming he expected her to follow him, she got up and followed him to his cab.
He was already sitting in the front seat with the engine idling – waiting for her, she supposed. This time she sat into the front seat. The door wasn’t even fully closed when without a word he shifted the car into gear and hit the road towards the city centre.
The entire journey was travelled in silence. She sat still, with her hands clasped nervously in her lap. She kept him in her peripheral vision but he didn’t so much as sneak even one curious glance at her.
Twenty minutes into the trip, he indicated and pulled into the car park of a pub on the outskirts of the city, in a landscape dominated by industrial units and vast open waste ground.
Dark Mirrors Page 27
