“Bullshit. Assholes like you think you can park your cabs wherever you like. I ain’t having it. Move.”
The truck driver kicked the rear door of the taxi.
“Don’t do that!” said Smithy. “I just got the paintwork fixed last week.” It had taken every cent of the money Bunny had given him. Smithy had said he wasn’t getting involved in any more of Bunny’s nonsense, but when he’d called today, he had seemed so honestly worried about this kid that Smithy had come immediately, dropping a very unhappy fare off nowhere near where he’d wanted to go.
“Then move your frickin’ taxi, faggot.”
Smithy glowered at the guy. “I can’t move – it’s a matter of life and death. And shut up with your homophobic bullshit language.”
The guy kicked the door again, this time hard enough to leave a dent.
“Quit it!”
“Make me, princess!”
“Oh, for…” Smithy unclipped his seat belt. He would keep his temper, but he was going to have to stop the guy damaging the vehicle. That was all. He opened the door and hopped out. The truck driver looked down at him and burst out laughing.
“Holy shit, where’s the rest of you?”
“Hilarious.”
The man’s belly vibrated up and down under a T-shirt that had seen both better days and an owner about two sizes smaller. “This a fucking clown car? Are ten more of you gonna come out and then the doors fall off?”
Smithy pointed back at the truck. “Shut your cakehole, walrus-breath, and get back in your truck.” He was doing really well in his efforts to de-escalate the situation.
“You waiting for your mommy to pick you up from school?”
Smithy pursed his lips. Stay calm. Stay calm. Stay calm.
The truck driver started dancing around on the spot and humming what he no doubt thought of as the circus theme tune. Smithy knew the song was actually called “Entrance of the Gladiators”, which was very appropriate as this guy was about to get himself gladiated. Hard.
Smithy recognised the tingling sensation at the back of his mind. “Oh, come on!”
That last comment wasn’t meant for the truck driver, but he took it as such, adding in some hand-waving to his dance and redoubling his efforts. It was possibly more exercise than the man had done in years.
As far as Smithy was concerned, the voice he occasionally heard in his head was a result of getting run over a couple of years ago. As far as the voice itself thought – and for that matter, Jackson Diller, who Smithy had made the mistake of telling about it – it was the voice of God.
IGNORE HIM.
“I’m trying to ignore him.”
RISE ABOVE.
“Is that supposed to be funny?”
“Yeah, it is,” said the dancing idiot. “What you gonna do ’bout it, munchkin?
“Seriously?”
IGNORE HIM.
“Don’t hit the cab again.”
The dancing idiot had now incorporated kicking the door into his dance routine.
RISE ABOVE.
“I’m gonna…” Smithy stopped; he’d heard a sound. He jumped up on the rim of the door and looked up the pedestrian walkway between the two buildings. Bunny was holding up the hem of his robes and running for all he was worth. A sandal flew off as his feet pumped furiously beneath him. The reason for this became clear as five youths rounded the corner at the far end. Wild shots were being fired at Bunny’s back. Smithy heard a bullet whistle by overhead.
“START THE FECKING CAR!”
Smithy hopped back in. Bunny was still maybe two hundred feet away. To the side of the cab, the asshole truck driver was still dancing around, oblivious, too wrapped up in his own vigorous humming to notice the sound of gunshots.
SAVE HIM.
“You’ve got to be kidding!”
SAVE HIM.
Smithy stuck his head out the window. “Get out of here, you idiot.”
“Run along, little fella.” The driver, now working up a good sweat, seemed to be enjoying himself so much that it might well prove fatal.
SAVE HIM.
Ninety feet now. What kind of idiot didn’t notice bullets?
SAVE HIM.
“Right. Fine.”
Smithy hopped out of the door and delivered a life-saving punch to the truck driver’s nether regions that sent him crashing to the ground and out of the immediate line of fire.
“You’re welcome.”
Smithy hopped back into the driver’s seat and threw the car into drive.
Through the side window, he watched as Bunny hurtled straight for him, not slowing at all – like a big, sweaty, red-faced Irish meteor. A bullet pinged off the hood of the cab.
“Sssssshhhhhhhiiiiiitttttteeeeee,” said Bunny.
Fifteen feet.
Ten feet.
Bunny threw his arms up and stumbled the last few feet. It dawned on Smithy that he probably should have opened the door or at least the window just as Bunny came barrelling through it, sending diamond chunks of tempered glass raining down around Smithy. “GO!”
Smithy floored it, with Bunny dangling half in and half out of the car.
Smithy held him in with his right hand as he threw the car around the corner, watching in the rear-view as the five men looked on, waving their guns in frustration. Behind them, a truck driver who’d just had a lifesaving right hook to the testicles gingerly crawled back to his truck.
Smithy decelerated sharply to get the car around the corner without losing control of either it or the passenger he didn’t quite have.
“Whoa,” said Smithy, “that was close.”
“Close?” wailed Bunny. “Speak for yourself – I’ve been shot in the arse!”
Chapter Thirty-Six
“Arse. Feck. Shite. Bugger. Bugger. Bugger.”
“Please, Brother McGarry,” said Gabriel, “I know you’re in some discomfort, but…”
Bunny was lying on Rosario’s desk, the contents of which were now on the floor following his indelicate landing. He turned his head and looked over his shoulder. “Sorry, Father, didn’t see you there. BOLLOCKS!”
Smithy was kneeling on Gabriel’s desk, trying to be of assistance – or at least moral support. “To be fair, Padre, he’s not in discomfort. He’s been shot in the ass.”
Attending to Bunny was Gina Marks, an emergency room nurse who also gave women’s self-defence classes at the church. As it happened, she was due to take a class that night. Gabriel had rung and told her there was an emergency and begged her to come in early, not telling her the details until she got there. He knew more field medicine than most, but this situation required greater expertise. He didn’t know any doctors personally, but he knew that, sadly, a New York emergency room nurse like Gina would be all too familiar with the treatment of gunshot wounds.
“SWEATY BOLLOCKS!”
“Sorry,” said Gina. “Seriously” – she turned to Gabriel – “can’t the brother go to a hospital with this?”
“No,” said Bunny, “I can’t.”
“But—”
Gabriel put his hand on Gina’s shoulder. “I’m sorry to ask you to do this, but please, do what you can.”
Gina gave Gabriel a long, hard look before shaking her head. “Alright, but I could lose my job.”
“That won’t happen,” said Gabriel.
“Yeah,” agreed Bunny, “I’m not going to sue anyone. I might slap the good Father around the chops though.”
Gabriel smiled awkwardly. “The brother has quite a sense of humour.”
Smithy and Gina diplomatically did not comment.
“Well,” said Gina, “we’re lucky it’s not too deep, but I need to sterilise it. All I have is your first aid kit and the pliers, Mr…”
“Call me Smithy.”
“…gave me. I need something to clean the wound.”
“Yes,” said Bunny, “well, we’re in luck there. Father Gabriel has my flask of seventy-proof alcohol. That should do the job.”
Bunny and Gabriel locked eyes before Gabriel squeezed past Gina and slid his hand down the back of the filing cabinet, pulling the flask out.
Bunny shook his head. “Sneaky sod. Only place I didn’t look.”
“You were not supposed to be looking for it in the first place.”
Gabriel handed it to Gina.
“For a man who got me shot in the arse, you’re tremendously judgey.”
Gabriel shifted awkwardly, and not just because he was crammed into the gap between the desk and the filing cabinet. “Thank you for your help with that, Brother.”
“Wow,” said Gina, pulling her nose away from the top of the flask. “Is this lighter fluid?”
Bunny raised his voice. “Would people please stop making derogatory remarks about the poteen? What you’re holding there is an Irish national treasure.”
“Do you mean the booze or your ass?” asked Smithy.
Bunny turned his head to look at Smithy. “Are you enjoying this?”
“Of course not. Oh, and not to pile on, but there’s a bullet hole in the passenger door of the taxi and a broken window you jumped through.”
“Stick ’em on my TAB!” The last word was shouted as Gina began to sterilise the wound. “Shitting Nora!”
“Sorry,” said Gina again.
“S’alright, Gina. I don’t blame you.” Bunny looked pointedly at Gabriel.
“Father, Father!” Rosario appeared in the doorway. “F… Ohh.”
“Howerya, Rosario,” said Bunny. “C’mon in. We might as well stick a picture of this on the church’s Instagram account. See if we can get some likes for my perforated posterior.”
“Nice alliteration,” said Smithy. “Do you mind if I use that?”
“How is that going to come up?”
“Sorry,” said Rosario. “Brother, Father, Trey has gone!”
Rosario looked in a state of panic. Gabriel was all too aware that today had brought up painful memories for Rosario of her son’s death.
He held his hand out in a calming gesture. “It’s OK, Rosario. The hospital rang. They said Pocket is regaining consciousness. He has gone there.”
“Oh,” she said, at least partially mollified. “OK.”
“Maybe you could go over to the gym, make us all some coffee?”
She nodded. “Sure. OK. How is everything going?”
“Grand,” said Bunny. “Actually, you’re a good judge. As someone who regularly checks out my arse, which cheek did you think was my best – y’know, previously?”
Rosario smiled and flapped her hand at him. “You are a terrible man, Brother!”
“This from a woman who has me splayed out across her desk.”
Rosario gave a smile. “Coffees.” And she headed off, her heels click-clacking in the hall outside.
Bunny lowered his voice and looked at Gabriel. “Is she OK, what with…?”
Gabriel nodded. “I think so.”
“Not that it’s my business,” said Gina, who was cleaning the area around the wound, prior to extraction. “But from what I’ve heard, maybe you should’ve restrained that boy? Made sure he stays out of trouble until he regains himself.”
Gabriel shrugged. “We did what we could, but we can’t take him prisoner.”
Bunny said nothing, but he looked at Gabriel pointedly. One kid tied up in the basement was hard to explain; two would really look bad. “I take it the heart-to-heart didn’t go well?”
Gabriel shook his head. “The only way I could get him out of there was by knocking him out with a chokehold. That’s hard to come back from.”
“I suppose.”
“It’s lucky the hospital called.”
“Sorry to interrupt,” said Gina, “but I’m about to remove the bullet. You might need to find something to bite down on.”
“Hang on,” said Bunny, “before we do that” – he extended his hand behind him – “I need to sterilise my throat.”
Gina put the flask into Bunny’s hand, and he swung it round to his lips. He looked up at Gabriel. “Say something, I dare ye! I fecking dare ye!”
Gabriel wisely said nothing.
“OK,” said Gina, “Here goes.”
“OK, just – CHRIST ON A SHITTING LILO!”
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Diller looked up into the night sky. A couple of hours of persistent snow had given way to a temporary reprieve, though the forecast said there’d be heavy snowfall later in the night. The light pollution of the city meant that it was never ideal for stargazing, but up here, on the roof of his house, the view wasn’t half bad if you got a clear sky. He and his mom used to sit up here sometimes in the summer and share a lemonade. You had to hold on to the good days.
Now it was too cold for sitting around, but that had not been his intention. It had taken him the best part of an hour, but he had gathered up all the snow and formed it into the shape he wanted. As a final touch, he took the package he had carefully wrapped and held it up to the sky, feeling rather stupid as he did so. Like he was presenting an offering to some benign god. Only in this case, it was really giving thanks, seeing as he had been rescued by whatever it was and, he assumed, received the gift of his new coat from it too. Diller wasn’t sure exactly what was going on, but he had given his original coat away while standing opposite the base of operations of the Sisters of the Saint, and he assumed that wasn’t a coincidence. He knew it was weird, but Diller had never minded weird. For a person who had spent his life feeling lonely, having someone looking out for him felt nice. He had also been raised to show appreciation, hence the gift. He had spent the last two nights carefully crafting it, and he hoped whoever it was would like it.
Once he’d placed the package down, Diller went to climb back into the hatch on the side of the roof, but first he stopped and offered a wave, feeling faintly ridiculous. Still, nobody could see him in the dark. At least, not from the ground.
Several miles away, Sister Zoya stared at her monitor. There, on the roof of Jackson Diller’s house, were the words “THANK YOU”, spelled out in huge snowy letters beside a similarly formed smiley face. She watched in silence, biting at her nails. Part of her knew she probably shouldn’t. Technically, it could be a ruse. Birdie could descend to pick up whatever was in the package and be nabbed by some fiendish trap. Or the gift itself could be the trap. Or there could be some kind of monitoring device on the roof, designed to capture a picture of Birdie. The problem with having a devious mind, which Zoya definitely had, was that it was very hard not to see the multitude of angles in any supposedly innocent gesture. The thing was, Jackson Diller, who admittedly she had never actually met, didn’t seem like the fiendish-trap sort. Zoya knew that while she was great with the devious, the intricate and the downright ingenious, she had never been very good when a human element was introduced into the equation. She didn’t understand people, and that made her wary. Still, for all that, Jackson Diller didn’t seem to have an ulterior motive.
Zoya took a deep breath. “OK, Birdie, let’s see what we got.”
Chapter Thirty-Eight
The sound of “Ave Maria” being played through the speakers in the church above carried down into the basement. Gabriel had locked the doors and put up a sign saying they were closed for maintenance as soon as they’d brought Bunny back. He’d then put on the music to drown out the sounds of Bunny being attended to – and the loud and evocative swearing that accompanied it.
The bullet had been removed and Gina was bandaging the wound. Gabriel felt bad about asking her to get involved, but he had no other choice. It seemed that, increasingly, his life was about making the least worst choices in tough situations. And so, he would take the one option he had left.
Down in the basement, the boy who had been sent to kill him the night before was still tied to the broken radiator, his arms stretched out and his body bound to it in order to prevent escape. This had the unintended consequence of him looking not unlike Jesus on the cross – if the cross were an old cast-iron radiator
and the nails tightly knotted cord. Bound and gagged as he was, Gabriel hadn’t been able to give him any food or drink. Removing the gag had been too risky; his shouts could have brought unwanted attention.
Now, Gabriel held a tray containing a large glass of milk and a plate of Rosario’s cookies. He looked at the boy, at his brown eyes and dark hair, and saw pure hate staring back at him. He placed the tray down, unfolded a chair and placed it in front of his captive.
“If I free one of your hands, can I trust you will behave yourself?”
The boy just stared back at him.
Gabriel shook his head but moved across and carefully released the boy’s left hand from its binding. He attempted to grab Gabriel, but the move was expected, and he stepped easily back out of reach.
The boy pulled the gag out of his mouth and roared at the top of his lungs. “Help!”
Gabriel looked down calmly at him. “Are you done, or should I take the food away?”
The boy glanced at the milk and cookies, his tongue moving across his parched lips. He looked back up at Gabriel and nodded.
“Good,” said Gabriel, pushing the tray within reach with his foot. The boy grabbed up the glass of milk and gulped it down. Gabriel sat in the chair and watched as he devoured the cookies too. They really were very nice, although he doubted his captive was even tasting them, such was the speed with which he wolfed them down. He had probably been too nervous to eat before his mission.
Only once he had finished did Gabriel speak again. “So, what is your name?”
The boy said nothing.
“Come on, you are allowed to tell me your name. Even soldiers are allowed to give name, rank and serial number.”
The boy rolled his head around slightly on his neck before answering. “David.”
Gabriel nodded. “I see. I once knew a David. The man who had that name before you.”
This statement was met with a blank look that was eerily familiar. It was the same look he had received from many teenagers over the years, although none of them had tried to kill him.
I Have Sinned Page 22
