Little Criminals (41 page)

She didn’t turn round when the door of the room made its whooshing sound. A nurse came in, checked the charts and inserted an electronic thermometer in Angela’s left ear. The instrument beeped, the nurse made a note of the reading, said something pointlessly encouraging and left the room.

In the hours she’d been here, she’d already become used to the whooshing of the door, the beep of the thermometer, the needle pricks, the tablets in the little plastic medication cup and the nurses’ cheery routine. She felt herself to be the nodding, smiling cocoon of calm at the centre of a whirl of activity. If it wasn’t temperature, medication or liquids, it was food, dressings or just
How are we feeling?
If it wasn’t the nurses it was the doctors, or the police or the counsellor. Justin and the kids had been in and out, the bedside locker strewn with crumpled tissues.

The medical people were the easiest to deal with. They told her what to do and she did it. Just a while back, a doctor she didn’t remember meeting before came to tell her, ‘I can assure you there’ll be no lasting effects.’

Angela stared at him. ‘In what—’

‘The results were negative. All of them, and you already know you’re not pregnant. All clear for chlamydia, HIV, hepatitis B, all the rest of it. You’ll need a routine three-month follow-up, but I think we can set your mind at rest from that point of view.’

She nodded.

The doctor looked slightly disappointed. Perhaps he expected the news to cause some visible lift in her mood. Apart from when she first saw the kids, her emotions didn’t seem to be affected by the things she was told or the things she saw or thought. She wondered if among the cocktail of medication she was getting the doctors had slipped in something to soothe her mind. She hoped that was it.

She’d lost track of the doctors. Two consultants, for certain, maybe three, and another two or three brisk young men floating in and out. One of them told her about the hy-something that made her eyes red with blood. It would be gone within a week, he said. There was an area of numbness on her cheek. That’ll pass in a few weeks, the doctor told her. ‘Or months,’ he added.

She had double vision. She found it hard to move her left eye, to look up. After an X-ray and a CT scan, another of the doctors told her there was something called a blowout, callsed by the punches to her face. Fracture in the floor of the eye socket. That was what was causing the double vision, he said. On the back of a sheet of paper from her chart, he sketched something she couldn’t figure out. Trapped tissue.

‘It also accounts for the drooping eyelid,’ he said.

She hadn’t known until then that her eyelid was drooping. She realised that no one had offered her a mirror, and she hadn’t asked for one.

‘The surgery is routine.’

Angela nodded.
Just do it
.

There was a period of time to go through, pain and indignity, then she would see where she stood. Justin asked if she wanted to move house, but Angela said no. He told her he had a security consultant designing a new alarm system and it would be installed by the time she came home.

They spoke in only the broadest terms about what had happened. ‘You poor thing,’ he said. Again and again he said, Those bastards.’ Something like this, she realised, they didn’t share the vocabulary necessary to discuss the emotions she’d gone through. Maybe with her sister Elizabeth she’d be able to talk about the detail of what happened. When this was over, she’d go stay for a while with Elizabeth in Paris.

When there were people with her, Angela wanted to be alone. And when she had time to herself it went by in great silent, empty passages, her mind fastening on details that seemed worth her attention when she noticed them – like the silly colour of a car parked three floors below – and then left her wondering if there had ever been a time when she wasn’t this woolly-minded.

‘Have you decided yet?’

It was the most cheery of the nurses.

‘Sorry?’

Nodding towards the menu left on the bedside locker. ‘For afternoon tea? Have you decided?’

‘Well—’

‘Ah sure, take your time. I’ll be back in ten minutes. OK?’

As the nurse left the room, Angela turned back to the window. The luminous green car was still down there. She waited and watched.

Justin Kennedy met Kevin Little in the private waiting room down the corridor from Angela’s room. Daragh O’Suilleabhain made the introductions. Half an hour earlier, Daragh had called with the news that Kevin was in the country for the afternoon for a meeting with the Minister for Finance. He’d heard the great news, was it possible he could drop in on Justin with his good wishes?

‘Angela’s not up to—’

‘He wouldn’t dream of intruding. He just wants to see you, wish you all the best, touch base. So many people are so pleased it’s all—’

‘That sounds fine.’

‘Kevin’s an emotional man. It’s like this happened to one of his own.’

Kevin Little appeared at the hospital at the precise time he said he would. He spent two minutes expressing genuine warmth and concern to Justin, then he was gone. ‘We’ll talk,’ he said as he was leaving. Justin nodded.

He rang Elizabeth, checked the kids were OK. When he got back to Angela’s room a nurse told him his wife was having a nap – why not take a break, she suggested, maybe drop home and freshen up?

Justin shucked his cuff and glanced at his Patek Philippe. He shook his head. He’d stay. He wanted to be here when Angela woke.

At the end of the narrow twisting road from Leo’s Titley’s farm, Frankie Crowe had a choice. Left through Harte’s Cross and take the main road northwards, or right and take the safer but slower back roads. If the cops arrived sharpish at Leo Titley’s farm and found John Grace handcuffed to the stiff, it didn’t matter what route he took. Every
boreen
in Meath would have a roadblock within minutes. Speed was more important, so the better road was the one to take. Once he was clear of Meath, he could turn on to the back roads and take his time working his way towards Belfast. He turned left.

Have to find an out-of-the-way farmhouse, pick up a new car. Can’t be sure when this one will turn red-hot
.

The chances of getting out of the country were no more than fairly rotten. All it took was one roadblock, one copper who wasn’t dozy, and it was all over. If he got across to Britain there were people ready to sell the help he needed to melt into a new name, new papers, in Europe. It would cost a bundle to get from England to Amsterdam, and more time to feel out the landscape. Kind of money he had now, there wasn’t much he needed that he couldn’t buy. But it would take time. Wander carelessly into a strange city with that kind of money and some early-morning stroller will find your bones picked clean.

He glanced at the Rolex. No matter how roundabout the route, he’d make Belfast before nightfall.

There wasn’t much afternoon traffic in Harte’s Cross. Frankie drove carefully. Stay well within the speed limit, no sloppy moves.

Shit
.

The petrol gallge showed the needle in the red. Would it last until he found somewhere to pick up another car?

He pulled into a garage halfway down the main street and filled up. He hadn’t eaten all day. When he came out of the garage shop he was carrying two chicken sandwiches and two small bottles of Coke.

‘Little fucker.’ The voice was loud but frayed.

He looked across the street and saw a tall old man, long black overcoat and wild grey hair, standing on the far pavement. There was surprise and anger and confusion on the old guy’s face.

His voice rang out across the street. ‘You.’

Culchie gobshite on day release from the local home for the bewildered. The country’s full of them
.

Frankie got into the car and put the food on the passenger seat, aware that the loony tunes was crossing the street towards him. He turned the ignition and reached for the door but the old man was holding on to it with one hand. When Frankie tried to pull the door shut the old man’s grip made it feel like the door was set in concrete.

The old man said, ‘Get out.’

Frankie let his hand fall naturally towards the handle of the gun tucked into his belt. He could feel the outline through his leather jacket.

No
.

No fuss. Brush him off and it’s just an old fool making a nuisance of himself. Pull a gun, everything goes ballistic
.

He looked around to see if there was anyone who’d help him shift the fool. There was a car pulling in behind. He looked at the old man and saw that he was taking a parcel of some kind, a red and white towel, from under one arm.

‘No time for chit-chat, pops.’

The old man was unwrapping the towel.

Jesus
.

‘Get out.’

The old man’s gun was almost touching Frankie’s temple.

‘What the fuck’s this about?’

‘Get out.’

Frankie slid out of the car. More freedom of movement, standing up. No way this could be settled now without a fuss.

Fuck it. Can’t go any distance at all in this car now. Have to find new wheels just to get out of the county, dump that later, pick up another. Stupid old bastard
.

The old man stepped back. Out of reach.

Frankie took a step forward. When the old man put the gun close to Frankie again, an arm swinging up fast would be enough to put the pistol out of the picture. After that, it was
one-two-three
. Punch in the throat, kick the legs from under him. Step on him. Whatever this was about, it had to be ended quickly.

Frankie glanced up and down the street. No sign of a uniform. The driver of the Toyota that pulled in behind, a plump young woman with short, dark curly hair and dark glasses, was unhooking the petrol pump.

Frankie said to the mad old man, ‘You’re mixing me up with someone else.’

‘I know who you are.’

Shit. The pictures in the newspapers
.

‘Nothing to do with you, old man. Mind your own business.’

The old man jabbed the gun towards Frankie, like he wanted Frankie to stop talking. The old man’s hand was trembling. Frankie’s muscles tensed. Near enough now for a hand moving fast enough. Give it a second.

His arm down by his side, he made a fist.

One-two-three
.

Something changed, a movement he didn’t quite see, and Frankie was lying on the ground, on his side, facing the back of the car. The woman from the Toyota was standing twenty feet away with both hands clapped flat to the sides of her face. She was looking at Frankie, she was screaming, but Frankie couldn’t hear anything except the hissing sound that seemed to come from inside his own head.

Burning smell.

There was something hot and wet on Frankie’s face.

Jesus
.

The old bastard was stepping over Frankie, the gun hanging down by his side. He looked right down at Frankie and he said something.

Frankie couldn’t hear the words.

He tried to say something but he wasn’t sure if any sound came from his lips and he wasn’t sure what he wanted to say. The old man was bending down, leaning over Frankie.

Stupid old bastard, tears in his eyes.

Frankie saw the muzzle of the gun coming round.

Wait—

Twice Stephen Beckett declined the offer of a cup of tea. The third time, they brought it anyway. Now, it too had gone cold, and the ham sandwich they left with it remained untouched. For the first time since they brought him to the little room at the back of the garda station, Stephen stood up. The room was warm. It took him a couple of seconds to steady himself, then he took off his overcoat and the young uniformed garda standing just inside the door took it and brought it outside. When he returned he looked at the cold tea and the sandwich and he took those away, too.

Stephen sat down again in the chair behind the worn-out table. Over the couple of hours since he’d been brought here he’d been visited by a number of gardai, including a uniformed superintendent and a couple of detective inspectors. None of them had asked him anything about what happened. Mostly they asked if he was OK, if there was anything he needed. The superintendent asked if he had a solicitor. Stephen said he didn’t want a solicitor. The superintendent said he’d better have one, anyway. By and by, a thin man in a grey suit came and introduced himself as a solicitor. He said something that Stephen didn’t catch, then he said he’d be back in a little while and he went away.

The young uniformed garda brought in yet another cup of tea and left it on the table, then went back to standing beside the door.

‘Won’t be long now,’ he said. Stephen was about to ask him what it wouldn’t be long until, then he didn’t bother.

He was aware of a great calmness surrounding him, like the silence immediately after an explosion. He’d first noticed that sense of calm as he walked back from the garage, the sound of the second shot ebbing away, the crumbled figure on the ground behind him.

They’ll ask me why, and anything I say will sound like an excuse
.