Stealing God (31 page)

He started to get up.

Jimmy leaned forward, put a hand on his shoulder and gently pushed him back into the chair.

‘It's all right, you needed to talk to someone, I understand.'

Ricci was breaking apart. Jimmy didn't like that, he needed to know what was going on. He didn't want him in pieces.

‘There's so much I was going to do, there's so many things. I have a girl, you know, a nice girl, not just someone to sleep with. We've talked about getting married, having a family.' Ricci wasn't looking anywhere, he was talking to himself. That was fine, thought Jimmy, let him talk. It's good to talk.

So Ricci talked about a future that would never be and Jimmy sat and thought about whether or not he had a future.

Did they have Ricci sorted from day one? Was he was chosen because he was already taken care of, because nature had done it for them? Or had it been neatly arranged? Slip him something that would finish him and fix it all in a medical report. All very sad but all very neat and tidy.

‘The doctor said it was some sort of …'

Jimmy nodded but he wasn't really listening, Ricci was saying something about dying in a haze of morphine. That was tough, but he had other things on his mind.

This was the last little bit and he hadn't seen it coming. But he should have seen it coming. There was no way McBride was going to leave loose ends around. In a couple of months Ricci would be shot so full of drugs he would do well to remember his own name and in the meantime he wouldn't give a damn about what was in the crate. He wasn't a threat to anyone. He was already dead.

‘The doctor says he can arrange …' he was better now, talking himself through it, ‘… but it won't help it will just confirm …' soon he could get rid of him and get on. Now he knew about Ricci he knew what had to be done.

Ricci took out his damp handkerchief again and blew his nose hard. Then he wiped his eyes. Jimmy noticed because he did it the wrong way round and that meant he was on autopilot, but that was OK because it also meant he was trying to pull himself together and getting ready to leave. He was sorted, it was tough on him, but he was sorted. But what about him? Ricci's troubles would soon be over, Jimmy's were just beginning. Ricci was sitting in the chair staring at the floor. What the hell was he waiting for?

Suddenly Jimmy thought of Bernie. Bernie would have been beside Ricci. She would have an arm round him and she would have listened, really listened. And Michael, Michael would have found some words, the right words. And what had he done? He'd thought about Jimmy Costello. This guy was going to die, he could die in a haze of morphine or die conscious and screaming at the pain, that was some shitty choice and all he did was close the book on him and think, how does this affect Jimmy fucking Costello? Oh God, would he ever change? Jimmy got up, stood beside Ricci and put his arm around his shoulders. Ricci didn't move, didn't respond in any way, he just looked at the carpet. Jimmy wanted to think of the right words, he wanted to listen, he wanted to help. But Jimmy's mind wasn't having any of it. Jimmy's mind was running. It didn't care what this new Jimmy wanted, it was running and Jimmy knew he'd soon have to join it. He wasn't Bernie and he wasn't Michael, he was Jimmy Costello, and would be for the rest of his life.

THIRTY-EIGHT

Jimmy was waiting when Danny came into the bar, walked to the table, and sat down. There was a whisky in front of Jimmy, and a bottle of beer and a glass. Jimmy pushed the beer and glass towards Danny who looked at them before he spoke.

‘I hope this is as urgent as you made it sound, man. I had to miss a Christology lecture, an important one. I was looking forward to it. “What was the nature of the Word before the Incarnation?” Did Jesus' nature only become human when Mary conceived?'

‘Deep stuff, I'm glad I'm out of it.'

‘So, you're out of it? You made up your mind?'

‘Somebody made it up for me.'

‘Your rector?'

‘In a way. Cheers.'

Jimmy took a sip of his whisky. Danny looked at the beer.

‘I drink coffee, Jimmy.'

‘You hate coffee.'

‘Maybe so, but it's what I drink.'

‘This is special, this is goodbye. Drink your beer, or would you prefer whisky? Or maybe white rum?'

Danny smiled his big smile.

‘You know damn well I'd prefer white rum, but I guess I'll settle for this.' He took up the bottle and glass and carefully poured the beer. ‘Cheers.' He took a large sip then closed his eyes for a second and Jimmy waited. ‘The first in over five years, man. That's how much I'm doing for you.'

‘I appreciate it.'

‘You damn well better,' and Danny took another small sip. Jimmy put his hand inside his jacket and pulled out a brown paper envelope. It was thick. He put it on the table and pushed it across. Danny picked it up and opened it. It was full of Euros. He put it back on the table. ‘Who?'

‘Who what?'

‘Who do you want me to kill? Your rector?' Danny laughed. ‘I'll do it, of course, but you don't need to pay me. It'll be a favour to a friend.'

They both laughed.

‘It's to pay off my apartment to the end of the tenancy. It was finished in under two months anyway so there shouldn't be any trouble.' Jimmy put his hand into his pocket and pulled out some keys which he put on the table. ‘I want you to clean it out. Get rid of anything, absolutely anything of mine that could help anyone who might come looking for me. Clean the place out, Danny, and I mean really clean, like a dealer expecting a bust.'

There was no laughter now. Danny looked at the black holdall on the floor beside Jimmy's chair. He was on the move and travelling light.

‘You're running?' Jimmy nodded. ‘I understand. I'll see to it.'

‘Slow them down, Danny, make them work for it.'

‘Who is it? Who's going to come looking for you?'

‘Someone I won't see coming and someone I can't stop.'

They sat in silence. Jimmy took a sip of his whisky and Danny took one of his beer.

‘Listen, Jimmy, there's nothing really keeping me here. I could leave tomorrow if I wanted. Why not come to Jamaica with me? I have friends there who could look out for you.' He smiled, ‘I could even watch your back like you asked me to.'

Jimmy thought about it. Maybe they'd leave him alone, maybe no one would come for him. He was small-fry, not important. He looked at his glass. And maybe he'd get made bloody pope. If they came they would ask around, ask among the mature students and find that he'd hung around with Ron and Danny. If Danny had left suddenly and gone home about the same time he'd gone that should take them to Jamaica, and if he was somewhere else, somewhere far away …

‘It's a thought, Danny. Do you think your old police buddies could really make it safe for me? I think the people who come, if they come, will be tough nuts and good at what they do.'

‘I think it may be the best chance you've got, if you really are in the kind of bind I think you are.'

‘OK, Danny, I'll do it your way. I'm going today, as soon as I leave here. How long will it take for you to clean up my stuff and get away?'

Danny thought about it.

‘Maybe three, four days if you want it done thoroughly.'

‘Right. How will I contact you in Jamaica?'

‘When you get in, ring this number and I'll come out to the airport.' Danny pulled a small notepad and a pen out and he jotted down a mobile number. He tore out the page and handed it to Jimmy who took it, looked at it, and then stuffed it into the side pocket of his jacket. ‘Any time of the day or night, just call and I'll come and get you.'

‘Thanks.'

‘Why didn't you get out when I told you to, man? I told you they would chew you up and they wouldn't spit you out alive. Why didn't you get out when you could?'

‘I know, you told me, but I just wouldn't listen. I never listen.'

Jimmy picked up his drink and finished it. Then he stood up. Danny was a good friend. Going to Jamaica might slow them down; he hoped Danny didn't get too chewed up in the process.

‘You think they will follow you to Jamaica?'

Jimmy knew they would come. He was a nothing, but what he knew about them wasn't nothing. They would come all right.

‘Maybe not, Jamaica's a long way away. So long, Danny. I'll see you in about a week, two at the most.'

Danny didn't get up, he just stretched out his big hand.

‘Go carefully, Jimmy, and God go with you.'

They shook hands.

‘Light a candle for me.'

‘I'll light two. We'll need them.'

Jimmy turned and walked out.

Danny pushed the beer away, it was better than coffee, but only just. He got up. He would go to church and light those candles, although he knew two weren't enough. There probably wasn't enough candles in all the churches in Rome to make sure Jimmy was going to be alright. But what could you do? Jimmy was Jimmy, and he always would be.

Epilogue

‘If that tide of European money they say washed over Ireland got as far as Mayo it didn't do as much as wet the soles of my boots.'

‘The trouble with the Celtic Tiger was that its mouth was over in Dublin, that's where what money there was got swallowed. The west of Ireland was at the other end of the beast and we all know very well what the other end deals in.'

‘Shite.'

‘Is that a comment, Noel, or are you agreeing with him?'

‘Neither.'

‘Maybe it's a bit of both.'

The four men sitting together at the table laughed.

‘It was bloody foreign charity that's what it was and what's worse, it was charity that went to the wrong people. Charity is for the poor, and it certainly wasn't the poor who got it.'

‘Well it's been and gone and we're all back to square one so there's an end to it.'

There was a pause until one thinker asked a question.

‘But tell me, if we're the arse end of Ireland, where's the tail? There's nowhere after us until New York.'

‘The Celtic Tiger never had a tail, it started to run short of money somewhere in Roscommon and wasn't able to afford one by the time it got here.'

But the answer only made the Thinker ask another question.

‘So wouldn't that have made it a Manx Tiger, not a Celtic one?'

‘What?'

‘It's Manx cats that have no tails.'

‘And I have no beer in my glass so if none of you mean buggers are buying there's nothing for it but to use my own money.' The speaker got up and took his empty glass to the bar. ‘Another pint please, Ned.'

The three thinkers left at the table in Maloney's Bar lost interest in European finance and, as the talk had been of money, the conversation naturally turned to farming. The man at the bar looked around. It wasn't a busy night. He nodded to the only other customer, a crumpled, middle-aged man in an old tweed jacket sitting at a table by himself with a half-finished glass of Guinness in front of him. The man nodded back, but without any real enthusiasm. When the pint came the man asked the barman quietly,

‘Do we know yet who he is or why he's here?'

The barman waited until a note had been handed over for the pint of Smithwicks before he answered.

‘He's an Englishman, London by the sound of his voice, and he doesn't seem to be here for anything in particular.'

‘Doesn't fish?'

The barman shook his head.

‘Golf?'

Another shake.

‘Maybe he paints.'

‘Well I hope it's watercolours because we've seen nothing but rain for the past month.'

‘Maybe he's a writer. I can't see why anybody would come here from England if it's not for the fishing or the golf, so maybe he's a writer. I wonder what he writes. What did you say his name was?'

‘I didn't, but it's Costello.'

The barman put the man's change on the counter. The Smithwicks drinker continued to speculate.

‘I've never heard of anything written by anybody called Costello, but he might write under another name.'

‘Maybe he's come here to be left alone and not have people poking around finding out who he is and what he's doing here.'

The drinker took his change and his pint.

‘Well he's made a poor choice if he has. There hasn't been a secret kept in Eriskenny since Cromwell was a Catholic.'

And he rejoined his friends.

From his table the solitary Englishman glanced at the group of thinkers and drinkers. They were locals, friends, and neighbours having a drink together. They probably met like this most nights of the week. God knows there wasn't much else to do in this town except stay home and watch the TV. His mind reflected on the place he had fetched up in: Eriskenny. An ugly little town on the main road to nowhere, it had a run down, hopeless air about it. It survived on an agriculture which itself struggled to survive the wet, rocky, heather-strewn land. The wide main street was a collection of shabby little shops selling everything a householder might ever need, from paint and paraffin to lace curtains and china tea sets with the odd funeral wreath and First Communion dress here and there.

Among the shops were scattered no less than seven bars. The man took a sip of his Guinness. He didn't really like it, that was why he drank it, that way the pints lasted longer and he could get through the night on just three. Maybe he would change to Smithwicks. It might be all right, and if he took a good long walk in the mornings and again in the afternoons maybe after three pints of bitter he would be ready to sleep.

He took another glance at the men at the table. They certainly weren't furious drinkers. Their pints seem to last longer than his and he was deliberately slow. How could a place like Eriskenny support seven bloody bars? He did a quick calculation. Allowing fifty per cent of the population were women and three quarters of what was left were kids that meant there was one bar for about every twenty adult males. That couldn't be right. Yet that seemed to be how it was. Suddenly the man who had just bought a pint got up and came to his table.