Falling Glass (36 page)

However Killian also had Markov’s ACP.

He let the MP5 hang on its strap, took out the Colt, removed the suppressor and gave No. 3 four .45 rounds through the door.

Killian heard nothing. No scream, no moan, no cry of defiance. Nothing.

He hesitated. Go on into the house? No. Couldn’t have this sneaky character behind him.

Holding the .45 ahead of him he ran to the No. 3’s ante room and entered FBI-style, clocking corners and blind spots.

Bobby was lying on the floor, his skull cracked in half like a broken egg. Blood, brains, bone all over the floor.

“Jesus,” Killian muttered and ran back out into the hall.

A woman was standing there with a walking stick.

“Ye dirty baste!” she screamed at him and advanced on him at a shuffle-run.

Killian smacked the side of her head with his closed fist and she went down like a thirteen-year-old lassie during a Justin Bieber concert.

Killian ran into the foyer, saw the venerable butler, nodded to him, didn’t see any niece and ran upstairs taking the steps three at a time.

He had forgotten the floor plan and he tried three bedrooms before finding the master bedroom at the back of the house.

Stupid place for a master bedroom – no view, he thought, as he kicked the door in and dived for the floor.

The expected shotgun blast did not come.

Killian opened his eyes.

Helena was standing by the bed, clutching her swollen belly.

“Everything okay?” Killian asked.

She looked terrified. Petrified, to be more strictly accurate.

“Everything okay?” Killian repeated, checking the blind spots.

“What? No.”

“I mean with the baby, is everything okay with baby?” Killian asked, looking under the big four-poster.

“I think so, I don’t know.”

“Cops will be here soon. Where is he?”

“I don’t know, I—”

Killian walked towards her and nudged the barrel of the MP5 against her stomach.

“Where?” he asked quietly.

She pointed at the balcony.

“He’s right out there? I don’t believe it.”

“There’s a staircase to the garden,” Helena said.

Killian was cruising on adrenalin now, he touched an imaginary forelock and said, “Much obliged, ma’am,” in a good ol’ boy accent.

He opened the French doors and walked out onto the balcony. There were indeed steps down to the garden.

Down to the massive garden that had sheds, a rosary, a couple of different greenhouses and a bloody orchard.

“Shit,” Killian muttered.

If he was halfway smart Coulter would just find a quiet corner and hold his breath, knowing that rescue was roaring to him along the Belfast Road.

“Coulter!” Killian screamed.

No answer.

“Coulter, you motherfucker!”

Surf.

Wind.

Sheep.

“Damn it,” Killian said. He looked at Viv’s watch.

3.00.

How long did he have before this jig was well and truly up?

“Coulter, I’m going to shoot her if you don’t come out!” he yelled. Killian waited but Coulter did not come out.

“Coulter, you can’t hide forever!” Killian yelled.

But Coulter was no mug.

“Come on, man, we can talk about this!” Killian yelled.

Killian caught something on the wind.

Far off in the distance he could hear a siren tearing along the coast. Them boys had got their dicks out of each other’s arses faster than he’d been expecting.

Killian drummed his finger on the balcony rail.

And then he slapped his forehead.

Did an actual Buster Keaton forehead slap.

He ran back into the bedroom where Helena was sitting on the bed and talking on the phone to someone.

Killian touched his imaginary forelock again and ran along the corridor and down the sweeping staircase.

Mrs Lavery had recovered sufficiently to call him a “filthy heathen Turk” which was a nice anachronistic insult.

Killian ran past the butler who was also on the phone to someone.

Again no niece.

He sprinted out through the wrecked front doors onto the gravel driveway.

He ran back to the lodge where Viv was trying to cut the duct tape off his hands with the meal edge of the chair. “Now, I have to blow your brains out, don’t I?” Killian said.

Viv flinched and Killian flipped him over and ran another couple of lines of duct tape around his wrists.

How do I get these frickin’ cameras to go to infrared? he wondered, and then noticed a switch on every single monitor that said “Heat”.

He found the camera overlooking the back garden and flipped the “Heat” switch.

“I can hear the sirens,” Viv said. “You better leg it, mate.”

Killian examined the infrared camera and sure enough there was a massive red human-shaped heat source coming from inside the longer of
the two greenhouses. It was Coulter and he was hiding up in a corner behind some bushes or trees or something.

Killian grinned and leaned over Viv. “I’m not your mate, mate, and by the way Villa are fucking shite,” he said and sprinted back across the gravel and ran around the side of the house.

He held the MP5 in assault mode and keeping a low posture ran to the larger of the two greenhouses. He turned the handle and went inside.

Crouching he made his way along a line of fruit trees towards where Coulter had been hiding.

Gunfire.

Glass bursting above his head.

Two shots. A third.

It wasn’t Mrs Lavery, was it? Or Helena, god love her. Nah. It was coming from
inside.
Coulter had very sensibly armed himself.

Killian hit the deck and belly-crawled between the trees, which were housed in red terracotta pots.

Two more shots, just above him. They were big heavy slow slugs as if from a .38 revolver.

There had been what, five of them? Five shots?

Killian lifted his hand and waved it in the moonlight.

Another shot, a window splintering and then a distinct click. And Coulter would not be reloading that thing in two seconds SAS-style.

Still, there was no point hanging about. Killian sprang to his feet and ran to Coulter’s corner.

Coulter was scrambling for a back exit.

Killian put an MP5 round in the door to get his attention.

Coulter turned and dropped his gun and put his hands in the air.

“You wouldn’t shoot an unarmed man,” Coulter said.

Killian walked towards him holding the MP5’s pistol-grip in his right hand and its curved magazine in his left.

A wave of depression passed through him.

He was getting the post-action blues before the action was even over.

He took a deep breath.

How lovely it would be just to have a wee lie down.

The sirens, however, were distinctly closer now.

Coulter was standing right at the greenhouse door, where Helena or Mrs Lavery or anyone else could see him and maybe help.

This next act needed privacy.

“Have a seat,” Killian said.

Coulter sat on the ground with his head against the door handle. Killian squatted in front of him baseball-catcher fashion.

“What are you going to do?” Coulter asked, trembling. His face was pale, his blue eyes nearly black under the moon. He had cut himself on the cheek and the blood was dripping onto the ground. He was dressed in a plain black T-shirt and blue pyjama bottoms with racing cars on them.

“What are these, orange trees?” Killian asked.

“Lime and lemon,” Coulter said.

“Lime and lemon.”

The two men looked at one another.

Killian shook his head and raised the MP5.

“Wait a minute!” Coulter screamed. “Why are you doing this? Why?”

“I’d like to say I was sorry, Richard,” Killian said. “But I saw the video. I heard about the abortions.”

“Hold on. Hold on a minute, Killian. They were all older than you think. They were all fucking willing participants. There was no rape. We fucking paid them. We got them presents. We bought their silence.”

“I’ll bet you did. I’m sure you and your good friend Dermaid McCann did indeed make sure that no one fucking talked.”

“It wasn’t like that, Killian. It wasn’t like that. Do you remember the seventies in Belfast? It was a fucking war. There were different rules. It was Berlin 1945. There were no rules. Bombings every day. Firebombings. Shootings. Do you remember? Running a fucking brothel in all that madness. In all that madness. A wee bit of fun. That’s all it was. It was a good thing. A coming together across the divide. Me and McCann and a couple of others.”

“Fun was it?”

“Don’t be such a fucking choirboy, Killian. This is Ireland. Far fucking worse was happening in orphanages and fallen girls’ homes and fucking convents. This is old news, mate. Special Branch knows about it and you don’t hear them fucking blabbing.”

“So that’s why you’ve never been granted a knighthood,” Killian said, as the sound of a helicopter now got added to the sirens.

“It’s all bullshit, Killian, it’s water under the bridge, it’s a fairy story. Nobody’s interested. You see?”

Killian shook his head. “Why did you get the film transferred from Super 8? Why did you keep it?”

“Insurance. McCann wasn’t a player back then, he was just a fucking muckety-muck who controlled a local racket. He got me a couple of contacts and then both our stars started to rise. He got onto the IRA Army council. That’s a fucking useful chip to have. What would you do? Just insurance, that’s all. I didn’t even think about it anymore. It was on some old bloody computer that I didn’t even think about.”

“Does he know you have the film?”

“Aye, he remembers us filming it, but he thinks it was destroyed ages ago. He’s never brought it up with me. Nobody knows about the footage. Just you, me, Tom… and Rachel of course.”

Killian nodded. That helped clarify things.

“See? It’s all over. No harm done. All fucking over, mate. Nobody gives a shit about that old nonsense. Belfast has changed. Ulster has changed. Ireland has changed,” Coulter continued.

“Yes.”

Coulter laughed. “And the laptop’s at the bottom of a bloody lake! Did you know that?”

“I was there,” Killian said.

“Aye. So you get it, right? It’s all bullshit, Killian. Once upon a fucking time in fucking Belfast…”

Killian stroked his chin, looked Coulter in the eyes.

“I’ve been a force for good, mate, and I’ve worked bloody hard. I didn’t get any breaks.”

“That’s not strictly true, is it? Your little self-protection society. You and McCann. You never had to worry about the IRA blowing up one of your offices. Yours was the one building company people knew could get the job done even during the darkest years. How was that? Luck? Hard work? No, now we know what lay at the back of the Coulter miracle don’t we?”

“That’s bollocks. The fucking seventies you’re going on about? It’s old news, Killian. Those were the bloody days. It’s 2011! The century’s turned, the decade’s turned. Listen to me, mate: Nobody. Fucking. Cares!”

“I do see what you’re saying, Richard, and maybe you’re right about that, but I am going to have to shoot you,” Killian said. “Tom told me you won’t stop until she’s dead. Her existence threatens everything.”

“I’ll give you a million pounds to put down that gun right now. Come on, you’re smart, you’re a tinker, what does one wee doll matter against a million quid? Every man for himself, right?”

“That’s your philosophy? That’s your accumulated wisdom?” Killian asked as the sound of the chopper thudded off the lough water.

“Aye. Look, it’s not a bad thing. Remember Mrs Thatcher said that there was no such thing as society, there’s only individuals. Remember that?”

Killian kneeled in front of him on one knee, like a bridegroom before a bride.

“I remember, but you see, that doesn’t work for me. I say life is given meaning by context. There are no individual selves. There are only humans embedded in practices, places, cultures. And in my culture on the other side of the criminal line, the world of The Life, there are heavy bonds imposed upon you. To be a Pavee, to be a tinker, is to wade through a sea of mutual debts of hospitality and loyalty.”

“What are you fucking talking about?” Coulter asked, his mouth dry, his hopes of rescue increasing as he heard the brakes of a police Land Rover squeal outside his front gate.

“It’s very simple. I promised Rachel I’d take care of this tonight and that’s exactly what I’m going to do.”

This was Killian on firm ground at last. He had left that confusing straight world of real estate and banks and mortgages. He had left Sean’s
world of smart hoodlums exploiting the weak for financial gain. He had even left the Northern Ireland he had grown up in, that place Coulter had spoken of, that odd non-country in the midst of a low-level civil war, indulging its sectarian passion in a way no other place in Cold War Europe could.

No, he was back in the land of his fathers and forefathers. The world of men who shook hands on horse deals and debts and kept their word in the face of the abyss.

And he knew he had been fair. Even in the labyrinthine world of tradition and obligation that made up Pavee society there were ways out. There had to be. Tradition was not meant to be moribund. It was a living argument. You were not a puppet following a preset script. You were a live actor with permission to improvise.

There were one or two things that Coulter could have said that would have saved his life.

He had, however, said none of them.

The glass was falling.

His time had run out.

Killian sighted the MP5 on Coulter’s forehead and pulled the trigger once.

Coulter was killed instantly.

From existence to black non-existence just like that.

Amazing really.

Killian unstrapped the gun, let it drop, walked out the back of the greenhouse and across the garden.

He climbed the garden wall, jogged to the exterior fence, climbed that, and then ran deep into the Antrim hills, running until he reached the high bog – an ancient and traditional place of refuge for men seeking shelter from the authority of kings.

epilogue on gog magog street