The Bloomsday Dead (34 page)

Dead air. We both knew what it meant.

“It looks like my informant lied to me,” I said with resignation.

“Well, Forsythe, you can’t say you haven’t had fair warning.”

“I know.”

“Goodbye.”

Click and the dial tone.

I put my head in my hands. Laughed. Well, he was right about one thing, I’d been warned. Couldn’t fault him on that score. And on the surface he seemed like a decent enough bloke. Still, it bugged me. It was amazing that he’d let her go on alone. I would never have done that, no matter what the kidnappers said. Maybe he was half hoping it would all fuck up and Bridget would take a hit. This whole thing had already made her look weak. If Siobhan died or Bridget got hurt, perhaps it would be Moran’s turn to step up to the plate. He was no instigator. He didn’t have the bottle for that. But he’d certainly be there to pick up the pieces. Step into her shoes. First order of business, kill me.

The time on the phone said five o’clock now.

Midnight in the Emerald Isle. The time for the exchange. And here I was in a deserted cave, miles from the action, miles from anywhere.

At least I’d been vague. I’d told Moran I was on Islandmagee, but that’s all I’d told him. He’d be hard pressed to find me. The morning papers would let me know what happened with Bridget and her daughter, and I’d take a ferry to Scotland and maybe a flight from Glasgow to New York. Dan would let me back in the WPP. He was a good guy too. They were all goddamn good guys.

I was tired.

Stupid.

Wet.

I stood up. Stretched. At least you couldn’t say I hadn’t given it my best shot. One bloody Bloomsday I wouldn’t bloody forget in a hurry.

I walked back to the cave mouth.

And then I heard it.

A voice.

No.

Voices.

Closer.

I got down.

“She’s late.”

“Aye, well, she’ll be coming.”

“And if she doesn’t?”

“She will.”

Something familiar about that second voice. It was barely more than a croak, it sounded like someone who had terminal throat cancer or had just sung a marathon rock show or had worked in a powdered- glass factory for fifty years. I knew no one with a voice like that. And yet there was something in it that I did know. A shiver went down my spine. I couldn’t place it, but I felt it, and it wasn’t right. No. It was all fucking wrong.

I lay down on the cave floor, nudged myself forward, crawling over the barnacle-covered rocks and the retreating tide.

There were four figures in the mouth sheltering from the rain. They’d only just arrived. Three men and a girl. The girl had a hood up over most of her head, but you could tell it was her. Siobhan. Bridget’s girl. She was tiny. Wearing blue jeans and a clear plastic coat.

She turned her head slightly. Red golden hair dangling over wet cheeks. But the Polaroid I had didn’t do her justice. Her face had an odd, faraway loveliness—stolen child, elf child, but more than that. Yes. In a box somewhere I’ve got a sepia picture of my grandmother at a similar age. The resemblance was uncanny. Unmistakable, in fact.

And then I knew the whole story.

And then I knew the stakes were much higher than before.

The three men were in black Bear jackets, carrying flashlights and huge Pecheneg machine guns.

“Ten million, boss, be a nice wee bonus,” one of them said.

“This isn’t about the money,” the boss croaked.

He could barely speak at all, you could tell that every word was painful and his accent was all over the place. Sometimes it sounded Spanish, sometimes American, sometimes Irish. But I recognized a part of it. I’d talked to this man before. Years ago. I knew him. If only I could— “What about the wean?” one of the men asked.

“You know fucking full well. You know what we have to fucking do. Don’t mention it again,” the boss said ominously.

The girl didn’t move. Didn’t react. What had they done to her?

“Where’s your fags?” the boss asked.

They handed him a cigarette. He lit it and smoked it. So if the cancer theory was correct, it certainly wasn’t deterring the bastard.

“How long do we wait here?” an underling asked.

“Go on out and check. Harry should be seeing her real soon,” the boss said.

One of the men put his hood up and stepped outside the cave.

The boss drew in the tobacco smoke with relish. A cheap brand, an American brand, I could smell it from here. What did that tell me? It told me something. I recognized his tobacco.

A walkie-talkie crackled.

“Aye?” the boss said.

“She’s coming.”

The man outside came running back. He passed across a pair of binoculars with a night scope on them. The boss took them greedily.

“I heard Harry on the walkie-talkie and I seen her, too, she’s on her own,” the man said.

The boss stood. He limped over to Siobhan.

“Your ma is fucking coming for ya, love,” he said, and poked at the girl.

Siobhan whimpered and retreated back into the wall. Her hands were tied in front of her, but if anything, she had underreacted to the poke. They’d obviously done something to her. McFerrin had said something about drugs.

“She’s alone, nobody for fucking miles,” the other man said, coming in from outside, brandishing the binoculars in triumph.

“Call Harry up at the lighthouse and get him to double-check for anybody following her or fucking boats or helicopters or anything,” the boss said, and again I noticed that agony with his speech, every word difficult, painful. Did I know any chain-smokers? Or someone scheduled for a larynx removal?

One of the men picked up the walkie-talkie, spoke, got his answer, turned to the boss. He was excited.

“Dave says the coast is clear. She’s coming alone and he says she’s definitely carrying a briefcase.”

“The money,” the other goon said happily, forgetting the boss’s admonition that this wasn’t about the cash. Which made me think, well, if not dough, what was it about?

The boss threw away one fag and lit another. The smoke drifted back, and now I recognized it. Tareyton. Only one person I ever knew smoked Tareyton, and he was dead.

“Game faces on,” the boss said, and the two others took off their coats. Put on black baseball caps. But with their coats off and hoods down I could see them quite clearly in the lightning flashes. I didn’t recognize either of them. Just a couple of low-level gangsters, of the type you’d find in any bar in Belfast or Derry or Dublin.

The boss took off his coat and the lightning flashed and I saw his horribly disfigured face.

I recognized him instantly.

And of course I knew immediately what this whole thing was about.

For the man standing there with the Pecheneg and the scarred throat and mangled mouth and patchy red hair and cadaverous cheeks was none other than my old long-deceased mate Scotchy Finn.

But let’s say, by some fucking miracle, you had survived and your head wasn’t taken clean off, well, then you’d die anyway when the prison guards ripped you down. They wouldn’t be careful about it. Why would they? They’d rip you down and that would tear you up and kill you.

But for the sake of argument, let’s imagine that Mother Teresa and the pope and Saint Nicholas of Myra (the patron saint of thieves) are, at that precise moment, thinking about the destiny of redheaded fuckup scumbags from Crossmaglen and they intervene personally with the Angel of Death to save you on the wire. So you live through that. But how in the name of God and all that’s holy do you survive the medical treatment that you’ll get in a Mexican prison hospital, especially when the guards were less than inclined to save our old pal Andy when he got near beaten to death?

They wouldn’t have surgeons that could save your life.

They wouldn’t give you a blood transfusion, and if they did, it would probably be the wrong blood type or contaminated with the AIDS virus.

Nah. To survive the bullet, the wire, the ripping down, the Mexican hospital, you’d have to have ninety-nine lives, be born on Christmas, find a shamrock in your crib, and do Lourdes in advance for thirteen summers.

Not a fucking chance.

And yet.

And yet.

Scarred, bent over, scorched, nasty looking.

The motherfucker himself.

Scotchy.

My old nemesis.

My old pal.

The way he stood, the way he looked, the way he talked, the way he smoked.

Oh my God.

It is definitely him.

I want to get up and run over and hug the dumbass bastard. I want to shake him by the hand. Scotchy, oh my God.

I killed Sunshine for you. I killed Bob for you. I killed Darkey White for you. All for you, mate. Because you made me promise. And now what?

Now I want your blessing.

I want to kneel down before you and I want you to put your bony hand on my head and say “You done good, son. You done good.”

I need that, Scotchy.

I need to know that I did the right thing. That you approve. And I want to look you in the eye, talk to you, have a pint. I want to get in a fight with you and make up and have more pints and have you fucking steal from my wallet while I go to the bathroom.

I want to see your ugly fangs break into a grin.

I want you to call me Bruce.

Scotchy, I am so happy to see you.

My world overthrown.

You are my brother. You are the closest thing to flesh and blood I have in this world.

But, oh Scotchy, I want to go over and hug you and shake your hand.

I want to.

I need to.

But I don’t.

I sit there in the dark.

Like a rat.

Waiting.

Not the time. The time will come. But not now.

You’re going to kill her. You’re going to kill both of them. I know you, Scotchy. I know what you were capable of before. God knows what you can do now. After what you’ve been through.

And I have only a six-shot revolver.

And they have assault rifles.

And this is Scotchy fucking Finn, no mean hand in a gun battle. No mean hand.

The walkie-talkie crackles.

“She’s coming, she’s right on you,” Steve says.

“Ok, ya fucks, drop your cocks, grab your fucking guns, if wee Siobhan does anything stupid fucking shoot the bitch. I want my words with Bridget, but if there’s any fucking funny stuff, shoot her without my say-so. Safety fucking first, lads. Understood?”