Undercover (2 page)

Paddy brandished the hi-tech phone that they'd filmed the boy and Big Frank on. "I've the woman on the blower. She's to talk to the kid."

Cormac flapped his hand at the boy. Paddy walked past the father to hand over the mobile. The boy took a deep breath before speaking.

"Hello...? Yeah, it's Mattie, Mum." He screwed up his face. "I'm fine." Then he glanced at his father, his young face hardened. "Yeah, he's okay too."

Paddy snatched the phone away from Mattie's ear and pressed it to his own. "Right, that's all you get for now, missus." He disconnected the call.

Cormac nipped across the room to cut the departing Paddy off at the door.

"Lend us the mobile for a bit, will you?"

Paddy gave Cormac one of his watery-eyed looks. His nose twitched visibly under his ski mask. "What for?"

"I'm bored shitless here. Wouldn't mind a wee tinker on it to pass the time."

"You going to call one of them dodgy numbers, big lad? Heavy breathing and all that?"

"Fuck off. I'll just piss about on the apps or something."

"What are apps?"

Cormac shook his head. "Can I have it or not?"

Paddy shrugged and handed over the touch-screen phone. "Whatever. Just don't get too distracted, all right? You're meant to be working."

"No sweat, boss."

Paddy puffed his chest and his considerable man-boobs strained the front of his black cotton shirt. Suitably inflated by an ounce of respect, he gave Cormac a curt nod and waddled out.

Cormac turned his back to the family, gave the phone a quick once over, then flipped open a tiny flap on the side of the casing. He took a miniscule memory card from the watch pocket of his jeans and slipped it into the slot. A few taps of the screen later and he had the video of Big Frank threatening Mattie on the card. He ejected his little piece of evidence and tucked it back into his watch pocket.

A present for his handler.

––––––––

I
t can be weird when you read about yourself in one of the tabloids. Mostly flattering, though. Even when they're printing bullshit about you, it means they still care. It'd be crap if you weren't important enough to take the piss out of.

Rory Cullen,
CULLEN: The Autobiography

––––––––

L
ydia checked her phone reception. Strong as could be. She made sure the ringer was at full volume and tucked it back into her handbag.

Hawndbeg.

She squirmed in her seat. Recalled the threats from the previous night; the sound of Mattie's voice as he played brave for her; how the slaps to her face had stung and throbbed. It'd taken more makeup than she would normally wear to cover the red patches on her cheeks. She tried to convince herself that nobody would notice but it felt like she'd been done up by an Oompa-Loompa beautician. Somebody would figure out what she was up to.

"Lydia?"

Lydia snapped back to the current situation. She was in the back of a hired Mercedes with her star client, Rory Cullen. Manchester City's latest signing; a record-breaking deal for the new-money club. He'd cost more than their last Brazilian , but Rory was actually worth the millions. The release of Rory's controversial autobiography had taken them on a tour of Northern Ireland, his home country. She detested him for it.

Rory had wanted to play up to the "New George Best" hype. They'd flown in from John Lennon Airport in Liverpool to George Best Belfast City Airport. That had been Rory's idea too. Every photographer and reporter in Ulster was crammed into the terminal, snapping pictures and roaring questions. And it was most likely from that point that the fuckers Lydia had spent the previous night with had started to tail her and her family.

"How many times are you going to check that phone today?" Rory asked.

Lydia stopped her hand before it slipped back into her handbag. She gave Rory a weak smile.

Rory squinted at her. "Are you okay?" His tanned, unlined brow rippled ever so slightly. "You look a bit... I don't know. Off?"

"Probably jetlag."

"We only flew for forty-five minutes."

She twiddled with the buckle on her handbag.
Lewis Vuitton.

"I'd a late night."

Rory smirked. "Oh, aye?" He tapped the side of his aquiline nose. "Say no more... you good thing."

"Oh, give over, Rory."

Rory's smirk stretched into his signature toothy grin. He'd a mouthful of Belfast teeth. Somewhere between Robert Carlyle and Tom Cruise before the Hollywood megastar got his work done. For all of his careful metrosexual preening, tailored suits and fifty-quid haircuts, the teeth were a welcome reminder of Rory's working-class background. As was the dog-eared tabloid resting on his lap, page turned, as always, to an article about himself.

"I'd a late one myself," Rory said. "Called a couple of old mates and hit the Merchant Hotel for cocktails and society girls."

"Sounds... expensive."

"Ach, these were fellahs I grew up with. It was nice to treat them."

Lydia knew the night had been more about rubbing his friends' faces in his success than anything else. Altruism was not one of his strong points.

Rory shifted away from Lydia and looked out the window at the passing scenery. A blur of red bricks and paramilitary murals. Welcome to Belfast. There'd been a distinct lack of that sort of thing on the Discover Northern Ireland website.

Lydia slipped her mobile out of her bag and checked it again. Good network coverage – not always the case on the outskirts of Belfast. Still no fucking call from the bastards.

Rory maintained his silence until the gates of his old primary school were in sight. Then he needed her reassurance.

"They're going to hate my guts in here."

"Rory. You're a superstar. These kids will be falling over themselves for a quick chat and an autograph."

"You don't know what it's like on the Lower Falls. People don't like to see you do too well, you know?"

People don't like to see you do too well
. She'd heard the phrase before. Her husband, John, was particularly fond of it. John's mother and father were from Belfast; the same neck of the woods as Rory. And even though John's Northern Irish accent had softened to a weird London Irish hybrid, he still had a rattlebag of phrases and sayings that he unconsciously drew on from time to time. Mattie loved to mimic his dad's sayings, though his impressions had got more sarcastic in recent years.

Lydia imagined Mattie's smartass sideways grin. She would do whatever was needed to see it again.

The driver navigated the little street, narrowed further by lines of parked cars on either side, and stopped at the school gate.

An impressive gabble of blasphemy rolled off Rory's tongue.

Lydia cleared her throat and pitched her voice just a little too high. "Yes, I can see what you mean, Rory. I imagine you'll be torn apart here."

It looked like every kid in the school and all related to them had turned up for Rory's visit. Kids, teenagers and adults stood crammed together in the primary school playground. The majority held banners and picket signs with Rory's name on it but a fair number of the adults had turned up in Manchester United jerseys to welcome City's latest addition. This would be the Northern Irish sense of humour she'd heard so much about. She didn't really get it.

Lydia instructed the driver to move off and find somewhere safe to park for an hour. Then she practically shoved Rory out onto the footpath. A roar lit up among the crowd and he flinched. Confident as he was, Lydia worried for a second that it was all going to be too much for her boy wonder. But he turned to her and flashed that imperfect set of teeth.

"Look at these pricks. Go and tell them I'm not setting foot in that school until they get rid of those United tops."

"Are you serious?"

Rory winked at her, popped the collar of his suit jacket for the bad boy effect, and shrugged.

"What do you think?"

###

C
ormac snapped out of a dazed half-sleep. Paddy stood by the bedroom door. He cleared his throat.

"All right, Sleeping Beauty?"

Cormac tugged at his ski mask. "Just checking my eyelids for holes."

Paddy nodded towards the man and boy on the mattress. "No trouble, then?"

"None. I think the kid needs a toilet break, though."

"I'll get him a bucket, maybe."

Cormac wanted to smack him in his stupid grinning mouth.

Paddy leant against the door frame. "Jesus, don't be so serious, big man. We'll sort them out in a bit. You've to go downstairs first. The boss is back."

Cormac stood up and stretched. His spine popped and crackled. Bliss. He tucked the Ruger into his waistband and scooted past Paddy.

"Keep my seat warm, eh?"

Cormac closed the door and whipped off his ski mask. He rubbed some life into his cheeks and ran a clawed hand through his hair. A quick trip to the bathroom was the top of his agenda. Ambrose O'Neill would have to wait two minutes for him; bad tempered wee shite or not.

The whole gang, bar Paddy, were clustered around a poker table in the kitchen. A game of cards was the last thing on O'Neill's agenda, though. He sat with the air of Christ in Da Vinci's
Last Supper
. But with his slicked-back hair, widow's peak and thick mono-brow he looked more like the messiah's counterpart. His three unlikely apostles sat in reverential silence, Big Frank at his right hand and the brothers grim, Mick and Pete Scullion, on the left. The brothers' cherubic cheeks and soft brown eyes lent them a look of innocence. Cormac knew their form, though. They'd gut you as soon as look at you.

"Cormac Kelly." O'Neill indicated a chair directly opposite him. "Take a seat, young fellah."

Cormac sat, mindful of his body language. He'd long since learned the importance of primal posturing to men like his current "boss". Men who detested weakness and craved admiration. Alpha morons.

"Cheers, Mr O'Neill."

O'Neill sniffed and scanned the faces of his cronies. "You hear that, boys? A bit of respect. There's hope for these young ones yet."

A couple of grunts and nods acknowledged the boss's approval.

O'Neill laid his broad hands on the table and edged forward on his chair. "How's the family, Cormac?"

"Mine or the one upstairs?"

Big Frank groaned. "Just answer the question, smart-arse."

O'Neill shushed the cranky giant and waited for Cormac to respond.

"They're grand. Very quiet and it looks like they're going to behave. The da knows not to try anything stupid." He thought about mentioning Mattie's edginess but decided against it. He didn't want the young fellah to get slapped around.

"That's good," O'Neill said. "Let's hope they stay that way. They're going to be here for the long haul."

Cormac scratched his head. "How long?"

"You'll know when you need to."

"Am I on babysitting duty for the whole job?"

"Yes."

"Then I need to know how long, Mr O'Neill."

"No, you don't. We've all got our areas and that's yours. You stay available until the job is done and then you get paid. Next time you might get to know a little more. For now you're on the bottom rung. Be a good boy and you won't get knocked off it."

Eat shit and smile, in other words.

"Okay, Mr O'Neill. But we need to sort them out with food and water if they're staying any longer."

"We've thought of that, Cormac. This isn't amateur hour."

"Fair enough." He rubbed his stomach. "I'm a bit hungry myself, by the way."

O'Neill licked his thumb and smoothed the spot where his eyebrows met. "Put on the kettle, then. We could all use a refuel. There's bread in the cupboard and ham in the fridge."

Big Frank pushed his chair back and raised his arse off the seat. "And for dessert, you can suck my dick."

Mick loosed a camp whoop and Pete made kissy faces at Cormac. Such wit. Cormac looked to O'Neill to gauge an appropriate reaction. The boss gave him nothing. Pure poker face. Cormac bit back a quip about Big Frank's sexuality and kept his cool. They wanted to put the new kid in his place. He could play along for now. His time would come soon enough.

Cormac set the crew up with a tall stack of sandwiches. He laid the heavy plate on the table and almost lost his arm in the feeding frenzy. At least he'd had the foresight to hold a few rounds back for himself. The first bite barely touched the sides. He'd just sunk his teeth into the second mouthful when the screaming began.

Cormac spat out the sandwich and bolted for the stairs. He took the steps three at a time. The commotion in the bedroom kicked up a gear. Cormac drew his gun and shoved open the door.

Paddy towered above Mattie. The young fellah was curled up on his side, red-faced and wheezing. The fat bastard launched a kick into the boy's ribcage. John, the father, was on his knees. His nose had been bust and blood streamed through his fingers. He tried to get to his feet but pain and panic slowed his actions. Useless. Paddy drew his leg back to deliver another kick. Cormac hammered the butt of his revolver into the back of Paddy's skull. The fat man wobbled on his feet. Cormac snagged him by the back of his collar and jerked him away from the kid. Paddy landed flat out on his back and Cormac raised his foot to stomp on his face.

"Don't even think about it, big lad."

O'Neill, ski mask in place, snatched a handful of Cormac's hair and dragged him out onto the landing. Cormac grabbed at O'Neill's wrist with his free hand and broke the shorter man's grip. O'Neill tried to sweep the legs out from under Cormac with a low roundhouse kick. Cormac folded the boss's arm and trapped it against his heaving chest. He raised the Ruger and pointed it at O'Neill's face.

The metallic swish of a well-oiled automatic slide sounded in Cormac's ear.

"Let go of your gun," Big Frank said.

O'Neill, teeth bared in anger, pain and frustration, raised one side of his mono-brow. Cormac's millisecond assessment: cornered rat in front of him, in his ear an automatic pistol with one round chambered, huffy gorilla at his shoulder with a trigger finger set to twitch – check. Too close to checkmate to risk another move.