Undercover (7 page)

"Jesus," Cormac said. "Fat arse did a real number on you. What the hell did you do to set him off?"

"The first time?" Mattie's lips quivered a little but the traces of a smirk slipped through. "He kept staring at me when he was guarding us. I told him to stop it. Called him a fat, ugly paedophile. He squared up to me and I punched him in his... you know... his nuts. Then the psycho flipped his lid."

"Can't imagine why."

"It was nearly funny. Except for this, like." He nodded towards his ruined fingers.

"We really need to get you to a hospital, kid."

"Yeah? Why don't you ask one of the guys downstairs to give us a lift? They could drop you off at the morgue."

"God, you're a dark wee man, do you know that? I bet you watch a lot of horror movies."

Mattie pointed at his hand. "Who's stalling now?"

"Right, right. Tell me if this hurts."

Cormac took the middle digit between his thumb and index finger and squeezed. Mattie growled through clenched teeth and bounced a little on his seat. Tears rolled and he curled his right fist. He punched Cormac's upper arm.

"Jesus, kid. Sorry. No need to break my arm, but."

Mattie snuffled hard and croaked. "Ah, shit. There's no way you're touching them again."

"It's okay, I'll be gentle."

"How about I fuck you gently with a chainsaw?"

Cormac bit down on the inside of his lips to hold back a chuckle. He unbuckled his belt, slid it out of its loops and folded it in four.

"Ever see an old cowboy movie, Mattie? The way they bite down on bullets when somebody digs an arrow out of their leg? Well, I don't have any bullets, but here." He pushed the folded belt into Mattie's good hand. "See if it works for you."

For a second Cormac thought Mattie might wallop him with the belt but the moment passed.

"Get it over with, then."

Mattie chomped down on the leather and held out the injured hand. It trembled ever so slightly. Cormac gently wound the lace around the pinkie and ring fingers. Tendons stuck out on either side of Mattie's neck, tight as guitar strings, as he bit harder into the belt. Tears squeezed through his clenched shut eyes. Cormac worked fast. He let go of Mattie's wrist to tie the ends of the lace together and quickly bound the other two fingers. The result was an abomination of a Star Trek salute.

"Live long and prosper, kid."

"Kiss my arse."

Mattie tossed the belt to Cormac and spat on the carpet. He swiped the tears from his eyes with the heel of his uninjured hand and sniffed. Cormac ran a finger across the deep indents Mattie's teeth had left in the belt leather. The thought of whipping Paddy raw with it played on his mind.

"What now?" Mattie asked.

"We get out of here, tough guy."

Cormac beckoned Mattie out of the chair and upended it. He gripped two of the legs in his hands and pulled at them. They held fast. He laid the chair down, the backrest and legs parallel to the floor.

"We might need to move fast," Cormac said. "Whatever happens, don't think. Just run when you get the chance."

"What about my dad?"

"We're going to bring him with us. Don't worry."

Cormac raised his boot and stomped down on one of the chair legs. It came loose with a loud crack. He went to work on the next one. It held on until the second stomp. He scooped up both legs and handed one to Mattie.

"Aim for their knees, kid. I'll go for the head."

A voice in Cormac's mind screamed for him to drop the chair leg. Both of them were liable to end up shot. But Cormac could see no alternative. If he sat back and waited he'd end up dead and Mattie would have nobody to look after him.

Cormac booted the bedroom door. The wood splintered a little around the lock. One more kick would bust it open but he held back. He didn't want to run out into the hallway. It'd be much easier to attack whoever had been left to guard them if he waited for them to come through the door.

Footsteps thudded on the stairs and the bedroom door handle rattled. The lock clunked and the door opened a fraction. A gun poked in through the gap. Cormac and Mattie stepped to the side, away from the muzzle. Then Cormac brought the chair leg down on it. The gun landed on the floor. To Cormac's relief it didn't fire. He kicked it towards the mattress. The door slammed shut and Cormac snatched at the handle. The lock clicked into place before he could pull it open. He stepped back to boot it down. A fist-sized chunk of the upper panel blasted in on him. An ear-thumping boom marked it as gunshot.

Cormac scrambled backwards and grabbed Mattie by the arm. He dragged him towards the mattress, keeping his own body between the source of gunfire and the boy. Another bullet thundered through the disintegrating wood. Cormac flipped the mattress and pushed Mattie behind it. Then he cocked the pistol, rolled into the middle of the room and fired three bullets through the door.

The floorboards under Cormac's feet shuddered. Somebody had keeled over in the landing.

"Ah, fuck."

It was Paddy's voice.

Cormac sent two more shots out into the landing. The fat man cursed again and, judging by the second wave of tremors under Cormac's feet, toppled. Had he taken out two of the fuckers? He cocked his head and tried to listen through the ringing in his ears.

Hurried footsteps on the stairs. Heading down, not up. A man, maybe John, screaming. Front door opening. Slamming shut. Some whimpering from the landing.

Hunkered down, Cormac approached the door with caution. He thought he could hear a breathless recital of the Hail Mary. At least one of the fallen was still alive. Most likely armed. He weighed up his options. Stay put and wait for the cavalry or risk a bullet in the face for a quick peek into the landing. Not exactly a no-brainer, but he figured the longer he waited the worse things would get. He straightened slowly to his full height, slightly to one side of the holes in the door. Then he risked a glance out onto the landing. Two bloody forms were sprawled out on the carpet. He made out Paddy right away but the other man lay face down, his upper body out of Cormac's line of vision. Paddy stared up at the ceiling, his ski mask rolled up like a monkey hat and his panic-stricken face exposed. Blood had run from a ragged wound in his chest to paint bright red runnels on his pasty fat neck.

There was a gun in Paddy's loosely curled fist but it was pointed away from the bedroom, forgotten. Cormac decided to move. He shouldered through the remains of the door and skipped over Paddy's chest. Cormac pinned the fat man's gun to the floor with his foot. Paddy moaned.

"Get off my hand." His voice gurgled.

"Shut up."

Cormac looked over his shoulder at the other body. He realised who it was.

"Oh, no..."

He turned back to Paddy, not ready to consider the implications at that moment.

"Where's O'Neill?"

"Fucking your ma." He coughed up blood and whined like a crippled puppy. The hiss that escaped from his chest wound with each shallow breath did not bode well for his future.

"Don't waste time, Paddy. We might be able to get you to a hospital before you drown in your own blood. But I need a few answers first."

"You won't let me live."

"Paddy, I'm a cop."

Paddy double blinked. "Shit."

"Yeah, I know. So do yourself a favour. Talk to me and I
will
phone that ambulance."

"He's followed the bitch and her footballer over to England. Wants to keep an eye on her. The Scullions are with him. Me and Frank were left here to watch you lot."

"Where's Frank now?"

"Don't know. Cunt left me here to die."

Cormac rubbed the back of his neck. "Fuck."

Paddy pawed at Cormac's lower legs with his free hand. "Will you call the ambulance now? Please?"

"Sorry, Paddy." Cormac smiled down at him. "I've no phone on me, mate."

"Use mine, you stupid prick."

"Aye, I suppose I could. First things first, though."

Cormac raised his boot off Paddy's gun hand and slammed it back down. Paddy's bones cracked and crumbled. He let loose a squeal that erupted into a coughing fit. A blood mist sprayed from his mouth and rained down on his face. It thickened with each cough. And then his eyes glazed over. He'd a few shallow breaths left in him, but they faded too. Cormac blessed himself and stooped to take the gun from Paddy's mangled hand. Then he rifled through the fat man's pockets until he found his mobile phone. It had been smashed by a bullet. Useless. As he stood up he saw Mattie come to the bedroom door.

"Stay in there for a minute, kid. Please."

Mattie ignored him and stepped onto the landing. His gaze passed over Paddy's corpse and came to rest on the other body, sprawled out at the top of the stairs.

"Dad?"

––––––––

I
rish, British, Northern Irish... who gives a shit? Last year I was a Londoner and this year I'll be a Mancunian. It's just geography.

Rory Cullen,
CULLEN: The Autobiography

––––––––

S
tansted Airport was a world apart from the almost serene Belfast airport Lydia had left behind little over an hour ago. She moved from left to right to avoid blinkered travellers willing to walk through rather than around her while Rory waited for his case at the baggage reclaim carousel. Somehow, above the hustle and bustle, she heard her ringtone sound.

Private number.

She took a deep breath before answering the call.

"Hi, gorgeous."

It was one of her visitors from the night before. Just hearing his voice made her crave a shower.

"I'm in London," she said.

"I know. That's a nice suit you're wearing. Black pinstripe... very businesslike."

Lydia wheeled around looking for her caller. "Where are you?"

"Close enough. Just keeping an eye on you. The one you didn't try to claw out of its socket, you know?"

Lydia scanned the seething masses moving in and out of her view. Tried to locate the caller but it seemed like every other person had a phone pressed to their ear.

"I'm doing what you want," she said. "Leave me alone."

"Aren't you going to ask me about your family?"

"Would you tell me anything if I did?"

"No, but it strikes me as a little cold that you wouldn't even ask."

"Fuck off."

"That's lovely, that is. I might call you later for another dirty phone call. Your toy boy's on his way back."

The line went dead. Sure enough, Rory was headed her way. His little wheelie case trundled behind him.

"That's me all set, Lydia. Will we head on out?"

Lydia nodded and turned to lead the way to the exit. Rory laid a hand on her upper arm to halt her. She shrugged it off without thinking. He rubbed his palm down the front of his shirt as if to wipe off whatever Lydia found so repulsive.

"Are you okay, Lydia?"

"I'm fine."

"You look like you're about to cry."

Lydia shrugged. What could she say?

"Was that John on the phone or something? Everything okay?"

"Don't worry about it." Her voice cracked. "I'll just nip to the ladies and sort myself out."

Rory called after her as she hurried off. She stopped for a second, held up her hand with her fingers splayed and mouthed, "Five minutes."

It the bathroom she stood at the sink furthest from the door and ran the taps. The hot water was scalding but she dampened her hands with it and patted her face. She looked in the mirror and cringed at the sight of her puffy eyes. And through force of habit, she lightly touched her finger to the corners of her mouth. Not exactly marionette lines yet, but she could see their ghostly potential.

She tousled her hair to give it a little life then unzipped her hand luggage and retrieved some makeup from its clear plastic bag. As she worked on a quick facial spit-shine the puffiness in her eyes began to retreat. In a few more minutes she managed to make herself halfway presentable. She studied herself in the mirror and was satisfied that she looked calm and collected again. The luxury of a breakdown would have to wait until she was on her own. In the meantime, for the sake of John and Mattie, she had to smile on the outside and choke down the bile that burned her insides.

When she left the ladies toilets she found Rory with a balding man and a young boy. A quick look was enough to tell they were father and son. They bore identical close-set eyes and pudgy red cheeks. The father's mouth twisted in distaste at something Rory said. She guessed the boy was about ten years old. He fiddled with the hem of his T-shirt, embarrassed by whatever his father was saying to Rory.

Rory spotted Lydia as she approached and moved away from them. The father waved him off with a two-fingered salute."Chelsea don't need you anyway, you stupid Paddy bastard."

"You'll not be saying that come the end of the season, mate." Rory's voice boomed with theatrical cocksureness. "The title's ours this year."

"It'll never happen, dickhead."

The boy blushed and drew his shoulders up to his scarlet ears. His father grabbed a random man by the arm and pointed Rory out to him. The unimpressed traveller shrugged Mr Rosy-cheeks off and rushed on. The Chelsea fan cupped his mouth with his hands.

"Your book's a load of bollocks as well, Paddy."

"Thanks for buying it, though," Rory gave him a little wave, "ball-bag."

Rory swaggered alongside Lydia like James Bond's slicker older brother. The little battle of wits had shifted his attention away from Lydia's tears and she was happy to let him replay it for her. They moved through the terminal as he gabbled, occasionally stalling to look for exit signs.

They eventually found themselves in the cancer cloud that hovered around the smokers gathered at the terminal doors. Downwind a few paces, they stood for a minute to suss out the day ahead.

"Home sweet home," Rory said. "Well, sort of. Home away from sweet home, really." He crossed his eyes at his own drivel. "Anyway, do we have time to go freshen up before we meet these people?"

"First meeting's not until three. We've hours yet."

"Great stuff. I'll meet you at your office about half two, then."