'Fuck you, Jack.' She brushed his arm aside and walked quickly to the door. Delaney let her go. Turning back to the bar again and looking at his reflection in the mirror hanging on the wall behind the counter, he felt his face burning with shame.
Outside, Kate made no effort to hold back the tears that were now streaming down her face. What had she expected of the man after all? She'd had no illusions, no dreams that the fact of her pregnancy would drive him begging for forgiveness into his arms. What had she expected of him then? The truth was that she didn't know, but the cold reality of the encounter was too much for her to bear. He wanted to be friends, he wanted her to let him know what she decides! Christ, if she had had a shotgun in her hands right then she would have cut him in half with it. She dashed the back of her right hand across her eyes. What the hell had she been thinking? She should have known Delaney would be as emotionally available as a piece of the frozen Donegal turf or wherever it was he came from. But the trouble was she knew exactly what she was thinking, even if she hadn't been honest with herself. She wanted to tell him all about Paul Archer, about what she thought he had done to her. She wanted to tell him everything and she wanted him to take care of it for her. She wanted him to fold her in his arms and tell her that he loved her. How stupid was that? She wiped her hand across her eyes and crossed the road, barely registering the horn blaring from a passing car that had to swerve to miss her. She hated herself for being so weak and formed a fist of her right hand. If she had to do it all on her own then that was how it was going to be. Damn Delaney. Damn all men, if it came to that. Kate Walker had been her own woman for thirty-odd years and she wasn't about to let that change now. She took a deep breath and wiped her eyes dry. She knew what she was going to do.
Delaney finished a second whiskey in five minutes. He looked at his watch. He should never have let Kate go off on her own like that, she deserved to know what was going on. He had no intention of letting the matter of Kevin Norrell drop. Norrell had something to tell him that would lead him to his wife's killers. Derek Watters's murder proved that much. He had never bought the idea that the attack on Kevin Norrell was just some sort of rough justice in prison. Kevin Norrell was an ignorant, ill-bred, psychopathic Neanderthal with as much conscience as a rabid stoat, but he wasn't a nonce. Delaney was pretty sure about that. So that meant the attack on Norrell and Watters's murder was to stop them both from getting information to him. He should have told Kate that. She would have understood. But her revelation that she was pregnant had taken him completely by surprise. He needed to talk to her. He finished his glass and considered for a moment as the barman gestured to see if he wanted another. He shook his head and headed for the door.
It took Delaney a matter of minutes to reach Kate's house. He crossed the road and looked up at the windows. There were no lights on. It had been ten minutes since she had stormed out of the pub. She should definitely be home by now. He hated to think of her in there alone with the lights out, curled up on her sofa sobbing. He walked up to the door and rang the bell. After a short while he rang it again, but there was no answer. He banged his fist on the door a few times and called her name out but still there was no answer.
'Come on, Kate. If you're in there open the door. We need to talk. Jeez, I know I've been a prick, just let me talk to you.'
Apart from a curtain twitching in her neighbour's property there was no response. He glanced at his watch and then looked up the road. There was no sign of her. He took out his mobile and quickly tapped in her name. After a few rings her voice on an answerphone cut in asking him to leave a message. He hesitated and then closed the phone. He hated leaving messages and what could he say anyway? He looked up once more at the dark windows. If Kate was at home she clearly wasn't ready to talk to him just yet. He pulled his overcoat closed and set off back down the road. He was tempted to keep going as he neared his new house, keep going further down the hill and then turn right into the Richard Steele pub. Take the prescription in iron-rich Guinness and amber measure, repeat as necessary, but for the first time in a very long while he realised he didn't want to be alcohol-numbed; he knew he was going to need a clear head about him.
He took his key out of his pocket, opened his front
