thought wryly. Ahead of the detective Minogue saw a figure step out on to the path. Gibney.
Gibney stood facing the house as he drew the gate closed. The detective picked up his pace again. Further down the road Minogue saw a car door opening. He could not see the driver’s side of the car. He heard a clink as the handle of the gate slipped home. Gibney paused before turning toward his car. It’s as if he’s trying to remember something, Minogue thought neutrally.
“He’s not moving… Wait, Gorman’s saying something to our two men… ”
“Jesus,” Kilmartin exclaimed by Minogue’s ear, “Gorman’s saying good-night to them, or some bloody nonsense. He’s going to notice the two are not regulars on this shift! Close in and nab Gibney, can’t ye, before he makes them too, for fuck’s sakes!”
Minogue watched Gibney’s head turn back toward the detective on the footpath. The detective had his pistol out, and he was holding it slightly behind his backside as he advanced on Gibney. There couldn’t be more than ten or twelve feet between them now, Minogue guessed. Gorman’s upper body appeared in view then, leaning over the waist-high gate as he addressed the two detectives who were getting out of the car. Somewhere behind the thoughts of an observing, detached Minogue an alarm was going off. Gorman was in the way: there were two concrete pillars to which the gates were anchored…
The detective had seen it too. He faltered. Gorman leaned further over the gate to see around the pillar. Someone began shouting. Too early yet, Minogue’s mind roared. Have to get around Gorman. Where are the rest of them? Gibney had his hand under his jacket even before Minogue’s mind could scream: Gibney knows, he knows now!
“Jesus!” Kilmartin cried. “They’ve no angle, with Gorman like that!”
The detective crouched and brought the pistol around in one smooth motion. Minogue did not see the flash. The shot popped like a stone dropped straight into deep water. Gibney had a gun out and was backing on to the gate. Someone was shouting Gorman’s name.
“ We have the house, we have the house!” the voice on the radio shouted.
Minogue saw a flash from Gibney’s gun. He shouted for Kilmartin and Hoey to get on the floor and banged his ear as he threw himself across the seat into Hoey’s lap. Hoey had the door open already: he reached out on to the roadway and rolled from the car. Kilmartin was tugging at the back door release and swearing. Minogue kicked off against his own door and landed beside Hoey on the roadway. More shots sounded, louder now. Somebody screamed inside the house just as Kilmartin came out of the back door, on his hands and knees. Minogue heard footsteps racing down the footpath opposite.
“He’s down!” somebody was shouting. “I’m on him! I’m on him! He’s down!” There was an edge of panic to the voice.
Kilmartin had crawled around the back of the car. Minogue followed him. They both looked down the road. From nearly fifty feet Minogue could see how tightly a detective was holding his pistol, both arms extended fully. He was back on one foot as though ready to push a stalled car, and his gun was trained on a figure lying against the gate. The figure was not moving. There was another figure closer to Minogue and Kilmartin, that of the detective, leaning against the wheel of a car. Minogue saw him squirm slightly and relax.
Hoey was up first, with Minogue and Kilmartin after him. Gallagher came running down the footpath, the antenna of the handset whipping the air as he ran; he knelt by the seated detective and began fingering the man’s clothing. To his relief, Minogue heard the detective whispering to Gallagher. Gallagher’s hands moved down to the man’s leg. The detective nodded and leaned his head back against the car-wheel.
An elderly man with a newspaper dangling from his hand had opened a hall-door opposite and he was squinting out into near-darkness. Minogue heard another door scraping open as he went by Gallagher. Gibney was lying on his side by the gate. Minogue heard a voice from the front garden asking what had happened, who…? The detective who was training his gun on Gibney was staring intently at Gibney’s hands. He kept talking, but quieter now.
“Gill all right there? We need an ambulance, don’t we? I don’t know if this fella’s gone. Where’s the ambulance?”
“It’s all right now,” said Minogue firmly.
“Gill saw him coming up with the gun and he got one off, I saw it happening but I wasn’t quick enough-”
“It’s all right now,” Minogue repeated. “It’s over now.”
“I had to do it. Gill went down, I saw him shoot Gill!”
Kilmartin was fumbling for a pencil. Minogue looked down at the gun on the footpath near Gibney’s outstretched hand. There was a black stain near the gun and it was moving, getting bigger.
“Where’s Gorman?” Kilmartin barked. Minogue crouched down by Gibney, well outside the detective’s line of fire. Gibney’s chest was moving slightly.
“Is Gorman okay?” Kilmartin was saying. He knelt down by Minogue and poked a pencil through the trigger- guard of the automatic pistol. “That’s a parabellum, that is. A Beretta, I’ll wager,” he said.
The stain moving out from Gibney began to creep in a faltering line toward the roadway.
“Is he gone? He looks gone,” said the detective overhead.
Minogue heard sirens in the distance. A car burst into the street with its tyres howling. He crouched closer to Gibney and felt for a pulse under the jaw. The stain had emerged on the far side and new lines were branching out across the footpath. Farrell was hunkered down beside Kilmartin now. Kilmartin drew the gun carefully along the tarmac with the pencil.
“That his?” said Farrell quietly.
“Yes, sir,” answered the detective from above. “He drew on Gill and shot him, sir. I had to fire then or else…”
“It’s all right, son. Put that away now,” said Farrell gently. “You did what you had to do.”
“Where’s Gorman, Tommy?” asked Kilmartin.
“We’re all right. He’s in the garden, they pulled him down when the shooting started.”
“He’s breathing,” said Minogue and leaned his head closer to hear a faint, bubbling whistle that came at short intervals. He tried harder to distinguish the sound but there was shouting nearby. “We have to stop this bleeding,” he said then. “Better get him over so we can see it.”
As he reached a hand under Gibney, Minogue saw Gibney’s eyes open.
“Jesus,” whispered Kilmartin.
It was then that Minogue heard the bubbling sound again and he froze: Gibney was in bad trouble, it was a sucking wound from a punctured lung he had been hearing. “I have to turn you over,” Minogue said, fighting to keep his voice neutral. “You’re bleeding so I have to do something. The ambulance’ll be here any second. Can you hear me?”
Gibney blinked once. His eyes strayed from face to face. His lips moved slackly. He stared at Minogue again.
“I can’t hear you,” said Minogue. “Don’t talk now.”
Gibney’s face strained with the effort of protest. A whisper escaped him.
“A priest?” said Hoey.
Gibney blinked again. Minogue watched the lips try to shape a P.
“He wants a priest, all right,” said Kilmartin. He leaned further in over Gibney.
“I’ll say an Act of Contrition with you now while we wait for the priest,” said Hoey gently. “If you can’t say it, it’s OK, just follow along with me in your own mind.”
He didn’t remember all of the prayer, but Kilmartin carried him over the bits he had forgotten, those parts of the prayer which every Catholic was taught should be recited for the dying. Gibney’s lips began to move again half-way through.
Hoey finished the prayer as the approaching sirens became louder. The policemen blessed themselves. Gibney’s neck muscles stood out with the effort of trying to raise his head.
“Is it something you’d want to tell us?” whispered Kilmartin.
“Brian,” whispered Gibney and his head fell back.
“Brian Kelly, is it?” said Minogue.
Gibney blinked and grimaced. He tried to raise his head again.
“Only me. That’s all…” he wheezed. Hoey reached his hand under Gibney’s head. “Just me. Fine too… Only me. Had to…” whispered Gibney. His stare was fixed frantically on Minogue. Hoey let the head down slowly. The
