“I warned Ciaran about him.” She had squeezed out the words. She gave a wrenching cough and groaned. He closed his eyes. He heard something spill on the floor. He opened his eyes again. She seemed to be resting, her face down on the floor. He began yanking on the chair, scraping and kicking.
Minogue began to jerk the chair, each time sending shooting pains through his shoulder and chest.
Finally, as he rocked the chair, something gave way. The seat of the chair hung loose. Slowly he pulled in his elbows and he heard a spindle hit the cement with a hollow tock. His arms were weak but the cords were now slack. He stood crookedly and spindles from the chair-back fell to the floor. The blood rushed to his head as he stood and he felt the room come at him. Pain surging up from his legs took most of the room’s light with it and he lurched to the wall. As the room reappeared, it seemed to swell and the colours take fire. He glanced down at Deegan sprawled over Finbarr. Deegan’s head had fallen back and then sideways so that he seemed to be examining the dark stain on Finbarr’s jacket. His pistol was on the floor next to his hand. Finbarr lay curled up and half under Deegan. One arm was twisted behind, with the pool of blood spreading from under him.
Still struggling to shake the seat and legs of the chair free, he tottered toward the door. The light flared again and he leaned against a wall to fight the returning surges of dizziness. Suddenly he was gripped by fear. Who was sobbing like that, panting nearby? He turned, a shout already in his throat, expecting to see Deegan in the doorway. No one came. It was his own breath, he realised.
He elbowed away from the wall. Run. He was swaying now and the shapes were hanging and falling around the edges of his vision again. With the twine loose, he brought his right hand around. He stumbled toward the front door and pulled it open. He stopped in the doorway and gaped. The roof of the van was like a still lake reflecting the sky. A Ford Escort was parked alongside the van; Deegan’s, he guessed. His feet moved under him and he was on his way to the van’s door. A buzzer sounded as he pulled it open: keys in the ignition. He left the door hanging and rested his back against the panel. His palms flattened out on the cold metal and he felt his breathing ease. The buzzer filled the sky with its ripping squeak. The colours on the ground had already darkened and the bushes stood out thick against the milky sky. She might still be alive in there, he thought. He listened for sounds but heard only a solitary bird. He stared through the grove of trees and the overgrown bushes at the Burren heights. The stone seemed to be draining light from the sky. Was he going to pass out? He looked at the open door of the cottage. Should he go back for her?
Minogue turned when he heard the distant hum of a car over the tar macadam. He caught glimpses of a dark-coloured car coming at speed up the narrow road. The driver had not turned on his headlights, but Minogue had already spotted the silvered reflections of the sky on the roof-lights of the car. He stumbled back to the van, reached in and held his hand on the horn. He watched the wheels of the Garda car bounce as it came up the laneway, and he saw a face close up to the window.
The tyres bit and skidded as the squad car came to a stop behind the van. Doors opened and he heard voices, a radio. Somebody said his name. He didn’t have to go back into that house, he was thinking. He walked haltingly toward the car.
“Yes,” he replied to a question. His voice sounded unfamiliar to him now. “Inside… There was shooting. I think they’re dead.”
He wanted to tell them to switch off the noise from the radio. He heard someone say his name on the radio, then repeat it. He knew the voice. The sky jigged and flickered and changed colour.
“She’s in there and I think maybe-” he began.
His knees pulled him down but it didn’t hurt. Hands stopped him falling further. They pulled him up from his knees and grabbed him under his arms.
“Look,” he heard someone say as the sky turned and closed over him. “Is he shot?”
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
I don’t believe it,” Kilmartin murmured. “It must be a joke.” He looked over at Minogue. “Did you ever hear anything so stupid in all your life?”
Minogue shook his head. He dabbed his fingers over his eye. The lump had gone down a little. The X-rays had showed nothing on his knee either. His chest hurt when he breathed in deep. The bruise on his shoulder ran half- way over his shoulder-blade. He felt stupid sitting in a hospital bed.
“What?” Hoey asked. He was leaning on the window-sill.
“It says that a man thinks about sex an average of six times every hour.”
“Who says?” Hoey said.
“A scientist in the States. Somebody’s after codding someone there, by God. Makes you wonder how many millions were wasted on that. God, six times every hour. That’s impossible if you’re doing a proper day’s work.”
“Probably only applies in built-up places like Dublin,” said Hoey.
Kilmartin folded the newspaper and looked over at the Inspector. Minogue had decided that no matter what the doctor said he would be walking out the door at three o’clock today.
“How could you hold down a job, though?” Kilmartin went on. “Every ten minutes…”
“See what you’ve missed,” said Hoey.
“I’m hitting the road in an hour,” Minogue said.
“How?”
“Shea has the get-away car waiting outside.”
Kilmartin glanced at Hoey. Minogue had stayed overnight in the County Hospital in Ennis. He had woken up as he was being moved from the squad car to a stretcher at the door of the hospital. Sedated, he had conked out until nine o’clock this morning. His first sight had been Kilmartin’s size-eleven brogues resting one over the other on his bed several feet from his own face. Minogue’s blinding headache had abated almost completely by lunch-time, but he had no appetite yet. He felt apprehensive, anxious to be on the move again. Several times he had caught Kilmartin and Hoey scrutinising him from a distance.
“Did you phone Kathleen yet?” Kilmartin asked.
“No. And I hope you didn’t either.”
The Chief Inspector raised a hand to mollify. “Course I didn’t. And are you sure you’re feeling all right?”
Crossan had asked the same question four times that Minogue had counted, a Dr Leddy three times, Hoey but twice.
“I’m better off out of here, that I know.”
“But what about everything here?” Kilmartin was unsure of how to rein in Minogue.
“The X-rays are fine. The bruises, well, I’ll have to live with them no matter where I am-”
“The other stuff from last night-”
“I’ll do it all from Dublin, Jimmy.”
Kilmartin frowned. He was not about to give in that easily “Leave Russell to hear from us in Dublin as to what happened here in his own diocese, is it?”
“Exactly.”
“But he’s been waiting for the go-ahead to interview you here. If you’re well enough to travel, you’re well enough to-”
“I told Shea what happened last night. He told you. I told you myself this morning. You told me that you told Russell.” Kilmartin was shaking his head before Minogue was through.
“Wait a minute. I don’t want to be harassing you and you laid up here, but there are a million details-”
“Look, Jimmy, they can be had from Dublin later on. I don’t want to talk about it any more right now.”
Again Kilmartin looked to Hoey as though expecting a signal. Hoey’s eyes went to the window.
“Promise me you’ll go straight to the hospital or a doctor up in Dublin then.”
“All right.”
Kilmartin folded his paper again and tapped the roll on the bed. Minogue had felt the airy calm of the sedative ebbing since mid-morning. He had declined more. Leddy, the doctor with Mr Pickwick glasses, had continued his tests after Minogue’s refusal. He had also given Minogue’s knee a flex more abrupt than the first tests this morning, the Inspector remembered. Minogue was half glad of the returning aches, the stiffness and the burning bands on his
