tent there when something shot up his throat. He got to his feet before the second spasm came. His hand scraped along a wall. He heard the vomit splatter by his feet and felt little pieces stir against the bottom of his jeans. The loathing and the stench twisted his stomach more. He staggered away from the wall with the spasms coming still.
He thought he heard someone say, ‘Look,’ but when he opened his eyes there was no one. He was vomiting dry now, his stomach twisting every few seconds. He had turned into a doorway and was leaning against the metal door. His eyes and nose kept running but his stomach had stopped heaving. The lights had stopped swimming around. Everything looked cold and ugly and foreign now. There was puke on his shoes. He had no hankies or anything. The smell drove him away from the doorway. He pushed off and headed down the lane. Against one doorway were stacked collapsed cardboard boxes and black rubbish bags. He kicked at them. They were full of shredded paper bits. That was it, he thought. Office stuff, clean. That’d do the job. He’d try for a bit of kip here maybe. Clear the head a bit anyway. Even if he didn’t actually fall asleep it’d still be okay.
He built a tunnel lined with the bags of shredded paper and pulled cardboard in over them. He lay down and pulled some cardboard closer about him. It felt warm. He took out the knife, opened it out and left it by his head. His shoulders flattened more against the cardboard. Minutes passed. The sounds of the city seemed to become fainter. His stomach hurt like he’d been kicked. He didn’t care where his thoughts began to take him now. Mary, that look she’d give him when she’d had enough of him asking her stuff. Questions he really wanted answers to: can’t you talk to one of them for me, Mary? Come on, you know I’m sound. I could even work for you, or with you. When are you going to talk to them, then? It was like she enjoyed keeping things from him, hearing him ask, beg even. If only she’d taken him on, she wouldn’t have… Panic flooded through him in an instant: those bastards who had been waiting for him by the house, would they be waiting for him wherever he went-
Footsteps, women’s, with the quick click-clack of the heels, getting closer. Where was the bloody knife? Sounded young, walking fast. Maybe she was taking a short-cut and she was scared going down the lane. He strained to listen for other footsteps. The footsteps hurried beyond him, fading into the hum of the city. Far off he heard a siren. He lay back again and closed his eyes. The smell of the cardboard stung his nose now. There was no way-no way-he was going to go to one of the hostels for down-and-outs. A decent sleeping bag and some kind of plastic if it rained, that’d make things a lot easier. It was only for a short while anyway, wasn’t it? It’d take money. Maybe it was time to think about using the knife to make a bit… He jerked himself up when he heard the rustling sound. He settled onto his hunkers, with the knife grasped tight and waited for several seconds. He heard nothing beyond his own suppressed breath in his nostrils. He knocked away the roof with his free hand and kicked his way out onto the lane. He was alone. Maybe it had been the stuff settling in the rubbish bags. Rats? He stared into the pools of darkness down the lane and shivered. His chest was still heaving. He leaned against the wall. Three or four people passed the mouth of the laneway singing and shouting. It must be closing time.
His legs began to feel rubbery. He leaned against the wall and looked around at the bags of rubbish and the cardboard. Did rats eat cardboard? Only if they were stuck, maybe. When was this stuff picked up anyway? Hardly at night. Slowly he gathered the cardboard again and rearranged it as he lay down. He was too wasted to sleep. He lost track of the time he lay there staring through a gap in his cardboard roof at the slice of blue and yellow night sky. The car horns and the shouting from the street didn’t seem to matter much now. It grew quiet in the laneway after a while, how long he couldn’t tell and didn’t care. Many times he wondered if he was having a dream, if it was him lying here in a laneway with a knife in his hand. It was rubbish, and he was part of it. That was the truth and he couldn’t pretend different. As the minutes and hours passed, something else moved around in his mind, something he couldn’t get a fix on at all. Maybe he’d never be able to explain it to himself even, but somewhere inside himself he felt light and clean.
Minogue switched off the radio. Did he really need to be told that the high pressure system still remained over Ireland this morning? A possibility of thunder? That had to be a joke. A cement lorry at the site of new apartments in the Coombe made him detour by Thomas Street.
Kilmartin’s tie was ambitious. His jacket was too up to date, however.
“What’s that thing around your neck, Jim?”
“For your information, smart-arse, that tie was a present from the wife. So keep your smart remarks to yourself, you. Unless you like fast trips in ambulances, like. Now. You have work to do, let me tell you, and you’ll have to do it on your own this morning. Molly Malone phoned in. He won’t be in until later on. You know yourself.”
The brother, thought Minogue.
“Now: the real business. There was a call in to you here at ten o’clock last night. A Mrs. Mary Byrne. She said it wasn’t urgent. Your name is tagged to a Byrne fella you met there?”
Byrne, the old man he had talked to by the canal. Had the wife seen something?
“She lives down off the canal there. Vesey Court. Put that aside now a minute and cast your eye over this one, but.”
Minogue took the photocopy. It was a print of a call to Central last night. It was made from a public box by Hatch Street. Kilmartin tapped him hard on the shoulder.
“It’s that Hickey fella,” said Kilmartin. “Mr. ‘Leonardo’ himself. He’s alive and well. He wants to play tough- guy over the phone too.”
Minogue noted the smile along with the glint in the Chief Inspector’s eye.
“I was onto CDU,” Kilmartin went on. “They have units ready. Fella the name of Cosgrave will handle it. That’s his number there. Sergeant. Let him know you’re on, okay?”
Minogue continued scanning the transcript of Hickey’s call. He felt his spirits rising.
“Not bad,” he murmured. “Not bad at all.”
“‘Not bad’? It could be the go-ahead, man! And Hickey was drunk. He’s on the run. He’ll sing, that’s what I say.”
The Chief Inspector hoisted an arm and withdrew it with a delicate shrug from the jacket. He settled the jacket carefully on his arm and tugged at the collar of his shirt.
“Oh, yes,” he muttered. “We’ll have that scut sitting across the table from us signing up for this one.”
“Nothing new come in on Jack Mullen? Any give on the car tests?”
Kilmartin shook his head.
“Leave Mullen for the time being. He may be a bit cracked, but that’s normal. It’s only religion with him.”
Minogue put down the photocopies.
“Has John Murtagh stitched him up tighter as regards alibi yet?”
“What, what?” exclaimed Kilmartin. “What am I hearing? Are you still trying to soak Mullen for it?”
Minogue didn’t answer but stroked his lip instead. Kilmartin shrugged.
“Ah, I’m not sure. Last I heard-and that was eight o’clock last night, when you were safe at home in bed- Johnner had him down to four gaps. One was about twenty minutes, near the nine o’clock mark. Put the bloody collar on this louser Hickey,” he said. “Maybe he could lead us to the Egans. There’d be no stopping us then, wait’n’you see.”
Minogue studied the Chief Inspector’s tie again. Eilis entered the squadroom.
“Good morning all,” she said. “Glorious bit of sun again today.”
“To be sure, Eilis,” said Minogue. “You’re an adornment to the facility this fine morning.”
Kilmartin rolled up his shirt-sleeves.
“I’m telling you,” he said. “This is the go-ahead day. I can feel it in me water! Here, what was this thing from the Fahy one I saw: this ‘Alan’ someone you’re looking for?”
Minogue was explaining when the phone rang. Eilis lifted the receiver after one ring. Kilmartin held out his hand. He and Minogue stared at Eilis’s face. She waved the phone at Minogue.
“Kathleen,” she called out. Kilmartin slapped his knee.
“Shite,” he said.
“Pardon?” said Minogue.
“Sorry. I was hoping it was the Hickey fella.”
Kathleen related to her husband how Iseult had left the house, the family seat in Kilmacud, in a huff not ten minutes ago.
