“I’d be less than candid-”
“Well, be less than candid, for God’s sake.”
“Huh. I think you’re still in shock. That’s why you aren’t able to react. That’s what I think.”
That’s what you think, thought Minogue. But he didn’t feel irritated, Kilmartin had probably thought he was doing him a favour, humouring him by going to the pub, by going along with the jaunt.
“You never know what the boys will come up with,” said Kilmartin. I mean, you worry about girls, of course, but…”
Hasn’t seen his own son since last year, Minogue had to remind himself. Maybe soon he could relay Kilmartin’s hedging to Iseult, turn it into a laugh.
“What’s the word from the States then?”
“Oh, good, good. Always good. He writes every few weeks, you now. As well as the phone calls, of course.”
Cars continued to pass Minogue’s parked Citroen. He and Kilmartin had cruised several roads in the Park before stopping in the middle, by Aras an Uachtaran. He looked down in his lap again to be sure the low-battery light hadn’t come on. The lightning flash was longer this time.
“By the divine hand a…! Will you look at that! Another one!”
Kilmartin nudged his colleague.
“Here, Matt, answer me this: who do you think organized this bloody show here tonight? Hah? All that stuff above there? We knew it was God when we were kids. What do you think it is?”
Minogue lifted the phone from his lap in the hopes it would ring.
“Who are you waiting for to get in touch there, Matt? The Man Himself? Ha, ha!”
Kilmartin threw his butt out onto the road. A tick on the window was followed by more.
“Okay,” he said. “That’s it. We’re away. Now, about starting fresh tomorrow. Round two, like. Instead of Molly, I really want Fergal-”
The phone trilled in Minogue’s hand. He jammed it against his ear.
“Now?” he asked. “Yes.”
He started the car.
“What,” said Kilmartin.
Minogue spun the tires as he accelerated away from the side of the road. Rain hit the glass like pebbles now. He brought the Citroen up to seventy before Kilmartin could finally take no more.
“Jases! Where are you taking us-to the shagging mortuary? Slow down, man!”
He put his head down as the drops hit harder and broke into a jog. Terry Malone could do what he bloody well wanted. He was pissed anyway. High too, probably. Thunderstorm or not, he was going to tear out of here on his bike. The rain began to beat the grass down and it snagged his feet as the drops landed. They drummed on his head and his sleeves. He pulled the collar of his jacket tighter under his neck and glanced back to see where Terry Malone was. He couldn’t see him. He stopped and held his hand over his eyebrows. The raindrops stung the back of his hand now. Already he felt rain-water running down the back of his ears.
“Terry!”
Sheets of rain drifted like smoke across the city’s yellow glow. To hell with him, he whispered. Maybe he’d gone back to get something from the van. He turned back toward the road and began walking. The water soaked in over his toes. He wiped the rain from his face but it kept flowing down his forehead. Was he headed the right way? The flash started as white but exploded into yellow. He dropped to his knees. He flinched and sank lower but kept his eyes open as another flash broke over him. His heart froze. For several seconds all he knew was the rainwater creeping along his spine, the drumming on his head, the tufts of wet grass between his fingers. Whoever they were, they had come out from behind the trees. The two cars beyond them couldn’t have been there before.
“My Jesus,” said Kilmartin. He sat forward in the seat and rubbed the glass with the heel of his hand. “What are you trying to prove? That this bloody car can float or something?”
Minogue had slowed to second gear. He sat over the wheel and changed the speed of the wipers every now and then. The rain drummed harder on the roof. Minogue checked the sun-roof for the fifth time and squinted out through the flow on the windscreen.
“Now that’s a cloudburst,” said Kilmartin. “And any man with any titter of wit would pull over to the side of the bloody road-”
“Be quiet, Jim. It’s hard enough trying to see anything without you ologoning. We’re nearly there.”
“Nearly where? Christ, man, you’re after driving us in the wrong direction!”
Kilmartin sat back and waved his hand toward the dash.
“What the hell use are all your feck-me-do buttons and switches now. Pull in off the road, man, or we’ll be under the wheels of some big lorry here.”
A flash showed the rain as needles but it was enough for Minogue to spot the cars.
“Now we’re in business,” he murmured.
“What business? What’re all those cars there? They looked like unmarkeds… What are they doing in there off the road?”
Minogue pulled the lever next to the hand-brake and turned in over the grass. He heard Kilmartin’s failing efforts to find words. He aimed the nose of the car toward the pair of dark-coloured Corollas by the edge of the grove.
“The bloody car is after rising up!”
“It’s supposed to, Jim. The suspension-”
“Shag this, man! You’re up to serious messing now, I’m telling you. Stop this circus-”
“There it is.”
“There’s what?”
“His motorbike. It’s parked just off the road.”
The Citroen wallowed but came out of the depression without bottoming out.
“You knew there was something on here. You-”
Kilmartin stopped talking when the beams went on. Two sets at the same time, then more, some moving until he gave up trying to decide how many cars there were. Minogue stopped the Citroen.
“Come on out,” said Minogue. “We can fill a space somewhere.” Kilmartin was staring at the headlights.
“Those are Guards out there,” he said. “Am I right?”
Minogue nodded.
“That’s him,” he added. “And there are patrol bikes in or around here if he tries to leg it over the fields.”
“Who? Who, for the love of God?”
He rose up slowly. He wasn’t sure if his knees would hold him. The words and hoarse pants he had been hearing were his own. The trees, he thought. They’ve staked the motorbike, so head into the trees. Headlights came on as he began his run. Two sets ahead caught him immediately. He stopped and turned. Others came on. The lights which aimed away began to turn toward him. They were all around. Something began to give way in his stomach. Would Bobby Egan have all this stuff? Where was Terry Malone? The bastard. A single light detached itself from the others and began weaving its way toward him. Still he stood, frozen, his lips moving, his breath coming in huge gulps. It was a motorbike. Mesmerized, he followed its passage over rises and bumps. It stopped fifty yards from him. Over the rain he heard engines now. He turned and tried to see where the gaps were. He could take a run toward-
The tinny screech stopped his thoughts. A loudspeaker? It had said his name. The rain was streaming over his eyes now. What, he called out. He heard “Gardai” before the flash. Ducking, he saw the white helmet of the cop on the bike as he too flinched. He sank to his knees in the grass. The rain hit his neck harder. He didn’t lift his head even when he heard them telling him to lie down. They told him again. He sat back on his heels. The motorbike put on blue flashing lights as it approached. Two cars came in. He heard doors being slammed shut and he looked out into the glare. The lights were on the move again, coming closer. The cops walked in front of the beams. Voices shouting at him now, using his name. Lie down. He wasn’t going to lie down. They had been tailing Terry Malone since he got out, that’s what did it. The rain was made up of solid lines all the way back to the clouds, he thought.
