Tierney walked over to the dresser. The baby lay there in the top drawer, wrapped in an old coat. Her cheeks were puffed and the colour looked too red to be natural, like a plastic toy. The little hair on her scalp was stuck down. He leaned over, picked up the child — she felt damp. ‘Fuck’s sake.’ She was wet again. He raised her on his shoulder, gently patted her back. She was a young child and cried all the time. ‘Come on now, settle yourself down.’ He’d heard somewhere that the thing to do was put a drop of whisky on the baby’s dummy, put them fast asleep apparently. He’d heard that from a woman he once knew, so it had to be true. Women knew about babies, they were the ones to look after them, not men. ‘Vee. Get your arse through here!’
He heard movement in the hallway. The shower had stopped. That made him smirk again. He bared a row of cracked teeth at the child; already the baby seemed to have settled somewhat in his arms.
‘Vee… get through and feed this kid.’
The handle of the door to the living room turned slowly. As Vee came through she was still dripping wet but now she was wrapped in an old, fraying blanket that was dotted with stains and cigarette burns. She carried herself like a figure from a tragedy. Her thin, pale arms, exposed above the blanket, were bruised and scarred and her eyes were bloodshot and tired-looking. Tierney looked her up and down; he saw her feet sticking out beneath the blanket. He had always hated her feet — they were too big and her toes were crooked after years of forcing them into smaller shoes with high heels she wore to walk the Links. The sight of those feet was like incitement to Tierney. He wanted to knock her down for bringing them before him. He knew it wasn’t just the sight of the feet that poked the anger in him, it was the sight of her, what she had done to him and what she had made him do.
‘Get this fucking kid off me.’ He handed Vee the child and she put a hand under its legs, raised it onto her shoulder.
‘She’s hungry,’ said Vee.
‘Well, fucking feed her.’
Vee craned her neck to the side, as if she was trying to hear something far away, said, ‘The bottle’s in the kitchen.’ It was only when she spoke that Tierney realised she was indicating that he was to prepare the milk. He watched Vee with the child for a moment and felt something stir inside him. It was a feeling he wasn’t sure he had known existed before. It was close to duty, but he knew he wasn’t doing it for Vee, or the child.
Tierney dragged his legs back into motion, made for the kitchenette and started to fill a pot with water. There was a small gas burner with a blue canister. He lit it and placed the pot over it to boil. As the water heated he walked back to Vee and the child. ‘The Deil better sort us out.’
‘Do you think he won’t?’
He shook his head. ‘He’s not sure.’ He raised an arm, a thin finger extended towards the child in Vee’s arms. ‘About that.’
‘He was before.’ She seemed nonplussed, already looking towards the possibilities.
Tierney nodded. ‘He’s not sure now… He said he was, but then…’
Vee moved the child to her other shoulder, jutted her jaw. ‘But then what?’
Tierney heard the water boiling up, turned. Vee grabbed his arm as he moved. ‘But fucking what, Barry?’
‘Got to get the milk.’ He pulled his arm away.
As he went to the kitchen, Vee followed him. She watched him take off the saucepan, drop in the bottle of milk.
‘Barry, we can’t mess this up. We need to get sorted out or he’s going to lose patience. You know what that means.’
Tierney faced her. ‘I know.’
He didn’t want to think about being in debt to Devlin McArdle. He’d seen what happened to people who had run up sums they couldn’t pay back to the Deil; the idea he might join them scared him. He had thought he had the answer but now he wasn’t so sure. It had all gotten out of control, so much so that he couldn’t think of a way out. He couldn’t see any possibilities.
As the pair stared at each other there was a loud knock on the door. It sounded twice, then became a thud. Next was the sound of the post-slot being rattled and a familiar voice yelling in for them, ‘Open the fuck up!’
Vee stopped patting the baby’s back. She was the first to speak: ‘It’s him… the Deil.’
Chapter 12
Brennan watched Lauder. His lips were pinched but he had ceased to whistle. As he stood, an arc of piss sprayed the urinal. The expression on his face was hard to analyse — somewhere between startled and slightly chuffed. He turned away, looked down, shook, then zipped up. He regained composure quickly, began whistling again. It was an irritating tune, some chart rubbish, thought Brennan, something that might once have been worthy but had been milked dry by a television talent show.
Lauder brushed past Brennan, left him in no doubt about what his impression of the DI was — as if he was in any doubt after catching his comments from beyond the cubicle door.
Lauder said, ‘If you think I care two shits for you hearing any of that, you’re wrong.’
Brennan turned slowly. He removed his hands from his pockets and folded them behind his back as he faced Lauder in the wall mirror, said, ‘Do you think I do?’ He managed a sneer on the last syllable. He was sure it had the effect he was after.
Lauder pushed the soap spray, put his hands under the taps and got a lather going. He’d abandoned the whistling completely now.
‘This is a new low even for you, is it not?’ said Lauder.
Brennan held schtum.
‘I mean, you know I don’t rate you as a cop, but I never had you down as a cock-watcher.’
Brennan laughed it up, kept his powder dry.
Lauder continued, ‘I know you had that little flip-out there, nice bit of leave, but seriously, are you sure you’re right in the head yet?’ Lauder walked round Brennan. He shook the excess water from his fingers as he went. At the towel rail he pulled the blue cloth tight and smirked.
The scene had played just how Brennan had predicted it so far. There had been a time, in his younger days, when he might have given the lank streak of piss a slap, cracked a few ribs maybe. But not now. He’d passed that stage. Learned to control himself. The rough stuff, the physical blows, were rewarding but short-lived. He wanted to leave Lauder wondering, keep him guessing, and it was best to file his comeuppance away until a later date. There was always the satisfaction to be drawn from the knowledge that Lauder didn’t have the intelligence for it, and he could be mentally tortured for a long stretch of time.
Brennan tapped his hands where he held them behind his back. He returned the sly smile to Lauder, spoke: ‘Game on.’
‘What?’ said Lauder. He turned from the towel rail. ‘What are you saying to me?’ He took two steps closer, expanded his chest and dropped his head in a combative stance.
Brennan widened his smile, keeping his posture firm. He felt secure enough in his capabilities if the confrontation became physical, but he was in control and kept up the mental assault. ‘Funny what you pick up if you keep your ears open, isn’t it, Lauder? I mean, I thought that reporter had been tipped off, but you can never be sure, can you?’
Lauder twisted his expression, brought up a finger, pointed it. ‘Look, if you’ve got a mole, that’s fuck all to do with me!’
Now Brennan stepped up. He brought his hands round and slowly rubbed them together. ‘If I’ve got a mole, Lauder, I’ll find him… And when I do, he’ll be lucky to stay on the force as a dog catcher.’
There was a moment of silence between the two men. The filling of the cisterns could be heard, the drip of ageing pipes. ‘Ah, fuck this,’ said Lauder. He sidestepped Brennan and stomped away. As he grabbed the handle the door clattered off the wall; the swish of it pushed a breeze towards Brennan. He watched Lauder leave and turned to the mirror.
For a moment his eyes failed to register the man staring back at him in reflection. When they did he moved closer, placed his hands either side of the wash bowl and sighed. As he emptied his lungs Brennan knew that things
