‘Like you?’ Parker said, finally turning to face his former colleague. ‘You’re not a part of this organisation any more, Doyle.’
‘Reinstate me. You know I’m the only one who can get Leary.’
‘I can’t do that. I wish I could but I can’t. I know what you’re saying is right. I know that if anyone can find him it’s you.’ The older man sighed. ‘My hands are tied.’
‘I’ll work without official clearance.’
Parker shook his head. ‘You’d be arrested as soon as you set foot in Ireland,’
he said.
They’ve got to find me first,’ Doyle assured him.
‘I can’t allow that, Doyle.’
‘I’ll find Leary.That’s what you want, isn’t it? Besides, I owe that bastard.
He tried to kill me, remember?’
‘He wouldn’t be the first.’
That’s right. But I want to put him where I’ve put the others who’ve tried to kill me. Six feet under.’
A heavy silence descended, finally broken by Doyle.
‘He’ll go looking for the men who killed his brother. When he does, I’ll find him.’
Parker shook his head again. ‘I can’t give you your job back, Doyle. That’s the end of it.’
The former agent regarded the older man evenly. ‘Fair enough,’ he said, heading towards the door. ‘But perhaps there’s something else you should consider. That minibus was on a route known only to the driver and certain members of the RUC and security forces. Yet the guys who hit it knew exactly where and when to find it. They couldn’t have known that without the right information.’
‘You think someone tipped them off?’
‘What the fuck do you think?’ Doyle said quietly. ‘You’ve got an informant somewhere, Parker. You’d better find him too.’
Doyle opened the door.
‘Doyle. Wait a minute,’ Parker called, stepping from behind his desk. ‘What will you do now?’
‘Now you’ve shit on me, you mean? Put me out of fucking work. What does it matter to you?’
Parker reached into his jacket pocket and handed Doyle a plain, white business card. ‘Go and see this man,’ he said, holding out the card. ‘He might be able to help you.’
‘I don’t need your pity, Parker,’ Doyle said dismissively.
‘I’m not giving it. Stop being so pig-headed for once and take some help when
it’s offered.’
‘I don’t need any help.’
‘No, Doyle, that’s exactly what you need. Without this job you’ll be sucking the barrel of a .357 within a month. Take the card.’
Doyle hesitated a moment then snatched it from his former colleague’s hand and shoved it into the back pocket of his jeans.
‘By the way, Parker,’ he said standing in the doorway, ‘if I do end up with a gun in my mouth, just remember, you were the one who put it there.’
He slammed the door behind him.
AN OVERACTIVE IMAGINATION
Thirty pages. Ward counted them again. Thirty pages. No mistake. More than he’d written in the last five days.
He numbered the pages and placed them with the rest of his manuscript, wondering why his hands were shaking.
He re-read the words on the screen. He remembered none of them.
Had he been that drunk that he’d managed to write thirty pages without even remembering?
Ward rubbed his chin thoughtfully. His head was spinning. A combination of tiredness and the effect of so much alcohol was beginning to close in on him.
He tried to rise but couldn’t. He sat down again and breathed deeply.
Finally he shut off the computer. As the screen went black the office was plunged into darkness.
Ward tried again to get to his feet and this time he managed it. He negotiated the stairs with great care. He had little worth living for but he still didn’t fancy slipping and breaking his neck.
He locked the office and stumbled towards the house. As he went he heard sounds of movement in the bushes.
He wondered if it was the same cat that he’d frightened off the other night.
He grabbed a stone and hurled it in the direction of the sound. He heard the missile strike the wooden fence beyond but nothing else.
Then it came again. Closer this time. Near to the office door.
In the blackness of night it was impossible to see anything.
Ward took a step forward.
A shape passed close to the door of the office. Low to the ground. On all fours. Sleek, with a very large head.
Ward reached for another stone and prepared to throw it.
Was it a dog he’d glimpsed?
He shook his head.
It was … too big?
No. It was the wrong shape.
It moved too awkwardly, as if all its weight was on its front legs. It moved more like an ape.
Ward kept his eyes fixed on the door of the office and stepped backwards towards his house.
Drink. Tiredness. Depression. A powerful combination and one likely to stimulate an overactive imagination. Or hallucinations?
He smiled to himself.
The shape by the office had gone. At least, he couldn’t see it any more.
Ward went inside the house, locked and bolted the back door and peered out through the glass.
He could see nothing. No shapes. No imaginary figures. No hallucinations.
He turned away from the window and made his way up the stairs. Had he looked back he might have noticed that there was a silver-grey light coming from inside his office.
As if the monitor were once again switched on.
IDLE HANDS
Ward slept without interruption that night. A sleep aided by half a bottle of Glenfiddich.
He didn’t dream. Or if he did he didn’t remember them.
He woke at ten the following morning, showered, dressed and, for the first
time in several days, shaved. Then he wandered out to the office.
The printer was whirring away as he opened the door. He recognised the sound immediately and hurried up the stairs.
He stood motionless and watched as the machine printed off thirty more pages.
BALLYKNOCKAN, COUNTY WICKLOW, THE REPUBLIC OF IRELAND: Declan Leary was surprised at how many people turned out for the funeral of his brother. Sure enough.Vincent had been a popular man but Leary was pleasantly surprised at the amount of souls prepared to pay their respects to his dead sibling.
He stood on the hillside overlooking the cemetery, sheltering beneath some trees from the rain that had been falling steadily for the last two hours.
He’d stood like some silent sentinel, watching while the priest intoned words he knew only too well. Aware that his mother was shaking as she fought in vain to hold back her tears as she watched her eldest child being lowered into the grave.
Leary could see one of his aunts with her arm around the frail old woman. On her other side stood Leary’s younger sisters. Patricia was twenty. Angela eighteen months older. They were also crying.
How he longed to stand beside them. To comfort his family. To toss a handful of wet earth on to the
coffin.To say a final farewell to the brother he had loved so much.
