‘I’m giving you an order, Declan.’
‘I’m not even in your fucking army, Jimmy. So stick your orders up your arse and tell Donnelly the same.’
‘It could jeopardise your brother’s release.’
‘Fuck off.’
‘Vincent could spend the rest of his life in jail because of you. They’ll use you against him.’
That’s bollocks and you know it.’
‘Is it? Do you really want to take that chance, Declan?’
‘Don’t threaten me,Jimmy, and you can tell Donnelly and Tracey what I’ve told you. We’re not stopping. And there’s nothing you can do about it’
Mulvey regarded the younger man silently for a moment. ‘You seem very sure of that, Declan.’
‘What are you going to do?’ asked Leary, his right hand sliding into his jacket pocket. ‘Shoot me?’
‘Just remember what I’ve told you,’ Mulvey said.
Leary pulled his hand free of his pocket and the older man heard a familiar sound.
The swish-click of a flick knife.
Mulvey looked down quickly at the weapon now resting against his thigh.
The two men locked stares for interminable seconds.
‘I don’t care who I have to kill, Jimmy,’ Leary told him.‘Understand?’
Mulvey finally pushed open the passenger door and swung one leg out.
‘Let’s hope it doesn’t come to that, Declan,’ he smiled crookedly.
He slammed the door behind him and stalked back across the car park towards the welcoming warmth of the pub.
Leary watched him in the rear-view mirror, seeing him pause for a moment before stepping inside. Only then did he push the flick knife shut and slip it back into his pocket.
JUST LIKE OLD TIMES
For two mornings on the trot Ward was in the office by ten. On both days he had sat straight down at his desk, re-read what he’d written the day before and began.
It felt wonderful.
Doyle heard footsteps outside the car. He was already awake. He had been for the past half hour. But now, as he slowly turned over, he allowed his eyes to open a fraction.
There were four of them. Not one any older than ten. They peered in at him with the same puzzled amusement they would view a goldfish in its tank.
One of them tapped on the glass.The others giggled.
Doyle sat bolt upright and gestured angrily at the kids. ‘Fuck off, you little bastards,’ he shouted in a perfectly replicated Irish accent.
The kids scattered.
Doyle grinned to himself and stretched his arms before him. He heard the joints pop and crack.
‘Shit,’ he murmured.
His neck ached too. Everything fucking ached these days. Sleeping in the back of the Orion didn’t help.
He pushed open the rear door and swung himself out into the street.
The counter terrorist reached for his cigarettes and lit one. He pulled on his leather jacket to ward off the early morning chill.
As he stood there, curious passers-by glanced in his direction, wondering who was this long-haired, unshaven man who had been sleeping on the back seat of his car for the past two days.
Strangers, he had found over the years, were not exactly welcome in the Turf Lodge area of Belfast but this most recent foray had been greeted more with bemusement than suspicion by the locals.
Mothers walking their children to school regarded him indifferently. Some muttered hushed words to each other.
An elderly man leading a collie on a long lead even nodded a greeting in his direction.
Doyle returned the gesture and pulled up the collar of his jacket. He rubbed his stomach as it rumbled and set off down the street towards a newsagent’s, hands buried deep in his pockets.
There were several people inside the shop and Doyle looked at each face, consigning it to his memory.
He bought a Mars bar, some crisps and a can of Red Bull and got in the short queue behind a young woman dressed in a pair of navy-blue leggings and a puffa
jacket. Doyle ran approving eyes over her buttocks while he waited.
As if aware of his prying gaze, the young woman turned and looked at him. She was barely twenty (half your age, you dirty bastard) and pretty even without make-up.
‘Rough night?’ she said smiling.
He nodded. Thanks to my missus,’ he lied.‘I’ve been sleeping on the back seat of the car.’
‘Did she throw you out?’ the young woman wanted to know, moving closer to the till.
‘I walked out,’ Doyle continued. ‘When I found out what she’d been doing. I’ve been looking for her ever since. Now I know where she is. And the bastard who’s been fucking her behind my back.’ He smiled. ‘If you’ll excuse my French.’
The young woman chuckled and put her purchases on the counter. ‘So who is he?’
she wanted to know.
‘His name’s Finan,’ said Doyle. ‘Matthew fucking Finan. Bastard. I don’t know how long it’s been going on but I’ll catch them at it. I’ve been parked outside his house for the last two nights.When he comes back I’ll …” He allowed the sentence to trail off.
The smile had faded from the young woman’s face. ‘Where’s your car?’ she wanted to know.
‘Round the corner in Glen Road. Outside number fifteen.’
‘You’ll have a long wait if it’s Matthew Finan you’re after,’ said the shopkeeper, pushing the young woman’s goods into a carrier bag. ‘It’s his sister who lives in Glen Road.’
‘Shite,’ hissed Doyle. ‘Do you know where I could be after finding him?’
The shopkeeper shook his head.
The young woman picked up her carrier bag and left without looking back at Doyle.
So, you do know him.
Doyle paid for his breakfast then opened the can and took a long swig.
‘What’s his sister’s name?’ he asked, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.
‘I don’t know,’ the shopkeeper said briskly, suddenly more interested in tidying the newspapers laid out on his counter.
Doyle bought a Daily Star, jammed it into the back pocket of his jeans and headed for the door. He stopped outside the shop and took a bite of the Mars.
Finan’s sister, eh?
It was another step closer.
NOVEMBER 16th, 1993:
Malcolm Porter knew he’d had too much to drink. He’d been fairly sure of it when he’d left the joyously rowdy atmosphere of the Bull. He’d stumbled twice as he negotiated the steps that led from the public bar of the pub to the pavement.
Now he was positive he’d drunk too much. He sucked in a deep breath and stood still, propping himself against the wall of a house wishing the world would stop spinning quite so violently.
But what the hell, if a man couldn’t celebrate after a victory such as he’d just tasted then it was a pretty bad show. How many times did anyone experience the exultation of being in a darts team that had just won its regional ieague?
He glanced down at the trophy he still gripped in his right hand. It was a silver-plated figure holding a dart. Poised, as he had been, to make the winning shot. His name was inscribed on the bottom of the plaque, just above the name of the pub.
He brandished the small trophy above his head with all the pride of an FA cup-winning captain.
Porter giggled at his own actions (further proof that he was pissed) and continued the walk home.
Normally it would have taken him less than ten minutes to reach his house in
