Brute Force

The car deck was freezing and stank of diesel fumes. Coats and bags were stuffed into impossibly small spaces and doors and tailgates slammed before the wacky races to get out of the docks and onto the motorway began.

We squeezed between a couple of trucks to get to our gleaming Merc. It had cost a fortune to hire – even though I hadn't bothered with the insurance waivers – but I couldn't just cram these two into a budget hatchback after all that they'd been through in the last few months.

The car was packed to the gunwales with towels and duvets and brightly coloured suitcases. Somewhere underneath it all was my stuff: toothbrush – one; pants, socks, T-shirts – three: one on, one clean, one in the wash. Including their present, it fitted into a small holdall.

I pointed at the pile of bedding. 'You think I'd take you guys to a place with bare mattresses?'

Tallulah shifted in her seat. 'Just in case.' She shrugged. 'I'm a worrier.'

I gave her a smile and touched her lightly on the shoulder. She was doing her best, but I could see the tension in her face, and feel it in her shoulder muscles. She was finding her feet again, expanding her comfort zone inch by inch. It was painful to watch. She had a house to look after all on her own now, and, more importantly, her dead partner's child. I knew how she felt. I'd found myself in a similar position a few years ago, and fucked up big- time.

'Ruby!'

I looked across the deck. A few cars away, the girl with the camcorder was making her way towards us. Squeezed into the front passenger seat of the BMW behind her was a big, muscular guy with dark skin and a black leather jacket who glowered at me like a jealous boyfriend.

The girl beamed at Tallulah. 'I'm so sorry I bothered you. I spend so much time with a camera in my hand, I seem to end up filming everyone and everything.' She held out her hand. 'Mairead O'Connell.'

'Tallulah. Are you with a TV station?'

Mairead laughed. 'Nothing so glamorous. I'm Richard Isham's press secretary. Half my job is recording who he meets and what they talk about.'

12

We rolled off the ramp and into a bright sharp day. Exhaust fumes misted the air.

'Who's Richard Isham?' Tallulah said. 'Should I know?'

'Not really. Another one of these Irish politicos who's desperate to show that he's a fully paid-up member of the Good Lads' Club.'

Ruby tapped me on the back. 'What's that say? I can't read those words.'

She was pointing at the big sign saying Welcome to Dun Laoghaire.

'It's how the Irish write Dun Leary. Rhymes with dreary, dearie.' I was rather pleased with that one.

Tallulah smiled. 'That your theory, O'Leary?'

'What's this game?' Ruby demanded.

'It's just finished. I can't think of any more rhymes. But do you like games?'

'Yeessss!'

'Good. You'll like Christmas Day then.'

'Why?'

'That would be telling.'

The 200-mile drive to Donegal should take four or five hours, which meant closer to six, once we'd factored in regular stops for Ruby to empty the walnut and Tallulah to stock up on copies of Irish Homes and Gardens. At least we'd hit the village before the shops closed, and that was the main thing. Otherwise we'd have to do our shopping on the way, and there was barely room in the back for a pint of milk, let alone food and drink for the week.

Tallulah had stayed in the back with Ruby, which meant I still had a pile of duvets for company. I'd hoped she'd sit up front with me for this leg. When people sit in the back, it's not long before they get fed up leaning forward and trying to involve the driver; he ends up fading into the background. But fuck it, this wasn't my party. These two were grieving and needed each other.

We followed signs to Dublin. I could have used the Merc's Gucci sat nav, but I thought it might register back at Avis HQ. I didn't want alarm bells ringing in Berkeley Square and them sending in the stormtroopers to get their car back. Anyway, I couldn't be arsed to read the manual, and I knew my way round Dublin well enough. I just had to aim for the M1 and eventually peel off northwest.

'Nick, can we have the radio on?'

I winked at Ruby in the rear-view. 'Good idea. What kind? Talking? Music? We don't need the radio for that. I can sing.'

Her face fell. I'd overstepped the mark again somehow. Maybe her dad had used to sing to her in the car. I was walking on eggshells, and I was shit at it.

I hit the buttons and the Merc filled with perfect sound from about twenty separate speakers.

God Rest Ye Merry, Gentlemen, Let nothing you dismay

I checked the rear-view. Ruby's mouth was moving with the words.