“How have ye been?”
“Good,” she smiles, “well… As good as I can be, obviously.”
Chris nods, staring at her. This is the first time they’ve been alone together in years. He has so much to tell her, but can’t seem to find the words to actually express himself. Instead, he nods through into the passenger-side window.
“No bed?”
She laughs again, he had no idea how much he missed it until he finally heard it again.
“It’s for my granny, it’d be a whole handling bringing her back and forth when she’ll want to be there for the wake and the funeral… So, we may as well just have her sleep over at ours.”
He nods.
“So, the body’s been released then?”
“Aye, we’re sorting everything now… With all being well, we should be having the funeral on Monday.”
“Long time comin’.”
She smiles again, tears collecting in her eyes. He rests a reassuring hand on her shoulder as she looks down at it. Alien to her after all this time. They used to know each other inside out, but now…
“What about you?” she shakes away her tears and points at his gym bag, “didn’t see you as a gym-goer.”
“Me neither,” he laughs, sliding the bag behind his back embarrassedly, “I’ve only been once or twice. When I could be arsed.”
“Which is never, I bet,” she chuckles.
Maybe she still does know him after all, he smirks.
“Hi, how about a milkshake?” he turns and jolts his head towards the golden arches of McDonald’s.
“And ruin your hard work at the gym?” she leans her head to the side.
“I’ll just end up goin’ home and gettin’ a chippy anyway,” he laughs, not disclosing that he actually hasn’t made it in yet, “and sure, it’s only a milkshake, what harm would it do?”
She bites her bottom lip before nodding. Half an hour later, they’re parked up beside the Homebase in Chris’s car, their milkshakes melting in their hands as they catch up on the past two years. What they’ve been up to. What they’ve missed. What’s in store for them in the next few weeks, months and years. A lot of it they already know. What they learned during the part of their relationship where they got to know one another. Got to understand their hopes and dreams. But now… They continue telling each other funny anecdotes they’d know the other would love. Laughing along and reminiscing.
When their laughs finally subside and Danielle lifts the straw to her lips, sipping her banana milkshake, Chris reaches over and takes her other hand. Both of them look down at it expectedly. Excitedly. Like the start of their relationship. When everything was new. Could they start again? Could they forget everything that happened? They both look up from their hands and into each other’s eyes. Danielle blinks repeatedly, opening her mouth to speak. But before she can say anything, her ringtone penetrates the silence of the car. Almost as if bursting a bubble.
Suddenly, they’re back in the car park. The hustle and bustle of the busy retail park can be heard, and they’re suddenly aware of the shoppers flocking around the car. Fighting her hand out of his grasp, she struggles to pull her phone from her pocket.
“Hello?”
Her eyes widen as Chris takes a slurp of his own milkshake.
“What? When? Right, I’m on my way.”
Pocketing her phone once more, she apologises, getting ready to escape the car.
“D? What’s wrong? Chat to me.”
“It’s Ma… She’s had a fall in Tescos… They think it was a panic attack. She’s in A&E now, I have to get to her. I’m sorry. I…” she indicates the milkshake, “… Thank you. I’ll be in touch.”
How? Chris wants to scream as she flops out of the car and slams the door, running to her own. Chris leans back on the headrest and breathes out deeply. Like he can fully breathe again. It isn’t over… It can’t be over. He has to do something.
Chapter Fifty-Nine:
Turning the corner, Smyth narrows his eyes as he sees a collection of people outside the Bull’s Horn, notorious for housing members of Ardóimid and other locals to the west of the city. But with its shutters down, it’s obvious that something’s happening. He observes skinheads in three quarter length shorts and bare, flabby chests hammering on the door, their abandoned t-shirts resting on the picnic bench on the pavement.
Levelling with the pub, Smyth cranes his neck over the revellers, looking for someone he would know. There are about 20 or 30 people all shouting and roaring, battering their fists off the shutters, vocally expressing their distaste for not being able to get into their local on a Saturday night. He would know some to see, a courteous nod when walking into the pub, but wouldn’t talk to them. Doesn’t know any of their names. He doubts they’d acknowledge him now, especially in their angry states.
Finally, on the other side of the crowd from him, he spots Macka rolling a fag. Stepping out onto the road to bypass the agitated congregation, he spits on the ground for added effect, before cocking his head towards the front doors.
“Fuck’s happenin’ here, Macka?”
Macka is the barman in the Bull’s Horn. If he’s not even allowed in, something massive must be wrong.
“Cannae say, hi,” Macka lights his smoke before taking a long drag, “Boyle’s holdin’ some form of a meetin’.”
“About what?” Smyth sneers, police training kicking in.
Could this have something to do with the Parker murder? Rumours circulated Facebook earlier that they’d arrested Billy Taylor from outside the Crown. He was expecting to land here tonight to a celebration. Keeping up appearances, he knew he had to join.
“No clue, boy,” Macka attempts to hock a greener over the wall beside him, which misses, hitting the top of it and stringing down onto the pavement next to them, making Smyth’s stomach
