“And what about your family now?”
Quigley looks at him with pursed lips.
“What do you think will become of your family now?” he repeats, “do you think they’ll be disappointed in you?”
He shrugs again.
“As long as they’re alive… Healthy… Safe, then that’s all I can ask for.”
They sit in silence for several seconds before McNally asks him the dreaded question.
“Do you think he did it?”
“Taylor?”
McNally nods.
“I don’t know…” Quigley winces as he looks out of the window reminiscently, “but I wouldn’t put it past him.”
Chapter Seventy-Two:
Waking with his tongue stuck to the roof of his mouth, Smyth yearns for the water by his bedside table, but doesn’t have the energy to actually reach out and grab it. He can’t even bring himself to open his eyes, the thundering headache weighing down on them. He should have stayed professional. Stayed alert. Tried to slip water in between rounds. Even have some soft drinks and pass them off as alcoholic. But the way the Bull’s Horn was celebrating last night, he knows he would’ve found it hard to hide. Especially with Macka’s judging gaze, scrutinising everyone in the room.
He couldn’t find out what had happened that had left the pub to open its doors so late on a Saturday night, and by none other than Darrell Boyle himself. Of course, there were whispers, but they were shut down by a single glare from someone high up in the organisation. Instead, they all cheered and clinked their glasses together. Celebrating the fact that Billy Taylor, their enemy and biggest competition, was behind bars. They sang rebel songs and talked about what this meant for Derry, and Northern Irish politics. How their United Ireland dream was looking brighter and right within their grasp.
He groans again as he remembers the fire whiskey shots. His round. He needs to remember he isn’t a spring chicken any longer. At the tender age of 44, it isn’t easy to just hop out of bed in the afternoon and go about your day after a feed of drink the night before. But despite himself, he was genuinely enjoying the craic with them all. Some were good critters, with some bad views. They did have some valid points; they all just hid them amongst fearmongering and sectarian slurs. He believes if some of them broke away and created their own party, they wouldn’t have trouble gathering support. He hates to think what would happen them if they did, though.
Managing to finally collapse out of bed, he drains the pint glass of water as he pads towards the sink, before refilling it once more. He gazes about at the kitchen in the house the police had given him for the entirety of his undercover investigation. Not bad, considering the location in the west of the city. He’s sure the fresh lick of paint, luxurious decor and expensive furnishing will not up the price though, given the area, when he moves on and the police sell it. If anything, they probably lost money getting this ready for him.
Just as he pops some bread into the toaster, all he can stomach at the moment, he hears the front doorbell go. Who the hell could that be? He isn’t even sure anyone knows where he lives. It wouldn’t be the police, would it? They wouldn’t risk the investigation, and his life, to land at his front door? Deciding to ignore it as he refills his glass, brushing it off as some campaigners or Jehovah’s Witnesses, he squints against the hammering of a fist on the glass. Not today. Not when his head is this painful. Trudging through into the bedroom, he pulls on a pair of tracksuit bottoms, reaching for a t-shirt before thinking better of it. Around these parts, if someone lands at your door unexpectedly, you just greet them with whatever you’re wearing. He has to act the hard lad. Topless is intimidating, even tattooless.
Looking in the mirror, he squares his shoulders back and juts out his chin, before marching down the hall towards the front door, where he can see the outline of someone standing through the distorted frosted glass.
Chapter Seventy-Three:
2016
_____
The silence is bitterly cold. Perhaps even colder than the wind roaring against the windows of his car. The heat is turned right up, but the old hunk of junk can barely splutter anything powerful enough to heat you. You’d be better just to blow in your hands to keep yourself warm. They stare at the vista of the city spread out in front of them where they’re parked in the Top of the Hill Park. Usually teens can be seen coming here for dogging or to smoke a few joints. But they’re doing nothing of the sort.
The twinkle of the Christmas lights should give Danielle butterflies and anticipation of happy times. It’s only days away, with wrapped and unopened gifts clogging up the backseat. But how can she be happy? It’s her first Christmas without him. Six months he’s been missing now. Who’s going to cut the turkey? Hell, who’s going to actually cook the turkey? They’ve soldiered on with Ma’s blackened oven food for now, but they need a turkey on Christmas Day. They haven’t discussed it as a family, perhaps they’re just going to treat it as any other day? After all, Ma hasn’t been dropping the oh-not-so-subtle hints on what she can get them from Santa. They all know what they really want. And Danielle knows what Chris wants.
“Why did you bother getting presents?” she laughs, folding her arms around her front, the seatbelt digging into her, “you know we aren’t going to make it that far.”
“Why do ye always say that?
