A stab of guilt overtakes McNally as he looks up to another set of traffic lights, Ferguson cursing beside him in the driver’s seat. Was it his fault for showing up at the Bull’s Horn last night? Did he make it too obvious? The last communication the PSNI heard back from Doherty was that rumours circulating why the bar had been closed were quickly stamped out, and it was now an unspoken agreement, but they ran riot in the bar celebrating the incarceration of Taylor. Maybe the presence of two detectives rather than the standard uniforms who would be deployed to a similar scene was the changing point?
Either way, they had fucked up. Big time. As if struggling to hold onto the remnants, they decided they’d pay the bar a visit. They know it’s worthless, they’ll be spat out of there. But they need to try something. The constant threat of violence towards the social drinkers is becoming infuriating. They’re obviously bound far tighter than just ‘drinking buddies.’
“Ready, boss?”
McNally nods his head as they round the corner to the pub, but stop suddenly, confused. They’re met with the similar shutters that the drinkers were greeted with yesterday, but no protests going on outside. Is it a lock in? This early? It isn’t even five o’clock yet. Stepping out of the car, the door slams echo around the hungover cobbles as they trudge up to the door. Leaning their heads against the black wood, they’re surprised to hear silence. What the hell is going on?
Chapter Seventy-Seven:
“That bastard. That fuckin’ bastard!”
Nuala howls as she’s escorted into the living room and plonked down on the sofa, the group of friends dispersing to let her through. Granny arrives in with tea loaded with sugar.
“For the shock,” she winks at Danielle as she presses the mug against her daughter’s lips.
Nuala drinks hungrily, barely coming up for air, the semi-boiling water not deterring her from finishing the mug. When it’s empty, Granny hobbles out to make more as Nuala breaks into a new rant.
“I can’t believe Darrell Boyle the fucking terrorist knows where I live now.”
“Ma, he probably always knew,” Danielle grabs hold of her shaking hands, “he came to annoy and upset you, don’t let it affect you like this. You’re letting him win.”
Nuala stops her crying suddenly and gazes in front of her. They all turn to see Boyle still standing in the garden, looking in at them through the window with a big smile on his face, despite the red hand mark on his cheek.
“Fuck off!” Nuala throws Danielle off her as she stands, marching over to the window and hammering on it, much to the delight of Boyle, “just fuck off already, you fucking murdering scumbag!”
The girls manage to grab hold of Nuala and pull her away, back towards the sofa, whilst the boys fight their way to the front door, just after Chris pulls the curtains across the window, Boyle’s smirk vanishing from sight.
“How could he do this to us?” Nuala looks into Danielle’s face as she tries to calm her down, “him and his party… They’ve tormented so many families. And yet he can still show his face at your father’s wake. Oh, God. What if he comes to the funeral tomorrow? I won’t be able to cope… Oh, no…”
“He… He won’t, Ma,” Danielle splutters unconvincingly, not even able to reassure herself, “he wouldn’t dare. With all those onlookers? And the police? He’d be stupid…”
“The police? The police! Dermott, where’s Dermott?” she jolts upright again, hammering through into the kitchen, the girls following at a safe distance.
Danielle is the last to vacate the living room, and watches as Jimmy, Travis, Jase and Chris climb back through the front door. She leans her head into Chris’s chest, who soothes her with a hand through her hair.
“He took off once he seen us comin’. Had a car outside on the road ready for him.”
Danielle thanks him, before jutting her head towards the kitchen, where she hears her mother’s hysterical cries once more. She moans, looking up to Michelle descending the stairs, an earphone in one ear.
“What’s going on?”
She sighs once more. Where is Ritchie? She needs his help. She smiles towards that Cathal fella who has just left the kitchen, seemingly eager to find out what has happened. No doubt for his next story. Hearing hushed voices coming from the dining room, she reaches for the door handle and yanks it open. Stepping through, she gasps aloud. They might’ve jerked their heads towards her upon her entrance, but she seen what they were doing. Ritchie’s sitting on Granny’s blow up mattress, and hovering over him, hands still pressed against his cheeks, is her best friend. Steph.
Chapter Seventy-Eight:
The ringing of McNally’s phone penetrates the awkward silence of the car.
“O’Connor?”
“Sir. We’ve just been to Boyle’s… No one’s home.”
Cursing, McNally thanks him as he hangs up, signing off to keep him updated. Ferguson shakes his head as they continue to look at the abandoned pub.
“He must have another anniversary, so it couldn’t possibly be orchestrated by him,” Ferguson attempts to inject a bit of humour into the conversation.
Luckily, it works. Despite himself and the situation, McNally manages a snort and looks over at him with a shaking head.
“You’re right. I wonder where in the world he is now celebrating Christ knows what. Never gets his hands dirty, that one.”
They chuckle and stare out of the windscreen. They’re stuck on where to go. Who could be behind this? Where is Boyle? And where are the members of Ardóimid? This isn’t normal.
“So, what came of you and Niamh last night then, sir? If you don’t mind me asking.”
Ferguson breaks his train of thought as McNally looks over at his DS, a small smirk prominent on his face.
“Well, actually… After we left yours, we went to that bar down the street. Can’t remember what it’s even called now. Was a nice wee joint. All the guys
