'It might all sound very seedy and fucked up at this distance, you know, industrial schools, abuse, all this. And then F. X. Tyrrell…as if he came in and said, I'll have him over there, that one. But it wasn't like that, you know?'
I looked at Leo, and by reflex at the driver.
'He's Ukrainian. Fuck-all English. Apart from beer, isn't that right man, beer, beer, voddy vodka and beer?'
The driver nodded dutifully, a grim smile on his wide mouth. Leo turned his dark eyes back to me.
'It was…he'd chosen me, but I was willing. He was a serious guy, F. X. Tyrrell, he was a fucking legend. I mean, say you were sixteen and I don't know who asked for you, some older one, Michelle Pfeiffer, or Ellen Barkin, or fuckin'…your one…who would you have liked?'
I shrugged.
'Your one,' I said, and Leo giggled.
'I can't remember her name, the English one who's always in the nip. But I mean, you would have said, fucking sure, wouldn't you? And that's what it was like, he was a charismatic guy, a suave fucker, and we were always into the ponies so he was like a fucking hero: I said, which way do you want me? I'm not sayin' there was no shit at St. Jude's, there fucking was, and it was always the weaker kids that got fucked, in every way. But I wasn't one of them. I was older anyway. And I was looking out for Pa, too, I…I loved the guy, you know? Mates. Not that there was anything between us, I mean, he was never that way, though I gave it a decent go…but we were like brothers…only, not like my fucking brothers…no need to mention Podge, I should pay someone in Mountjoy to shank the fat fuck…and as for fucking George, since I got out, I don't know who the fuck he thinks he is, always shitein' on about fuckin' business lunches and helipads and fucking interest rates, I've a pain in me hole listening to the cunt, I'm not coddin' you…I knew Pa needed a helping hand, you know, but he was a class jockey…so anyway, we were both getting what we wanted, that's how it was.'
Leo lit a Gauloise and exhaled and sat in wistful reverie for a while.
'That was the time of my life, know I mean? The time of my life.'
'And then when Miranda Hart came back from school…'
'Mary Hart as was. That was Jackie as well, claiming her, using her as a pawn against Regina. The politics of the house.'
'And she made her play for Patrick Hutton.'
'Yeah, they just, they got together, they got married, we were all working at the stables, getting our first rides, so forth. Then three things really: Patrick's career took off, and mine didn't, and F. X. lost interest in me.'
'This would be coming up to the By Your Leave incident?'
'This would. Because Pa rode By Your Leave. And because…I was gonna lie about this even now, I was gonna say it was George's idea, but it wasn't, it was mine.'
'To blackmail F. X. Tyrrell.'
'Yeah. I suppose I felt a bit excluded, know I mean? There they were, on the gallops, in fucking Cheltenham, and where was I? Back up in fucking Seafield sorting out Podge's mess. Dealing to skin-popping scobies. George looking at me like I'm some kind of fucking burden. So I decided to cash in.'
'You had photographs.'
'I had videotape. I took it without F.X. knowing.'
'Planning ahead.'
'I don't know. Maybe I was. Maybe deep down I'm a double-dealing scumbag. I thought I wanted a record of it, to believe it myself, to get off on it all. So I'd never forget. Maybe I'm lying to myself. You look back on what you were like, and you can't swear to anything, can you? Anyway, I took the tape to George. I made him watch it first. That was funny, seeing him sit through it, watching him squirm. And then he got his hooks into the Tyrrells.'
'A lot of money over the years?'
'I wouldn't let him take it too far. I mean, Podge never knew about it, can you imagine? Podge and his crew swarming around the country club, the whole thing would have collapsed. Nah, George took it steady. A race here and there, and the opportunity to get all the money laundered.'
'That was Sean Proby, wasn't it?'
'Yeah. Well, once I had F.X. on board, I figured, may as well get stuck into Proby. I knew he was up for it, he was always panting around Tyrrellscourt hoping for action, too shy to do anything about it, so it wasn't too hard to set him up with a couple of nice-looking young fellas and record the results. And bingo, Proby was the route for clean cash.'
'And after By Your Leave, after Thurles, you went back down to Tyrrellscourt, dealing. What happened to Patrick Hutton then?'
Leo grabbed my arm.
'That's what I want you to find out. Steno…I kept in touch with Steno, but I never trusted the cunt. You bring smack in, say good-bye to business, it's a fucking fire sale. I mean, Pa Hutton and me, we weren't really close anymore, not with your woman around…the guy had lost it anyway, he was on heroin. And the baby could have been anyone's, Miranda's baby, Jack Proby's, Steno's, anyone's.'
'Bomber Folan's?'
'Bomber didn't last long with F.X., fuck sake. Out on his ear, he had no discipline, the stupid cunt. I told Steno, I said the fucking smack was more trouble than it was worth. I got out, and he wound it down and reefed them all to fuck. And that was the last I heard until I got the phone call on Saturday night.'
Leo still held my arm; it reminded me of Vincent Tyrrell's grip the morning I took the case. He brought his other hand around and clasped my hand and locked eyes with me; his breath came through his mouth in sodden gusts.
'You want to get that seen to,' I said.
'Where d'you think Boris is taking me after this? Christmas night at the A &E in St. Anthony's, fuck sake, I should have you killed.'
'Don't start that again.'
'You could do with a checkup yourself.'
'In the New Year.'
'You think you've seen him. How does he look?'
'If it's who I think it is, he looked fit, but he didn't look well. Not in his head. I'm sorry.'
Leo gripped me harder, and tears brimmed in his eyes.
'Try and keep him alive,' he said.
'I can't promise anything. He already looked pretty out of control. If he's the killer…'
I didn't have to spell it out. Leo nodded, then rolled up his sleeve and showed me his forearm. The tattoo there was a familiar one, a crucifix and an omega symbol: †?
'I know there's all this, the Omega Man going on in the papers, like he's some Mister Evil fucker, yeah? And I read how the crucifix represents whatever, Christmas, or it's the killer pleading for forgiveness. But that's all bullshit man, it's not an omega, it isn't even a crucifix. It's, we all got them done in McGoldrick's that time, there was all raggle-taggle tradheads and eco cunts with dogs on strings and this cornrow chick used to do tattoos and we all got them, or I can remember everyone getting them anyway.'
'And what does it mean?'
'No big mystery. Just T and C, a fancy way of doing a T and a C.'
'T and C standing for-'
'Tyrrellscourt.'
THERE WEREN'T MANY people on the road, but those that were out were mostly drunk, so I had to take it easy on the drive, which I would have anyway, since my right eye had almost closed now, and it was past midnight when I arrived in Tyrrellscourt. I had showered before I left, and cleaned my wounds, and gobbled some Nurofen Plus, and resisted the call of my bed, although not without difficulty: What could eight hours change? I asked myself, and answer came there: Absolutely everything.
