“Well, how were we supposed to know he’d be hanging around the house this morning?” Ciaran erupted again.
“True for you there,” the stranger replied after a pause. The sarcasm was gone from his voice now. “True for you, boy. You’d never have expected it.”
Seconds of silence followed. They’re deciding, Minogue thought. No one wants to say it out loud. Footsteps shuffled, a sigh.
“It’s late,” said the stranger. “Too late really. Come on in now and we’ll pay our respects to your man inside. Leave that down on the bench like a good man, Finbarr, for fear you’ll drop it again and it’ll take the toes off someone. This is my job now.”
Minogue heard a low growl, as if he was clearing his throat, rising in his own chest. His own animal terror, his body’s need for any movement. He stifled the cry and jogged the chair once, twice, until he had a view of the door. Through the slit between door and jamb, a shadow passed. There was a clump as something heavy was laid on the bench. A choked-off murmur escaped from Minogue. Good God, he thought, his body was acting on its own-it knows something. His mind was gone.
“I don’t think he really has anything-” Sheila Howard said.
“Don’t be worrying yourself, Mrs Howard. You don’t have to do a thing now.”
“Don’t keep calling her that!” Ciaran’s voice rose. “For Christ’s sake, you’re always taking digs at her-”
“Sorry, Gary. Don’t fuss yourself now. It’s just that me and her nibs go back a good number of years.” Minogue sat very stilclass="underline" a good number of years?
“Come on now, let’s not be arguing. We can fix the rest up later.”
“I’m staying here,” said Sheila Howard.
“Ah, come on now,” said the stranger. “We’re all in it together. It’s a lesson for everyone, now.”
Minogue heard his own breath rush out of his nostrils. His heart was thumping in a cold, empty place. The door screeched open across the pebbles. Deegan stopped and looked at him.
“Jesus Christ,” said Deegan. “Who took the bag off him?”
“He couldn’t breathe enough to even talk, so I-”
“You fucking what?”
“Leave her alone!” came Ciaran’s rising voice. “What difference does it make now?”
Deegan wandered slowly back into the doorway. He shook his head and looked up from the floor. He looked at Minogue with cold, moist eyes, an automatic pistol in his left hand. Ciaran stepped in the doorway behind him, his face sullen, followed by Sheila Howard. She wouldn’t look at Minogue. Her eyelashes batted rapidly and her hand went to her hair. Finbarr shambled in and stood next to Ciaran, his eyes downcast too. With his head tilted slightly and his distracted gaze returned to the floor, Deegan waited for the three to come to a standstill.
“It’s yourself that’s in it, then,” he said.
“You’ll be caught,” Minogue whispered. “All of you.”
Deegan didn’t seem to hear him. He shuffled forward.
“You’ve only yourself to blame,” he said. His leather soles crunched pieces of mortar. A vise had fastened about Minogue’s ribs. He wondered if he would be able to stop himself from crying out.
“From what I heard, it was our Mrs Howard doing all the talking in here. Did she tell you everything you wanted to know, now?” They had sent her all right, and they had sat listening.
“Except who killed Jane Clark,” said Minogue.
Deegan’s eyes suddenly twinkled, and he smiled broadly.
“Well now, can’t you figure that out yourself?”
By the tone, the menacing humour, Minogue knew. He stared into the folds of flesh in which Deegan’s eyes were almost completely hidden now.
“You did it.”
Deegan made a mock curtsy but his eyes stayed on the Inspector’s.
“At your service, Your Honour. Oh, the Howards are no different from any other of the well-to-do. They always need someone to do the dirty work. Well, there was a lot of money spent that night, let me tell you. And they’re still paying for it. Amn’t I right, Mrs Howard?”
“Shut up with that ‘Mrs Howard’ stuff!” Ciaran shouted. “I’m about sick and tired of it.”
Deegan put on a surprised expression and peered around at Ciaran.
“You’re right, Ciaran,” he sighed. “Begging your pardon and all.”
He turned back to the Inspector. Something about Minogue’s face brought the smile back to Deegan’s.
“After that night, sure, we had Naughton in the bag too. The way things worked out… Two for the price of one, you might say. We had plenty on our Tom after that night, so we did. So our Tom did his bit afterwards too-not saying he didn’t do well out of us. He did. And by us, I don’t mean the Howard clan.”
Naughton’s gun, Minogue thought. Had Deegan given him the gun?
“Well, I hear they caught up with poor Tom the other day,” Deegan went on. “And he blew his brains out? He always said he’d do that if and when they came for him. I didn’t set much store by that. The drink talking, says I. But that’s why he wanted the gun, I suppose, for when they came after him. His own, I mean-the Guards.” Deegan shook his head again and chuckled softly.
“The poor divil,” he added. He gave Minogue the stage wink which the Inspector remembered from their meeting in the pub. “Ah, but his heart was in the right place.”
Ciaran snorted and started to say something but bit back his words and folded his arms again. Over his thudding heartbeat, Minogue still heard Ciaran’s angry breaths in his nostrils.
“Take it nice and easy there, Ciaran,” Deegan murmured. “Sure the man has a right to his facts. Oh, but she was a bad egg, that one. Jane Clark. Oh yes. She put up a rare oul’ fight of it, so she did. But tell me,” he squinted into Minogue’s eyes. “Alo Crossan. How the hell did he get you into this mess? He’d sooner piss on a Guard than talk to one.”
Minogue didn’t answer.
“Crossan’s a wanker, so he is,” Deegan went on. “Matter of fact, he’s as bent as a ram’s horn.”
Minogue’s expression prompted Deegan to grin again.
“You didn’t know he’s a queer? That’s what he has the chip on his shoulder about. He’s bent, man. He was pally with that bitch. She told me she was going to get Alo and take everyone to court over this. Me, Mrs Howard here-oops, Sheila-the Howards…everyone. It was Dan gave her the clap, she tried to tell me, not the other way around. Funny how things turn out, isn’t it?”
Deegan choked off his mirth and threw a glance of knowing candour at the Inspector.
“But, sure, who can you depend on these days?” he said.
Ciaran took a step forward, unfolded his arms and shouted, “Look.” With a terrifying, unnatural speed, Deegan turned, brought up the pistol and shot him square in the chest. The shell flew across the room, Sheila Howard screamed and buckled, Ciaran fell back and Deegan kept firing. An ejected shell bounced off Minogue’s eyebrow as he wrenched himself over, the chair giving way under him. Deegan fired steadily, without pause. Through the deafening reports and the shouts, Minogue heard bodies land heavily on the cement.
Minogue came to rest on his side and opened his eyes. Smoke clouded and shook in the room as Deegan’s gun went off. Minogue’s cheek was on the cement. He saw legs and a hand, blood on the wall next to the floor. He was shouting himself now and he felt his bladder give way. Deegan stopped shooting and stepped toward the arms and legs. Minogue stopped shouting. Kathleen, he thought. His eyes were locked onto Deegan’s shoes. As long as the shoes faced away from him, he was still… Deegan was whispering hoarsely.
“Christ, Ciaran, you’re such a fucking iijit,” he gasped, breathing harder. “You poor bastard, you damn near ruined it all with her… And as for your mate, God forgive me, I warned you, don’t say that I didn’t, now…”
Deegan’s feet shuffled slightly as he fired down. One of the hands fluttered and Minogue went limp. Someone was moaning. Deegan’s shoes turned toward Minogue. The piss was warm over his legs, almost a comfort. The clarity of everything in the room, in the world, came to the Inspector as something utterly horrifying and familiar. A vision flared in his mind but it did not distract his utter attention from Deegan’s gun: the surly, grey-green sea, the stricken ridges of the Burren stretching toward the horizon under clouds that looked like massive slabs themselves. He saw the orange flare as the roof burst into flames impossibly reflected on every wave, the porpoises racing through the black waters of the estuary into the open sea…and, always, that face, the young stranger watching.