She cursed him. It was vintage John. Always the same. First there was the disappointment, then the excuses and then the promises to make it up next time. It wouldn’t be him that would have to spend the rest of the day with Sarah, dealing with the tears, trying to make up excuses. Catherine had heard them enough times before. Back when they were directed at her. How could you tell a child though? Daddy had to work. He’s out there chasing a bad man. There were only so many times. .
At ten o’clock Catherine knelt down in front of her daughter. Sarah fought back the tears. She had seen enough to know that her daddy didn’t always come when he said he was going to.
‘It’s not fair,’ Catherine said, as much to herself as to her daughter. She was only a child. She was only five, she didn’t know how to guard against the disappointments, to shield herself the way her mother had learned to do over the years. Catherine knew now she’d have to call in sick to work.
‘Something must have happened, my love — something really important at work. Would you like me to take you to the pictures instead?’
The girl’s mouth turned downwards and she shook her head. Catherine wished she would cry because at least then she could give her a hug. Her eyes were almost unbearable to look at.
‘It’s OK, Mummy. We’ll go next time.’
The girl slowly took her coat off and hung it back on her hook, the one John had put at a special height when they had first moved into the house. She then went upstairs, into her bedroom, and quietly closed the door.
Catherine marched into the kitchen, cursing under her breath. She opened the drawer beside the cooker, rummaging through the old shopping lists and spare batteries until she found what she was looking for. The brown A4 envelope. She grabbed her handbag from the counter and searched for the stamps she knew were in her purse. She put a whole book of first class on the envelope. There was no way it wasn’t going to get there.
She called Sarah down from her bedroom and told her: ‘Put your coat on, sweetheart. We have to go out to do a message.’
In the flat on the Stranmillis Road O’Neill snored heavily. He hadn’t slept much the day before and had ended up down Laganview at four in the morning. He’d planned to have a shower before going to pick up Sarah. He was looking forward to seeing her and taking her to the pictures. They were going to Johnny Long’s for fish and chips afterwards. It was Sarah’s favourite. On the bed his suit lay crumpled. The phone in the pocket was dead, the battery completely out of charge.
The hot shower had been like a knock-out blow and O’Neill had almost fallen as he stepped out of the bath. He lay down for a few minutes on the bed. The clock said 8.15 so he could have twenty minutes’ kip and then head over to get Sarah.
The tiredness dragged him down instantly.
He dreamed he was running through a labyrinth. It was the dead of the night and freezing cold. When he stopped he could see his breath, bellowing in front of him. He didn’t know where he was — somewhere among rows of terrace houses. Long redbrick walls were interspersed with wooden doors into back yards. He was chasing someone. A figure in black. But he was always too slow. Every time he turned a corner he’d see a shadow disappearing round the next one. No matter how fast he ran, how much his lungs burned, it was no use. He stopped at a junction, his hands on his knees, sucking in air. He stood up and felt a cold metal barrel held to the back of his head. The last thing he heard was the loud click of a gun being cocked.
O’Neill snapped awake. It was twelve thirty.
He cursed, jumping out of bed and grabbing his suit for his mobile. He saw the blank screen and tossed it aside. Then he remembered he had no landline and fumbled round for the charger. He scrolled through, looking for Catherine’s number. The phone at the other end rang five times before going through to answerphone. He heard the recording of his wife’s voice and tried to think of what to say. He tried the house phone but there was no answer either.
He threw his mobile across the room. It hit the wall and exploded, falling to the floor in several pieces.
O’Neill looked at the clock. He wasn’t due in Musgrave Street until six that night. He thought about the dream, the sound of the gun being cocked next to his head. He picked up his car keys, knowing he couldn’t stay in the flat another minute.
On the way into work O’Neill stopped at a mobile phone shop on Botanic Avenue.
‘I dropped this,’ he said, handing a young guy his handset in four pieces.
The shop assistant looked back incredulously. The phone was broken. Completely broken. O’Neill told him to replace it. The assistant launched into his sales patter about the latest Nokia. He was cocky and presumptuous. It had a camera, a digital screen, extra memory, high speed. .
O’Neill’s eyes bored into him. The assistant worried for his personal safety and quickly realized this wasn’t going to be an upgrade.
‘Same again?’ he asked meekly.
O’Neill nodded.
He produced a box from under the counter and rang through the transaction. O’Neill didn’t say anything but paid and took the phone.
TWENTY
William Spender closed the heavy oak door of his office. The house was quiet and Karen had gone out. She would be at the hairdresser’s, the gym or out to lunch. Whatever it was she filled her days with.
Eight miles away at Laganview, Tony Burke was sitting in the site hut when his mobile rang in his pocket. It came up Number Withheld.
‘Hello?’
‘It’s me,’ Spender said.
‘We need to talk. I think the police-’
‘Not over the phone.’
The statement sounded like a threat. Burke was immediately worried and stayed silent, waiting for the other man to speak. He hadn’t been in contact with Spender since they took him into Musgrave Street. They’d both agreed it was best to lie low.
Since walking out of the station that Monday, Burke had felt like he was constantly under surveillance. Every time he turned a corner he seemed to come upon a parked-up police wagon. In the town on Saturday two cops had come sprinting towards him. Burke had thought it was all over, and braced himself, but they blew past, chasing some hood in a tracksuit who had come running out of a shop.
On the other end of the phone Spender issued an order.
‘Eight o’clock tonight. Usual spot.’
The line went dead before Burke could say anything.
It was the middle of the week and the Ormeau Road was quiet. Burke had walked from his house just off the Ravenhill Road, taking a deliberately circuitous route. Since Spender’s call he’d felt even more sure there was someone on his tail. The walk normally took ten minutes but it was nearer twenty by the time he’d doubled back on himself. Burke knew he couldn’t afford any risks and had looked round a couple of times, pretending to tie his shoe or light a cigarette. Since the phone call he’d spent the whole afternoon wondering what Spender wanted. Whatever it was, he didn’t sound pleased.
Work on the site had picked up again. They had brought in ten more men since losing the previous Monday to the cops. Burke did the usual, gathering the foreign workers at the end of the day and telling them he needed ten more the next morning. That Thursday he’d arrived at seven to find twenty-five guys lined up. Poles, Lithuanians, a few Czechoslovakians, or whatever it was they called the place nowadays. It was that easy. He would keep them on until he didn’t need them and just get rid of them. They were always on time, worked themselves to the bone and never complained. It was capitalism as it was meant to be.
At five to eight Burke took up his spot in the empty doorway, across the road from the Errigle Inn. He looked up and down the street, waiting for the black Mercedes to pull up to the kerb. It had started to rain on his way over and the tarmac road shone a sleek black. Across the street a solitary figure stood outside the Errigle smoking a cigarette. A taxi pulled up outside the bar, and the driver glanced over at Burke. The passenger window came down and the smoker approached the car, leaning in the window to say something to the driver.