‘I’ve brought you some presents. Thought they might cheer you up.’ He pulled three books out of the bag and showed them to Petesy. ‘Three history ones. No pictures. Especially for smart cunts, these ones. Eh? Mr Queen’s fucking University.’
Petesy smiled as Marty set the books on the bedside cabinet.
‘Where did you get them?’
‘Waterstones in the town. I tell you what, nicking stuff there’s a total piece of piss. No one on the door. Just some old boy in a grey cardigan behind the till. Almost made me want to take up reading.’
‘What are they about?’
‘Ah, I don’t know. Revolutions or something. I figured I’d go for big ones. Size matters, you know. Least that’s what the birds keep telling me.’
Petesy smiled again. Marty tried to ignore the two large casts that floated in front of his face.
‘So what about the nurses then? That one at the desk’s a bit of a boot. Are there any fit ones? Have you had a bed bath yet? I heard they sometimes can give you a wee. .’
Marty whistled in and out. Petesy laughed.
‘What do you think you are doing here, Martin Toner?’
Petesy’s granny stood at the end of the bed, her mouth pursed, her face scowling. She had been looking for a row for days now. Marty somehow got the feeling he was her big chance.
‘I hope you’re happy with yourself. This is all your fault. It should be you lying there, you frigging waster. Hung up like some bit of dirty washing.’
Marty didn’t know what to say. There was nothing he could say. She was only saying what he had been thinking, ever since Petesy got done.
‘Our Peter would never have gotten into any of this if it wasn’t for you. Go on, take yourself off. If I ever see you anywhere near our Peter again. .’
Marty was going to tell the old woman to go fuck herself. What the fuck did she know about anything? He caught his tongue though. Petesy loved his granny and he could see how upset she was. She needed someone to blame. But deep down he knew she was right. Petesy would never have had the balls if it hadn’t been for him. Yeah. It should have been him. He was the one that deserved it, not Petesy.
Marty looked at his mate, lying in the white hospital bed. He stood up and walked past the old woman. It was his fault. The whole thing. He turned and marched out of the ward. Round the corner he sniffed and rubbed his sleeve under his nose, fighting back the tears.
In the corridor Marty pushed between two men in suits. He didn’t look up, focusing all his energy on not crying. The nurse glared at him again as he passed her station.
‘Fuck you,’ Marty mumbled, walking on, not looking up.
The nurse felt smug, glad that she had been right about him. Marty took the stairs down to the main doors and walked out of the hospital. He headed down the Grosvenor Road, walking under the stern gaze of a wrought-iron statue of Queen Victoria. The plump woman stared pitilessly out over his head, her eyes fixed on the horizon in the small corner of her once-mighty empire.
***
O’Neill and Ward approached Peter Kennedy’s bed. They looked down at the two legs, covered in white plaster. The kid had had the shit beaten out of him. There was no other way to describe it. O’Neill knew they were wee bastards, a bunch of hoods. He didn’t think they deserved this though. You wouldn’t do it to an animal.
An old woman had settled herself near the head of the bed. She looked up at the two men, clocking them instantly for who and what they were.
‘What do yous want?’ she demanded.
O’Neill introduced himself and Ward. Petesy’s granny remained stone-faced, barely masking her contempt.
‘We need to talk to Peter,’ he told her.
‘You need? Where were you three nights ago, when he needed you?’
O’Neill had to change tack, bypass the old woman, talk to the boy. The kid was on morphine and would be pretty high. He could distract him, make him forget they were peelers, if only for a minute or two.
He caught sight of FourFourTwo. It had a picture of the Liverpool midfielder Steven Gerrard on the front cover.
‘Please don’t tell me you are a Liverpool fan.’
The boy looked up. ‘Man U, actually.’
‘Even worse. Beckham, Giggs, that crowd? Posers, the lot of them. Spend half their lives combing their hair. And the Nevilles? Don’t get me started. Talk about Dumb and Dumber.’
‘Aye. So who is your team?’ the boy shot back.
‘Everton. A real football team. No primadonnas or wannabe fashion models.’
‘Everton. Are they First Division? What’s the last thing they won?’
‘FA Cup, 1995.’
Petesy laughed.
‘FA Cup? Try the treble. League title, FA Cup and the Champions League. That’s a real football team.’
The grandmother was shrewd and saw what was happening, where the cop was trying to lead him.
‘I don’t care what you know about football,’ she snapped at O’Neill. ‘He’s got nothing to say to you.’
O’Neill turned to the boy. ‘Is that right, Peter?’
The boy looked round the room. The two men across the ward were pretending not to be interested. Petesy had felt their stares for two days though. He knew they hated him. If he spoke to the peelers, people would find out. Not only would he be drug-dealing scum, he’d be a tout as well. He saw the expression on his grandmother’s face. She was right. Where were the peelers two nights ago? And they wouldn’t be there if Molloy and Tierney came for him again. He remembered the pain, lying there waiting for the ambulance, his legs on fire, wishing someone would just cut them off. That was what he needed to remember. The pain, only the pain.
He pinned his gaze to the two white casts, hanging up in front of him.
‘I’ve nothing to say to yous.’
O’Neill stared at the bed. The kid was right. He didn’t have anything to say. Even if he knew who did it, which he probably didn’t, he couldn’t say. There wasn’t a single peeler lived in the Markets or any of the areas where these punishment beatings happened. The cops didn’t have to leave their house looking over their shoulder, worrying about more of the same. The only thing more dangerous than being a drug dealer was being a tout. O’Neill left his business card on the end of the bed. If Peter changed his mind. .
As they walked down the corridor O’Neill remember the kid in the white Kappa top, the one who’d brushed past him. He stopped at the nurse’s station.
‘How’s the hardest-working nurse in the hospital?’
The nurse frowned at him. She’d heard it all before and was having none of it. O’Neill read the signs and went for the easy route, producing his warrant card. The nurse relaxed a little, feeling the unspoken bond between the two professions. O’Neill asked about the tracksuit, whether he had been visiting the boy who’d had his knees done. The woman glanced from side to side. They weren’t allowed to talk about patients. Strict hospital rules. She gave an almost imperceptible nod of agreement before announcing for her colleague four feet away, ‘I’m sorry. We’re not allowed to discuss anything to do with patients.’
‘I understand completely,’ O’Neill said politely. ‘Thanks.’
The two men turned and headed for the lift. It took them to the ground floor of the RVH and back on to the street again.
TWENTY-NINE
Lynch walked along Cromac Street on his way into town. It was drizzling and he moved quickly along the pavement, his head down and collar up.
He had slept for twelve hours after being out on the job with Molloy, dozing off as he replayed the night in his head. The sounds and smells became a form of mood music: the car, the orange street lamps, the sound of Molloy’s breath, the weight of the Glock. As Lynch relived each sensation, his eyes began to grow heavy and sleep came and took him. A pressure valve had been released. He didn’t take any tablets. He didn’t need to. It was the job that had done it. Lynch knew it. Walking along Cromac Street in the rain, he knew it. Just being there, being involved. It had been enough.