They went out the door, Finn between the two men, who were both wearing chinos and white shirts. Neither of them had a gun, which was a bit of a comfort, although Finn had no doubt they could handle him easily if he decided to make trouble for them. They looked fit. Finn was tall but weedy.
The room they came out in was lined with shelves, all of them empty. To Finn it looked like a pantry, or maybe, given the size, what his grandma would have called a larder. As a young woman in County Down, she’d been “in service.”
From the pantry they entered the biggest kitchen Finn had ever seen. There were a couple of empty bowls on the counter with spoons in them. Judging by the scum inside, he guessed they had contained soup. His belly rumbled. He didn’t know how long it had been since he’d eaten. Ellie had made him some scrambled eggs before the necking started, but Finn reckoned that was long since digested. If digestion continued when you were unconscious, that was. He thought it must. A person’s body just went on about its business. As long as it could, anyway.
Next was a dining room with a shining mahogany table that looked long enough to play shuffleboard on. Heavy plum-colored drapes had been pulled all the way closed. Finn strained his ears for the sound of passing traffic and heard nothing.
They went down a hall and the droopy-eyed man opened a door on the right. The weasel gave Finn a light shove. There was a fancy desk in the room. The walls were lined with books and folders. More drapes, a deep dull red, had been drawn over the window behind the desk. A man with white hair combed back like the early Cliff Richard sat behind the desk. He was wearing a tweedy jacket with elbow patches. A rusty black tie was pulled down. His tanned face was scored with lines. He looked not much older than Finn’s father had been when he died.
“Sit down.”
Finn sat down across from the white-haired man. Mr. Droopy Eye stood in one corner. Mr. Weasel stood in the other corner. They clasped their hands in front of their belt buckles.
There was a folder in front of the white-haired man, thinner than the ones crammed in helter-skelter on the shelves. He opened it, lifted a sheet of paper, looked at it, and sighed.
“This can be easy or hard, Mr. Feeney. That’s entirely up to you.”
Finn leaned forward. “See, that’s not my name. You have the wrong person.”
The white-haired man looked interested. He put the sheet of paper back in the thin folder and closed it. “Not Bobby Feeney? Is that so?”
“My name is Finn Murrie. That’s Murrie with an ie at the end, not ay.” He felt that this detail alone should be enough to convince the white-haired man. It was so specific.
“Is it now?” the white-haired man said. “Wonders never cease, do they?”
“I’ll tell you what happened. What I think happened. When I came round the corner into Peeke Street I ran into a fella running the other way. We knocked each other down. He got up and ran on. I got up and ran on. These fellas”—he pointed at the men in the corners—“must have wanted that other fella, your Bobby Feeney. He was dressed the same as me.”
“Dressed the same, was he? Cabinteely cap? Nazareth T-shirt? Leather jacket?”
“Well, I don’t know what was on the shirt, and I can’t remember if he was wearing a cap, it all happened so fast, but it’s sure that’s who you wanted. This happens to me all the time.”
The white-haired man leaned forward, his hands (scarred, Finn saw, or maybe burned) clasped on his thin folder. He looked more interested than ever. “You are taken into custody all the time, are you?”
“No, bad luck. Bad luck happens to me all the time.” He told the white-haired man about being dropped at birth, and the cherry bomb that took his toe because an angel wanted one, the broken arm because he let his grandma coax him off the Twisty, the lightning strike. There were other things he could have added, but he thought the lightning strike and the resulting concussion made a good place to stop. Like the climax of a storybook story. “So you see, I’m not the one you’re looking for.”
“Huh.” The white-haired man sat back, pressed a hand to his belly as if it pained him, and sighed.
Inspiration struck Finn. “Just think about it, sir. If I was running away from these fellas of yours, I’d run away. But I didn’t, did I? I ran right into their outstretched arms, so to speak. It was the other fella, this Bobby Feeney, who ran away.”
“You’re not Bobby Feeney?”
“No sir.”
“You’re Finn Donovan.”
“Finn Murrie. With an ie.” This should have been settled by now. That it apparently was not gave Finn a bad feeling.
“Do you have any identification? Because if you had a wallet, it must be crammed up your arse. That’s the only place we didn’t look.”
Finn actually reached for his back pocket before remembering.
“I left it at my girlfriend’s house. We were sitting on the couch”—lying on it, actually, Ellie on top—“and it was digging into my butt, so I took it out and put it on this little table, with our cans of lager. I must have forgotten it.”
“Forgot it,” said Mr. Weasel, grinning.
“Must have,” said Mr. Droopy Eye. He was grinning, too.
“You see, we have a problem here already,” the white-haired man said.
Finn had another inspo. The unpleasant situation he was in—the unbelievable situation, really, although he had no choice but to believe it— seemed to be bringing inspirations on thick and fast. “I had my Odeon card in my pocket, I kept it separate in case Ellie wanted to go out to the Stillorgan ...”
He felt for the card. It wasn’t there.
The white-haired man opened his folder, riffled through the few papers inside, and brought out an orange card. “This card?”
“Yes, that’s it. See my name?” He reached for it. The white-haired man leaned back. Mr. Weasel and Mr. Droopy Eye unclasped their hands, ready to pounce should pouncing be called for.
The white-haired man held the card close to his face, as if he were nearsighted. “Finn Murray, it says here. With an ay.”
Finn felt heat rising in his cheeks, as if he had been caught in a lie. He hadn’t been, but that was how it felt. “People misspell names all the time, don’t they? My father’s name was Stephen and people were always spelling it with a v or even an f like Stefan.”
The white-haired man slipped the Odeon card back into his folder. “Did you enjoy the music we had piped into your room?”
“I know why you do that. I’ve seen it on telly. It’s a tactic, like. To keep people on edge.”
“Ah, is that why we do it? Pando, did you know that’s why we do it?”
“Hard to say,” Mr. Weasel replied with a shrug.
“I have heard it said that music soothes the savage beast, although I’m not sure that speaks to your question.”
“We can arrange some Nazareth, if you like,” said the white-haired man. “You being a fan and all.” And, with what sounded grotesquely like pride: “We have Spotify!”
“I want to go home.” Finn didn’t like the tremble he heard in his voice but couldn’t help it. “You made a mistake and I want to go home. I won’t say nothing.” He was sorry as soon as it came out. Kidnap victims were always saying it and it never worked. He’d seen that on telly, too.
“Going home might also be arranged, and very easily. But first you must answer one question. What did you do with the briefcase, Bobby? The one with the papers in it. For you surely didn’t have it when you were brought here.”
Finn felt tears sting at the corners of his eyes. “Sir—”
“Call me Mr. Ludlum, if you like. I used to call myself Mr. Deighton, but I got tired of it.”
“Mr. Ludlum, I’m not Bobby Feeney and I didn’t have any briefcase. I never did. I’m not who you’re looking for, and while you’re gassing at me the fella you are looking for is getting away.”
“So your name is Bobby Murrie. With an ie.”