“Tell me about Emily. You’re in her class in college?”
“Yeah. We met up about a month back. Freshers’ week, all the new kids. We went out, hung around, couple of times, I was into it, she was casual, I didn’t push it. We’d’ve seen more of each other if it was up to me. But she’s not the kind of girl you boss around.”
“You were out to her house?”
“I met her mother. She’s pretty full on.”
“Tell me what you know about Brock Taylor.”
Dalton looked around him uneasily.
“I don’t mean his record, we all know that. Just current form.”
“He owns this place, but he’s not here much. He’s around Seafield Rugby Club a fair bit. In a suit, being a hale and hearty rugger kind of guy when he’s not quite born to it. But he’s getting his feet under the table there ’cause he has so much bread, which he’s happy to donate to their building fund and so on. So whatever he did in the past is forgiven, or forgotten.”
“What about the Reillys? Have you seen them around?”
“Around SRC? They’re officially barred. You see them in the car park, dispensing their wares.”
“Coke?”
“And E, a little dope. Mostly coke. As if the guys needed any assistance in being obnoxious.”
“David Brady a good client of theirs?”
“Oh yeah. That’s why his game was for shit. Brady was the only one would bring the Reillys right into the club. No one would say a word to DB.”
The band onstage finished in a synthesizer crescendo. Applause drifted across the room in gusts. The lights came up harsh and unforgiving on even the youngest faces. Jerry Dalton stood up.
“We’re on next, Mr. Loy. But if there’s anything else, get in touch with me. I really like Emily, and I’ll do whatever I can to help.”
I took his phone number. The ginger guy with the fringe was onstage, assaulting a drum kit. I guess that helped explain his insane look. Jerry Dalton picked up his coat and gave me his hand. I gestured to the cross hanging upside down from his neck.
“What’s that about?” I said.
He fingered the cross, looked around the room and made a sweeping pass with his hand.
“It’s all about hypocrisy, Mr. Loy,” he said.
I wasn’t about to argue with that.
The Guinness was good, so I had another pint and waited for the band to start. The Golgotha Pyre were a metal trio. Jerry played guitar and sang and a guy with a ZZ Top beard wearing a black overcoat played bass with his back to the audience. They sounded like seventies heavy metal and nineties grunge, very doomy and tortured, and they could play a bit; they had songs called things like “Lake of Fire” and “Judgment Day” and “Blood on the Wind.” At first they made me smile, but soon they just made me feel old. I had lost the facility for listening to music when my daughter died; so far it hadn’t returned; when it did, I doubted whether heavy metal would be the form it took. But they were sincere, and Dalton’s voice was at the lower end of the balls-in-a-vise scale. When I finished my drink and left, there were kids headbanging into the speaker bins.
I came out through a different door to the one I had entered by, and the air seemed suddenly to intensify the strength of the beer I had drunk, so that I had trouble getting my bearings in the vast wraparound car park. It was still overcast, starless in the black, but the mist had lifted, and my eyes kept getting snared by a spider’s web of fireworks in the sky and bonfires in the hills. The Reillys came quietly, just as I spotted my car, the bulky one behind me to grab my arms and pin them, the smaller one walking quickly up, sniffing and panting and pushing the blue-grey Sig Sauer pistol to my chest and pulling the trigger before I saw a thing. There were cracks in the sky, and bangs from afar, but nothing from the gun, just a series of clicks, each one deafening to my ears.
The gun must have jammed. Small Reilly lifted the Sig to my eyes and grinned, his vivid blue eyes gleaming, and said: “Keep out of the David Brady thing, righ’?” and slashed me down the right side of my face with the blade front of the gun barrel. I felt a smart of pain as Small Reilly raised the Sig again and brought it round to my left. I ran Big Reilly into the car behind me, braced back against him, swung my legs up and kicked Small Reilly full in the chest, heels out, so he went over and his head hit the tarmac with a smack. I came down hard on top of Big Reilly and heard the gun skittering beneath a car and elbowed Big Reilly a couple of times in the stomach. I was on my feet now, and blood was coursing down my face; I could feel it hot in the fold between my neck and collarbone. Big Reilly was coming at me now with a knife. Small Reilly was still on the ground, fumbling to get up, one hand on his head.
“Shank the cunt, Wayne,” he spat. “He’s out of fuckin’ order man.”
Wayne may have been trying to do just that; he was swiping, slashing the air, jabbing at me; or maybe he was just trying to get to his brother; I should have just backed off and let him get away if that’s what he wanted to do, but it wasn’t what I wanted to do; I wiped the blood off my face with the palm of my right hand and I blocked Wayne’s path between two cars, and he lunged at me, and I sidestepped and grabbed his blade wrist with my bloody right hand and twisted it behind his back, up and up until he dropped the knife, and slapped his face down on the hood of the parked car, once, twice and again, until it was a bloody mess, and smashed his blade hand on the hood, once, twice and again, and smashed it some more so he couldn’t hold a blade in it any time soon, or ever, and flung him at his brother, who still hadn’t made it up, and the two went down in a heap and I picked up the knife and moved in, wiping another flush of blood off my face, a roar like the beating of wings in my ears, ready to keep going, to shank the Reillys myself, to atone for the shame of having been caught unawares; even if they hadn’t meant to kill me, they could have, and I wouldn’t have them thinking they could try it again; and then I heard a voice.
“Fuck sake Ed, you don’t want to kill the fucking Reillys. That’d only give them ideas above their station.”
Nine
TOMMY OWENS, IN AN OLIVE GREEN SNORKEL COAT AND a black fleece hat, with the Reilly brothers’ gun in his hand, looking like I hadn’t seen him in a long long while: grinning, head bobbing with adrenaline, or speed, probably both, all of a swagger, ready for the fray.
I walked over to Tommy and took the gun. It was the compact Sig, the P225, barely more than seven inches in length, grey-blue and slick with my blood. As I trained it on the Reillys, it weighed surprisingly light in my hand.
“Besides,” continued Tommy, “as a gun, it makes a good set of brass knucks.”
“What do you mean?” I said.
“Check the magazine,” he said.
The Sig was chambered for 9mm Parabellum, the magazine was eight-shot, and it was empty. The Reillys had come to throw a scare into me, not kill me. Now I was going to find out why.
Tommy looked at my face.
“You’re gonna need stitches for that, Ed,” he said.
“What are you doing here, Tommy?”
“I’ll tell you after. Sketch, sketch.”
I looked around. A few punters were watching from the pub door. It was only a matter of time before we’d have bouncers on the scene, and then cops. I took a clean handkerchief from my jacket and pressed it to my face to stanch the blood flow.
“I want to talk to the Reillys.”
“Talk to Darren, he’s a slimy little cunt, but he’s the brains. Such as they are. Anyway, Wayne’s fucked, isn’t he?”
Tommy took the knife from me and advanced on the Reillys as he said this, separating them with a few flashes of the blade. Darren Reilly looked dazed from the crack his head had taken, still winded from the blow to the chest; Wayne crouched against a car, his good hand cradling his wounded one, clutching both to his bloodied face, as if afraid it might fall off if he released them.