Headstone (23 page)

Best to keep him on high alert.

A minute later, he emerged, looking for all the

world like a young harassed entrepreneur, and did

exactly as I said. Nearly got run over as he pushed

across the street. It worked, took her by complete

surprise, but she rallied.

Went after him.

I moved.

She was looming over the bending Stewart when I

hit her with the needle. She never sensed me, so

sure was she of her prey. I plunged the needle into

her jugular, slapped the Stanley knife easily from

her hand, grabbed her as she began to crumble,

pulled open the back door, shoved her in. Stewart

was right: that concoction was fast. I could hear a

slight whimper from her. Now, the rough part.

Stewart was in the driver’s seat. I took a deep

breath, leant against the door, nonchalance

personified, lit a cig, scanned the area, and saw

nothing, and heavens blessed, heard no sirens. My

nerves only evident in the flicking of the Zippo. I

knew Stewart was going crazy and to see me

leaning against the car must have upped his anxiety

to a whole new level. I risked a glance into the

backseat. She was out.

Phew-oh.

I stubbed the cig under my boot, casually slid into

the shotgun seat. Stewart was shaking, and, as I

watched, he reached in his pocket, took out a pill,

dry-swallowed it. I asked,

“Thought you didn’t take dope.”

He waited as he let the pill slide down, said,

“Thought I didn’t abduct people either.”

He let out a breath, put the car in gear, said,

“Your apartment, right?”

I nodded and we got out of there. Our insane luck

held and we got to the apartment without any

attention or screams of outrage. Carried the girl to

the apartment. Inside, we faced the hard kitchen

chair, lined with tarpaulin. For show, on the

counter, were a range of what looked like surgical

instruments, gleaming like terror. If she was like

most young people, she’d have seen:

Saw,

Hostel,

The Ring,

and all the other gruesome torture flicks doing the

biz. Her imagination would do the rest.

Convinced Stewart, who croaked,

“You’re

not

seriously

going

to

use……………….those?”

I didn’t look at him, said,

“I seriously don’t know.”

We put her in the chair and I produced the rope.

Stewart went pale, said,

“Jesus, Jack, are we going too far?”

I lost it, ranted,

“We? The fuck is the
we
shite? You’re going to

fuck off for an hour, have some Zen time, and when

you return, I’ll have the answers.”

He left reluctantly, reiterated,

“One hour?”

“Yeah, fucking time me if you like.”

Slammed the door. Maybe that, or the drug wearing

off, but I heard Bethany stir. I turned back into the

apartment. The next hour is not something I ever

want to think about, ever. Two voices running

rabid in my head. The first:

“Torturing and psychologically destroying a young

girl. Is this what you’ve slithered your way down

to?”

The second:

“The devil drives.”

I clung to this as it elaborated,

“She is a stone killer. Preys on the weak and

vulnerable and about to go after a special needs

school.”

Her eyes widened as I approached and she spat,

“Taylor.”

I held up my mutilated hand, said,

“Now you get a choice. Tell me what I want to

know without any incentives.”

Threw a glance at the ugly shining instruments, as

she did, continued,

“Or we can do it your way. Sorry I don’t have a

headstone but you’ll find it’s memorable anyway

and, trust me, you’ll talk, so why not spare us both

the grief?”

I moved back as she roared,

“Fuck you, alkie.”

I took the other kitchen chair, sat cowboy style, my

arms resting on the back. She looked at the

bindings, spat,

“Into bondage, is that it?”

I said,

“You wanted Stewart, he’ll be back soon.”

She took a fast look at my hand, said,

“Could almost pass for normal. Almost.”

I rose from the chair, took out a bottle of Jameson,

poured a measure, knocked it back, asked,

“Thirsty?”

Her eyes pleaded yes but her body held fast. I

pushed,

“Why did you pose as Ronan Wall’s sister?”

A snicker, then,

“You dumb arse, he’s my lover.”

I smiled and she instantly realized her error. I said,

“So now we have one name. Just yours and the

other two losers to go. Oh, and the special needs

school. I’ll need to know where and when?”

Her eyes darted around. Being alone with me was

not giving her much confidence but she tried,

“What are you going to do, kill me? You haven’t

the balls for that.”

She was right and I was having serious

reservations about being able to do this. Truth is,

she looked kind of pathetic and vulnerable. But by

pure awful chance, the sun chose that exact moment

to send a brief ray of light through my kitchen

window and it hit on a gold pendant around her

neck, just a glimpse of it, but it shone. Oh Jesus,

did it ever. The Claddagh jewelry I’d bought for

Laura. She was wearing it.

Rage engulfed me. I snapped it from her neck, and

she laughed, said,

“Oh, was that for your American floozy?”

My Walther PPK was in her purse. I gritted my

teeth, asked,

“Where is the Medugorje relic I was wearing?”

She smiled, said,

“We threw it in the trash. We don’t believe in all

that bullshit religious mumbo jumbo.”

I stood, trying to control the ferocious violence her

words aroused in me. Said,

“Believe this.”

I moved to the fridge, took out a bottle of water,

asked,

“Is sparkling OK?”

We were done a good ten minutes before Stewart

returned. I’d released her from her bonds, led her

to an armchair where she curled up in the fetal

position, whimpering like a savaged puppy.

There wasn’t a mark on her.

That you could see.

She was, in Irish,

“Briste.”

Broken.

I put a mug of Jameson in her hand. She needed

both hands to hold it, then gulped it down lest I

withdraw it. She wouldn’t meet my eyes.

Thank Christ.

Back in my early days, I was assigned to the

Border. One wet dark Friday, Stapleton and I were

sent to Belfast, a few weeks before Bloody

Sunday. Told,

“Keep your mouths shut, the sound of your brogues

would have the UVF all over ye.”

Civilian clothes, of course. We had no idea why

we were going and, to this day, I’m sure the ones

who sent us hadn’t a clue either. Those days, it

was retaliation and madness. Still is but with a

political sheen to gloss over the uglier aspects.

Saturday night, we were taken to a dank dark

basement on the outskirts of the city. No idea if we

were the ones who might be sacrificed. No one

knew anything then, save it was possible the next

atrocity was you. We were being taught a lesson.

Here’s how it went down.

A cocky, confused lieutenant from the Para’s First

Brigade was tied to a chair. Not a whole lot unlike

the one in my kitchen.

He was mocking his captors, going,

“Thick as planks, fucking Paddies.”

You had to admire his spunk if not his intuition.

The men in that room, silent as mourners, had seen

and done things that no man should ever witness.

You wanted to scream at the mad bastard in the

chair,

“Look, look at the men you’re throwing insults at.”

Their eyes had that granite, dead expression of

“We’ve been to hell and we’ve brought it back.”

And still, the Para continued to lash them with

insults about Fenian bastards, papist morons.

The unit leader said to me,

“See that snooty bollix, he’s trained to withstand

anything. And the stupid fooker believes his

training will help him.”

He was chugging from a silver flask, handed it to

me, grimacing as he swallowed his. I drank, near

choked, but managed to hide it, and he said,

“The holy trinity, coffee, poitin, and Guinness.”

Lethal.

He asked,

“Got a watch?”

“Sure.”

“Look at it.”

I did.

He said,

“Fifty minutes is my record. I’ve bet the boyos I

can get it down to forty-five minutes or all drinks

on me tonight.”

He did.

The water gig was only part of it. The Para was

freed from his restraints, covered in feces, urine,

vomit, and shame. He fell on the floor among the

remnants of his once fine teeth, scattered on the

wood like bloody nuggets of careless cruelty. He

begged, “Shoot me.”

We were then hustled out, fast, to a shebeen, one of

the illegal drinking clubs of the Movement. Had us

one hell of a night, ceili music and the rousing

songs:

“
The Men Behind the Wire,”

“James Connolly,”

“The Girl from the County Down.”

None of it could erase the sound I’d heard as we

reached the top step of the basement, on our way

out.

A single shot.

You can’t . . . take . . . down

a

headstone.

—Fervent belief in the west of Ireland

December 8.

I checked the calendar, saw it was Our

Lady of the Immaculate Conception’s Feast Day,

and hoped to God she might lend a hand. Just in

case, I doubled up on the Xanax. Two more in my

all-weather Garda coat, nestling beside the

Mossberg. A silver flask given to me by Laura,

jacked with Jameson, and an amphetamine crushed

to powder. Bring me up to speed so to pun. My

heart was racing and my hands had a slight tremor.

Fuck.

With the cocktail of stuff I had in my system, I’d

either

die,

throw up,

or settle.

My stomach was losing the plot, didn’t know did I

want to be cranked, mellow, on fire, or what the

blazes. Thank Christ. The Xanax won out over the

questions that had been plaguing me:

Will Bethany tell? Will they be waiting in ambush

for us? The pills whispered,

“Chill.”

I did.

Left the apartment, a freaking one-man army of

pharmaceuticals and firepower. A half-arsed

version of the American dream. In my mind were

uncoiling the words of “Lookaway, Dixie Land.”

Elvis hadn’t so much left the building as stormed

out with murder aforethought. Limped across the

Salmon Weir Bridge, not one salmon jumping, and

that was a crying shame. Everything poisoned.

Cut by the Town Hall announcing a forthcoming

Marc Roberts evening. I’d go if I was still mobile.

Then into Wood Quay, turned into Eyre Square.

Paused.

Might be the last time I’d see it. The Xanax said,

“Fuck it, you’ve seen it enough, drive on.”

I did.

Threw a glance at Debenham’s, soon to lay off

ninety percent of the staff. Jesus. Came to the

Meyrick Hotel and turned into Forster Street.

About one hundred yards now from the designated

killing zone.

My heartbeat had settled as I walked into the car

park behind the school. I could hear the kids, the

delighted shrieks of joy and childhood. As I found

a place to crouch, hidden behind two cars, another

school bus arrived, dispatching some of the special

needs children. Most seemed to be Down

syndrome. Tore and ripped at my shredded heart. I

bit down, made her face go away.

My mobile shrilled, putting the heart sideways in

me. Answered.

Stewart.

He was parked outside the school, where Bethany

had divulged the two brothers would launch. He

asked,

“You . . . OK, Jack?”

“Yeah, you?”

Pause, then,

“Nervous and alight with adrenaline.”

I said,

“Hush.”

Saw a white van turn into the car park, exactly as

Bethany had told me. Crossed my mind to shout,

like

Sam

Shepard

in
Black

Hawk

Down
…………..abort, abort, abort. I whispered,

“They’re here, bhi curamach.” (Be careful.)

He took the deepest breath I’d ever heard, replied,