Dancing With Mortality (5 page)

‘It doesn’t hurt Michael, it doesn’t…’ There were tears in
her eyes, and in his.

‘Don’t move, Sis. Keep your hands there. I’m phoning for
help.’ He saw the blood seeping through the bars of her hands. ‘Why did you do
that, Jesus...’

He rushed out into the hall, picked up the phone and dialled
for an ambulance.

‘It’s a gunshot wound, I need them now,’ he told the
operator.

‘Fifteen minutes sir, address please.’

Michael swiftly finished the call and rushed back to the
living room. Siobhan was as he’d left her. He knew that the first hour after
being shot was critical. She was losing blood. He ran to the bathroom and
returned with a towel.

‘Need to put pressure on it now,’ he whispered. He held the
towel over her hands and gently applied pressure. ‘Breathe, just breathe for
me.’

She managed to look up at him and almost smiled. He could
see the far away look in her eyes, and knew she was going into shock.

‘Love you,’ she whispered.

‘Shh, don’t talk.’ He kissed her forehead. ‘They’ll be here
soon.’ Nothing more to do now but wait.

Fifteen minutes later he heard the
sound of an approaching siren, swiftly followed by a loud knocking on the front
door. He opened it to two burly ambulance men, who marched in with a stretcher.
They glanced briefly at his bloodstained hands then looked at each other.

‘Where’s the victim? Is it you?’ asked one.

‘Living room. Follow me.’

‘He’s dead,’ said Michael as ambulance man number two looked
at the balaclava clad gunman stretched out on the floor.

‘So I see.’ With no further conversation the two men
proceeded to get Siobhan off the sofa and on to the stretcher while keeping
pressure on her wound.

‘We’ll stabilise her as best we can in the ambulance,’ said
one. ‘You coming with us son? You need attention too.’

‘No, not right now. Where are you taking her?’

‘St. James’s.’ The first ambulance attendant, a stocky man
in his forties with a weathered face and curly graying hair, gave Michael a
direct but not unkindly stare.

‘Listen son, I don’t know what’s gone on here, but I can
assure you of two things: the Garda are right behind us, and you need treatment
for that wound. I suggest you get it looked at by A&E before you do
anything else.’

‘I know someone who can help. Please, get my sister out of
here.’

Without further ado Siobhan was placed in the ambulance,
which pulled away at speed with its siren blaring.

Michael acted quickly. He found a small pack that he knew
Siobhan kept in her room. He filled two empty wine bottles with water, and
fishing the corks from the rubbish bin sealed them as best he could. He found a
pair of scissors in the kitchen drawer. All this he stuffed into the pack. He
then proceeded to the bathroom, where he took two towels and added them to his
haul. He looked into the mirror. His jacket was bloodstained around the right
shoulder, but he had nothing else to wear. He’d lost some blood, but as far as
he could tell it wasn’t affecting him too much – yet.

He ran upstairs to the spare room. In the wardrobe there was
a bundle of cash, which had been destined for the men on the boat delivering
the arms. The weapons themselves had already been paid for, but he’d brought
several thousand pounds to the beach as a delivery payment. He stuffed the
notes under the towels.

He went back to the living room. Placing one hand under the
dead man’s head, he peeled off the balaclava with the other. The man looked to
have been in his mid-thirties, with an inch long scar running vertically from
his left eye. His prone body wasn’t carrying any extra weight and he looked
strong and fit. Ex-army maybe. It wasn’t a face Michael knew from anywhere. He
quickly extinguished the lights and grabbed the pack.

It was only after he’d left the house and been walking for
ten minutes that his shoulder started to hurt. The throb accompanied his
footsteps like a metronome as he walked into the cold Dublin night.

It was nearing midnight. In the
South Dublin suburb of Blackrock, James O’Donnell was considering one last
nightcap before retiring and surrendering to a whiskey inspired slumber. He
lifted his middle-aged frame from the chair, and deposited the book he’d been
reading on the little table he kept close by. It formed a convenient receptacle
for both book and whiskey glass, but not the bottle. He deliberately kept that
on the far side of the room. In that way he resisted temptation for long enough
to constitute what he considered to be a respectable period of abstinence. Not
that he’d ever actually defined a ‘respectable’ period of abstinence. But
whatever it was, he’d noticed it shortening recently.

‘James bloody Joyce, stream of consciousness rambling,’ he
muttered, crossing the room. ‘Need to be lubricated just to keep up with it.’
He found the bottle and poured himself a generous measure. Then he sat down
again and resumed his reading of
Ulysses
. This was his second attempt to
get through the entire book without discarding it halfway. Well, he’d passed
the halfway point this time, he thought with a twinge of satisfaction. But it
was never going to be the easiest read as far as he was concerned.

He was jolted out of his musings by a sharp knock at the
front door. Rather late for an unscheduled visit. He once more discarded book
and whiskey glass, and moved across the room to the window. Pushing the curtain
to one side, he looked out.

The house was on the seafront. The living room window, when
fully uncurtained, admitted a pleasant sea view. And if you stood where he was
now, you could also look left and see whoever might be knocking at your front
door. Unfortunately at this time of night only the street lighting could assist
in illuminating his visitor. O’Donnell saw a well built man around six feet
tall, with a pack on his back. And he had his left hand pressed to his right
shoulder. The face was turned toward the front door, and the light wasn’t
revealing much beyond the silhouette of a youngish man.

He tapped on the sash window to attract the young man’s
attention then slid it down from the top. A chilly sea breeze swept through the
gap.

‘The practice is closed. If you need a doctor I can give you
a number for the person on call tonight. Or go to the local hospital.’

‘Doctor O’Donnell, I’m from Fitzpatrick Carpentry. I was
here a while ago with a friend who needed treatment. Do you remember?’

O’Donnell took a long look at the face now fully turned
towards him. He grunted in the affirmative. ‘That’s different, lad. Stay there,
I’m coming to let you in.’ He slid up the window and went to the door.

Michael came inside. O’Donnell noticed his pale and drawn
expression. He saw what looked like padding under the right shoulder of
Michael’s jacket. And the bloodstains on the outside.

‘I cut up some towels and wrapped them around the wound,’
said Michael. ‘There’s no exit wound, so the bullet’s still in there, but I’m
not bleeding too much. Just tired. It’s cold out there.’

‘Follow me to the consulting room.’ O’Donnell led him down
the hall and opened a door halfway along. He switched on the light. ‘Lie on
that bench. Take your jacket and shirt off first. Leave the padding on for
now.’

Michael did as he was told. In the meantime O’Donnell
manoeuvred a spotlight into position. He wheeled over a stainless steel trolley
containing various surgical instruments and disinfectants.

‘Right, I’m going to unwind these towels. Just stay as still
as possible, and we’ll take a look at you.’

‘Sure you’re up to it Doc? Seems you’ve had a few this
evening.’

O’Donnell held up a hand for inspection. ‘See this? Rock
steady. It’s when I’m stone cold sober you can start to worry. Now don’t talk.’

Michael’s shoulder was now revealed. There was coagulation
around the bullet’s entry point, and O’Donnell gave a snort of satisfaction.

‘You’re not losing any more blood, which is obviously good.
And it means no arteries were involved, or you’d not be here with me now. I’m
going to give you a local, then I need to take a look around.’

He administered the local anaesthetic and waited a few
minutes. Then he prised open the entry point and inserted a small pair of
forceps. After about a minute of poking around he withdrew them.

‘Nice clean hole, but I can’t feel the bullet. I think it’s
lodged in the muscle. If I go deep enough I will probably be able to get it out
for you, but I think that might start a haemorrhage, and I don’t want to take
that risk here, so I’ll disinfect it and stitch you up.’

‘Whatever you think best.’

‘As long as you have mobility in that arm, you’ll be ok.
You’ll need a surgical procedure in hospital if you want the bullet out though.
And I take it that isn’t an option.’

‘It’s not.’

O’Donnell did as promised. He suggested that Michael stay
the night to recuperate. The offer was gratefully accepted.

Early the following morning the doctor walked into his
kitchen to find his patient sitting at the table with a glass of water.

‘How’s the arm?’

‘Stiff, but I can move it.’

‘Good. I’ll give you some bandages and antiseptics to take
with you. Change them every day for the next week. But you should really rest
for at least another twenty four hours. You can stay here one more day, if you
don’t mind being shut up in my back room while I go about my business.’

‘Thanks, Doc, but I need to see someone. I can’t hang
about.’

‘In that case, let’s get some breakfast organised. And by
the way, where do I send the bill?’

‘I thought you helped people like me out of political
conviction, not for money.’

‘Political conviction is expensive.’

Michael laughed. ‘Where did you send it last time?’

‘To the Belfast address. Fitzpatrick Carpentry.’

‘Sure, that will be fine.’

Eammon McKenzie was the General
Manager at the Harcourt. And this morning, sitting in his office, he was
concerned. His personnel manager was missing, and as a consequence he felt that
his high standards of customer service were being eroded. It was Siobhan’s job
to roster bar staff and chambermaids, ensuring they turned up and performed as
required. And to find replacements when they didn’t. She was so good at it that
he never had cause to interfere. So in her unscheduled and most unusual
absence, he would need to do it himself. And he was just plain worried. He’d
dialled her number to no avail. What could have happened?

Well, it was now almost 11am, so if she wasn’t coming in he
needed to check the roster, which she normally kept in her office. As he stood
up from his desk to do just that, the internal phone rang. Ah, he thought,
perhaps she’s arrived. He picked up the receiver.

‘McKenzie speaking.’

‘Eammon, It’s Aoife at reception. I’ve got Siobhan’s brother
with me. He would like a word.’

There was a moment’s silence. McKenzie remembered a snippet
of conversation he’d had with Siobhan at a staff drinks evening some time ago
about their respective families. After what was probably one drink too many,
she’d mentioned that her older brother was a ‘political activist’. The
euphemism had not been entirely lost on him, and he didn’t press her for more
detail.

‘I’ll come down Aoife.’

He left the office, and descended a flight of stairs leading
to reception. Apart from Aoife there was only one other person present. He
walked up to Michael, offering his hand.

‘I’m Eammon McKenzie, the general manager here. It’s
Michael, if I remember correctly. Am I right?’

Michael smiled back. ‘So she mentioned me.’ He took the
offered hand. The smile was replaced with a wince as they shook. ‘Sorry, sore
arm.’

McKenzie withdrew his hand. ‘You’ve injured yourself?’

‘It’s nothing.’ O’Donnell had found him a replacement
jacket, a similar zip up model in black, with convenient inside pockets for
weaponry. With no telltale bloodstains.

‘Is Siobhan all right?’

Michael’s lips narrowed for a moment. ‘Is there somewhere
private we can talk?’

McKenzie didn’t reply immediately. He took a few seconds
just to size Michael up. Yes, they have the same eyes. He noticed Aoife gawking
at both of them with undisguised curiosity, not that he wasn’t just the least
bit curious too.

‘We can use my office. Follow me.’

Back upstairs, McKenzie motioned Michael to the chair facing
his desk then sat down himself. Looks like he could use a good night’s sleep,
thought McKenzie.

‘What’s happened to Siobhan, then?’ He tried to keep the
tone light, in contrast to his rising sense of foreboding.

Michael looked directly into his eyes. ‘She was shot last
night.’ He saw the eyes widen in disbelief, but before the man could interrupt,
he raised his hand. ‘Sorry to come right out with it. I need your help. They
took her to St. James’s with a stomach wound, and I need to find out just where
she is now, and what her condition is.’

McKenzie stared at him. Now it was his turn to raise his
hand.

‘Wait, wait just a moment.’ He lowered his eyes, staring at
the desktop. He wanted a little time to digest this. After a few seconds of
rapid thought he looked up. ‘You can’t ask them yourself?’

‘No. Look Mr McKenzie, I feel responsible.’ He noted the
alarm on the other man’s face. ‘Don’t think that – I didn’t shoot her. But the
man who did was after me. That’s all I can tell you. And I can’t go to the
hospital and ask directly. I don’t want to phone them either. It will put me at
risk, and Siobhan at further risk. Do you understand?’

‘Not entirely. But I appreciate your position. What can I
do?’

‘I’d like you to phone the hospital as her employer, and
inquire about her condition, the ward she’s on, and visiting hours. Will you do
that?’

‘Alright. But they’ll wonder why I’m calling out of the
blue.’

‘Let’s invent a reason then.’

After further discussion it was decided that on not being
able to raise his most reliable employee on the phone, McKenzie had concluded
something must have happened to her. And as a concerned boss he was checking
all the medical facilities in town.

He found the number and made the call. A few minutes passed
as he asked the questions Michael had primed him with. Then he hung up, and
turned to Michael.

‘They confirmed that she’d been admitted, but because I’m
not family they won’t say why or tell me what her condition is. They did say
however that she’s in a private room on Alexander ward. No visitors allowed for
the time being, though. They wouldn’t give me more than that.’

‘That will do. Thank you. And when she is allowed visitors,
don’t forget to go and see her.’

‘I intend to, Michael.’

‘I’m indebted to you, Mr McKenzie. If anyone asks, and they
probably will, you made the call under duress.’

‘I’ll be sure to remember that.’

Michael reached across the desk and shook hands once more.
Then he rose from his seat, and walked swiftly to the door. McKenzie heard his
rapid footsteps descending the stairs, and he was gone.

Michael had found a cheap hotel on
the Drumcondra Road on his return from Blackrock. He didn’t intend staying more
than one night though. He would change hotels for a few more nights and then decide
what to do next. He couldn’t stay in Dublin. The Garda might or might not know
what he looked like, but they knew that Siobhan O’Reilly had a brother who was
at the scene of a fatal shooting. And Fitzpatrick’s boys would certainly have a
good description of him.

He was in the privacy of his room, changing the bandage on
his shoulder. He tried to concentrate on that immediate task, but his mind
wandered. He was struggling to come to terms with the fact that he was now
considered an informer. He’d been left in no doubt as to what his superiors
thought that meant. Not even a court martial.

How had they found him? Either he’d been careless, or they
knew Siobhan now lived in Dublin and just stuck to her till he showed up. And
he’d thought her whereabouts was a well kept secret. He sighed – it was
irrelevant now. He’d been found. And Siobhan had suffered for it. Guilt about
exposing his sister to a danger he hadn’t anticipated mingled with the
emptiness of knowing his career with the Provos was essentially over. The one
thing he couldn’t understand was how quickly someone had been despatched to
deal with him. Suspected informers were normally brought in for questioning
before sentence was passed. Why hadn’t they extended him that dubious courtesy?

He pinned the bandage into place then donned his shirt. He
stood up and looked in the cheap mirror on the wall adjacent the equally cheap
single bed he’d be sleeping in later. A tired and somewhat bemused reflection
stared back at him.

‘Not a care in the world,’ he muttered. ‘And I have no idea
what to do next.’ He reached for his jacket. What he did know was that he
wasn’t leaving Dublin before finding out how Siobhan was doing. And to hell
with the risk. He checked his watch. If he left now, he should be in plenty of
time for afternoon visiting hours.

A hospital is the easiest place in
the world to walk into unchallenged and unnoticed. Nevertheless, he couldn’t
rule out that possibility, and he took a long look around the reception area
before turning to the board listing the various wards and departments. There
was a middle-aged couple at the desk talking to the receptionist. A group of
nurses were passing through, laughing amongst themselves. They were oblivious
of his presence. Two doctors in white coats stood avidly discussing something
on the far side of the room. There was a family – parents and two young
children – who seemed to know where they were going. They strode off down the
corridor into the hospital proper. Alexander Ward was on the second floor. He followed
the family, looking for a stairway.