here. I've done it before. I'll get away, no sweat. But will ye come with me?'
Betty put down her plate and reached across. For a moment they just held one another and she kissed him lightly on the cheek. The left cheek. 'Let me think abouta, Tommy. I need time. I've Sharon to think abou'. I can' just disappear withou' her knowin'.'
'Ye can ring her once we're outa the place.'
'Lemme think abouta, Tommy. Lemme sleep on it.'
'I wish to Jaysus I could sleep. I didn't close me eyes all last night.'
Betty went over to a cupboard, opened a drawer and rattled a small bottle. 'Here's a coupla Zimovane. Take them and ye'll ge' a nigh's sleep. Ye'll think better tomorra if ye've had a nigh's sleep.'
Tommy looked suspiciously at the two small oval-shaped tablets. 'They won't bomb me out? I need to keep me wits about me.'
'Take them, for Jaysus' sake, ge' a nigh's sleep. If I'm goin' with ye I'm not goin' with some sleepless zombie.' She smiled at him.
And there was something in her smile that worried Malone.
'Go on, take them.'
Malone popped the tablets in his mouth and made a great show of trying hard to swallow. He pushed both between his upper teeth and gums, holding them there with his tongue.
'I'll make a cup a tea.'
Malone nodded, and spat the tablets out into his hand when she left the room. He flicked the sound back on the TV. There was an interview with the new English soccer manager making great predictions for the match the next night, the one Moonface wouldn't be going to. 'Three nil, easy. It won't be a dirty match but it'll be a tough, hard contest between two competitive teams. Both have pride to restore after recent bad form. Both want badly to win. I hope it'll be a good, clean contest with no crowd trouble.'
The interviewer turned to the camera; in the background
revellers were already working themselves up outside city centre pubs. He wondered if it might in fact not turn out to be a repeat of the last encounter when there was a riot with pitched battles along the streets of Dublin between opposing fans. He confirmed that all Gardai leave had been cancelled and at least three hundred would be on duty for the match, two hundred inside the ground, backed up by another one hundred outside. All the main Dublin hospitals would be on full emergency alert. The Merrion Hospital in Sandymount, closest to the stadium, was bracing itself for a possible onslaught.
And an onslaught it would be.
But not the sort they were expecting, or planning for. Dean Lynch would see to that.
As he watched the news he bayed like a wounded animal, not loud, but deep.
The bitch! Critical, but stable.
He unclipped the magazine and squinted along the inside of the barrel. It was blocked. He ran his fingers along the length of the barrel and felt the slight bulge. It had jammed. London John's warning had come to pass. The Walther had jammed. In fact there were two bullets jammed in the barrel, the pressure of the second against the first causing it to swell slightly. The gun was now effectively useless. Lynch threw it violently against the wall.
That's why she's critical but stable. I didn't empty the full magazine into her.
On the TV screen a photograph of Kate Hamilton was flashed and he stared at it, mesmerised. He looked back down at the gun again, there was no way it would ever work again.
There's more than one way to skin a rabbit, he thought as he settled back on the sofa, smiling again, his rage abating. He set up a fix at the small kitchen table. Yeah, there's more than one way to skin a rabbit.
I'll get you, Kate Hamilton. Just you wait. I'm not finished yet, not by a long chalk.
Just you wait.
I'll make you suffer, like I suffered. You'll know what suffering really means, this time. The heroin disappeared into a vein.
10.17pm
'I'm going home for a few hours. Nurse Gallagher will stay with you until midnight and then she'll be relieved by the night duty sister. My senior registrar will be around all the time should anything change. I only live a five-minute-drive away so I can be here quickly if needed.'
Sandra and Harry O'Brien hung on Paddy Holland's every word, their faces taut and drawn, their eyes red and distraught, their hands wrung almost until blood was drawn. Beside them on a trolley lay undrunk cups of tea, plates of uneaten sandwiches and a wastepaper bin full of tear-filled crumpled paper tissues.
Lying in the incubator, their one and only child was still fighting for his life, IV lines dripping, heart pads stuck to his tiny chest leading to an ever-flickering monitor. The name tag hung loosely from his wasted wrist and his tiny chest heaved rapidly.
But even when Paddy Holland finally slumped into his bed, exhausted, trying desperately to sleep, sleep would not come. The images of the baby and the look on his parents' faces haunted him. There's nothing more I can do, it's in the hands of God now.
But what tormented him even more was the news about Kate Hamilton. Her face, too, kept forming in his exhausted brain, her pretty, vivacious, full-of-life face. The mother of the little four-year-old boy was now fighting for her life in the Merrion Hospital ICU. He turned onto one side and stared at the wall. Please God, don't let her die. Let her live.
He turned back onto his other side and stared at the
digital clock on his bedside table. He watched the numbers flick all night.
'Grandad, what time is Mummy coming home?'
'Shush, Rory, go to sleep. I don't know. It'll probably be late. Go to sleep. I'll mind you until she comes home.'
'Will she be here when I wake up in the morning?'
'Rory, will you go to sleep. I'm exhausted. I'll mind you until she comes home.'
'But when will she be home?'
Grandad had to turn away and stifle the pain.
'When will she be home, Grandad?'
'Tomorrow, Rory, hopefully she'll be home tomorrow.'
Rory put his thumb in his mouth and stroked Grandad's face with Ted. His eyes were heavy with sleep, he was drifting. 'Grandad?'
'Yes, Rory, what is it this time?'
'When Mummy comes home can we get a puppy?'
'Maybe, maybe.'
'Oh great.' Rory turned over and fell asleep.
11.57 pm
'Tommy, are ye asleep?'
'I would be if ye'd only shut up.'
'Good man. Try and ge' some sleep. Ye'll need yer strength for tomorra.' She turned her back to his in the bed and within minutes he sensed her heavy breathing. Minutes later she was snoring.
But Tommy Malone couldn't sleep. There was something about that kiss, that smile, that disturbed him. It reminded him of something. He'd been lying for an hour trying to think what exactly had disturbed him so much about Betty's simple affectionate gesture. It was only as he drifted into twilight sleep that the image entered his subconscious.
Judas. It was a Judas kiss.
Day 10
44
6.02 am, Wednesday, 19th February 1997
Dubbed 'Black Wednesday' by the media
Tommy Malone knew there was something wrong, something seriously wrong.
He had slept fitfully all night, one arm wrapped around Betty's ample waist. At about one o'clock she'd mounted him, turned on him like a wild animal and put him through more sexual variations than he'd experienced for years. He lost count of time, his mind and body bounced in a sea of unrestrained pleasure. Exhausted and finished, they'd clung to each other before he felt her body slacken and give way to sleep. But his body wouldn't yield.
There was something wrong. He knew it. He sensed it.
It was all too much, just too much.
He felt her slide quietly and gently out from the bed, first one foot onto the floor and pause, listening to his breathing, watching for any movement. Then her body shifted to the edge and both feet rested on the floor. He felt the bed give ever so slightly as she lifted herself totally, her breathing rapid and shallow. Nervous. He sensed her stand at the side of the bed for maybe five minutes, watching and listening. Then came the slow and deliberate pad across the carpet and out the door. He sat up slowly and quietly, ears tuned to the slightest noise. A step creaked on the stairs, followed by another pause. Even from the bed he could hear the sound of strained breathing, not laboured but suppressed, rapid, shallow, nervous breathing. He heard two more steps and another pause. She was listening. He was listening.
Finally came the emboldened final seven steps and the sound of the kitchen door closing gently, closing ever so gently, ever so quietly.
Malone looked at his watch in the gloom. She's in the kitchen and it's only gone six.
Then he remembered. That's where the phone was.
'It's abou' tha' kidnapper ye're lookin' for. Yeah, Tommy Malone. Well I know where he is righ' this minute.' There was pandemonium at the other end of the confidential Garda telephone line. 'Wha' abou' the reward? How can I be sure I'll ge' the reward? Can it be paid anonymously? Can I be sure to ge' it withou' anywan knowin' who dobbed him in?'
All sorts of pleadings came down the other end of the line.
'Are ye sure?'
The Garda on telephone duty almost did cartwheels to satisfy her.
'Righ'. He's…'
Malone pulled the telephone cable from its socket.
Betty shook the dead handpiece, then turned to see him in the gloom from the street lights outside.
'Ah, Jaysus, not ye Betty. Not ye. Fuck it, not ye as well.' He started to wind the telephone cable into his hands, pulling the handset from her. Betty was paralysed with fear, frozen to the spot. She knew Tommy Malone from old, knew him only too well. She knew how he felt about traitors and in the gloom she could just about make out the telephone cable, taut between both his hands. And she remembered how strong those hands were.
'Fuck ye, Betty, fuck ye. Fuck ye, fuck ye, fuck ye.'
'Tommy I didn'...' Were her last words before the cable was suddenly pulled around her neck and twisted. And twisted. And twisted. And held in a tight twist for nearly twenty minutes, as Tommy Malone sobbed for the first time in years.
'Fuck ye, Betty, fuck ye. Fuck ye, fuck ye, fuck ye.' He let her body slide to the ground. 'Ye fuckin' Judas. Fuck ye.'
6.47 am
'Grandad, is Mummy home yet?'
Rory was standing at the side of his mother's bed where Grandad had spent the night, sleepless, tormented and crying.
'No, Rory, she's not back yet. I'm sure it won't be long. Go back to bed for a while. It's too early.'
'Grandad, can I come in beside you?'
He pulled back the clothes and the two snuggled up. Rory put his thumb in his mouth and started to run Ted across Grandad's face.
'When will she be home?'
'Maybe later this morning,' lied Grandad, 'I'm sure it won't be long. Try and go back to sleep, it's very early.'
Rory ran Ted across Grandad's face again and Grandad hadn't the heart, or the strength, to give out.
'Would you like to go to the zoo later on?'
Rory sat upright, and even in the dark Grandad could see the excitement on his face. 'Oh, great. The zoo. I just love the zoo. That's great, Grandad.'
'You'll have to be a good boy all day for me, though. No shouting or whinging. When I say it's time to go then it's time to go. I don't want any arguments. Okay? Understand?'
Rory, thumb back in mouth, nodded his agreement in the dark. 'Grandad?'
'What Rory? What is it this time?'
'Will Mummy be able to come to the zoo as well?'
Tommy Malone sat at the kitchen table, smoking his sixth cigarette and drinking his fourth mug of strong tea. He hadn't as much as looked at the body, lying where he left it, slumped at the side of the telephone. He was dressed, washed, and ready. He'd shaved his moustache off carefully
with one of Betty's leg razors, almost cutting the face of himself as he did. Then he'd searched for Betty's car keys in her handbag and took them and everything else that was inside apart from her cosmetic bag. He looked out the window at the main estate road where one or two cars were already on the move, their headlights picking up other houses as their drivers sped to work before rush hour. Where can I go now? Where the fuck can I go now? It's all up.
He looked again at the front page of the newspaper stuck through the letter box only minutes before. There he was. Thomas, also known as Tommy, Malone. Ireland's most wanted man. Him and some other bollox called Dr Dean Lynch, both their mug shots splashed across the front page.
Dr Dean Lynch, he read again.
Dr
Dean Lynch. A fuckin' doctor. On the run and wanted by the police.
A fuckin'
doctor.
Even Tommy Malone couldn't help but wonder what the country was coming to.
'I'm afraid there's been no real change in his condition.'
Paddy Holland, the night sister and his senior registrar were gathered in front of Sandra and Harry O'Brien. The medical team had scrutinised the night's observations, inspected the first X-rays taken thirty minutes earlier and noted the latest blood results.
Gordon O'Brien was not improving. He wasn't deteriorating, but he wasn't improving either.
The only other baby in ICU had rallied and rallied very successfully. She had been moved out and back to the recovery ward, closer to her mother. But as her incubator was trundled out there were none of the usual signs of glee, no whoops of joy, no punching the air. Success!
'I'll be back in a short while. I just have to check my other charges in the pre-term unit. I'll call back soon.' Sandra O'Brien's eyes never left her baby. Harry O'Brien's lifeless eyes looked up at him but didn't really register.
The medical team exchanged glances.
The night shift moved out and the day shift moved in.
There was no end to the battle for life in the Central Maternity Hospital in Dublin, day or night.
Tommy Malone checked his .38 Smith & Wesson revolver, flicked open the chamber and put in two extra bullets. He now had a full chamber. He took Betty's portable radio, her car keys, a red scarf and all the money he could find throughout the house. He'd taken her life, what difference would a few extras mean? All were stuffed inside a blue and grey tartan duffle bag. He closed the back door, locked it and slipped the key inside his coat pocket, having already made sure the front door was firmly locked and double bolted. Before he left he half pulled some blinds up and partly drew some curtains across.
Finally, and with suppressed tears brimming his eyes, he dragged the body of Betty Nolan across and behind the kitchen counter, covering her with a blanket. She wouldn't be easily seen through the window.
Outside he started up her car, a grey Datsun Almera, heaving a sigh of relief as he noticed the petrol tank was almost full. He pulled out of the estate, double checking in the rear-vision mirror no one had gone near the house. Satisfied, he slipped into third gear and drove out onto the main road, the tartan duffle bag on the passenger seat beside him.
The paper had warned motorists to expect delays on all major roads into and out of the city as Gardai manned roadblocks so Tommy Malone decided to head for the Dublin mountains to give him time to think and plan his next moves.
I've gotta get it right this time, gotta get it right this time. There's no goin' back to any old haunts. There's more than the Gardai gunnin' for me. If that bitch Betty was gonna turn me in there's no wan left to trust. Ye're on yer own now.
He lit up a cigarette, noticing he had only two left. Jaysus, everythin's runnin' out. Even me luck.
9.37 am
'How are you feeling?'
Kate Hamilton was only too glad to be alive. She managed a weak smile, a very weak smile. Her chest ached where the intercostal drains were positioned and every cough tore at her insides. She felt helpless, both arms restrained by IV lines. The right side of her chest was agony and restricted all movement. She had a dreadful headache. The trauma team had shaved half her head, half her long dark hair, to insert the twenty or so sutures that closed up the bullet wound. The gaping wound on her arm was dressed but hardly bothered at all.
The sedatives had worn off and the new painkillers weren't making her as groggy.
'How are you feeling?' Sean Mulligan, senior trauma surgeon, asked again. He was surrounded by his surgical team and four nurses.
'Fine.' She didn't actually speak, but mouthed the word.
'You're going to be real fine. Real fine.' The team were all beaming at her. 'You've lost a good deal of blood but you stabilised quite quickly. We're not going to give you a transfusion, a strong, healthy young woman like you should make up that loss soon.'
Hamilton attempted another smile.
'We've been in touch with your family.' Hamilton's eyes suddenly came to life. 'I spoke with your father myself and told him everything was fine and that you were in no danger. I don't think the media have quite got that message yet so we felt your family should hear the news direct from us and not through the papers.',
'What happened to Tony? What happened to Tony Dowling?' The words were barely audible, whispered through parched lips.
'Now you save your strength for getting better. The least you say the better.'
'What happened to Tony Dowling?'
The team exchanged embarrassed and guilty glances, as if they personally were responsible.
'He didn't make it. We couldn't save him.'
Hamilton turned away and stared into the distance. The lovely man from Cavan, just weeks away from retirement. The man who loved country dogs. 'Now they've gotta bit o' character, Kate. Not like that constipated lot o' city dogs that spend all day chasin' cars up and down the Stillorgan dual carriageway. D'ye think Rory'd like fishin'? Ye could bring him up sometime and I'd show him how to cast a line.'
'Did they catch Lynch?'
There were even more embarrassed glances from the surgical team.
'No, no, they didn't. I heard on the news this morning they think he's in England. Apparently he was on a late crossing last night on the Stena Line.'
But Hamilton shook her head. No, he's not in England. She said nothing.
'Don't you worry anyway about him. There's a twenty-four-hour armed guard on you. This floor is sealed off and there are armed Special Branch men all over the hospital. Forget about him, Mrs Hamilton, forget about him. He can't reach you here. He's gone.'
I'm not Mrs Hamilton. And he's not gone.
Grandad and Rory's journey across the city to the zoo was slowed by roadblocks and a heavy Gardai presence throughout the city centre. Gangs of English soccer supporters, many without tickets and more than a few from the National Front, were spoiling for a fight. Union Jacks were taunted provocatively at passers-by with lots of SAS shouts. 'We've got the SAS! We've got the SAS!' Then came a big cheer from a large section of this crowd as the official team bus carrying the English soccer squad made its way slowly through the city centre traffic. There were alternating boos and cheers from opposing fans. The match was due to kick off at seven, but already the atmosphere was tense, too much drink consumed, passions aroused. TV crews at the
two port sites, Dublin docks and Dun Laoghaire, filmed as hundreds more English soccer fans arrived off the ferries, again taunting the locals with their Union Jacks and provocative slogans.
Grandad shook his head sadly, stuck in yet another traffic jam. Rory stared out at the scenes with a mixture of fascination and fear. He could sense danger on the streets. At last they were clear and heading towards the Phoenix Park and the zoo there.
'Grandad?'
'Yes, Rory?'
'When's Mummy coming home?'
11.00 am
Dean Lynch watched the Sky news bulletin, his photograph and that of Tommy Malone making the top stories. There were clips of Gardai manning roadblocks, snap interviews with the man or woman in the street about what should be done to both whenever they were caught.