Fireproof (29 page)

Another pregnant pause. "Ah shit, Mike. Shit."

"I know. So you'll come to my apartment, early Saturday morning?"

"Any time you need me, Mike."

"Thanks, Jim." Mike hung up. The conversation lifted him even higher. He was singing to himself by the time he got to the Kennedy Shopping Centre. He entered by the front door, breezing past the video shop and the off licence. Some kids were being manhandled off the premises for shoplifting by the shopping centre's security staff. They were protesting enthusiastically, the air around them blue.

As he entered the Golden Discs record shop the Hip Hop music from the shop's stereo system drowned out the commotion he'd left behind. Ordinarily, Mike could not stand Gangster Rap, but today he was in a good mood. He bobbed his head in time to a Dr Dre beat as he scanned the shelves for the Motown section. When he found a double CD claiming to contain the Best of Marvin Gaye, he trawled the Hip Hop section and picked a few CDs at random. The style had grown on him.

The shop assistant was a bored, unenthusiastic teen. He looked Mike up and down as he scanned the cover of each CD and removed the security tags.

"Weird combination," the assistant said.

"Not really, Hip Hop and R 'n' B are direct descendants of the Motown genre. Back in the day, Marvin Gaye, Aretha Franklin and the Temptations were the Jay Z, Foxy Brown and the G Unit of today. If you're into a music style it's always good to explore its roots."

"I'm more into Dance, mate. You know Ministry of Sound, Orbital, guys like that? What roots do they have?"

"Um, probably something tribal. Try and get your hands on some African Tribal music."

"Sweet, I'll do that."

Mike paid and left a slightly less bored and unenthusiastic teenager behind him. It was such a nice day.

***

Back at the apartment, Cadbury expressed his gratitude for the CD by picking Mike up off the ground with a huge bear hug. Mike had to tap the guy's tuxedoed shoulder like a submitting wrestler before he was put back down and allowed to breathe.

"Thank you. This is great."

When he caught his breath, Mike said, "No problem, Cadbury. You've been priceless to me since I met you. If you ever want anything you should just ask me for it."

"Thank you, Mike."

Mike smiled. Cadbury hadn't called him Master Rocks even though his tuxedo signalled he was on duty. It was nice.

"No problem. One thing though, you should probably ask me soon. Like before Saturday."

"I still can't see your future. Why do you say that?"

Mike thought about how he might phrase his concerns about his imminent future. Thoughts of Cerberus crowded his mind, and the worry of losing Cathy forever washed over them. The air seemed too thick to breathe.

Before Mike had sorted out his thoughts, Cadbury said, "Oh, Mike. I'm sorry. That's terrible. And you don't know if you'll be back? Damn."

"Yeah, so…"

"Of course I'll be there on Saturday."

"Could you stop reading my mind for a bit? It's kind of disorienting to get the answer to a question before you've asked it."

Cadbury tapped the back of his head lightly, as if to flick a switch. "Sorry, Mike."

"That's better. So you know what being with me on Saturday will mean? It'll be great to have you there."

"Maybe we can do something to keep you here. All four of us together, you never know, eh?"

"Sure, Cadbury, you never know." But Mike knew. It was the end of the line.

"It might not be the end of the line, Mike. I'm getting this image I haven't quite interpreted. Something to do with bulging eyes and a little green tube..."

"Stop reading my mind, mate." Mike laid a friendly punch on Cadbury's shoulder. "And can the false hope."

Cadbury nodded his head then pointed over his shoulder with his thumb in the general direction of the bathroom. "Your friend hasn't woken up yet."

"I wonder how long I'm going to have to wait. Do you know anything about sleeping pills?"

"I know that they basically reduce anxiety and in heavy doses they have a similar effect to alcohol."

"So Dave is just really pissed?"

"At a basic level, yes, he's in the same state he would be in if he'd passed out from drinking far too much."

A light went off in Mike's brain. "Do we have any bacon, sausages or eggs in the fridge?"

"There's some bacon and some black pudding. I threw the eggs at some cats earlier because they were past their 'best before' date."

"That should be enough."

"Enough for what? Didn't you have lunch with Cathy?"

"It's not for me. It's for Dave."

"What?"

"The one thing in the world that's guaranteed to wake up a pissed Irish man is the smell of a traditional fried breakfast. It's better than smelling salts or a big fire alarm."

"You're a genius, Mike."

"I know."

***

Mike opened all the doors between the bathroom and the kitchen. He kept all the windows closed and turned off the extractor fan above the cooker. He threw some vegetable oil into a pan and heated it on the electric hob. When it started to sizzle he threw in half a dozen slices of bacon and a full black pudding. The smell was mouth-watering and filled the apartment instantly.

Within minutes Mike could hear water sloshing from the bathroom. This was followed by a few moans and then a piercing scream. Mike rolled his eyes and took the pan off the hob. He lifted a tea towel and ran to the bathroom. Dave O'Brien thrashed in the bath as he tried to look at both of his nailed arms at once. Mike put one finger in front of his mouth and made shushing sounds. When that didn't work he grabbed hold of O'Brien's right ear and shoved the tea towel into his mouth. The sudden absence of screaming was bliss.

"Dave, chill out. I can't have the neighbours complaining."

Dave's eyes were wide. He was breathing though his nose in short, sharp inhalations. Mike absorbed the feeling of power for a while.

"I guess you don't know who I really am, do you?"

Mike pulled the plug and the bathwater drained with a raspy slurping sound. Dave had splashed too much of it onto the floor. Mike didn't want to slip during a crucial moment so he threw down a bath towel to absorb the puddles. He walked on the towel. It squelched but wasn't slippery.

"Do you remember a guy called Mike Rocks? Of course you do, it wasn't that long ago you killed him. Stabbed him in the eyes after a little bit of torture."

Dave shook his head from side to side. The movement obviously pained him but he wanted to make sure he was getting his point across.

"Don't shake your head, Dave. I was there."

Dave stopped shaking his head. He raised his chin, asking Mike to continue.

"I'm back, Dave. It's me, Mike! You like the new design? It's a rather sporty look, don't you think?"

In extreme agony, with his arms nailed to a wall and a tea towel hanging from his mouth, O'Brien managed to convey indignant scepticism through limited body language.

"What? You don't believe me? Well, I just want to clear something up in any case. I never touched your son's grave. I said it to make you lose your temper. It worked. I'm sorry I said it, but I was desperate."

O'Brien was stunned. He closed his eyes and laid his head back against the wall, as if he'd suddenly become dizzy and needed to stay still until it passed. Mike was pretty sure his pain was now something he could deal with for a while. He pulled the towel out of his mouth.

"Scream and it goes right back in."

"Fuck you. I was caught by surprise. I'll not give you the satisfaction of screaming again."

"You've just given me something to aim for. Thanks."

"Look, let me go and I can get you anything you want; money, drugs, women, whatever. It hasn't gone too far yet. But you'll have to move fast, son. You're very close to the point of no return."

"You think you're in a position to offer me a bargain? You don't have shit anyway. Why else would you be working for the Andersonstown News?"

"You're right, I'm not earning like I used to, but I've put money away, and even though I've retired from the hit game, I still have a few contacts left I can rely on."

"You're not a hitman anymore? Aye, right. No problem."

"I'm not. The crew's been dropping like flies over the last few months. I figured we'd run out of luck and jacked it in."

"I see, so there was no revelation on your part that what you were doing was wrong? You didn't suddenly develop morals overnight. You just figured that hitmen were disappearing and you didn't want to be disappeared. That's very noble, Dave."

"Oh, fuck you. What are you, an angel? You've nailed me to a fucking wall, you sick bastard!"

"I guess I'm kind of an angel, but I work for the other guy."

"You're a fucking nutcase."

O'Brien sat in the empty bath in damp clothes and shivered. He gritted his teeth after each small movement. Cords stood out on his neck.

"So, why'd you go work for a newspaper? I've never even seen you read one. I assumed you were illiterate."

"I've never seen you before in my life. You don't even know me. You think you convinced me with that shit about my son? You could have gotten that out of one of the other three. I assume you killed them? Did you torture them for information first?"

"I killed them, but that's not how I know about your son. I know it's hard to understand, but I'm Mike Rocks. I'm just borrowing this body since mine is languishing in some unmarked grave. Just suspend your disbelief and accept that fact for me."

"Fine, you're the reincarnation of Mike Rocks. Great job! You really showed me. Now kill me or let me go. I'm getting bored here."

"That's not going to happen, chum. I'm going to show you all kinds of pain, and I'm going to make it last for a
very
long time."

Mike lifted the hammer from the spot on the floor where he'd left it. He walloped each nail in Dave's wrist in quick succession. He had to stuff the tea towel back into the trapped man's mouth.

By the early hours of Friday morning, Mike was up to his elbows in blood and Dave O'Brien still drew breath. Mike decided to give O'Brien a little time alone with his pain. He wanted to ask him a question, but he knew O'Brien was too fucked up for coherent thought or reasoning. A bit of time alone would help him come to terms with the situation and maybe allow his survival instinct to kick in. He left the now blood-soaked tea towel in O'Brien's mouth and went to the kitchen for a drink.

The tin of Guinness cracked open with a satisfying hiss. He poured the stout into a chilled pint glass with great care. It settled perfectly. Mike drained half the glass in one thirsty gulp. He felt cold pain behind his left eye. It was a welcome sensation, associated with ice-cream eaten too fast. He closed his eyes and concentrated on the brain-freeze until it faded. The second gulp of Guinness wasn't quite cold enough to recapture the sensation. Mike poured another Guinness and returned to the bathroom. He sat on the edge of the bath holding his pint.

"Dave, can you hear me?"

A muffled grunt confirmed at least a little awareness. Mike was impressed with O'Brien's pain threshold.

"I want you to answer a question. If you understand me, blink twice."

Two blinks, slow but definite.

"Okay, I'm going to remove the tea towel. Keep the whining to a minimum."

As he tugged the saturated cloth from O'Brien's pulped mouth it was followed by a thick mix of mucus and blood. O'Brien coughed and looked Mike in the face. He smiled. The few remaining teeth in his mouth were chipped and broken. His goatee was dyed crimson.

"Fuck you, Rocks." His voice was slurred and breathless, but Mike heard him loud and clear. He smiled back at O'Brien.

"So you've come to terms with who I am. Pain is a wonderful teacher. Prepare yourself for my next question. It's important that you give it very careful consideration."

Mike had an almost grudging respect for O'Brien. A lesser man would have been driven insane by the beating, stabbing, burning, extracting and severing. Mike focussed on the silk tie employed as an improvised tourniquet on O'Brien's ankle. Cloudy memories of throwing O'Brien's severed toes at him surfaced in Mike's murky mind. A lot of the injuries he could see before him were dealt out in a haze of bloodlust, but Mike knew he would remember most of the details, after the job was done. The details would haunt him. But for now they were a blur.

He slapped O'Brien.

"Wake up. I want to know if you have your wits about you. I need to know if you'll understand my question."

"Ask your fucking question. I'm on the edge of my seat."

Mike took a sip from his pint. "I've been focussing on you, Frankie, Sean and Paul. You were the guys that had a hand in killing me. But it was Shane Kelly that sent you and the boys after me, after I killed his little brother, Kevin. It was business for you, personal for Kelly. No point destroying the guns if I don't take out the trigger man."