The Horse With My Name (13 page)

‘You think you very smar’, but I think differen’.’

‘I don’t . . . I don’t . . . I don’t . . .’

‘We respec’ Horse Whispara, ‘’cept he comes off fence now and tries to take us to the laundry. No wank you, Horse Whispara.’

‘I didn’t––!’

The doorbell.

Never was I so pleased to hear a doorbell. I would lick it in thanks next time I passed. The third Chinaman, the one who’d searched the house, produced a length of masking tape and stretched it across my mouth. I was trying desperately to look on the bright side, but I was never much
of an optimist. They wanted money and seemed to think I had access to it, so they weren’t going to kill me or inflict so much damage that I couldn’t tell them. And even if I was able to tell them they wouldn’t kill me until they’d retrieved the money. So really, I was fine. It was just that I wasn’t able to get the message through to my quaking, aching, smoking body.

The doorbell again.

The police, alerted to the breaking window and hideous screams.

The neighbourhood watch, summoned in force by bird-shit man and his annoying kids.

Anyone
.

Anyone but . . .

‘Would you like to buy an oil painting?’

‘No,’ my laptop enemy said.

‘All by top Irish artists. I’ve been selling these paintings for twenty years. Are you new to the area?’

‘Yes.’

‘Only one hundred pounds.’

‘No. Wank you.’

‘That’s awful decent of you . . .’

And then there was an explosion and the Chinese came barrelling back into the lounge; I watched horrified
through
his chest as the oil paintings man followed in after him with a shotgun held to his shoulder. The shot man sprawled on to the carpet as White Suit and his remaining comrade reached for whatever weapons were concealed within their jackets, but before they got near them there was another shot from Oil Paintings. A body splattered back against the lounge wall, leaving just White Suit, now with his gun out and suddenly in no apparent rush at all.

Double-barrelled shotgun. Two bullets.

Oil Paintings was out.

A grin spread across White Suit’s face as he raised his pistol.

I closed my eyes.

There was a shot and my face was sprayed with blood, and a moment later there was a body in my lap. I fought against opening my eyes, but it was inevitable. Curiosity. And cats. The corpse lying across me was wearing what had formerly been a white suit.

I looked up, puzzled, shocked, as Oil Paintings smiled down. He winked once, then nodded across at the window. I followed his gaze to a gun-sized hole, and saw the chicken man grinning through the glass.

I managed a ‘Thank Christ,’ then directed a ‘Can you get . . . him off me . . . ?’ towards the oil paintings man. ‘Then tell me what the fuck is going on.’

‘Sure thing, Dan.’ He rolled White Suit off me with his foot as the chicken man appeared in the doorway, paused, frowned, then hurried back out again.

‘Do you think there’s more of them?’ I asked nervously. I tensed for more gunfire, but Oil Paintings didn’t seem concerned. He strolled to the window and peered out.

He shook his head. ‘I think he’s just having a word with the neighbours.’

He turned back from the window and started to search the dead Chinese. He pocketed three guns and three wallets while I waited for an explanation. When it didn’t come I said, still lying tied to a chair, ‘Get me up.’

He paused, nodded, then stood up from White Suit’s side and took hold of the back of my chair. He heaved me up into a sitting position. ‘That better?’ he asked.

‘Yes . . . Jesus . . .’ I began to struggle against the ropes, presuming he’d take the hint, but he remained where he was, looking down at me, and after a little, I stopped.

‘You don’t sell oil paintings, do you?’

He shook his head.

‘How did you know they were here?’ I asked, nodding at the dead Chinese.

Oil Paintings smiled and crossed to the canvas he had hung on the wall by way of thanks for the party. He lifted it off the hook and twirled it round, then ran one hand up the back. His fingers delved inside the frame, then a moment later emerged clasping a small, round, black object. ‘Bug,’ he said. ‘Strategically placed. That girl sure knows how to vomit.’

‘Who the fuck are you? Cops?’

‘Doesn’t matter,’ he said. He looked back to the door, where Chicken had reappeared. ‘Okay?’ he asked him.

‘Their phone’s suddenly out of order.’

Oil Paintings nodded.

‘Hiya, Dan,’ the chicken man said, coming into the lounge. ‘Close shave, yeah?’

I nodded. ‘I don’t suppose you’re going to let me go either.’

He smiled and shook his head. He looked from one dead body to another and another. ‘Fucking Chinese,’ he said.

‘I don’t know what the fuck’s going on,’ I said. ‘I don’t know who
they
were, I don’t know who
youse
are, and I don’t know what the hell any of it has to do with me.’

‘Well,’ said Oil Paintings, resting for a moment against his shotgun, ‘they’re the Chinese bookies who’ve been muscling into our turf, and you’re the cunt who ripped us all off. What we’re going to do now is take you and that chair and we’re going to put you in the back of our van. Then you’re going to lead us to the money. After that we’ll probably blow your knees off and throw you out the back of the feckin’ van, then you’ll be free to
crawl to the Guards to explain how you have three Chinese carry-outs festering in your house. Is it any clearer to you now, Dan?’

‘Crystal,’ I said.

13

We arrived at the Superquinn car park across the road from the National Irish bank in Blanchardstown, a busy little suburb of Dublin, exactly fourteen minutes by battered Ford transit van from Ashtown. There were other cars waiting patiently for parking spaces to come free, but after some tasty threats were issued by the chicken man, we soon had a spot. I lay on the floor in the back, still tied to my chair. I’d started the journey upright, but two roundabouts had seen to that. I lay ignored amongst greasy overalls, a mechanic’s tools, empty cans of Steiger and crushed boxes of Superkings Menthol. It all smelled of neglect and surveillance.

Chicken switched off the engine. He turned from the wheel while Oil Paintings slipped into the back to untie me. ‘Okay,’ the chicken man said, ‘this is the way it works. You and me, we’re going into the bank. You withdraw the cash, you put it in this . . .’ and he raised a sports bag with
Head
emblazoned on the side. ‘I’ll be right there with you. You try anything funny I just pull out m’gun and rob the feckin’ place, then you’ll be done for your Chinese carry-out
and
armed robbery, okay?’

‘Okay.’ They’d found Corkery’s bank card in my wallet
and put two and two together. It didn’t seem to matter to them that I’d never been near the bank in my life and had no other identification to prove that I was Corkery. But then I was south of the border and maybe they did things differently down here. I was to go in, introduce myself and ask to close my account.

‘You reckon this bag’ll be big enough?’ Chicken asked Oil Paintings, who shrugged and looked at me. I shrugged as well. I didn’t have the heart to tell them a medium-sized wallet would be big enough, or the courage. I was trying to come up with a plan, but as ever when you try to do that under difficult circumstances all you can really come up with is
I’m going to die
and
Isn’t there a lot of traffic for this time of day?

All I could do was play it by ear and hope that something happened that didn’t involve any further pain to myself.

Oil Paintings knelt and examined my face. He shook his head, then removed from his pocket an opened packet of Kiddiwipes. He crushed one into my hand. ‘Sort yourself out,’ he said, ‘Can’t have you goin’ in there covered in blood. You’ll look suspicious.’

‘I’ll look . . .’

‘Just do it.’

I wiped my face. I didn’t have the benefit of a mirror, but the state of the Kiddiwipe told me all I needed to know.

‘They’re not going to . . .’ Oil Paintings held his gun against my knee. ‘On the other hand, I was captain of my school debating team. I can get blood out of a stone.’

It wasn’t the most appropriate analogy, but he removed his gun. He pulled open the transit door and pushed me out. I stood on the tarmac and stretched. All around me happy families were going off shopping. Kids were crying and there was a grandmother struggling to release a shopping
trolley from its moorings. I grunted and walked ahead of Chicken through the car park and on to the pavement. We paused at traffic lights. The bank was directly opposite. As we approached it a gnarled old gypsy woman sitting on a dirty blanket by the door raised a paper cup towards us for donations. Ordinarily I would have asked if she’d take a traveller’s cheque. It was the place, it just wasn’t the time. We ignored her. I pulled open the door. Just as we entered, the chicken man hissed, ‘Careful does it.’

Inside, it was larger, busier than I’d expected. There was a queue of around a dozen people, with others already being attended to at one of the five windows. There was an unattended foreign exchange desk and beyond that, behind another glass partition, a balding man in a green shirt sat studying a computer screen. That would be the manager, then. I looked at the chicken man. He nodded at the queue, and we joined it. The young woman immediately ahead of me was straining under the weight of a large bag of coins. She had the russet cheeks of a farmer’s daughter. She puffed them out as she shifted the bag uncomfortably from hand to hand. She noticed that I was looking at her. She looked away, slightly embarrassed. I said, ‘Ten thousand pennies for your thoughts.’

She smiled and rolled her eyes, then moved the bag again.

Chicken whispered, ‘Watch it.’

‘I’m trying to act normal,’ I muttered.

‘Your normal is different from everyone else’s,’ Chicken said.

‘And how would you know?’

He pointed at his eyes. I turned away. ‘Awful weather,’ I said to the girl with the money and the cheeks.

‘Dreadful,’ she replied.

‘Still, nice for ducks. Unless your waterproofing has been ruined by pollution.’

She nodded thoughtfully.

Chicken jarred his elbow into my back and I gave a little jump. The girl, noticing, looked around me to him. He looked away. She kept looking at him, until he slowly turned back to face her.

‘It’s Jimmy, isn’t it?’ she said.

‘What?’ the chicken man said.

‘Jimmy. You’re Jimmy Farrelly.’

‘No. Sorry, you must be mistaken.’

‘No – Jimmy Farrelly. We went to school together. Plunketts. In Swords.’

‘Nope. Sorry. Wrong man.’

‘Ach, stop it, Jimmy. Don’t I know you well enough. It’s Deirdre. Deirdre Slevin.’

His voice faltered. ‘I don’t . . .’

‘You went out with m’best mate. Roiseen. Roiseen Culcavey. It is Jimmy, isn’t it?’

Jimmy sighed. ‘Yes. Okay. I remember you now. Hoy-ya, Deirdre. Long time no see. How’s it goin’?’

‘Oh, y’know.’

Chicken, or Jimmy, nodded.

‘So what’re you doing round here, Jimmy?’

‘Just a bit of business.’

‘Last I heard you were running a bookie’s in Tallaght. You still . . . ?’

‘No – no. All closed down now.’

‘So what’re you doing now?’

‘Oh – y’know. This’n that.’

‘Still the horseys? You always loved the horseys, didn’t you, Jimmy?’

‘I . . . yes.’

‘Do you remember when we all adopted that pony?
Do you remember that, Jimmy? The whole gang of us. Everyone’s got one these days, but back then––’

He cut in. ‘Deirdre,’ he said, his voice low and slightly strained, ‘sorry – do y’mind? I’ve got a really bad head. I’m not trying to be rude – just, y’know, m’head.’

‘Oh Jasus – sorry, Jimmy. There’s me rattlin’ on. Can I get you something for it? I’ve . . . hold on a minute . . .’ She set down her bag of coins and pulled around a handbag from behind her. She flipped up the cover and began to root around inside. ‘I’ve some Nurofen somewhere . . .’

‘No . . . listen, I’m fine . . .’

‘Hold on . . . there’s nothing worse than a headache when you’re trying to do business, Jimmy, I know that . . . Ah now . . .’ She produced a crushed-looking box, then slid out a plastic press-out sheet. ‘Och shite . . .’ She held up the empty sheet.

‘Never mind, I––’

‘No, listen . . .’ She stuffed the empty packet back into her bag then stepped out of the queue and across to the counter. There was an elderly man leaning into the glass, a hand raised to his ear as he struggled to understand what was being said to him by the plumpish girl behind the counter. ‘Excuse me,’ Deirdre said, shuffling in to make room for herself. ‘Ailish?’

The bank clerk frowned momentarily, then smiled in recognition. ‘Deirdre . . . how’re you doin’?’

‘Fine. You wouldn’t have any headache pills now, would you?’

‘What’s wrong . . . Oh, stupid me! Headache, of course!’

‘Headache . . .?’ the old man asked, leaning a little closer to the glass, trying to prise Deirdre away from it in the process. ‘I don’t have a headache, I just can’t
hear
. . .’

‘Not you, Mister Brady – sorry,’ the clerk said. ‘My friend here.
She
has a
headache
.’

‘No,’ said Deirdre, ‘it’s not for
me
. . .’ She glanced back to the queue. ‘The man behind me has one. He’s an old friend, I just thought . . .’

‘Oh sure . . . hold on a minute . . .’ She bent and retrieved a handbag from the floor beside her. As she began to look through it she smiled across at Jimmy. Then her brow furrowed slightly. She lowered her voice, but it was loud enough to make out. ‘Isn’t that Jimmy Farrelly?’

Deirdre leaned conspiratorially closer. ‘Do you know him?’

‘Oh sure, wasn’t he in the year above me at Plunketts.’

Beside me Jimmy the Chicken cursed. Quietly.

‘You get around,’ I said.

‘In all the banks in all the world, I have to walk into this feckin’ one.’

Ailish was waving him over. She had a box in her hand. ‘Hoy-ya, Jimmy, you got a headache? I’ve some Anadin here, will they do?’