Wolf Tickets (15 page)

"You do know her, though."

"Yes, but I'm the victim here."

"Uh-huh. You still got time pending, Mr Farrell?"

"Excuse me?"

"I asked if you still have time pending. If you're still bound over for anything."

My mouth was dry. "I don't see how that's relevant."

"It's not. Not really. I'm just asking." He smiled, crinkles appearing at the corners of his eyes. "Making conversation."

He'd been digging. Which meant he'd had reason to pull my form. Which meant ...

I didn't like to think about what that meant.

Because it meant I was up to my ears in shite.

Bleeding.

Slow.

Sure.

And the agony of a thousand tiny cuts.

O'Brien had been to work, and he'd been old-school professional about it. I was the one who'd made it a long afternoon, he kept reminding me. So all this that was happening, it was all my fault. Remember, patience wasn't a virtue Frank O'Brien possessed.

Could've fooled me. He had patience. He'd just fused it with whatever rage thrashed about inside him.

A cut for each time I wouldn't tell him where the money was, deep enough to scar, but light enough to seem effortless. Calculated. Slices through bruises he'd already given us, as if those first whacks were sketches for the detailed etching he was about to do. Gotten to the point now where he was opening old cuts that hadn't had time to congeal, and that brought a new kind of pain, a constant fuckin' fire, and the knowledge that there was plenty more to come.

Because I didn't know where the fuckin' money was, did I?

Because there wasn't any fuckin' money, was there?

But then try telling that paddy cunt. Could've told him I shat gold nuggets and he would've been more likely to believe it.

"Where's the money, James?"

Sing that chorus loud, brothers and sisters. Call and response, neverending.

Where's the money; go fuck yourself.

And when I mumbled it, the words came out in a bloody cartoon bubble that popped against the scabs that used to be my lips. O'Brien didn't catch what I'd said, but he knew the intent. He didn't pull his punch, either, hit us so hard my head bounced off the wall. Then I hung forward, still conscious but white with pain inside, something ticking in my throat that would've been a groan two hours before.

That fuckin' wall. Bane of my life. He'd propped us up in the bath, and now every time he took a whack, it was a twofer thanks to that fuckin' wall. I felt something grey creep up on us and started nodding.

"Don't you pass out, James. Don't think you can sleep your way through this, or I'll wake you up the hard way. And, believe me, I want to save you as much hardship as possible."

I kept my mouth shut and rolled my tongue behind my teeth. Felt like a couple of them had been jarred loose. I squinted at him, but only for a second because the light hurt my eyes. I didn't show the pain, mind. This lanky streak of piss, handy with a Stanley and quick with a slap, he didn't deserve to see the slightest fuckin' flinch. Never shown it to power-hungry bastards like him before, and I wasn't going to start now.

"James," he said.

I breathed out through my mouth and blinked, just to show him I was still conscious. I managed to open one eye. Saw him step back from the bath and push his sleeves up. They'd fallen down as he worked, flopped over his hand, made him look like the fuckin' fop he was. There was blood on his cuffs. I would've smiled if it hadn't hurt so much. Messing up the prissy little bastard's clothes was a tiny revenge, but appreciated.

He went to sink and started washing his hands. I wanted to ask him if that was it. Because if that was all he had in him, then I'd won, hadn't I? Hang it up, old man. Bugger off back to Galway.

O'Brien slapped the soap back in the dish and rinsed. "I can understand you being so tight-lipped, James. Believe me, I understand completely. If I had so much money stashed away, I'd be tight-lipped, too."

I nodded. Didn't agree – my head was too heavy. Mind was spinning like I was drunk. Close to passing out, but I couldn't do it just yet.

"But there comes a time when you have to make a decision. Do you tell the man, or do you not tell the man?" He grabbed a towel. "I don't know what you've already been told about me—"

"You're an
arse bandit
," I yelled, and it felt like my whole face split open. But it was almost worth it for the look he gave us.

"You're not actually that far off, James. I'm not a homosexual, of course, but a man does what he has to when he's inside. It's just part of the culture. I've served some time and I can honestly tell you, James, it doesn't get any easier. I mean, you have that soft look about you, so I'm guessing you've never done a day in your life. So what I have to say will probably be news to you."

I let my head drop. Closed my eyes. Ignored the pain. Blood on my face, running over old wounds. I heard O'Brien move, then the breeze of his arm, and a hard slap across the face that was worse than before, something burning me this time. O'Brien held his hand, pushed into my face, and there was something that smelled in it, something that burned us like it was acid. I tried to kick my legs out, but they'd buckled against the side of the bath.

"What did I tell you? Don't tap out." He was right in my face now. His breath reeked of whiskey. The smell mixed with shampoo, made us want to heave. "I don't want to repeat myself."

I groaned loud enough to register and he backed off. My left eye was sealed. My head was whirling. Couldn't think. Burning all over. Wanted to do the same to O'Brien.

"James."

I stared at him with my one good eye. "Uff."

He straightened up. "I was telling you how it is when you find yourself with a long stretch ahead of you. Because when that happens, James, you can forget about the outside world. The people out there, there's no point in thinking about them. They're off living their lives, having a fierce time, while you're stuck in a cell with a man who breaks wind more often than he talks, and he talks a
lot
."

O'Brien cleared his throat.

"Or maybe," he said, "you find out that he's a beast, which means that you're the one who has to deal with him, or the other lads will tar you with the same paedo brush. So you have to give him a shorteyes scar on the right cheek, and then you leave him to the boy with the lighter fluid and Swan Vestas."

He paused and looked up at the ceiling, a smile on his face. It stayed for a few seconds, then melted as he turned back to us.

"Meanwhile, those people outside the walls, the ones who mean so much to you, they're busy scraping you from their memory. They might not mean to, but they'll do it because the easiest way to deal with your absence is to forget you. You won't begrudge them either, because you'd do exactly the same thing in their position. And what happens to you then? What is a man, James, but an extension and reflection of the people he surrounds himself with?"

I steeled myself and said, "Who were you surrounded by, boring cunts?"

He smiled. "Animals, James. I was surrounded by animals. And when that happens, you can't expect to remain unchanged. What about you? You surround yourself with nobody, so what does that make you?"

"Farrell."

"A bottom-feeder, then. Too slow to stay whole, too thick to know the value of anything they stumble across."

I felt something warm coat my lips. Could have been spit, but it was probably blood. O'Brien's face shifted in and out of focus.

"I know what I am, James. I know what I've become. And it was your man Farrell and his whore of a girlfriend who made me this way, so if there's anyone to blame here, it's them. Because nobody plays me. Not them, and certainly not you."

Didn't know what the fuck he was going on about, and when he finally stopped talking it was a relief. He turned his back on us. I shifted in the bath, made some ripples in the water.

When O'Brien turned round, there was something in his hand. Wasn't the Stanley. Something else. Shining bright, glittering through the water in my right eye.

Shit.

A gun, a snubby, just like the one Farrell robbed off Goose.

"So," he said, "I'm going to ask you one last time, James."

I grunted. Made noises that could've been answers. Hoping he'd mishear and put the gun down.

"Where's the money?"

I frowned and the pain brought me alert. Had to think. Go through each of the words first, try to keep focus even though the water droplets on my jacket were all I really wanted to look at. Shook my head. Tensed up. Prepared to speak and braced myself for the pain.

"There," I said. "Is."

Stopped. Took a breath.

"No. Money."

And then slumped back against the wall.

He thought it over. He nodded. "There's no money?"

I shook my head.

"Then you're no good to me, are you, James?"

"I—"

"You're just wasting my time."

"Wait."

His shadow spread over us, and a chill came with it. When I looked up all I saw were grey shapes. Then I felt the sudden freeze of the gun pressed against the side of my head. I shifted, saw O'Brien's other hand up, ready to shield himself from the spray.

"Uff," I said.

"Might as well put you out of your misery."

Tried to move my arms, but they were bound and numb. My legs didn't work neither. Couldn't breathe. Too scared. Ashamed. About to fuckin' die in a dirty fuckin' bath with a patchwork face and piss leaking into my pants. I was crying when O'Brien pulled the trigger. Sobbing and it hurt, and I didn't know what to do, and I was a kid and this was just like—

Fuck—

This wasn't the way it was supposed to—

A roar. A white flash.

Then nowt.

"You're in serious trouble, Mr Farrell."

That wasn't news. I'd heard that in various iterations since I was wee. Didn't faze me when Mrs Burke said it to me in first school, and it sure as shite didn't faze me now. When he said it, DS McDonald paced the floor, his shoulders hunched over. He probably thought it made him look like Vic Mackey. He looked more like the Commish. And now he was speaking freely, he'd found a familiar tone, one that reminded me of judges, probation officers and the social. People who thought they knew better. Received knowledge in the place of actual knowledge.

I kept it shut. It was always best to treat the police like a three-bob ball-gazer. The less you said, the more control you kept. And this bastard here was trying to peddle my future into prison, so I wasn't about to give him any help.

McDonald stopped in front of the door. He sniffed again. He started to say something, then held up a hand. He went into his jacket pocket for his tissue, honked into it, then sniffed again. "What were you doing in the room?"

I kept quiet.

"I don't know what you think this is, Mr Farrell, but it isn't going to go away."

I didn't answer.

"You broke into a hotel room."

I shook my head. "I had a key."

"Obtained under false pretences."

"For a room I'd paid for."

"And a room you
trashed
." McDonald jerked a thumb at the door. "The manager's all set to press charges."

"I didn't damage anything. I just moved stuff around a bit."

"You were looking for something?"

Nothing from me.

"That's what it looked like. So what was it?"

"I already told you what happened."

He referred to his notes. "Yeah, I know. Checked your recent transactions, found the Royal Station Hotel, a room you didn't remember booking. You rang up the hotel, got an extra key, went up to the room and ... what?"

"And that's all."

"You wanted to find out who'd booked the room, yes?"

I shrugged. It was an obvious assertion to make.

"So why didn't you tell reception? And for that matter, why didn't you just cancel your card?" He wagged a finger. "You know what, if you're actually the victim here, it'd be in your best interests to start acting like one."

"I'm trying to be as helpful as I can."

"I dare say you aren't." McDonald stopped in front of the door again. "I can pull you in, you know. You can waste my time down at the station."

"I'm not wasting your time, you're wasting mine."

"Oh yes, You had somewhere you needed to be."

I glanced at my watch. "I did."

"Where was that?"

"I don't believe that's any of your business."

"Did you know the people who checked in?"

I didn't say anything. McDonald brought out his tissue again. He rubbed his nose.