Authors: Ray Banks
I looked at him, then stamped my foot until my leg didn't cramp. I grabbed tabs, lit one and it was minty enough to make us think I'd just brushed me teeth. "If you're going to spew, Sean, then you might want to do it outside. I don't know that Baz'll like you decorating his caravan, shithole or not."
Farrell shook his head like he was trying to get rid of it. He moved to the seat opposite. I picked at some sleep from my eye and punched his leg.
"Howeh then," I said. "Out with it."
Farrell screwed up his face. "She's outside."
"Who is?"
"Nora." His eyes were red and demented.
"The fuck you talking about?"
He waved a hand. "G'on, see for yourself."
He looked delusional. This early in the morning, his brain all dehydrated, he'd probably gone out for a piss or something, seen a tree waving in a weird way and lost his fuckin' mind. I held up a hand, gave him a smile like it was alright, your Uncle Jimmy's here, and then I went outside.
Windy out here, and a bad fuckin' smell was riding it. I stood just outside the doorway for a bit, looking down at the bundle.
Huh. Would you credit it, the bastard was telling the truth.
Nora was laid out on her side, rolled right up against the caravan door. Jeans, T-shirt, Farrell's leather. Her eyes were open. There was a drop of water on one pupil, made it look extra large, and a smell coming off her that made us think she'd been a long and hard time dying.
Heard Farrell inside saying, "Jesus wept. Jesus fucking wept."
The back of her head was bashed to the white meat. Ragged, too. Like someone'd taken a rock to her napper. She'd put up a fight, judging by the bruise that made up half her face and the broken, bloody fingernails. Dirt on her hands, blood on the caravan door. Didn't take David Caruso to realise she'd done some crawling to get here.
Back in the caravan, Farrell was sat at the table with a piece of paper in his hands. He was staring at it. When he saw us, he folded it carefully and slid it into his back pocket.
I nodded at the door. "She's dead, then."
Farrell nodded, pushed out his lips. He let out a short breath through his nose. Could've been a laugh or the beginnings of a bubble. Either way, I couldn't have him getting caught up in himself.
"Means we need to hit the fuckin' road," I said.
He picked up his mobile, stared through the display. Ignoring us.
"How, Sean, she wasn't killed out there. She was dumped. Which means whoever did it not only has bollocks the size of bowling balls, but he knows where we are, which means he's probably called the fuckin' polis on us already."
Farrell shook his head.
"Fuck's that supposed to mean?"
"We can't leave her."
"I already got thinner in the boot, I don't have room for a fuckin' corpse."
He shook his head again.
"How man, you need to focus," I moved round, got in his eyeline. "She turned up, alright? And you didn't get to bray her because someone else did it for you. What can I say, there's no fuckin' justice in the world. But it's time to man up and fuck off, know what I mean?"
Farrell just looked at me.
"I'm telling you, she's staying put."
"I can't—"
"Fuck her. I never liked the bitch when she was alive, and she's not gotten any fuckin' cuter now she's stopped breathing." I grabbed his bag off the floor, checked my watch. "You've got five minutes of mardy, just to get it out of your system. Then I start the engine. If you're not in the car by then, that's it. Adi-fuckin'-os."
I went out the caravan, stepped over Nora without looking at her, and headed right for the Volvo. My feet made a sucking sound as I walked. Water seeped in there. Stupid fuckin' countryside.
There were no sirens on the main road, no flashing lights. I didn't look back at her. Seen a few dead bodies in my time, and it wasn't like I was fuckin' squeamish or nowt, but it wasn't like I was all relaxed around 'em either. Way I see it, you get nonchalant around the recently-carked, you need to get an MOT on your fuckin' humanity toot fuckin' sweet.
The caravan door opened. Silence.
"Howeh," I said. "Time to go."
"Give me a second."
Fine, fuck it. He wanted to make peace with her, he was welcome. I lit another menthol and spat the shitty taste out my gob.
Farrell approached. There was something draped over his arm.
The leather.
"You are out of your fuckin' mind," I said.
"What?"
"You took that off her?"
He sounded tired. "No, she gave it to me herself, Jimmy."
"It's covered in blood."
Farrell looked confused. "It's my jacket. It's Italian leather. One of a kind."
"Class act, Sean. See if that fuckin' jacket gets us in the shit—"
"It won't."
"It does, you're on your own."
"Fine."
Farrell got in the car, slammed the door. I flicked the filter and got behind the wheel. After a couple of tries, I managed to rev the Volvo out of the mud long enough for the tyres to catch. Once we were on the road, I turned on the radio to fill the silence. Farrell stared out of the window, the jacket on his lap, his hands balled.
As he talked, he rubbed the bullet hole in the left shoulder. "She was young, Jimmy."
"Aye. Younger than some."
Onto the motorway now, and I gunned the engine. Wasn't in the mood to talk. Didn't want to set Farrell off accidentally. The Irish and their fuckin' grief, man, it could fill a book.
His mobile rang. He pulled it out of his jeans, checked the display. His face moved, flickered. He blinked.
"What is it?" I said.
"Nora."
"You what?"
"Nora's number."
Still ringing. Farrell broke the freeze, connected the call. I turned off the radio. Tried to keep my eyes on the road.
I heard someone talking at the other end, faint but obviously speaking clearly.
Farrell cleared his throat. It sounded painful.
"Yes," he said, "I know who this is."
A pause. More talking.
"What money?"
Beat. The other voice a bit louder.
"There is no money. Any money you were looking for disappeared when you killed Nora, you fucking gobshite."
Another beat. The voice at the other end dropped in volume.
Farrell's didn't: "You want to
threaten
me, you auld cunt? I'll beat you to death with your own fucking spine, you see if don't ... Yeah, keep fucking talking. Keep fucking talking so I can find you quicker, and I'll make you squeal like the cowardly fucking pig y'are."
Farrell stabbed the call dead with one finger. He closed his hand around the phone, held it tight in one white fist. Colour burned in his face. White stuff flecked the corners of his mouth.
The phone rang again.
Farrell rolled down the window, flung the phone out onto the road. A clatter, smash, and a mess of shattered plastic kicked out in the rear view mirror.
I let him seethe for a bit longer.
Then I said, "Who was that, your mam?"
Farrell looking like he trying to eat himself alive, starting with his own tongue.
"That was Frank O'Brien," he said.
"Right."
"And as soon as I find him, I'm going to murder the fuck."
It was all clear now. She hadn't ripped me off, not really. She'd been coerced into it. Kidnapped. Made to write the note that I found. Course that didn't jibe with her getting me drunk. That was premeditation.
But premeditation didn't matter now.
She was dead, she was the victim, and it didn't matter what she'd done, Frank O'Brien had done worse. And as much as I'd hoped the scrawny little bastard was still choking on prison food, I should've known better. Dogs like him didn't get bit without snapping back.
"So, apart from a dead man, who's this Frank O'Brien?" said Cobb.
"You know the name Martin Cahill?"
"No."
"They made a film about him. Two, actually, but only one that wasn't shite. Called himself The General. On the face of it, he was pure as the driven: didn't smoke, didn't drink, didn't do drugs. Lived with his wife and his girlfriend, mind, which I'm sure wasn't as fun as it sounds. Cahill's big vice was robbing people. He got off on it and he was fucking good at it. He nicked a bunch of paintings, stole turf—"
"Sounds like a right charva."
"This charva managed to get away with sixty million all told."
"Fuckin' hell."
"Course you can't do that in my neck of the woods without pissing off the wrong people, and in the end the Republican Army did what the fucking Garda wanted to do, and put a couple of bullets in him. That's the basic story, anyway. You watch the film, you'll get the picture, even though there's still plenty of blanks."
"And what're you saying; your bloke is one of them blanks?"
"Lot of people think it was the two Johns who organised Cahill's murder, like they'd sold him out to the IRA. And right enough, they did well after The General was gone, but that was mainly because the market was ripe. You ask me who arranged the Custer, it was Frank O'Brien. That fucker had Cahill's ear when he wouldn't give it to anyone, mostly because Frank has a talent for dirty work. Which is why he kept to the shadows, and why nobody's ever likely to make a film about him – there's only so much you can sugar coat when your man's malt fucking vinegar."
"So he's a ghost."
"O'Brien's the fella, you see him once in your life, and that's about two seconds before you leave it."
"And you're giving him shit like you're going to bray him all over."
"I'm the victim here, Jimmy. Apart from hooking up with Nora, there's nothing between me and him. I never even met the man."
"But Nora and him ...?"
"Never figured her for a moll, did you? Tell you the truth, neither did I. She wasn't typical. You know the way they normally look."
"Battered WAGs."
"Exactly. But she was different. She was never in it for the cars and clothes. She just mistook menace for mystery. And let's face it, she was never the kind of girl who went for the white knight. On her lesser days—"
"Hang on, are you telling us you nicked this bloke's missus?"
"Not on purpose."
Cobb snorted. "Fuck's sake."
"I'm not a fucking suicide case, am I? She didn't tell me anything about him until we were already well into it. By that time he was in Durham, anyway."
"What was he doing in Durham?"
"Admiring the cathedral with its handsome knockers, Jimmy. The fuck d'you think he was doing?"
"Stir?"
"Yes."
"What for?"
"Same as everyone else. Bad luck. Carelessness. Fear. When Cahill bought it in '94, some of his friends automatically earned the right to take a pop at the man who turned him over. They went through the UVF because of the history – word was that Cahill sold the paintings on to them, though God knows what they wanted with them – and together they started tying up any loose ends. And out of all of them, O'Brien was the loosest, so he skipped the puddle. Now he couldn't work heroin in Liverpool or Manchester – talk about your stiff competition – but there was a market between Newcastle and Middlesborough, so he got himself set up in Bishop Auckland with a bloke called Sammy Yanoulis, you know him?"
"No."
"Good. Sammy's got a knack of leading his new partners straight into police stings."
Cobb was silent for a moment, his brain working. "But he's out now."
"Well, I don't see him using a mobile that someone's sported up their arse, so he must be out. My best guess is that Nora told him about the money. And when she didn't find it, she called you."
"Why?"
"Obviously didn't reckon you very loyal."
"She would've got a surprise, then."
"Yeah, and you would've got one with Frank." I reached for my cigarettes, cracked the window a little more.
"Thought you said he was old. I can handle a fuckin' pensioner nae bother."
"He's getting on there, yes, but don't let the age fool you. Just means he's got fewer years to lose."
Cobb mulled that one over. Then he said, "You know how to pick 'em, don't you?"
I had to admit, the man had a point. Played for a fool, Nora trying to turn me into the new Frank in her life, then buggering off to the old one just as soon as he was free. And there was me, all the while, acting all big time, just so she'd stay.
Christ, there was nothing as blind or as stone daft as a man in love. It made me fizz inside, thinking about how she'd fucked me over. And if I'd seen her up the road, I'd have stamped Cobb's foot to the floor and ploughed the Volvo straight through the bitch. I could almost hear her slam, roll and tumble. Saw the blood, and I had to shut my eyes.