I Saw You (29 page)

‘Michael, are you set for the off on the tide tomorrow evening?’ Brady sounded excited.

‘What? You’re kidding? I thought it was going to be weeks.’ McLoughlin felt suddenly disappointed.

‘Don’t ask me to explain the vagaries of some people’s lives.’ Brady laughed. ‘I got a call yesterday from the owner. They’ve changed their holiday plans. The
wife’s ankle’s on the mend. Now they’re going to drive through France and Switzerland, ending up in Venice. And they want us to bring the boat to the marina and meet them there.
We’ve ten days to do it, so we have to leave as soon as possible. I’m in the middle of provisioning. I just wanted to know if you’ve any what they call special dietary
requirements.’

McLoughlin didn’t reply immediately. His eye had been caught by movement at the second-floor windows in the building across the road. Dominic de Paor was standing there, looking out at
him. ‘Paul, listen, I’ve a problem.’ He began to walk slowly away from the crowded gate. De Paor moved to keep him in sight. ‘I’ve a job on at the moment. I’m
really sorry, but I didn’t think this trip was ever going to happen.’

‘Shit, Michael.’ Brady’s voice held a pleading note. ‘You’re giving me real trouble here. I don’t know how I’m going to replace you at such short
notice. I thought you were retired. I thought you were your own man.’

‘Yeah, well, I am. But I’m doing some work for a friend and it’s important that I see it through.’ He kept his eyes fixed on the window. De Paor was out of sight now.
‘Look, I’m really sorry, Paul. You couldn’t hang on for another few days, could you?’ He walked back towards the crowd as the door to de Paor’s office opened and he
saw him standing on the step, anger on his narrow face.

‘Can’t do it, Michael, doesn’t give us enough time.’ Brady sounded annoyed. ‘I thought I made it clear this would be a last-minute number.’

McLoughlin pushed himself in among the tourists. They closed around him. ‘Yeah, well, I was ready to go weeks ago, and I’m sorry, but I can’t do anything about it now. Good
luck with the trip.’ He pushed himself up on tiptoe and peered over the heads. De Paor had stepped out on to the pavement and was searching the scene before him. McLoughlin shrank down into
the group.

‘Your loss, then. We’re going to have a great time. I’ll send you a postcard from St Mark’s Square, OK?’

Someone stood on McLoughlin’s foot and he stifled a cry, ‘
Bon voyage
, Paul. Have fun.’ The light on the screen dimmed. Shit. Another lost opportunity. So much for
suiting himself.

He pushed his way out of the crowd, squinting back. De Paor was still on the pavement, looking up and down. Then he pulled his phone from his pocket. He began to make a call. As he finished
McLoughlin felt a vibration and heard a subdued ringtone. It was Marina’s phone. The name was on the screen. ‘Dominic,’ it said. He could see that de Paor had spotted he had it.
He felt suddenly exposed, threatened. De Paor made a move in his direction as a tour bus rolled up to the stop. There was bedlam now as the tourists crushed towards it. McLoughlin saw his chance.
He ducked out into the street behind the bus and headed across, not looking back in case he drew De Paor’s gaze. He could see the glass porch of Buswell’s Hotel. He took the front steps
two at a time and pushed through the swing doors into the lobby. It was quiet, cool and dark in comparison with outside. He stuck his head into the bar. It was virtually empty, just a couple of
sober-suited men with pints in their hands and their heads together over the
Independent
’s racing pages. ‘A pint, please,’ he said to the barman.

‘A pint?’ The accent was Polish. ‘A pint of what, sir?’

‘Guinness.’ Time was when a pint meant one thing and one thing only.

‘Sure thing, comin’ right up.’ The accent segued into mid-Atlantic.

He carried his drink to a small table in the corner and sat down. He took a long swallow. It was delicious. He leaned back into his chair. This used to be one of his favourite places for lunch.
A toasted ham sandwich and a pint. Sometimes two, depending on the company. Those were the days, he thought, as he hefted the glass. Lunchtime drinking was positively compulsory. Not like now, all
sparkling mineral water and cups of coffee.

He shifted uncomfortably in his seat. Another reason for cutting back on the pints, he thought, as he stood up and headed out into the lobby again, towards the stairs that led down to the
toilets in the basement. It was cool and dark after the brightness of the sunshine outside. He stood at the urinal, then ran his hands under the cold tap. A filthy roller towel lay on the floor. He
pulled his handkerchief from his pocket and wiped his hands as he pushed open the door. Two men were standing on the stairs in front of him. The tallest of the two put out his hand and gave
McLoughlin a push so he lost his balance and fell back.

‘Hey,’ McLoughlin said, ‘what’s your problem?’

The other man came towards him. McLoughlin could smell cigarette smoke and sweat. He put his left hand on McLoughlin’s shoulder and gripped it tightly. Then he went through his pockets
with his right hand

‘Hey, what the fuck do you think you’re doing?’ McLoughlin tried to free himself, but the man’s grip was strong. He felt him pull out his wallet, his phone and then
Marina’s. He handed it over to the other guy. McLoughlin heard the phone beeping, then his voice. ‘Yeah, we got it. OK. No problem.’ He saw Marina’s phone disappear into his
pocket. He dropped McLoughlin’s, with his wallet, on to the floor. Then he grasped McLoughlin’s throat and squeezed.

‘OK, got it? Let the fucker go now,’ the man behind said quietly.

‘Let him go? Will I let him go?’ The guy smiled, and McLoughlin stamped hard on his foot. He shouted, his face reddening, then lifted his arm. McLoughlin saw a tattoo below his
wrist. A snake coiled, its jaws open, ready to strike. A fist smashed into his face – a searing pain in his nose and cheekbone, the taste of blood on his tongue and a second, harder blow,
which made black spots appear before his eyes. The sound of his blood loud in his ears, then a sudden sickening dizziness and nothing.

The snake coiled around the wrist. The jaws wide open. The fangs extended. The pain in his head, the blood pouring from his nose, its metallic taste on his tongue. He sat on a
hard plastic seat in the A and E department of St Vincent’s hospital. It was bedlam. There had been a traffic pile-up on the M50 and the ambulances were still arriving, bringing the walking
wounded. He hadn’t wanted to come to hospital, but the barman who’d found him, who’d dragged him up to sitting, had already made the phone call before he could protest. And when
he’d called Johnny Harris, hoping that he would come and get him, he’d said he should stay, get his face and head X-rayed. Make sure there was no more damage than a broken nose, a
couple of black eyes and a large dose of wounded pride.

But it was the snake that was bothering him. He’d seen it before. Poking out from underneath a white shirt, an arm raised in triumph, a fist clenched in defiance. Posing for photographs
outside the Special Criminal Court. A hot day in summer, some time last year. The man had been charged with conspiracy to murder, to import drugs for sale. Charged on the testimony of a supergrass.
Found guilty, and sentenced to thirty years in prison. Until he’d got out on appeal. The defence barrister had made mincemeat of the evidence. And the defence barrister had been Dominic de
Paor.

McLoughlin shifted from buttock to buttock. The seat was getting harder as afternoon turned into evening. His eyes were so swollen now that he could hardly see. He knew he looked a sight from
the way in which everyone who walked past recoiled. He hadn’t told the barman or the paramedics what had really happened. He’d said he had tripped on the top step and tumbled all the
way to the bottom. The last thing he wanted was some rookie asking him tedious questions. But now he had questions of his own that needed answering, so he had to get out of there and quick.

He stood up. His head ached and he felt sick. He swayed, then steadied himself and headed for the exit. He checked his wallet and pulled his phone from his pocket. There were two calls he had to
make. He punched in Tony Heffernan’s number and waited. Fucking voicemail.

‘Tony, listen. Gerry Leonard, remember him? I’ve just had a close encounter. It wasn’t fun. Can you do some digging? I want his background, his history, his seed, breed and
generation. Can you do that for me? Thanks, Tony.’

He stepped through the door and into the sunshine. He leaned against the wall and punched in another number.

‘Hi, Johnny . . . Yeah . . . No. Look, I can’t stay here any longer. It’s complete chaos. I don’t know when they’ll get around to seeing me. I’m sure
there’s nothing broken. I just need someone to clean me up. Can I come to your place? You can check me out. Please, Johnny, a favour for a friend. OK?’

He listened for a few moments, then walked slowly and carefully, holding his ribs with one hand, towards the main road, already searching the traffic for a taxi. The traffic was heavy as
Margaret waited at the lights outside Connolly station. She had taken the train from Monkstown into the city centre. It was crowded, packed with tourists. Guidebooks open, maps spread across knees.
The tide was out and the dull brown of Sandymount Strand seemed to stretch to the horizon. Just the distant band of dark blue to mark the retreat of the sea.

Connolly station was crowded too. She elbowed her way down the escalator to street level. She hadn’t remembered Dublin like this. An endless stream of vehicles. She had remembered a
quieter city, easier to manage. A casual indifference to traffic-lights. Always possible to dodge from one pavement to the other, the cars slowing to make allowance. But this was different. There
was a dangerous edge to this traffic. She was conscious of her flesh and bones, her skin beneath her calf-length cotton skirt.

The lights changed and the pedestrian signal gave out its high-pitched bleat. She hurried over the crossing and turned towards the North Circular Road. She began to walk quickly, holding her bag
tucked under her arm. So many changes in the city. Small local shops with signs in Cyrillic script. Veiled women with dark children clustered together outside a greengrocer’s where huge
bunches of coriander, smooth, glossy aubergines and pointed spears of okra were piled high. She waited at Drumcondra Road for more lights to change. It wasn’t far now to Mountjoy gaol.
Already she was in the prison’s slipstream, carried along with the others whose lives were bound up with those who lived behind its high grey walls. She could see them everywhere. Slouching
along the pavement, their eyes dulled, their voices loud and complaining. Their children slouching beside them. She slowed down and stopped. The prison was on her right at the top of a small
slip-road. A grey Portakabin was parked by the metal barrier. A uniformed prison officer lounged in the doorway. He greeted the passers-by with a mixture of familiarity and casual contempt. They
didn’t seem to notice. They streamed up the narrow road towards the prison’s high wooden gate. Margaret followed them. As she passed the Portakabin she noticed that the officer was
looking at her. He smiled and stepped out of the door.

‘Can I help you?’ His tone was friendly.

‘Um.’ She stopped. ‘The women’s prison, can you tell me where it is?’

He moved closer. She could smell his aftershave. It was rich and cloying. He lifted one arm and pointed to the redbrick building on the other side of the road. ‘The gate’s up at the
top. If you ring the bell someone will open up for you.’

She nodded, making a stiff grimace. ‘Up there, you say?’ She pointed towards the tall building with slit-like windows.

‘That’s it.’ He stepped back into the doorway. ‘Have fun.’

She crossed to the other path, which ran beside the women’s prison. There were windows at ground level, but their thick Perspex panes were frosted. Ahead she could see the entrance, a
crowd of girls in a noisy cluster. She stopped to watch. The gate was made of heavy metal. Every few minutes it slid back slowly, with a rumbling, grating sound. The girls pressed forward, pushing
and shoving. The gate slid to, swallowing them up. She moved closer. From here she could see through. Behind the gate there was a scruffy entrance hall, the paintwork scuffed and dirty. A hatch led
into an office. And beyond, a frosted-glass door heavily reinforced with metal bars. She could see nothing more. As she stood and watched, the gate rumbled back again and a uniformed officer, this
time a woman, came out. ‘Can I help you?’ she asked, her voice cool and business-like. Margaret didn’t reply. She began to walk quickly down the slope towards the main road. She
wanted to run. To feel the hardness of the pavement through the soles of her sandals, the sun on her face, to fill her lungs with air. To hear the noise of the traffic and see the people in the
streets. She wanted to know that she was free. That she could go anywhere she wanted. Catch a bus, take a train, hail a taxi to the airport. Get on a plane. Disappear. Back to the life she had
created for herself. Anything but the sudden reality of the future that faced her. That she had tried to imagine as she lay awake, night after night, in the house at Eumundi. Trying to decide how
to redeem herself. How to make amends for what she had done.

McLoughlin sat with Johnny Harris on the balcony of Harris’s brand-new riverside apartment. They watched the city around them. The lights along the river winked back from
the water’s iridescent surface. People were sitting at tables along the Liffey boardwalk. Harris opened a bottle of Prosecco and they sipped its biscuity bubbles. He had washed
McLoughlin’s wounds with warm water and disinfectant, put some butterfly plasters over the cuts on his eyebrows and upper lids. He’d peered up his nose and manipulated it with both
hands, then declared himself satisfied that nothing was broken.

‘Your skin tones will leave a lot to be desired for the next week or so, and your face will be sore for a while but it seems to me that you got off lightly. If the guy who hit you is the
guy you think, then the surprise is that they’re not scraping your brains off the walls and floor as we speak.’