On the Edge of the Loch: A Psychological Novel set in Ireland (42 page)

‘Run! Run!’ She tugged at him. ‘Mister, c’mon, will you. C’mon!’

‘‘Go now,’ he said, his face alight, as though resigned in a holy mission.

‘Mister, will you c’mon!’ She pulled at him. ‘Run!’

His hand shunted her backwards, pushed her out of the room. He kicked the door shut. Drove home the dead bolt. The men halted.

Balance low and square, feet anchored, Tony MacNeill held still, almost placid. The soot-blackened hands floated up as if in sacred rite, into combat pose. Inside him, his old battle cry resounded, something he’d learned in history: woe to the defeated. No reins now. No cuffs. No prisoners.

Fogo’s small eyes glared, his face a sneer, showing not a hint of fear.

‘Crackhead fucking bollox,’ Skinner called out, a shiver in his voice. ‘The bollox is back, what Fogo?’ From the hearth he grabbed a long iron poker.

Tony’s right hand swept around to his back, lodged lightly in his belt.

‘What he got, Fogo? What?’ Skinner asked. ‘Got a Glock, what?’

‘Whoooeeeee! Fucking lucky day.’ Fogo hissed a jet of air through his teeth. ‘Stone deeeeaaahhdddd, Red. Whoooeeeee!’ He held out an upturned hand, accepted Skinner’s poker. ‘Don’t need it. Do the fucker.’

Skinner’s stare rose up to his partner but received no acknowledgement. ‘Fucking right. You get the fucker that side; I’ll get this side.’ He shuffled to his right, took a half-step forward, then glanced again at his partner. Fogo hadn’t moved, just stood sneering. Skinner retreated.

‘Broke into your flat,’ Fogo said. ‘Y’can kill burglars. Burst the fucker!’

‘He got a gun, Fogo, a Glock what? Why’s he looking at us like that, and them karate gloves? Fucking escaped maniac. Should be fucking locked up, what?’

‘Do it!’ Fogo commanded.

Skinner recoiled, white-faced, his hairless head dripping sweat. He slid another half-glance at Fogo. Then his shoulders jinked; he jutted out his chin, bared his teeth. And with a street roar he sprang into attack.

Tony’s first strike, a long, poking left to the mouth, was meant only to set up his second. It did. In a cloud of soot a right cross thudded into Skinner’s face. Sank him with a crash. Seconds passed before the whining began. Skinner came to, floundered about the floor, struggled up, face bloody, and tumbled out of the room.

Fogo’s features contorted; he stared.

Tony waited, ready, his gaze fixed to his foe. In this time-slowed standoff he weighed what might happen. The teens were gone, safe at least from the devastation to come. He was giving away maybe sixty pounds, four stones in the way he once counted weight. That wouldn’t matter, he told himself. The burn in him counted for more; on the street it had always been his edge. The spring was coiled now, irretrievably, set to unleash. Just like Newark all those years ago. And again now, here, because he wanted it. Because that’s who he was, who he had to be one last time: Anto MacNeill, immigrant, Irish, not to be fucked with. After this he’d complete his mission, the new one, the one he’d come back to the city for, Aidan Harper. Cyril, as he now called himself. What he had to do there, he could do, he felt certain, extreme as it was. First, he’d bury this big scumbag psychopath. Like Yablonski, like Rip Wundt, like all the others. He’d fight without pity, be as good as he’d ever been: alert, fast, powerful, merciless. Unbeatable. For the boy and junkie girl. For Margo and Stewie. For Lenny Quin and what he had to do next. That’s why he’d get through this, be okay.

Then both faces took on colder convictions, like gladiators at the gate readying for inescapable war.

He’d been watching for a flicker, a tinge, a twist. And now it came. Fogo’s eyebrows narrowed. Then like a man possessed, he attacked, upturning the big wooden table between them. Tony backed away, out of reach of the first sledgehammer blow; he stayed low, moving, gauging his range, figuring the next strike.

This one he saw even earlier, a wide roundhouse punch ripping through the air. He ducked easily under it, spun left, and an instant before Fogo’s bulk rebalanced, Tony’s boot smacked like a hammer into his opponent’s kneecap. Fogo’s mouth broke open, he let out a chilling yell as his massive shoulders bent forward. But he stayed on his feet.

‘Tear your fucking heart out!’ he said, setting for another attack.

But this time, Tony exploded toward him, kicked for the groin. Missed. A fraction short. Fogo’s fist thudded into him, knocked him across the upturned table, breaking off two of its legs. He found his feet quickly, but another blow pounded into his forehead. He was down again, head spinning, almost out. He compelled his eyes to stay open, his head to stay clear. Now Fogo’s hobnail boot was coming for his face. He spun away. The boot caught his shoulder, though by then had lost most of its power. But he was still on the ground, Fogo grunting and swearing, stumbling forward. He scurried to the side, on his back, kicking up, watching, anticipating, too dazed to stand, become an easy target. Another stomp missed his groin but drove hard into his damaged thigh, sent him into near-delirium.

Fogo, red-faced and sweating, steadied his limping mass as he closed in from the opposite side. He stopped, yanked upward on his shirt, drawing it over his head. Tony shot across the floor feet first. Like a pliers, his legs trapped Fogo’s ankles, toppled him backwards into the hearth, body and bones cracking against marble and a scuttle full of black coal.

Tony jiggled his neck and head, tried to rise. Get up, his mind ordered; get off the ground! Blood on the floor caused him to lose his footing, but he was back on his feet, holding on. His hand went to his thigh, bleeding heavily, down past his calf. And now he was down again, face against grimy floorboards, dropped by something he didn’t see or feel. He’d been here before, he reminded himself, down but still functioning, strong, senses okay. He back-pedalled along the ground as a ranting Fogo came for him. His dodging and forearm swipes fended off the stabbing boots. As the attack slackened, he lashed out with his good leg, striking his almost breathless foe repeatedly.

He could feel the strength in his body again, better coordination, though the ringing in his ears had muffled his hearing. He knew he’d been fighting on instinct, for how long he couldn’t tell, but no question now he was fighting for his life. He needed to believe, needed to keep trusting his gut, get to his feet, see if his leg would bear his weight.

Just then the long, black poker appeared in his vision, above him, in Fogo’s hands. His body jerked into a roll an instant before the poker smashed into the floor, inches from his head. Then once again it came, as a lance toward his throat. His wrapped hands deflected the weapon and grabbed it. Fogo yanked hard. Tony let go, sent the sweat-drenched man tumbling back.

On his feet now, he went quickly after his would-be killer. Fogo thudded to a stop against a peeling wall. At that point, Tony was already in the air, powered by one good leg, a flying kick with his weight behind it. His boot cracked against the same knee as earlier. Fogo’s roar reverberated through the tenement as spit spilled from his lips. In that moment he presented an undefended target. Tony’s left fist drove with all that was in his shoulders and hips. It pounded into Fogo’s jaw, mangled his face into distortion and demonic rage.

‘Fucking pig; dead fucking pig,’ he lisped. ‘I’ll smash your fucking skull in.’

Tony backtracked, conserving strength for the move he hoped would end it. Fogo, faltering badly now, fired blow after futile blow at a harder-to-hit target. Then an opening came. Tony flashed forward, hands blazing, one, two, three, four straight jabs to the head. Fogo squirmed but barrelled forward again through the wreckage, bracing against whatever support was closest. Tony veered into clearer space. And stopped. He dropped to his knees. Ready for what he knew would come. And it came. He locked both hands onto Fogo’s face-bound boot, wrung the foot viciously against the ankle joint, made the man squeal, then snapped it again and pushed him backwards. Fogo’s massive body slammed to the floor, smashing the remains of the table.

Tony’s hand reached again to his bleeding thigh. His jeans were now a bloody mess, blood squelching in his boot. But Fogo was up, somehow, almost on top of him again, swinging blows. Tony evaded each of them, bobbing one side then the other, staying behind long left strikes that snapped Fogo’s head back when they landed. Then he attacked, feinted a left, threw a powerful right cross that missed and crashed him into Fogo, sending them both toward the back wall where they came to a stop, still on their feet. Tony’s head shot forward like a demolition ball, cracked into skull bone, sucked a howl out of Fogo. As if in reflex, Fogo’s head rebounded into Tony’s. Both men sank to the floor, unconscious.

Sometime later the pain in his ribcage tortured him awake. He glimpsed a figure and a weapon set to strike, tried to shimmy out of its path but found it impossible to move. The shiny black bat cracked the linoleum beside him. Meant to kill, he knew. And knew it would have. But his body was not obeying. Then up again rose the bat in Fogo’s hands. Tony managed a twist, all his pain threshold would allow. The bat followed him, swung down, glanced his left shoulder. Carried aside by his own leverage, Fogo straightened up, headed back toward his prey. Tony was back on his feet, stumbling over the remnants of the table. He tried to find the willpower, tried to move farther away. His legs would do no more. He dropped. Fogo towered over him, raised the bat as though for a beheading, lowered it down between his shoulder blades, and re-set his stance. The bat launched, swept up over his head.

With all the upper-body strength he could call on, Tony’s shoulders and arms had taken off like a single welded cog, through a long horizontal arc that gained velocity by degree, and he let out a rising groan that stopped on impact. The heavy wooden table leg clunked against Fogo’s shins, sent him into a choking inhalation. He toppled back, two golf-ball-size kneecaps protruding from his upper legs, the metal bat quivering in his hands.

Tony hauled himself up. ‘You lose, fucker,’ he said. ‘Because y’don’t know what dead is.’

Fogo’s agony allowed no response.

Tony straightened his body, glared down at the three scimitars on the man’s biceps.

In the wrecked room, he prepared. ‘Don’t know what dead is, fucker,’ he said, straining for breath. And in his bloody, bandaged hands the weighty table leg hung over the paralysed man. Fogo’s eyes widened, pleaded.

Tony steadied into strike position.

‘Anto! No!’ The shout came from the door. Aidan Harper moved into the room. ‘Anto!’

Tony’s face and body remained unchanged.

‘Your business is with me. Not him. He’s sick, Anto. A street louse. You’re a good man.’ Aidan’s hands reached out. ‘Don’t sacrifice yourself. Do not do this. He’s not worth it! He’s finished, for ever.’

The shaking in Tony’s body worsened.

‘Anto, listen, please, do not do this. The courts will deal with him. I swear to you they will. He’ll hurt no one ever again.’ Aidan moved closer, paying no heed to the wailing coming from the floor, until he and Tony stood facing each other. ‘You and I can settle our differences. I’m on your side, Anto. I am. Much more than you realise.’

The table leg fell to the ground.

‘Your two young friends, they came to see me,’ Aidan said.

Trance-like, Tony’s eyes remained on the three scimitars.

‘Anto,’ Aidan offered his hand, got no response. ‘Listen, I’ve re-thought things. I’ll be leaving tomorrow. Leaving Ireland, for good. Nonsense really, my being here. I see that now. Arrangements all made.’ He offered his hand once more, and again let it drop away unanswered. ‘It’s okay, Anto. Really it is. You and I, we both know this world, what it can do to innocents, we’re not so different.’

Tony’s head lifted. His bloodshot eyes set on Aidan, a menacing glare, then his hands shot out, grabbed Aidan.

‘Anto, no! Anto! Anto!’

25

‘Aranroe Hill,’ the driver called out. The nearly empty bus pulled onto the gravel shoulder. Tony buttoned his army jacket up to his chin, pulled his ski hat down to eyebrow level, then dragged his backpack toward the exit.

The driver rose out of his seat. ‘I’ll get that for you, son; you fire ahead.’

Tony alighted into an air of freshness and sudden memories. His green country of fierce seas and songbirds, as he thought of it throughout his long incarceration, the loss of which he’d so often listened to his father lament; land of sky and islands, of lochs and bogs and cliffs, and comfort. Now, here he was, back again, hours before dusk, a mission still in his hands.

The driver’s gaze flirted with the bruising in Tony’s face. ‘Always know a climber. One look’s all it takes,’ he said, appearing pleased with his own perceived perceptiveness. ‘Travel here from all corners of the world, young and old, climbers like yourself.’

Tony gave token acknowledgement.

‘All set to beat this mountain of ours, you are?’ The driver pointed inland. ‘That’s her, the biggie. Can conquer it this late in the season, can you?’

‘Can try . . . Never know.’

‘Has a mind of her own, we say around here. Most years she steals a soul or two. Climber goes up, doesn’t come down. Have to watch yourself.’

Both men gazed out to the pastures and the heavens, and in the distance Mweelrea, lording over of the land, side-lit and sharp in the evening light, green-golds lower down, blue-greys nearer the cerulean sky.

‘Treacherous, I’d imagine, climbing to the top of that.’ The driver’s bright moon face came back to Tony. ‘One slip and that’s it; you’re gone for your tea.’

Tony hoisted up his pack, eased it onto his shoulder.

‘Not for me, not in this life anyway,’ the driver said. ‘If I get reincarnated, you never know.’

Now, once more, Mweelrea held all of Tony’s considerations.

‘Right so,’ the driver said, rubbing his hands together. ‘Know how to get to where it is you’re going?’ He waited for a response. Then the spell seemed to break; Tony’s eyes returned to him, along with a nod.

‘Right so. Time I brought these poor weary people home.’ He started up into his bus. ‘Next stop Killadoon,’ he announced then turned back. ‘Watch yourself up there, son. God bless.’ The big white bus headed up the hill.