Scalpel (23 page)

The first spasm had gripped Gordon O'Brien after his third feed before noon. It was mild compared to what would follow. Anxious and fretful as he was, he still needed regular feeds and his cries of hunger were coming every four hours. But at the noon feed when Peggy Ryan put the teat in his mouth he had seemed distressed. His head rocked to and fro as if trying to dislodge the bottle. After two or three sucks his arms started threshing about, his face contorted in pain. Tiny legs kicked furiously inside the babygrow. Knees were drawn up. He screeched.

The screeching pierced the small cottage and Peggy Ryan had to walk the floor for an hour before he finally slumped into an exhausted sleep. She changed his nappy, muttering and cursing to herself, quietly at first and then more audibly.

Moonface watched.

So did Sam Collins.

Both of them were fed up with Peggy. Had she got the bottle? Could she stick the pace? Could she not shut the fuck up and stop talking to herself? They were also fed up with the cottage. Even with the fire in the kitchen burning all day and the electric fires on in the bedrooms, the place still reeked of damp and mould and must. A broken pane of glass in one of the bedrooms allowed freezing air inside and they all had to wear their outdoor clothes to keep warm. The front and back doors let in draughts adding to the discomfort. Then Moonface had spotted a mouse in the toilet
and began kicking at the walls. 'Come ou', ye little bastard,' he had shouted, waving a gun at the hole in the skirting board he'd discovered. Only the smell of bacon and eggs, cooked by Peggy Ryan for tea, lifted the mood of unpleasantness in the cottage.

Tommy Malone had been out earlier, returning with arms full of the Sunday papers.

He knew there was little point trying to hide the huge public outcry from the rest of the A-team. They'd get to know sooner or later and it was better he controlled how the news broke and his interpretation.

'Jaysus, we've hit the jackpot all righ'.'

He dropped the
Sunday Independent
into Moonface's hands, the
Sunday Post
to Collins while he devoured the
Sunday Tribune.
Peggy Ryan was left staring at the football results on the back pages. She began talking to herself again.

Excitedly the others exchanged papers, engrossing themselves in anything to do with the kidnap, laughing at their descriptions as reported differently. In one Sam Collins was the mastermind, described as an ex-IRA explosives expert from Derry. Moonface was described as the 'animal' who had knocked June Morrison about, leaving her in a coma. There were lots of laughs at that and Collins started barking at Moonface to send him up.

Peggy Ryan gave him a lash of her tongue. 'If ye waken tha' baby I'll bloody well swing for ye.'

Collins glowered at her and she glowered back. Tommy Malone noticed and intervened to keep the peace. Secretly they were all very worried about the June Morrison development. That wasn't supposed to happen. But the three men had all checked her before they left and each knew they were as much to blame as the other.

If Peggy Ryan wasn't allowed to share the newspapers it wasn't because she had been ignored by the reporters. GARDAI SEEK MYSTERY WOMAN IN KIDNAP. WHAT WOMAN WOULD DO THIS? KIDNAP BITCH!

One of the English tabloids featured a photo of Gordon
O'Brien wrapped in the now famous shawl. Superimposed were a pair of hands in a snatch pose.

IRISH POLICE SEEK KIDNAP BITCH!

They didn't pull any punches. This was right up their street, a big story on their doorsteps with lots of glamour and drama.

The cottage was quiet for a spell, the A-team huddled in front of the coal and briquette fire in the kitchen, absorbed in the papers. Moonface switched to the sports pages and was reading all about the Ireland vs England soccer international on the coming Wednesday night. Moonface had tickets for the match. He was hoping the job would be finished by then.

Peggy Ryan made a pot of tea and they sat, each to their own thoughts, staring at the flames. Tommy Malone read something he didn't like about Big Harry which could slow everything down. This is not what I wanna hear, he thought. Tommy Malone was very much aware of the tension that had crept in among his A-team. The cottage was too small, everyone was bumping into one another, hanging out of one another. And they couldn't stand the screeches of the baby. It seemed to ring in their ears for hours. He hadn't thought about that, hadn't thought about that at all. He sneaked a look at each.

Moonface was holding up. Collins was getting edgy but still holding in there. Peggy looked awful. That screamin' child's gettin' to her. Jaysus, we've only got the little bollox two days and already they wanna get rid of him.

He read the bit about Big Harry again. It worried him even more the second time.

Tommy Malone had to make some decisions. It was time to speed things up before Big Harry finally did crack. We gotta shake him up, get him to start movin' money. We can't stay in this shaggin' cottage for ever. Tune to move to the next phase.

He looked at Collins and decided to take him, instead of Moonface, who he'd planned on doing most of the drops.

He decided Collins needed to get out of the cottage for a break, especially if the child started screeching again.

'Okay.' Malone broke the silence. 'Time we put a bit of pressure on.'

They all looked up.

'Photo call. Martin, put your balaclava on. We're gonna drop a few Polaroids.'

Peggy Ryan didn't want the sleeping child disturbed, but Malone wanted to get the pictures while the baby was asleep. He especially didn't want Polaroids of the child screaming. It's bad enough as it is. Jaysus, if the papers get hold of wan of him screamin' we'll be lynched.

So Moonface put on his balaclava, Peggy Ryan lifted Gordon O'Brien from the travel cot as if he were Waterford crystal, and placed the sleeping bundle in Moonface's arms. The baby didn't wake up, just threw his arms out at the disturbance, scrunched up his face and sneezed.

Tommy Malone set up position and flashed a shot. They all waited as it slowly unwound from the camera. It was a good one of Moonface holding the baby with the
Sunday Post
held beside him by Collins, out of picture. The banner headlines confirmed the day the Polaroid was taken.

'He should be in the shawl, Tommy,' said Peggy Ryan. 'He could be any baby. Put the shawl aroun' him and they'll know it's the real thing.'

Malone, Collins and Moonface were taken aback, impressed.

'Good thinkin', Peggy,' said Malone, 'ye're on the ball, Peggy. Good thinkin'.'

Malone shot three more, this time with the famous lace shawl wrapped firmly around the sleeping baby. Moonface looked the part of a kidnapper. Big thick arms and big thick head inside black, intimidating balaclava. Big thick brain wondering would it all be over in time for the football match?

Malone told Collins to come with him.

'Jaysus, Tommy, ye said I'd do the drops,' Moonface protested.

'From tomorra on. From tomorra we'll be droppin' Polaroids all over Dublin. We'll need the bike then. Ye'll be out most of the day. Sam needs a break.'

'You're dead right,' agreed Collins, his Northern accent now grating on Moonface's ears.

'You're dead right I do.'

They wrapped up against the cold and climbed into the Volvo, inching it slowly down the lane, careful of black ice. Collins drove, allowing Malone time to think.

Brian O'Callaghan spotted the headlights from his own cottage. They're still here. I wonder who they are? He picked up the Sunday paper again and continued reading. There was little in it apart from the kidnap story and the hospital murder investigation. He sucked at his spit through false teeth and began a silent prayer for the safe return of Gordon O'Brien.

Malone decided on four drops, all in Dublin and well away from Kilcullen to confuse the Gardai. One was slipped into a letter box in Gardiner Street where collection wasn't until the next day. Another fell in through the letter box of the
Sunday Post
along Burgh Quay, while a third dropped into the letter box of Dillon's pub in Clonskeagh. The final one he delivered himself to the letter box of the O'Brien Corporation headquarters in Dawson Street.

Then, in a public phone booth in Tallaght town centre, Tommy Malone rang the Garda confidential phone line. Satisfied the big thick culchie at the other end of the line got the details right, he then dialled Theo Dempsey's number.

'Ye've got 'till tomorra to get the money. If ye want that child back ye better get ready to part with the money. I'll ring tomorra afternoon and tell ye how to move it.' He heard the sharp intake of breath at the other end of the line as he hung up.

As the Volvo began the journey back to Kilcullen, squad cars were screeching to all four drop-off points and Jack
M
cGrath was listening to a play back of Tommy Malone's disguised voice.

And Gordon O'Brien was screaming with colic in the cottage.

Peggy Ryan was walking the floors again, rightly fed up and talking to herself like she was in a speaking competition. Moonface had plugged in a walkman and was listening to an old U2 tape. He picked at his nose with a vengeance, rightly fed up. He even drew blood.

In Beechill, Harry O'Brien sat mute and motionless near the front door. He had positioned himself there after he learned of the second telephone call from the kidnappers.

'I'm waiting for my baby to come home,' he told a uniformed Garda who went to enquire if he was all right. So the young Garda sat opposite and watched with him, like a faithful labrador.

And while the big man sat downstairs, upstairs Sandra O'Brien was being watched over and comforted by a young uniformed Ban Garda who had a baby of her own at home and who just couldn't stop ringing to check she was okay. Almost every hour.

And this was happening all over the country. Every news bulletin was listened in on, a nation's desperate hopes of a breakthrough hanging on every word. Some couldn't bring themselves to watch the TV pictures any longer, they were so distressing and disturbing. Many still couldn't believe what was actually happening. It was like a bad dream, a nightmare.

Top industrialists started contacting their parent companies, putting in formal requests for transfers from Ireland, their wives refusing point blank to stay. Bodyguards were doubled, new bodyguards hired and old bodyguards double checked to make sure they weren't planning any copycat kidnappings.

8.27 pm

'Mummy, will you read me a story?' Rory was clutching a new Thomas the Tank Engine story, her guilt present for being out all day. Grandad glared at the clock when she arrived back, exhausted. The house was in a mess. Toys were scattered in every room, with pages of Rory's childish scrawls lying on the couch. Grandad had obviously been busy trying to keep Rory amused.

'Now don't start. I've just had a dreadful day. I'm tired, I'm hungry and I'm fed up.'

Kate Hamilton had good reason to be especially fed up. Gardai legal advisers had informed her any AIDS test would have to be done voluntarily. If she wanted to check on anyone in particular she would have to allow them to seek legal advice first. Everything suggested seemed guaranteed to frustrate and delay.

She slumped down in an armchair, fit to cry, and Rory climbed up onto her knee. She stroked his cheek, stroked his hair, kissed his forehead. Then she kicked off her soaking wet shoes and pulled down her soaking wet tights, dropping them onto the already crowded floor.

'Hi,' she said.

Rory sensed something was wrong. He put his thumb in mouth, took Ted out from inside his pyjamas and ran it along his mother's face. She kissed him again, trying to freeze out the image of his dead father, which she saw so often now that he was growing and filling out.

'Has Rory had his tea?'

Grandad was fixing up bacon and eggs in the kitchen and shouted a 'yes'. The smell of the cooking rumbled her stomach and Rory giggled. They both had a good giggle. They cuddled up and she held him tightly.

'Don't, Mummy, you're hurting me.'

She spotted the Sunday paper with its headlines about the kidnapping and couldn't stop herself clutching him closer. They snuggled down in each other's arms, content and happy.

Grandad brought the bacon and eggs out to find Kate and Rory fast asleep, curled in each other's arms. He looked at them and decided not to disturb them, sitting down to eat the tea himself. Waste not, want not. He looked at them again from the table.

Jesus, what a life for her, he thought. How long can she keep this up before something gives?

Standing in front of his exercise mirror in number twenty-three, the Elms, Dean Lynch was planning to help Kate Hamilton ease her workload. He held the Walther PPK in a positive-action pose and clicked the hammer against an empty chamber. He'd been doing this for the past hour, getting the feel of the steel, the weight of the metal, learning the firing mechanism. He was getting ready for phase two of being positively active. And he was looking forward to it.