The Killing of the Tinkers (15 page)

On the return journey, Mikey didn’t speak. I heard a clock
strike twelve, thought,

“Call midnight, cry alone.”

At Hidden Valley, I was getting out when Mikey said,

“I’m starting to read poetry. Who would you recommend?”

I took a moment as if I was contemplating, said,

“I couldn’t give a fuck who you read.”

In the house, I was near afraid to keep up the high intensity drinking, decided to attempt to read. Chose Chester Himes; he’d be vicious and funny. From
The Primitive
I underlined the following,

I’d dozed in the armchair. The doorbell went and I got groggily to my feet. Checked the time. Five o’clock. Sweeper was alone with a bottle of Black Bush. Led him into the kitchen. He said,

“I brought cloves, we could have hot ones.”

“Why not?”

I boiled the kettle and built big drinks, stirred in the cloves, sugar, the Bush. Handed him his and sat down. He said,

“It’s done.”

“OK.”

“You want to ask me anything?”

“Would you tell me?”

“Probably not.”

We drank and he built the next ones. I said,

“The hand bothers me.”

“What?”

“The one in the post.”

He gave a short laugh, no humour in it, said,

“That was Mikey.”

“What?”

“He goes to Belfast a lot. He thought you needed a wake-up call. I didn’t know till afterwards. The lads told me.”

“Oh, my God.”

“What?”

“Jesus…let me think.”

Tried to settle my mind, to recall Brendan Flood’s words, said,

“Sweeper, I’m going to describe a person. I want you to listen very carefully and then tell me who comes to mind.”

“OK.”

I took a deep breath, then began.

“A man in his early thirties, batchelor, high intelligence…only child. Good with his hands, drives a custom-fitted van, had a minor run in with the guards, probably gave someone a serious beating once. He’s polite, well-spoken, educated.”

Sweat was leaking out of me. Sweeper didn’t hesitate, said,

“Mikey, why?”

“Nothing, I was curious.”

If he’d been less knackered, he might have pushed it. But exhaustion was closing his eyes. He shrugged, took out an envelope, said,

“A bonus. You did well.”

“I’m going to move.”

“To London?”

“No, back to Bailey’s Hotel.”

“But you can stay here.”

“Thanks, but it’s time for a change.”

He stood, put out his hand, said,

“I’ll be seeing you, Jack Taylor.”

“Sure.”

After he’d gone, I opened the envelope. Enough to keep me going for a long time. I resealed it.

Next day, I was sitting in Sweeney’s. The cries of the seagulls across the docks. Bill Cassell arrived a short time later. He seemed even thinner, took his usual seat, and I sat opposite. I put the envelope on the table, said,

“Will you count that?”

He did, said,

“That’s a lot of money, Jack. What do you want? To have somebody killed?”

I lit a cigarette, took a last look at the Zippo, pushed it across to Bill, said,

“His name is…”