The Undivided (15 page)

He stared at her in silence.

‘I’m up for it, if you are … and if you aren’t … well, I know a few tricks that could help with that, too.’

Darragh continued to study her with a puzzled expression. ‘Just whose side are you on, Brydie Ni’Seanan?’

‘The truth?’ she asked him honestly, thinking of Ethna and her grim future as Atilis’s bride. ‘Mine.’

Hayley wasn’t sure when she became aware of her surroundings again. For a long time she floated in a world of emptiness … a warm cocoon where nothing seemed to matter. Reality resolved around her slowly. It took a while for her to register she was lying in a hospital bed and that there seemed to be some dissent as to her prognosis. She had heard people talking in the distance in hushed, frightened tones. Then the soft beeping of countless electronic monitors lulled her back into unconsciousness, while voices she didn’t recognise whispered about her as if she wasn’t there.

When she tried to move, she discovered a strange heavy feeling in her limbs, holding her down, but the cottonwool cocoon kept her warm and safe so she didn’t feel the need to panic. She did want to know why her stepmother was crying, though, and why her normally jovial and talkative father was so ominously silent.

Hayley deduced that people were upset, and they seemed to be upset with her. She wasn’t sure why. She wanted to tell everyone she was fine. She wanted to sit up and demand to know why she was surrounded by electronic beeps and whispering voices, because she had no idea how she got there.

Hayley’s last memory was seeing Ren with that girl. He was holding her hand.

In the distance, the faint beeping seemed to grow more strident …

Hayley drifted in and out of consciousness, unable to tell anyone she was awake. Her head pounded constantly when she emerged from the darkness. Unconsciousness was a relief. Such a relief she was disinclined to do anything that might prolong her fleeting bouts of awareness.

Not that Hayley had any control over that, either. She couldn’t move a muscle.

Her dreams were jumbled and chaotic, never focussing on any one thing for long. Her world was defined by haunting images interrupted occasionally by a reality so painful she prayed for the dreams to return. Her dream world was bewildering, but painless.

In her dream world, Ren wasn’t holding that pretty blonde girl’s hand. He was holding Hayley’s. Ren featured a lot in Hayley’s dreams which was why she preferred them to the real world. In them, he seemed much happier than the Ren she knew in her waking life. In her dreams, Ren wasn’t haunted by dark nightmares so terrible he couldn’t even tell his best friend what he dreamed about …

In her dreams, Ren noticed she was alive.

Even in her befuddled state, Hayley knew that wasn’t fair. Ren didn’t ignore her. Of course he knew she was alive. He was her best friend, after all, and she was his.

But that’s all he was, she knew; that was how it was meant to be. Hayley had resigned herself to that long ago, and some days it even seemed a good idea. Ren had few real friends, thanks to his suspicion, not entirely unfounded, that people only wanted to know him because of his mother. He protected those few friendships jealously.

But he wasn’t nearly so careful of casual relationships with girls, as their encounter in the mall with Shangrila had proved.

In that respect, he was like every other boy who had ever drawn breath. Kerry had once hugged her and told her to stop worrying about it.
Besides
, Kerry said,
it’s not like you have to care, darling. He’s your cousin.

Adopted cousin by marriage
, Hayley wanted to remind her, but she stayed silent. It hurt less if people thought she was just being a critical friend, questioning her cousin’s taste, rather than a jealous fool with a crush on a boy she could never have.

Hayley once woke to a world she didn’t recognise. Ren was there, as he was in all her dreams, except this time he wasn’t the Ren she knew. He was a different Ren, with longer hair, and a more muscular build, as if he’d spent all summer working out, instead of playing that PlayStation of his. The Ren in her dream was dressed strangely, too. He was different, stronger, more serious. But every time she called to him, every time he turned to look at her, the dream vanished and she was back with the pain, the electronic beeps and the hushed, worried voices of reality.

‘Hayley … can you hear me?’

Ren’s voice pierced the fog and she realised she wasn’t dreaming this time. She was stuck in the limbo between unconsciousness and waking where the pain hadn’t quite returned, but she could hear the beeping that had become the soundtrack of her dreams.

Ren …

Hayley said his name in her mind but nothing came out. Her tongue was dry, stuck to the side of her mouth, forced there by a tube that took up most of the space between her teeth. She was aware of the tube, mildly surprised she wasn’t gagging on it.

But she could do nothing about it.

And she certainly couldn’t speak.

‘They say you can hear me.’

Yes, Ren, I can hear you. God … my head is pounding … it hurts so much to think …

‘I’m so sorry, Hayley. This is all my fault.’

Hayley might have agreed with him, had she been clear-headed enough to figure out exactly to what Ren was referring. She guessed it had something to do with the headache and the tube and the beeping and the fact that she couldn’t feel her fingers or toes …

‘They told me to just tell you good news … you know, like you’ll get better, and keep on fighting, and all that crap … but …’ His voice faltered.

But what?
Hayley wanted to scream at him.
Don’t stop there! Tell me what’s happening!

‘Jesus, you’d better not die on me, Hayley.’

Die? I’m dying? Thanks for the heads up, Ren …

She sensed him leaning in a little closer. ‘We’re gonna get him for you,’ he whispered.

Get who? Make some sense here, Ren.

‘Trása’s called in a few favours from Jack’s old prison cronies.’

Trása? Who is Trása? Is that the skanky ho I saw you walking down the street with? Hand in hand?

‘Turns out Murray is a first-rate sleazebag,’ he said.

Like somebody else, I could mention. If I could talk.

‘One of Jack’s buddies has some info on a deal he’s got going this afternoon,’ Ren continued, still talking in a whisper, as if he was afraid he’d wake her.

God, Ren, stop going on about Murray Symes. Tell me what’s wrong with me …

‘The cops said they’re not going to do anything about what he did to you, but we can get the bastard disbarred, or dismembered, or whatever it is they do to doctors caught dealing shit under the counter.’

Is that what’s wrong with me? Murray Symes gave me something?
The thought didn’t make much sense to Hayley. The
last thing she remembered was seeing Ren trying to cross the road amid a sea of photographers.

Was Murray Symes even there?

Hayley knew the answer was there somewhere, but in her pain-fogged mind, she couldn’t quite make the connection. She wondered if Ren was holding her hand. If he was, she couldn’t feel it.

He was still talking, but Hayley found it increasingly difficult to concentrate on what he was saying. She wished she could open her eyes but there seemed to be something over them, blocking out the light, and she couldn’t move her hands to check. By the time she finished that thought, she felt something on her forehead … Ren’s lips, she decided, not sure if he was kissing her goodbye or she was back in another dream …

‘Why isn’t she awake yet?’ Hayley thought she heard Ren ask, except he wasn’t talking to her. His tone was no longer soft and conspiratorial. Now he sounded angry. Or maybe worried.

‘There’s nothing to worry about,’ she thought she heard Kiva tell him.
Was Kiva here too? Why?

Hayley might have panicked at that point — if she’d been able to.
God, I must be dying if Kiva’s the one handing out sage advice.

‘She’s in an induced coma, sweetheart,’ Kiva explained to Ren in a low voice. ‘The doctors will bring her out when they’re satisfied she’s stable.’

‘But it’s been more than a day …’

‘And it may be a few more,’ his mother told him comfortingly. ‘There’s nothing to worry about.’

‘Yeah …’cause they induce comas for the
craic
, don’t they?’

‘Ren … please … not in here …’ That wasn’t Kiva. It sounded like her father. Was Patrick there too? Was everyone in the room, clustered around the bed, talking about her as if she was on her deathbed?

‘I’m sorry, Mum,’ she heard Ren say after a moment. ‘About everything.’

‘It’s okay, Ren,’ Kiva whispered.

‘No … really. I’m sorry. About the red carpet. Accusing Murray of being a pervert. For getting Hayley into this mess.’

‘It’s not your fault, Ren,’ Hayley heard her father say.

What? What isn’t Ren’s fault? Somebody tell me what’s happening and why I can’t make you hear me!

‘Patrick’s right, darling. Hayley’s injuries are not your fault. As for Murray … he only wants the best for you. We all do. You just make it so hard, sometimes.’

‘I know,’ Ren said. He sounded worn down and defeated.
Do you sound like that because of me?
Hayley wondered.

‘I do love you, Mum,’ Ren added in a low voice. ‘You know that, don’t you?’

‘You have an odd way of showing it sometimes, darling.’

‘Look …’ Hayley heard Patrick say in a loud whisper. ‘Much as it’s nice to see you two hugging and making up, can we move it outside? She can hear everything, you know.’

‘Then perhaps it’s a good thing she hears us talking,’ Kiva said. ‘Hayley should know she’s loved and that those who love her love each other.’

‘And she will,’ Patrick assured Kiva. ‘But really, if we crowd her, the doctors won’t let any of us in here.’

‘I could have my naturopath call in …’ Hayley heard Kiva begin. But she didn’t hear the rest because the voices faded and Hayley could no longer make out what they were saying. Or perhaps she’d fallen asleep again, and had dreamed the whole thing.

Any time now
, Hayley decided,
I’m going to wake up at home in my bed and everyone is going to laugh themselves senseless when I tell them about this crazy dream I’m having.

Except if it’s a dream, why does my head hurt so much?

‘Anything coming?’

Ren glanced out of the warehouse window at the rain-slick cobbled alley. He shook his head.

‘Nothing.’

‘Like you were even looking,’ Trása said, tossing Plunkett the Creepy Leprechaun Doll ahead of her before climbing up the stack of abandoned freight pallets to where Ren was sitting. She wore a very tight T-shirt that didn’t quite cover her midriff, which Ren found distracting. ‘Some lookout you are.’

Trása shoved the doll aside and clambered forward on the stack of old pallets to look out the window. It was still raining, but there was no sign of any cars yet. Ren wondered why she wasn’t wearing a jacket. It was chilly in the warehouse, but the temperature didn’t seem to bother her.

‘Are you sure Jack is right about this?’ he asked, still wondering why he’d allowed himself to be talked into this foolishness. Trása was far too good at persuading him to do things against his better judgement and he couldn’t understand why. He’d only known her a couple of days.

In fact
, the rational Ren inside him suggested — the one he wasn’t listening to —
if you had any brains at all, moron, you’d leave now. Before anybody else arrives.

And before his mother’s manager, Jon van Heusen, discovered Ren borrowed his rented Ferrari while he was back at the house discussing Kiva’s next movie offer with her.

But Jack had been adamant this was the real thing. And as Ren was helpless to do anything else for Hayley, getting Murray Symes off the road seemed as noble a quest as any.

‘This is a matter of honour,’ Trása reminded him. She was very determined about this — so determined, Ren found it impossible to disagree with her.

‘I wonder if that’s reasonable grounds for breaking and entering,’ Ren mused, glancing around the rubbish-strewn building. There were a few cardboard shelters beside a couple of old shopping trolleys over in the far corner of the cavernous warehouse. He guessed a number of homeless people camped here at night. He wasn’t sure how the homeless men found their way inside the warehouse. Ren and Trása had broken a lock to gain entry. ‘That door didn’t pop open on its own, you know.’

Trása shrugged. ‘You worry too much.’

‘Are you sure this is the right place?’

‘It’s the address Jack gave us.’

‘I still don’t understand how Jack even knows about Symes selling drugs.’ Ren still wasn’t clear on that point. Since Trása had thrown a stone at his window in the early hours of the morning, motioning him to come down to meet her, things had moved very fast. As soon as he’d sneaked out of the house, she’d taken him by the hand, pulled him through the gate in the wall to Jack’s place, and then demanded her grandfather tell Ren what he’d apparently just told her.

Murray Symes is peddling drugs
, Jack had informed him.

And Jack went on to say there was a fair chance the holier-than-thou Dr Symes had been high on something when he hit Hayley.

Ren was appalled. The man who’d made his life a misery, the man who’d run Ren’s best friend down in his haste to escape a
few photographers, was dealing amphetamines on the side, and one of Jack’s shady friends knew all about it.

Not only that, Jack informed Ren. He knew where the deal was going down. That very day.

‘Jack already explained how he knows,’ Trása said, a little impatiently. ‘One of his old associates from prison is in on the deal. He saw Murray on the news and realised the accident happened next to Jack’s place, so he called him to tell him that he knew the chap, and how he knew him.’

‘Yeah … I know that’s what he told us, it just seems a little … convenient, don’t you think?’

She glared at him in annoyance. ‘Why are you asking me, Ren? I’m just the messenger.’

But Trása was more than just the messenger. She was driving this careening bus and the rational part of Ren had a feeling it would end badly.

That hadn’t stopped him borrowing the Ferrari without permission — easier than taking the keys for the Bentley which Patrick never let out of his sight — and driving down to this abandoned warehouse to find out if Jack was right. Maybe, if he and Trása were lucky and they got away quickly enough — not a hard thing to do in a Ferrari — the only person this would end badly for was Murray Symes.

It was high time
something
went badly for Symes. The cops weren’t going to do a damn thing about him. The policewoman had told them as much.

Ren sat a little straighter. ‘There’s a car coming.’

Trása leant forward to look, leaning on Ren’s thigh to balance herself. She craned forward until Ren’s face was almost smothered in her luscious, long, blonde hair, her hand on his thigh dangerously close to his groin. He breathed in the scent of her hair until he was giddy. She smelled like a warm summer day.

Ren turned to look out of the window again; a far safer option than drowning in the heady scent of Trása. A silver Mercedes had pulled up in the alley. It sat there, its wipers on, but nobody had emerged from it. Although there was nothing happening, the presence of the car made Ren feel a little better. Clearly, something illegal was about to happen. People who drove cars like that did their legitimate business in offices, conference rooms and hotel bars, not out the back of abandoned warehouses.

‘One down, one to go,’ Trása said in a low voice, leaning back to make sure she wasn’t seen from the alley below. ‘Are you sure this is going to work, Ren?’

‘
Now
you’re having second thoughts?’

She pulled a face at him.

Ren shrugged, watching the car from the shadows. ‘If Jack’s right, the game is on. All we have to do is ring the cops once Murray arrives.’

Trása nodded. ‘Ring the cops.’

Ren shook his head. ‘No point. Right now, there’s a car sitting in an alley. We need someone else to turn up before we have anything happening.
That’s
when we’ll call the cops.’

‘Suppose the Gardaí don’t come?’

‘I’ll tell them there’s a man with a gun. Cops always respond faster when you mention guns.’ He’d learned that on the set of
Angel of Justice
in LA when he was eight, from the ex-cop acting as the movie’s technical advisor.

Trása looked a little sceptical, but didn’t argue the point. Ren wondered what she was thinking. Was she worried about being caught in a place where neither of them belonged? Or was she — like Ren — thinking only of Hayley, lost in a coma because she got in the way of Murray Symes’s speedy getaway?

Suddenly there was a crash. They both turned to look for the source of the noise. On the other side of the warehouse, a man stood watching them. He wore a long, grubby coat, and
was pushing an overloaded shopping trolley, stuffed with plastic bags. Ren guessed it was one of the homeless men who squatted here. The man stared at them suspiciously for a moment and then shoved his trolley behind a couple of sheets of corrugated iron that were leaning against the wall. He must have come in through another door at the back of the warehouse. Fortunately, he no longer seemed interested in what Ren and Trása were doing.

‘The other car is coming,’ Trása hissed.

Ren turned his attention back to the window as a vehicle pulled into the alley behind the Mercedes.

‘Call the cops.’

Ren hesitated, wondering if he should wait. All they had down there, really, were two cars minding their own business in a lane between a couple of abandoned warehouses, and neither of them was Murray’s BMW. There was no sign of anything illegal going on. If he called the Gardaí and they arrived too soon, they wouldn’t find anything amiss. Murray Symes would get away.

Down in the alley, the car doors opened.

‘Call them,’ Trása insisted.

Ren reached into his pocket for his mobile.

He dialled 999. The phone rang a couple of times.

‘
Emergency. Please state the service you require
.’

‘Gardaí.’

Four men stepped out of the cars, despite the rain. They were too far away to tell if any of them was Murray.

The phone rang again, followed by a female voice.

‘
Please state the nature of the emergency.
’

‘There’s a man with a gun,’ Ren said, trying to inject a little panic — and something more of an Irish accent — into his voice. He gave them the address, and then added urgently, ‘Please be quick. I think there’s some sort of drug deal going down. They’re gonna shoot someone!’

Ren cut the call as the operator was asking for his name. Trása grinned from ear to ear. The glee of vengeance about to be served. In bucket loads.

‘Time to go,’ Ren said, shoving the phone into his backpack. Already they could hear sirens. Only they weren’t in the distance, they were loud and near and close enough for them to see the pulsing blue lights, reflecting off the warehouse walls.

Trása looked surprised. ‘That was quick.’

‘Too quick,’ Ren said with a frown. He’d made the call only seconds ago. For the Gardaí to be already here … he tossed the backpack to the floor. ‘Shit! We’ve gotta get outta here, Trása. Now!’

‘What’s the hurry?’ she asked, as Ren jumped from the pallet stack to the floor. ‘Don’t you want to see what we started?’

‘I don’t think it was us that started it,’ Ren said, scooping up his backpack. There were voices outside. Shouting. The sirens were loud enough to drown out the tattoo of rain on the warehouse’s metal roof. ‘If the cops are already here, they didn’t need us to tell them about this.’ Trása didn’t seem to get how urgent this was. ‘Come on!’

Finally, she jumped to the floor, grunting in pain as she landed, leaving Plunkett on top of the pallets.

‘You okay?’

She nodded. ‘Twisted my ankle a bit, that’s all, you go ahead. I’ll catch up.’

Ren didn’t want to leave her, but she pushed him away. ‘Go, Ren. I’ll be fine.’

He did as she bid, glancing backward after a moment. Trása was limping, rapidly falling behind. Ren hurried back to her, took her arm, placed it over his shoulder, and pulled her toward the door they’d broken through to get into the warehouse.

The Ferrari was parked just outside. They had to get to it before the police did, because even if Ren and Trása remained
undetected, the police would know who’d rented the car the moment they checked the licence plate.

About thirty seconds after they called the rental company, they would call Kiva’s manager and they’d know Ren Kavanaugh was somewhere in the vicinity.

The paparazzi had radio scanners. It would take them another thirty seconds to be on the scene and then … well, who knew what might happen next.

Then Ren remembered Trása’s damned toy. She’d left the creepy thing on top of the pallets. If there was any way it could be traced back to her, it would lead them right back to Ren …

When he glanced back at the pallet, however, the doll was gone. ‘What happened to Plunkett?’

Trása looked at him oddly. ‘What?’

‘That creepy toy of yours,’ he said. ‘Where is he?’

‘Don’t worry about him, Ren,’ Trása said as she hobbled along beside him. ‘He’ll be fine.’

Ren couldn’t have cared less about the
Leipreachán
’s welfare, and it certainly wasn’t why he was asking, but before he could clarify the reason for his question, the door ahead of them burst open. Police spilled into the warehouse like a river of dark ink, wearing helmets and bulletproof vests emblazoned with ERU across their backs.

Emergency Response Unit. Great
.

Their presence removed any doubt Ren might have had about whether or not his call had been responsible for this ambush. He was certain he’d had nothing to do with it.

The Gardaí didn’t send out the ERU on the strength of one anonymous phone call.

The ERU men carried semi-automatic weapons with laser sights that sprayed red dots around the warehouse walls like lethal confetti, which very quickly focussed on the two teenagers trying to flee the scene.

‘Halt or we’ll shoot!’

Ren glanced down at the score of red lights dancing across his chest. He let go of Trása and raised his hands in the air, wincing as the action pulled on his wounded ribs.

‘Drop the bag!’

Ren did as ordered. He dropped his backpack. It spilled open on the damp floor. The phone was screwed, he guessed, as it rolled into a puddle.

‘On the floor! Face down! Now!’

Ren knew better than to argue with a bunch of trigger-happy ERU officers. He lowered himself to the ground, pressing his face against the cracked concrete floor. It was cold and damp and smelled of kerosene and feral cats.

On the edge of his awareness, oddly enough, he thought he smelled smoke.

He turned his face toward Trása as the police swarmed over them, roughly pulling their arms behind them, slapping cold metal cuffs on them with a great deal more enthusiasm than Ren thought the situation warranted. Then they grabbed his backpack and pulled them both to their feet. Trása didn’t look so much scared as fatalistic about the whole thing. But Trása’s mugshot wasn’t going to be appearing on the front page of all the major daily newspapers the next morning.

Trása looked at Ren apologetically. She seemed genuinely remorseful. ‘I’m so sorry for doing this to you, Ren.’

‘Not your fault, Trása.’

‘Shut up!’ the officer holding Ren ordered.

‘There’s a bright side to this, you know,’ Trása said, as if she was determined not to let the police intimidate her.

‘I told you to shut up, kid!’

‘A
bright
side?’ Ren asked. Neither of them was paying any attention. It was a small act of defiance but an important one.

‘You’ll be safe now,’ Trása said.

‘Safe?’
That was one name for it
, Ren thought as he was manhandled outside and into the back seat of a Gardaí car for his trip downtown. They put Trása in a different car, and he soon lost sight of her as the cars pulled away in a flurry of flashing lights, misty rain, the squeal of sirens, and for some reason Ren couldn’t fathom, fire engines heading at high speed back the way they had come from.