The Wrong Kind of Blood (24 page)

Someone got up from the table. I heard a door opening, then the sound of a man pissing.

“Ah, that’s it.”

“Check on your man, will you?”

“He’s goin’ nowhere.”

“Check on him anyway. Podge wants to know as soon as he comes round.”

“Podge wants, Podge wants.”

“And don’t forget to wash your hands.”

“Fuck off.”

The sound of laughter again, then steps coming toward me. No sense in delaying the inevitable. I looked up at a tall, skinny man with a shaved head, a ring in his nose and green and yellow bruising around his throat.

“Cunt’s awake,” said Nose Ring, grinning down at me. “Maybe we should get a mirror, let him see his new face.”

Blue Cap appeared. He had lost his bandages, but his nose was a blue and purple mess. He grinned too. My face was first-rate entertainment today.

“This looks like a job for Podge Halligan,” he said, in a bad American accent. “Give him a shout there, Dessie.”

Nose Ring and Blue Cap both laughed again. Their laughter was getting on my nerves. I sat up and swung my legs onto the ground, gripping my knees for balance. Nose Ring and Blue Cap both stepped back when I moved; Blue Cap fell on top of the disused motor mower. I nearly blacked out as the blood left my head; I nearly threw up as my stomach lurched with the unaccustomed motion. My head felt like someone was hitting it at regular, metronomic intervals with a rock. Nose Ring had gone to help Blue Cap up; Blue Cap was pushing him away. I sat where I was and worked on lifting my head up. Blood was flowing freely from my nose now; I pinched it hard below the bridge.

“Lucky he didn’t break it, so you are,” said Blue Cap peevishly.

“Maybe we should finish the job,” said Nose Ring. He looked toward Blue Cap, who shrugged, picked up a heavy wooden-handled spade and tossed it to Nose Ring. Nose Ring fumbled the catch, and it clattered to the ground.

“On you go,” said Blue Cap.

Dessie Delaney appeared behind Blue Cap. His right arm was in plaster.

“Podge said nothing happens until he gets here,” he said.

Dessie looked authoritative, presidential, almost, when contrasted with Blue Cap and Nose Ring.

“I owe this fucker,” said Nose Ring, leaning down to get the spade.

“You think I don’t?” said Dessie Delaney. “Let’s wait for Podge. I’m pretty sure Podge has a plan.”

“He’s lucky Podge didn’t break his nose, so he is,” said Blue Cap.

“He’s lucky Podge didn’t do a lot of things,” said Dessie Delaney, grinning.

Blue Cap and Nose Ring laughed.

“Yeah, must be the first fucker Podge slipped roofies to didn’t wake up with an ache in his hole,” said Blue Cap.

“Don’t speak too soon, lads. The night is young. Anything can happen,” said a reedy whine of a voice.

Podge Halligan had arrived.

Podge dressed like a loyalist paramilitary: muscle shirts, low-slung jeans, a white baseball cap. He greeted each of his men with a backslapping embrace, kissed Nose Ring on the mouth, then twirled around and smashed me in the face with his left fist, getting his shoulder behind the blow. I was flung back on the couch and my head thumped off the wall behind me. My nose spurted a jet of blood over Podge’s white top. He immediately whipped it off and used it to wipe my blood from his tattoo-laced, steroid-swollen torso.

“Little bit more work on that nose and I’ll be able to fuck the hole!” Podge Halligan shouted. He laughed, but it took a while for the others to join in; Dessie Delaney pursed his lips, Blue Cap looked uneasy, Nose Ring simply looked scared.

Podge wasn’t bothered; he twisted himself around and strode off down toward the other end of the room, head bobbing and fingers snapping to a tune only he could hear.

I felt my nose: miraculously, although it was a mess of cartilage and bloody flesh, it wasn’t broken. I pinched below the bridge again to stanch the flow of blood. I clocked the spade on the ground where Blue Cap had thrown it; I checked the positions of the implements hanging from the walls; I looked at the anxious faces of Podge’s gang. If I was going down here, I was going to take Podge with me, at the very least.

He returned with a can of lager and a cigarette; he drank half the can of lager, belched at Blue Cap, then came toward me and waved the lit cigarette in front of my face.

“Not finished with this fucker yet. Not by a long shot,” he said, his bloated face contorting itself into a succession of leering fright masks. He took a long drag on the cigarette, then brought the red tip close to my closed left eye, then to my open right one. The heat and smoke made it water and smart; I tried not to flinch, got ready to dive for the spade.

“Podge. Podge, George said—”

Podge Halligan flashed the cigarette away and turned on Dessie Delaney, who had spoken.

“George said
what
?”

Delaney tried to draw Podge close to him so he could talk in his ear. Podge shook Delaney’s hand off like he was a bothersome fly.

“Fuck away off out of that, telling me secrets, whisperin’ like a girl. What did my brother say?”

“That we shouldn’t take things too much further. Find out what he knows, then… just a scare thrown into him, that’s all he wanted,” said Dessie Delaney.

Podge moved close to Delaney then, forehead to forehead.

“I think he’s scared, Dessie. Are you scared? Are you?”

Dessie Delaney shook his head.

“No, Podge,” he said.

Podge took a step back.

“Good man,” Podge said, and head-butted Dessie Delaney. Delaney shouted out in pain and dropped to his knees, blood dripping out between the fingers he held to his face.

“You should be. My brother.
My
brother,” Podge said, nodding violently to the beats inside his head. “The fuck does it matter what this little prick knows? Comin’ back here from the States, thinks he’s fuckin’
it,
pokin’ around like a fuckin’… I mean, if he knew anything — if he knew where Tommy Owens was, or what happened that night with MacLiam and Peter Dawson, if he knew anything — and even if he did — and even if he
does
— he can disappear, can’t he? Not too fuckin’ difficult. People vanish all the time, don’t they? No one misses them. ’Cept the cunts that do, and they don’t matter. Strictly day-to-day. No big deal.”

Podge seemed to deflate all of a sudden. His head drooped, his chin rested on his chest. He kept talking, mumbling to himself. Then, just as abruptly, he perked up again.

“Just ’cause George wants to carry on like some kind of business cunt doesn’t mean I do. Me own plans. Not some fuckin’… like I’m his fuckin’ waiter. ‘George said… George wants’… what about
me,
eh? What about
my
plans?”

Podge Halligan’s upper body was shaking, rippling with tension. He pivoted and made a surging run up to the far end of the shed, like a fireman plunging into a burning building. I braced my left leg on the floor, ready once more to make a dive for the spade. Podge returned with four cans of lager and passed them around. Nose Ring and Blue Cap cheered and high-fived each other and opened their cans and drank. Dessie Delaney sat on the stone floor hunched up in a ball, leaning against one of the broad wooden legs of the workbench, dabbing at his nose; he pushed the can he was given to one side.

“Waiting for something to drink to, Dessimond? Proper order. Let’s do this fucker once and for all, eh?”

Podge Halligan was too quick for me. He flung his beer can at my head; by the time I had slapped it out of the way and wiped the beer from my face, he had scooped up the spade and pressed it into Blue Cap’s hands. Then he stepped onto the back of the sofa and unhooked the scythe from the wall. I sprang up and looked around for a weapon, but Blue Cap blocked my path with the spade; now Podge began to close me into the corner, slicing the air with the scythe. His eyes were clear and wide and full of light; his grinning lips were swollen with the prospect of blood.

“Harvesttime. Don’t fear the reaper, isn’t that right, Dessie? Never used a scythe before. Still. Think it might be one of those things you pick up along the way.”

There was a sound from further down the shed.

“Podge,” said Dessie Delaney.

“Fuck away off now or you’re next, Dessie,” Podge said. Drool ran down his chin. He swung the blade of the scythe again; it sounded like death in my ears.

“Podge, it’s your one,” said Delaney. “It’s the Dawson girl.”

I saw the flash of Linda’s golden hair between Podge’s head and Blue Cap’s baseball hat. What was she doing here? Where were we, anyway? This shed was fifty years old, at least; the Halligans’ houses had been built ten years ago.

“Ed, is that you?” she said.

Linda’s voice sounded sluggish, affectless: sedated.

Podge slipped the scythe beneath his left arm and turned back toward Linda.

“Have you made a wrong turn, love?” he said. “Lads, see that Mrs. Dawson here gets back up to the house.”

Nose Ring made a move toward Linda; Dessie Delaney stood up but didn’t budge; he stared from Podge to me and back.

It was all the time I needed. I gripped the workbench with my right hand for ballast, braced back and hit Podge right side on, mid-chest, with both feet. He tumbled onto the sofa, the scythe still tucked beneath his left armpit, and screamed. Blue Cap stared at Podge openmouthed; the blade had cut into his chest, and the point into his shoulder. There was a lot of blood. Podge got onto his knees and tried to work the scythe loose; each way he moved it was worse than the last; he was screaming in pain. Blue Cap was still absorbed in Podge’s agony; I kicked him in the balls and took the spade off him, then kicked him twice in the head when he was down. Linda was standing in the middle of the room, her eyes cloudy with medication; it was hard to tell how much she was taking in. Nose Ring made a move toward Linda, then a move toward me, then he grabbed the sledgehammer that lay beside the motor mower. He didn’t have the upper-body strength to wield it properly, so he came at me holding it high on the shaft. He would need to get in close to use it; with the spade handle at full extension, I jabbed him in the face until he fell, then hit him on the head with the flat of the blade. Podge was still screaming; in between screams, he swore he’d have me executed, but the scythe had him hooked; he wasn’t going anywhere without medical help.

With his mobile in his hand, Dessie Delaney nodded at me and looked toward the door.

“Go on,” he mouthed silently.

“All right, Podge, we’ll get someone for you now,” he said out loud.

I threatened Delaney with the spade, to make it look right, crooked an arm around Linda’s waist and backed us both toward the door.

“I want that fucker’s head,” Podge screamed.

I grabbed Linda’s hand and we plunged through the door toward the fading light.

WE CAME SKIDDING OUT ONTO FINE, CORAL-COLORED
gravel, and I ran the outside bolt on the shed door. A dense copse of beech trees faced us, and beyond, a baize green lawn sloped out of view.

Linda reached a hand up and gently stroked my left cheek, then drew the knuckle of her forefinger across my mouth.

“You okay to run?” she said, and smiled.

I nodded, and tried to ask her something, anything, but she stopped my lips with her fingers, and shook her head.

“Talk later. Follow me, Edward Loy,” she said.

There was a wild glow in her eyes, as if it was all a great game. She set off at a run across the lawn, and I tried to keep up with her. We were in the grounds of a very large house, high above the sea. The lawn was set in tiers, leading down to a great granite wall encrusted with ivy and topped with jagged shards of glass. Linda leapt the tiers without breaking stride, reached the wall and hooked right along a gravel path; she was wearing a white summer dress with red roses and black leaves printed on it and flat black shoes; her lean brown legs moved with an athlete’s efficient grace. Each time my left leg hit the ground a jarring pain shot through my side and exploded behind my left eye. I halted by the wall to stanch a fresh jet of blood from my nose. Looking back, I could hear commotion from the house; lights were flashing, and I could see men running down toward the shed and fanning out across the lawn. Linda reached a hedge of tightly packed red and green laurel and hawthorn trees that must have been twelve feet high; she turned, beckoned to me and then disappeared into it. I made it to the trees, but the gap Linda had passed through seemed too narrow; I pressed sideways between the tangled branches of two laurel trees that were close enough to be one. Halfway in I got stuck, but Linda urged me on; by lowering my head, sucking in my gut and pushing hard with my hip, I managed to force my way through with just an average set of scrapes and tears; on the other side, a hawthorn branch snapped back and smacked me in the eye, but it was the left eye, so no fresh harm done.

We found ourselves in an unkempt wilderness of thistle and bramble, with dark pools of stagnant water bordered by dock leaves and clumps of nettles. Voices and shouts came from behind us; they sounded as if they were on the other side of the trees. The granite wall still ran to our left, and, having checked that I was still in one piece, Linda took off at speed once more; she ran bare-legged through thistles and nettles, taking care to avoid the marshy ground, until she reached a point where the wall had collapsed and formed a rudimentary stile. We climbed over the shattered granite and broken glass and sank down onto a soft incline of dead ferns and pine needles. A few feet farther down and it was dark under cover of a pine forest; farther down again and I could see fluttering ribbons of grayish blue in the distance, and I knew where I was and where we had been: this was Castlehill, and the pine forest that led down to the sea at Bayview, and the house in whose grounds I had been imprisoned belonged to John Dawson.

We worked our way down the forest for about a hundred feet or so, then clambered onto a steeper ridge of gorse and scrub and dropped the last few feet to a cliffside path. Another ridge of gorse and ferns led down to the road, then another to the railway, and below that a sheer drop to the water. Night had fallen, and the moon loomed above the glistening slate gray sea. Linda turned around and looked at me for the first time since we’d gotten away.