Undercover (26 page)

"I need an ambulance."

"You'll need a hearse if you don't start talking." Cormac backhanded the man's face. "Tell me who you are."

"Jesus, you daft Paddy. Take it easy on the rough stuff, will you? I'll talk. What's the point in keeping schtum now? My prints are on file. Everything's on my record."

"You a tout as well?"

"Tout?"

"A grass."

"Oh." He flashed his pearly whites in a pained, forced smile. "I've been known to help the law with some minor enquiries."

"Honour among thieves, eh?"

"That's a fairy tale."

"All right, then. Start with your name and who you work for. We'll take it from there."

"I'm Brendan Rooney. I do a bit for my cousin, Martin Rooney. I take it even a Mick copper's heard of him."

Cormac maintained a poker face but his guts flip-flopped. Martin Rooney, the fucking Republican-sympathising, London Irish, cocaine kingpin. He nodded once.

"Well, he's been working with some Belfast boys on a big score. Things got a bit messed up and he's called in a bunch of us to try and clean the shit up. Think this whole deal's been cursed from the start, though. Even the clean-up crew's making a mess."

"So, your cousin's hired Ambrose O'Neill and his lot?"

"Yeah. There's a man who doesn't live up to his reputation. He's meant to be a pro. Fucking amateur hour. Totally botched a simple kidnapping."

"Where's O'Neill now?"

"Wanker's meant to be here, backing us up. Things kicked off earlier than we'd hoped but he definitely should have got here with a bunch of Martin's men ages ago. Me and the other Mick – the one who's called Mick! – we were here to scout out the situation and call it in when the helicopter arrived. Then some little fellah started shooting and Mick got all hyped up. Made me go after him."

"Call them now," Cormac said. "Find out where they are."

"Fuck that, mate. There's cooperating and then there's signing your own death certificate."

Cormac couldn't really argue with that, and he knew he was pushing his luck by hanging about. O'Neill could arrive at any moment with a fresh goon squad and a cartload of ammunition. He nodded to Brendan and got to his feet.

"When you see Ambrose O'Neill, tell him Cormac Kelly's looking for him."

"I'll tell him fuck all, mate. Only story he's getting from me is I crashed my bike and was unconscious while a stranger with a gun shot the loopy Mick then took off."

Brendan Rooney obviously had no appreciation for the dramatic. Cormac shook his head and walked towards the shot-up BMW in search of Stephen Black's car. A crowd of gawkers had gathered at the front door of the club. None of them were brave enough to venture off the porch steps. The lack of sirens suggested that none of the useless bastards had thought to call the cops. Cormac flashed his gun at them and shouted across the car park.

"Please go back inside and phone the police. Report this as a fatal shooting. They'll be here soon."

The crowd shuffled back to shelter, nobody feeling up to challenging his authority. Cormac found the big BMW and pushed the button on the key-fob that Stephen Black had given him. Orange lights flashed a few cars down. He headed towards them and clicked the button a few more times. A few seconds later he was at the Vauxhall Vectra. He spotted the bulletproof windows instantly. An ex-police motor. Cormac liked how this little mystery man rolled.

You'll find a small Scottish man in the boot.

Cormac remembered Big Frank Toner. When he'd taken John and Donna away from the hospital, he'd left Frank in the boot of Donna's car. The poor bastard was probably still there.

"Fuck it. I'll tip the PSNI off later."

Cormac decided not to open the Vectra's boot just yet. He'd find somewhere that wouldn't be crawling with police soon. Somewhere nice and quiet where he could have a nice long chat with Mr McGoldrick.

Cormac got into the Vectra, adjusted the driving position and mirrors then gunned the engine. He pumped up the volume on the CD player to drown out the yelled threats from the boot. Black Sabbath's
War Pigs
blasted from the speakers. He nodded along to the high-hat.

"You've got taste, Stephen Black. I'll give you that."

###

T
he cops took over. Lydia offered the useless bastards no resistance. She was led to a quiet room and handed some tablets by a sad-faced nurse. Swallowed them without hesitation. The pills made her feel a little numb. A little dumb. She wanted to turn off the harsh artificial light and curl up into a ball. Shut out the world. But that wasn't allowed. Not when you had a son who was just as heartbroken.

Mattie hadn't been offered any pills. Lydia didn't know if she should try and get him some or if he was too young. It seemed unfair that he had to brave the pain with no pharmaceutical filter. She dragged her plastic chair towards his, sat beside him and held her arms open. Mattie snuggled in against her side and cried. Lydia held her son tight, rubbed his back and synchronised her breathing with his.

Time passed, measured only by the tears that soaked into Lydia's cotton top.

Then Mattie lifted his head and rubbed at his eyes with the heel of his good hand. He looked around the room and sighed.

"How long are they going to leave us here for, Mum?"

"The cops? I think they'll wait for us to call them."

"I meant the doctors and nurses." He held up his bandaged hand, his face crimped with teen embarrassment. "My fingers are getting sore again."

"Oh, God, yes. We should get those looked at properly."

"And we should find out about Donna."

"You're right. Jesus. I didn't even ask about her. She could be..."

"Hurt?"

"Yes. Hurt."

"Somebody has to tell Cormac about it."

"Who's... Oh, you mean Detective Kelly. Should I phone him or is it better coming from a policeman?"

Mattie shrugged then rubbed at the back of his neck. "I think Donna used to be his girlfriend. He's going to be pretty upset. Maybe I should do it? We're kind of like friends now, you know?"

Lydia thanked God that she'd been slightly dulled by whatever pills she'd popped. As it was, her heart was just about to burst with pride and love for her little boy. She could see the man he would grow to be in the set of his jaw. The man he would become more quickly now that his father was gone. She nodded.

"Okay, we'll talk to a doctor, find out how Donna is and then you can phone your friend."

They stood together, hugged and breathed deep as one. Lydia kissed Mattie's forehead and patted down a few stray strands of his hair. She probably could do with a major primping herself, but her handbag, which contained her vanity mirror and essential makeup, got left behind in Stephen Black's car. Maybe not knowing how bad she looked was a bit of a mercy.

A uniformed police officer stood outside the room. He smiled at Lydia.

"I'll call the detectives," he said.

"We want to see a doctor, actually."

The officer's smile faded. "I've been ordered to—"

"I'm sure the detectives will be able to track us down, officer. If they can't, then they're pretty shit at their job, aren't they?"

Mattie wheezed, not quite managing to hold back a surprise laugh. The officer widened his eyes for a second then nodded once.

"Fair enough, Mrs Gallagher."

Lydia looked left and right. Tried to remember which way she'd come. Mattie took a baby-step to the left and Lydia followed his subtle lead.

They made their way back to the nurse's station. There were yellow plastic cones set out in front of the counter, providing a warning that the floor was wet. John's blood had been mopped away. The thought of the simple action hit her like a rabbit-punch. A part of John squeezed into a bucket of murky water. Water that would be flushed away into the sewage system. Where the rats live.

"There he is, Mum."

She stepped back from the brink of morbidity. Looked up and caught the gaze of the tall doctor who'd met them on the roof. His shoulders slumped. This was a man who didn't work very hard to conceal his negative emotions. He looked from side to side as if in search of an escape route or a nurse to pass his potential problem on to. Lydia homed in on him.

"Doctor, any word on Doctor, um... Donna?"

"She's in surgery."

"And...?"

"And that's it. The surgeons are working on her. Now if you don't mind, I'm quite busy—"

"Of course you're busy. You're a doctor. Dry your fucking eyes. You want to compare shitty days? My husband just died. You can spare me a few fucking seconds of your time, can't you?"

The doctor puffed up his pigeon chest and jutted his chin. He was set to put her in her place. Lydia crossed her arms and cocked her hips.

Bring it on, dickhead.

He deflated.

"Come this way, Mrs Gallagher."

The doctor led Lydia and Mattie to one of the beds on the ward. He drew the curtain and rested his backside against the side of the raised mattress. Lydia sat in the visitors' chair and Mattie perched beside her on the arm.

"How can I help you?" The doctor's words sounded like an elongated sigh.

"I want to know if you think Donna will live."

"We have a very talented team working on her. There are no guarantees, but she's being given a very good chance."

"And the man my husband... tackled."

"He's dead."

"The other two?"

"Arrested."

"Where are the men who arrived with us? Rory Cullen and Stephen Black."

"They're being interviewed by the police in the canteen. They want to speak to you as well."

"They'll have to wait. First I want you to arrange for an x-ray of my son's hand. And ask a nurse to get him some painkillers."

The doctor glanced at the dressing on Mattie's hand and offered a mouth-shrug.

"I can get the painkillers quickly but there's no radiographer on duty tonight. Soonest he can be seen is tomorrow morning."

"Well, I want you to make sure he's first on the list, then."

"That's not up to me."

"So you get in touch with whoever it
is
up to and persuade them to bump Mattie to the top of the list. He's waited long enough for treatment."

"Fine, I'll do it. But could I ask you for a small favour in return?"

"You can ask."

"Would you be able to get me Rory Cullen's autograph? He told me to fuck off earlier."

Lydia was about to tell him to fuck off but the sound of hurried footsteps on the ward distracted her. The curtain was drawn back by a frowning nurse with glasses too big and fashionable for her middle-aged face. Two men in ill-fitting suits stood behind her. The detectives.

"Mrs Gallagher," the fatter of the two said. "We'd like you to come with us."

Lydia felt Mattie's hand on her forearm.

"Mum, don't forget about Cormac."

She nodded to her son then aimed her best professional smile at the detectives.

"Do you mind if I make a quick personal call?"

The detectives turned to each other and had a quick silent conferral that consisted of raised eyebrow, pursed lips and facial shrugs. Then the fatter one, who Lydia now took to be the senior, cleared his throat.

"I don't see why not, Mrs Gallagher. We'll be at the canteen. Maybe you could meet us there in ten minutes?"

Lydia thanked them and they left her. The doctor looked at his watch and excused himself. He hesitated for a second before pushing through the curtain and Lydia suspected he was working up the nerve to ask for Rory's autograph again.

"I'm sure Rory will be happy to sort you out when things have calmed down a little."

The doctor allowed himself a small smile, nodded and disappeared.

Lydia dug her phone out of her suit jacket. Her heart sped up a little as she scrolled through the screens to get to Detective Kelly's number. She took a deep breath before hitting the green button.

"I'm not looking forward to this," Lydia said.

Mattie held out his good hand. "Let me do it."

"Are you sure?"

"I've already told you, it'll be better coming from me."

Lydia thought it was probably a bad idea, that she shouldn't start down this path of relying on Mattie so soon, but he seemed so grown up all of a sudden.

She handed over the phone.

––––––––

I
can understand why some of the top players need a wee bit of help in the looks department. We're under a lot of pressure to look good for the camera in this day and age. You have no idea how much shit you take for a bad picture in the paper or on the internet. So some of us might need hair plugs or a spot of Botox. It's not a crime, just a bit tragic. After all, you can't really polish a turd, can you?

Rory Cullen,
CULLEN: The Autobiography

––––––––

C
ormac felt the phone buzz in his hip pocket. He pulled the Vectra over to the side of the road and flipped on the hazard lights. The traffic was light and the lanes were wide; little chance that a careless driver would plough into the back of the car and crush his passenger in the boot. Cormac killed the radio and answered the call.

"Cormac, it's Mattie."

"Good to hear from you, kid. They get your da sorted at the hospital?"

"Um... it... fuck. Sorry, Mum." Mattie took a deep breath. "There were men with guns here. They shot Dad..."

"Ah, Jesus, Mattie. Is he...?"

Mattie sniffed. "Yeah."

"Fuck." Cormac gripped the steering wheel with his free hand as if steeling himself for the next blow. "Did anybody else get hurt?"

"Donna got shot."

His cop instincts had been a step ahead. He'd expected Mattie to say as much. But it still hit him like a wrecking ball in the gut. He rolled down the window to let some air into the car. The old guy in the boot had started kicking and screaming again. Cormac's mouth filled with bitter saliva. He spat it out onto the road. Clenched the wheel tighter. His forearm ached.

"Is she alive?"

"Yeah. But they've got her in surgery. Doctor said she's getting the best treatment."