Undercover (3 page)

Cormac lowered his weapon and uncurled his grip. The revolver hit the carpeted floor with a thunk. Big Frank swept up the abandoned Ruger and returned to the background. O'Neill snatched his arm from Cormac's grasp and rotated each joint in turn; wrist, elbow, shoulder. His dented pride raged in his eyes.

O'Neill pushed Cormac aside and went into the bedroom. Cormac watched through the open door as the boss hunkered down beside his cousin and checked his neck for a pulse. He grunted and slapped Paddy about the jowls.

Cormac couldn't see the kid from his vantage point but the sound of Mattie coughing reassured him. The father sobbed.

"Is the boy all right?" O'Neill asked.

He didn't get an answer.

O'Neill didn't ask again. He clicked his fingers and the Scullions barged past Cormac to get into the room.

"Carry this fucking lump into the next room," O'Neill said. "Frank, you watch these ones for a bit."

"No sweat, boss."

O'Neill pointed a thick finger at Cormac. "You. Get downstairs and wait for me in the kitchen."

Cormac knew he'd fucked up big-time. It'd be a scramble to maintain some semblance of cover in a face-to-face with O'Neill. He had to put Mattie and John out of his mind and focus on self-preservation. Without him, the boy and his father were as good as dead.

Tighten up. There's worse to come.

###

L
ydia wiped watery puke from her lips with a scrunched-up sheet of coarse toilet paper and dropped it in the bowl. She pulled the chain and negotiated her way out of the miniature cubicle. Her lower back strained as she stooped low to rinse her mouth out in the little sink. She straightened and checked her face in the mirror. Her lippy was slightly smeared. Nothing a quick touch-up wouldn't fix, but she didn't reach into her handbag for the makeup right away.

Rory's little book signing in the assembly hall had bought her some quiet time. She'd slipped out while he held the audience's attention with stories about scratched knees in the playground, jumpers for goalposts and teachers who'd encouraged him to develop his natural abilities. As an oasis of calm, the school WC left a lot to be desired. The infant-sized cubicles and sinks made for slightly ludicrous surroundings. Ordinarily she might have made the appropriate clucking noises at the cutesy proportions, but with the taste of vomit still fresh in her mouth and a ball of tension rolling about in her stomach, the diminutive porcelain facilities mocked her. Jangled the emotional wounds the men in ski masks had left her with.

She deep-breathed her way through another wave of nausea. There was nothing in there but bile and it would burn its way up her oesophagus if she didn't regain some control. Falling to pieces wasn't going to get her family out of trouble.

A rumble of applause from the assembly hall got her moving again. She fixed her lips and ran a brush through her chestnut layered bob. There wasn't much she could do about her breath until she got her hands on some gum. She'd just have to avoid face-to-face conversation until then.

The assembly hall began to empty out as Lydia left the little bathroom. She negotiated her way back towards the hall against the flow of noisy munchkins. Rory, a yellow indoor football tucked under one arm, looked a little lost among the remaining teachers and local politicians who competed for his attention. His face brightened when he caught sight of Lydia. He raised his eyebrows and she zeroed in for a subtle rescue.

"I
hate
to drag you away, Rory," Lydia said. "Unfortunately, we've a timetable to stick to."

Rory passed the ball to the local priest, shook hands with the men in suits, promised to stop in again and managed a sincere-ish look of regret as Lydia led him out of the school. The driver was parked across the school gates, all the better for a quick escape. They waded through the growing cluster of children and hopped into the back seat of the Merc.

"Have fun?" Lydia asked.

"What a load of shite."

Lydia thumbed through the organiser on her phone. "We've an hour and a half before you visit the secondary school."

Rory groaned. "Thank fuck I didn't go to university, eh?"

"Hmmm. You have a little time to recharge your batteries. Do you want to grab a bite somewhere?"

"If we can find a quiet place. I can't be arsed putting on the PR face."

"Here," the driver said. "What about the Manchester United supporters' bar? It's not far from here."

Rory sighed. "Ha-fucking-ha."

He told the driver to take them to Andersonstown and find a quiet café. The driver nodded at him in the rear-view mirror then went back to cursing at black taxis and pink buses under his breath.

"Is your son enjoying the wee trip?" Rory asked.

Lydia fixed her eyes on the driver's headrest. The thought of Mattie's "enjoyment" drove a jagged icicle through her heart. "You know what kids are like. He's bored to tears without Sky TV and Xbox Live."

"I kind of miss my Xbox too. Is thingy... um, John. Is John not dragging him to all the usual spots? The Causeway and all that."

"We're trying to save that sort of stuff for when I can go. When your schedule clears... in a day or two." She checked her phone. "Are you doing anything tonight?"

Rory didn't register the subject change. "Clubbing, probably, if I can find somewhere with a bit of life. I'd forgotten what a backward shithole Belfast was. It doesn't even have any strip clubs, like."

Yeah, that's the worst thing about this country, you spoiled bastard.

The car juddered to a halt on a bus lane. The driver shut off the engine and Lydia realised they were parked. She glanced out at what looked like a construction site. Beyond the mess of red and white plastic barriers and temporary steel fencing was a squat building that claimed to be a leisure centre. The driver pointed to a row of houses converted to shop units a few yard up the street.

"Not the best place in Andytown," he said, "but they do a decent cuppa, you know, like?"

Lydia couldn't figure out if he required some sort of response. She avoided eye contact in the rear-view mirror.

"They do an all-day breakfast with a pot of tea for £3.95."

Rory patted his stomach and gave the driver the thumbs up.

"That looks like the business to me. Haven't been to a good old-fashioned greasy spoon in years."

Lydia's stomach lurched at the thought of an Ulster Fry, but she reckoned she could manage a cup of tea. "Yes, great. Let's go."

"Driver, come on in with us," Rory said. "I'm sure you could use a bite yourself."

The driver didn't need to be coaxed. He was the first one out of the car.

They sat at a small square table in the far corner of the café, Rory and Lydia beside each other and the driver opposite them. The table was one of half a dozen lined in rows of three along splotchy magnolia walls. Worn lino barely covered the floor. Three of the tables were yet to be cleared of the leftovers from the last wave of customers. The elderly lady behind the counter seemed to be in no rush to remedy this. The driver reached over to the next table and lifted a coffee-stained copy of The Sun. He started reading it from the back page.

"I don't suppose you're a City fan?" Rory asked.

He barely looked up. "United."

"Right."

"Always have been. No offence, like."

"Hey, I wasn't always a City lad myself."

The driver perked up a little. "Aye?"

"I followed Liverpool when I was a kid."

"Oh." He went back to his paper.

Rory turned to Lydia and crossed his eyes, his signature expression of exasperation.

"What are youse having?" The elderly lady's voice clawed its way out through a sixty-a-day ravaged throat. She hadn't moved from her spot behind the counter. Probably would have been too much for her lungs to handle.

"Three fries," Rory said.

Lydia cut in. "Make that two. I just want some tea."

"Ach, come on," Rory said. "When in Andytown..."

"I ate a big breakfast earlier."

"But we might be—"

"Just tea, please."

Lydia turned away from Rory and fiddled with her phone. She imagined him giving his cross-eyed look to the driver.
Let him put it down to PMT
. Her phone vibrated in her hand and squawked the chorus to Lady Gaga's
Bad Romance
.

Lydia stared at the display. Private number. It was them.

"Jesus, Lydia," Rory said. "Lady Gaga? Do us all a favour and answer it, will you?"

She jolted upright and was out the door before her toppled chair hit the linoleum.

––––––––

I
t's hard not to feel sorry for some of the international players. A few of these guys really do miss the family they left behind. It can be tough. They must get at least a little comfort from drying their tears with fifty pound notes, though.

Rory Cullen,
CULLEN: The Autobiography

––––––––

C
ormac waited: controlled, quiet, calm. He was back at the round table in the kitchen, seated at O'Neill's instruction. The boss paced a short stretch of tiled floor on the opposite side of the table. His natural boxer's strut did not go unnoticed. Cormac predicted that fists would fly before the end of their chat.

"I'm still trying to understand why you would pistol-whip my cousin." O'Neill said. "Do you want to help me out at all?"

Cormac took a deep breath and sneered. He leaned forward to occupy more of O'Neill's field of vision. "I thought your cousin was going to kill the child."

"Ach, wise up. He just got smacked about a wee bit."

"The kid was on the floor and that fat shite was hoofing kicks into his chest. If Mattie's not got broken ribs I'll—"

"Mattie, is it? Did you make friends with our wee hostage last night?"

"I barely said two words to him."

"That right?"

Cormac sat back in his chair and folded his arms. He nodded.

O'Neill planted his hands on the table and bent at the waist. He eyeballed Cormac. "Because you seem to be getting on better with the hostages than you are with the rest of the crew. You smart-mouthed Frank last night, tried to kill Paddy—"

"It'd take more than a bang—"

"Don't interrupt me."

Cormac reeled in the urge to argue his case. O'Neill wasn't ready to hear from him yet, even if this was a questioning. Cormac realised he'd be better off shutting the fuck up until the boss man finished ranting. Cops or robbers, it didn't matter. When your superior got in a mood, it was usually best to say as little as you could until it let up a little.

"You think you're a cut above the rest of us. Don't you? Just because you've a couple of dissident connections you reckon you should be running the show here. I've put you at the bottom for a reason, son." His decibel levels hit a sudden spike. "So why don't you lose the fucking attitude and learn your place here? Or do you want me to knock that smirk of yours off your smug fucking face!"

O'Neill swiped a string of spittle from his chin with the sleeve of his sweater. His mono-brow had formed an obtuse v-shape during his ball-chewing. He thumbed the little patch of coarse hair that joined his two eyebrows as if they needed manual adjustment to level out again. It seemed to do the trick too. He rolled his head like he was working the strain of a full-on bout of sparring from his bunched shoulders.

Cormac took this post-fight display as a sign to speak. "Okay. So, I'm sorry, Mr O'Neill. I'll apologise to Paddy as well, if he'll accept it."

"What makes you think you're going to get the opportunity to apologise to Paddy? Do you not think I should send you packing?"

"With all due respect, Mr O'Neill, we both know you're not in a position to do that."

"Am I not?"

Cormac knew he was juggling chainsaws, but he had to make sure that he saw the job through. The whole investigation would fall to pieces if he got kicked off O'Neill's crew.

"Those connections you mentioned, Mr O'Neill... my Real IRA friends... I'd have to call in a favour or two with them."

O'Neill looked Cormac in the eye for a couple of heartbeats. Then he lunged as fast as a cobra strike. Cormac kicked himself away from the table and toppled his chair as he rolled off the back of it. He tried to push himself upright. O'Neill scrambled over the table and landed a push-kick on his sternum. Flipped him onto his back. O'Neill drew his gun. He aimed at Cormac's face.

"You stupid bastard," O'Neill said. "Threatening
me
?"

Cormac puffed hard. He thought he might be able to kick the gun out of O'Neill's hand from his position on the floor. Anger had made the boss a little sloppy. But he held still.

O'Neill stepped back a few paces. "Get up."

Cormac got to his feet, slow and steady, never taking his eyes off O'Neill.

"Maybe I can't get rid of you," O'Neill said. "But I can't let you off with such a lack of respect either."

O'Neill double-stepped on his diagonal and flanked Cormac. His arm arced in a cross between a hook and a hammer blow. Cormac caught the butt of O'Neill's automatic pistol on the back of his head. The lights went right out.

###

"Y
ou were meant to phone hours ago."

"Wind your neck in, woman. We phone when we phone. Be grateful for it."

Through her blend of rage, panic and utter confusion, Lydia registered that the voice on the other line was different from the last. She wondered if this was the one who'd been videoed with Mattie and entertained a brief revenge fantasy that was heavy on castration.

"Just let me talk to my family."

"Mummy?" It was Mattie but something wasn't right. His voice was higher-pitched and he hadn't called her "Mummy" in years.

"Oh, sweetheart, are you okay?"

Mattie snuffled and squeaked. He was having trouble catching his breath.

"Did they hurt you?"

"Fat guy... got me."

"Oh Mattie, sweetheart. Are you okay?"

"Kicked—"

Mattie's voice was cut off by a rustling at his end. Lydia figured somebody had snatched the phone by the mouthpiece.