She took a fast look at my hand, said,
“Could almost pass for normal. Almost.”
I rose from the chair, took out a bottle of Jameson, poured a measure, knocked it back, asked,
“Thirsty?”
Her eyes pleaded yes but her body held fast. I pushed,
“Why did you pose as Ronan Wall’s sister?”
A snicker, then,
“You dumb arse, he’s my lover.”
I smiled and she instantly realized her error. I said,
“So now we have one name. Just yours and the other two losers to go. Oh, and the special needs school. I’ll need to know where and when?”
Her eyes darted around. Being alone with me was not giving her much confidence but she tried,
“What are you going to do, kill me? You haven’t the balls for that.”
She was right and I was having serious reservations about being able to do this. Truth is, she looked kind of pathetic and vulnerable. But by pure awful chance, the sun chose that exact moment to send a brief ray of light through my kitchen window and it hit on a gold pendant around her neck, just a glimpse of it, but it shone. Oh Jesus, did it ever. The Claddagh jewelry I’d bought for Laura. She was wearing it.
Rage engulfed me. I snapped it from her neck, and she laughed, said,
“Oh, was that for your American floozy?”
My Walther PPK was in her purse. I gritted my teeth, asked,
“Where is the Medugorje relic I was wearing?”
She smiled, said,
“We threw it in the trash. We don’t believe in all that bullshit religious mumbo jumbo.”
I stood, trying to control the ferocious violence her words aroused in me. Said,
“Believe this.”
I moved to the fridge, took out a bottle of water, asked,
“Is sparkling OK?”
We were done a good ten minutes before Stewart returned. I’d released her from her bonds, led her to an armchair where she curled up in the fetal position, whimpering like a savaged puppy.
There wasn’t a mark on her.
That you could see.
She was, in Irish,
“Briste.”
Broken.
I put a mug of Jameson in her hand. She needed both hands to hold it, then gulped it down lest I withdraw it. She wouldn’t meet my eyes.
Thank Christ.
Back in my early days, I was assigned to the Border. One wet dark Friday, Stapleton and I were sent to Belfast, a few weeks before Bloody Sunday. Told,
“Keep your mouths shut, the sound of your brogues would have the UVF all over ye.”
Civilian clothes, of course. We had no idea why we were going and, to this day, I’m sure the ones who sent us hadn’t a clue either. Those days, it was retaliation and madness. Still is but with a political sheen to gloss over the uglier aspects.
Saturday night, we were taken to a dank dark basement on the outskirts of the city. No idea if we were the ones who might be sacrificed. No one knew anything then, save it was possible the next atrocity was you. We were being taught a lesson. Here’s how it went down.
A cocky, confused lieutenant from the Para’s First Brigade was tied to a chair. Not a whole lot unlike the one in my kitchen.
He was mocking his captors, going,
“Thick as planks, fucking Paddies.”
You had to admire his spunk if not his intuition. The men in that room, silent as mourners, had seen and done things that no man should ever witness. You wanted to scream at the mad bastard in the chair,
“Look, look at the men you’re throwing insults at.”
Their eyes had that granite, dead expression of
“We’ve been to hell and we’ve brought it back.”
And still, the Para continued to lash them with insults about Fenian bastards, papist morons.
The unit leader said to me,
“See that snooty bollix, he’s trained to withstand anything. And the stupid fooker believes his training will help him.”
He was chugging from a silver flask, handed it to me, grimacing as he swallowed his. I drank, near choked, but managed to hide it, and he said,
“The holy trinity, coffee, poitin, and Guinness.”
Lethal.
He asked,