Read Online Maid of the Mist by Colin Bateman - Free Book Online Page B

said Corrigan.
    She was wearing black ski pants and a sky-blue denim jacket over a white t-shirt. Her hair was damp and there was a love bite on her neck. She stood back from the door and looked at Corrigan expectantly.
    'What?' said Corrigan.
    'Aren't you going to kick it in?'
    'Uhm. Why?'
    'That's what you do.'
    'Oh. Right.' He lined up in front of it. Raised his foot. Then he dropped it again and held a finger up. 'Oh. No. I just remembered. It's not what we do. That's what they do across the border.'
    Her lip curled up. 'What are you, a Mountie?'
    'Nope,' said Corrigan, trying the door himself, 'failed the exam. Besides, red isn't my colour.'
    She tutted and withdrew a card from her purse. She slipped it under the door. 'There,' she said.
    Corrigan smiled. 'I'm going to Whiskey Nick's, if you care to join me.' She looked puzzled. 'It's a bar.'
    She smiled hesitantly. 'You're inviting me out for a drink?'
    'No,' Corrigan replied, 'I'm inviting you across to meet Tarriha. He drinks in Whiskey Nick's.'
    'Oh.' She smiled hesitantly. 'What's brought on this new spirit of co-operation?'
    'Pity.' said Corrigan and turned for the stairs. She couldn't see the smile on his face. He couldn't see the steam coming out of her ears, but he could picture it.
    They drove to Whiskey Nick's in silence. Apart from Madeline drumming her fingers on the dash. Apart from Madeline humming along to some country and western on the radio. Apart from the rain beating against the windscreen. He'd been to Whiskey Nick's before, a few times, by himself. It was just a local bar, maybe a little less sophisticated than most, and most were pretty unsophisticated. He couldn't remember much about it, except that there was no one called Nick involved in the business.
    Eventually Madeline said: 'You were talking about your wife, weren't you?'
    'What?' said Corrigan.
    'Back at the women's refuge. You were talking about your wife.'
    'Jesus. You mull things over, don't you?'
    She shrugged. 'Her jaw was broken. By a fat guy. But you haven't arrested him, because he's still out there. She's gone back to him, hasn't she?'
    'Here's Whiskey Nick's,' said Corrigan, pulling the car into the side of the road.
    'It makes me so angry,' Madeline said. 'No wonder you're distracted.'
    'I seem distracted?'
    'I bet you'd shoot him if you could get hold of him.'
    'I already did.'
    She waited for him to smile, so he did. 'You must still love her.'
    'Now there's a case of putting two and two together and getting six.'
    'And he broke her jaw. God. What an animal. Can I do something? It's station policy, look after the staff, look after our informants.'
    'I'm not an informant.'
    'Can I send her something? How about some flowers?'
    'How about some toffees?'
    Her jaw dropped a little. It had come over a little more sarcastic than he had meant. If there was one thing they didn't understand on this side of the ocean it was sarcasm. In Belfast everything was sarcastic. Even when it wasn't. He looked at her and smiled. 'Comedy is easy,' he said, 'toffee is hard. Can we just drop it?'
    She looked at him for a moment, then gave a little nod. 'Sorry,' she said.
    He nodded, then opened the car door. 'Look on the bright side,' he said, climbing out, 'I haven't even mentioned the love bite.'
     
    They made a dash through the rain, Madeline holding her bag up to protect her hair, Corrigan with his hands shoved into his pockets. It was early afternoon. They pushed through the door, laughing the way people do when they emerge from a downpour into a bar, shaking themselves and making whooshing noises like they'd achieved something.
    There were seven guys, all of them at least in their sixties, sitting on stools near the door. They were swapping football stories and laughing. There was a barman, big stomach, white shirt, balding, serving up the drinks and laughing along, but his laugh sounded forced. There were about a dozen tables, none of them occupied. At first Corrigan thought that was it, but