Read Online The Cold, Cold Ground by Adrian McKinty - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Adrian McKinty
Ads: Link
fear of vampires.”
“You don’t see many Catholic policemen. Your father was a peeler?”
“God, no. A clerk, then a country solicitor. Yours?”
“Country doctor.”
She had taken precisely one sip of her gin and tonic when her pager went.
She found a telephone.
She came back ashen.
“What is it?” I asked.
“The Peacock Room Restaurant, South Belfast,” she said, her voice trembling.
“A bomb?”
“Incendiary.”
“How many?”
“Six burned alive. A dozen more in the Royal Victoria Hospital. The coroner asked me if I would help ID the victimsin the morning.”
“What did you say?”
“What can you say?”
She downed her gin and tonic. I took her hand to stop it shaking. It was cold.
“Let’s get out of here,” she said.
Back on West Street it was drizzling and we could hear the sound of rioting in Belfast again, distant and ominous.
“Walk me home,” she said.
I walked her to one of the new flats on Governor’s Place opposite the castle. We put on the TV news. All three channels were carrying it. It was a blast bomb that had been placed next to an oil drum filled with petrol and sugar – IRA napalm. The victims hadn’t had a chance.
After five minutes she turned off the tube.
“I’ve been to that restaurant,” she said.
She began to cry.
I held her.
“Will you stay?” she asked.
I stayed.
Later. Her bedroom overlooking the harbour. Laura, asleep in the moonlight. The harbour lights dead on the black water. A Soviet coal boat tied up along the wharf. Six people. Six people trying to seize a piece of normality in an abnormal world. Burned alive by incendiaries.
Tiocfadh ar la . Up the revolution. Our day will come.
I wondered why that particular target. Maybe they hadn’t been paying their protection money? Maybe they had but it had been full of Belfast’s high society and it was just too tempting to pass up. And then there was the whole business of the oil drum, manoeuvring that into place implied careful planning and possibly someone on the inside …
I sighed – all these were questions for a different team of detectives. I had my own problems. The sheet had fallen off
Laura’s back. I looked at her long legs tucked up beneath her breasts. I fixed the sheet, slipped out of the bed, pulled on my jeans and sweater. I dressed, grabbed her keys from the dresser and went outside to have a cigarette.
Water. Reflections. Pencil lines of light.
The silence of 3 a.m. Sporadic gunfire. Choppers.
I could see it even if no one else wanted to. This was the Götterdämmerung. This was a time of opportunity for people who wished to walk on the grass, to embrace the irrational, to hug the dark.
I walked down to the harbour’s edge.
Somewhere deep down I heard music. Not Puccini. Schubert’s piano trio in e-flat. His opus 100. The fourth movement where the piano takes the melody …
I looked at Laura’s apartment from the outside. I looked at the sleeping town.
The phosphorescence of bulb and beam.
You’re out here too, aren’t you, friend ? You’re awake and wondering about me. Have the peelers got your message? Do they know what’s in store?
We know.
I know.
I walked back to the apartment. I put the key in the lock.
Quiet.
The hall.
Quiet.
The bedroom.
Quiet.
“Where have you be—”
“Sssshhh. Sleep.”
“Sleep?”
“Yes. Sleep.”
And I got in beside her and we moved from one dream to another …
4: BONEYBEFORE
I could smell coffee. She cleared her throat. I opened my eyes and looked at her. She was wearing my shirt, no kacks and she was holding a mug of Nescafé.
She smiled but she didn’t look happy.
I didn’t envy her her task today up at that awful morgue in Belfast.
“Thanks,” I said and took the cup.
“I didn’t know how you liked it so I just made it with milk and two sugars.”
“That’s fine.”
“You want some breakfast?”
“If you’re having something.”
“It’s already made, come and join me in the living
“You don’t see many Catholic policemen. Your father was a peeler?”
“God, no. A clerk, then a country solicitor. Yours?”
“Country doctor.”
She had taken precisely one sip of her gin and tonic when her pager went.
She found a telephone.
She came back ashen.
“What is it?” I asked.
“The Peacock Room Restaurant, South Belfast,” she said, her voice trembling.
“A bomb?”
“Incendiary.”
“How many?”
“Six burned alive. A dozen more in the Royal Victoria Hospital. The coroner asked me if I would help ID the victimsin the morning.”
“What did you say?”
“What can you say?”
She downed her gin and tonic. I took her hand to stop it shaking. It was cold.
“Let’s get out of here,” she said.
Back on West Street it was drizzling and we could hear the sound of rioting in Belfast again, distant and ominous.
“Walk me home,” she said.
I walked her to one of the new flats on Governor’s Place opposite the castle. We put on the TV news. All three channels were carrying it. It was a blast bomb that had been placed next to an oil drum filled with petrol and sugar – IRA napalm. The victims hadn’t had a chance.
After five minutes she turned off the tube.
“I’ve been to that restaurant,” she said.
She began to cry.
I held her.
“Will you stay?” she asked.
I stayed.
Later. Her bedroom overlooking the harbour. Laura, asleep in the moonlight. The harbour lights dead on the black water. A Soviet coal boat tied up along the wharf. Six people. Six people trying to seize a piece of normality in an abnormal world. Burned alive by incendiaries.
Tiocfadh ar la . Up the revolution. Our day will come.
I wondered why that particular target. Maybe they hadn’t been paying their protection money? Maybe they had but it had been full of Belfast’s high society and it was just too tempting to pass up. And then there was the whole business of the oil drum, manoeuvring that into place implied careful planning and possibly someone on the inside …
I sighed – all these were questions for a different team of detectives. I had my own problems. The sheet had fallen off
Laura’s back. I looked at her long legs tucked up beneath her breasts. I fixed the sheet, slipped out of the bed, pulled on my jeans and sweater. I dressed, grabbed her keys from the dresser and went outside to have a cigarette.
Water. Reflections. Pencil lines of light.
The silence of 3 a.m. Sporadic gunfire. Choppers.
I could see it even if no one else wanted to. This was the Götterdämmerung. This was a time of opportunity for people who wished to walk on the grass, to embrace the irrational, to hug the dark.
I walked down to the harbour’s edge.
Somewhere deep down I heard music. Not Puccini. Schubert’s piano trio in e-flat. His opus 100. The fourth movement where the piano takes the melody …
I looked at Laura’s apartment from the outside. I looked at the sleeping town.
The phosphorescence of bulb and beam.
You’re out here too, aren’t you, friend ? You’re awake and wondering about me. Have the peelers got your message? Do they know what’s in store?
We know.
I know.
I walked back to the apartment. I put the key in the lock.
Quiet.
The hall.
Quiet.
The bedroom.
Quiet.
“Where have you be—”
“Sssshhh. Sleep.”
“Sleep?”
“Yes. Sleep.”
And I got in beside her and we moved from one dream to another …
4: BONEYBEFORE
I could smell coffee. She cleared her throat. I opened my eyes and looked at her. She was wearing my shirt, no kacks and she was holding a mug of Nescafé.
She smiled but she didn’t look happy.
I didn’t envy her her task today up at that awful morgue in Belfast.
“Thanks,” I said and took the cup.
“I didn’t know how you liked it so I just made it with milk and two sugars.”
“That’s fine.”
“You want some breakfast?”
“If you’re having something.”
“It’s already made, come and join me in the living
Similar Books
