Read Online Vengeance: A Novel (Quirke) by Benjamin Black - Free Book Online Page A

respond to this, only sat with his head hanging, his lower lip thrust out, and picked at a loose thread in the seam of the sheet. “What will you tell him?” she asked. “I mean, what will you say?” Oh, that look, she remembered that, too, the brows drawn down and the lip thrust out and his neck sunk between his shoulders. “Tell me, will you?” she said. “Tell me what happened.”
    “I told you already,” he said, with the hint of a whine in his voice. That sullenness, she thought, that resentment, just like his father. He tugged with miniature violence at the thread, drawing in his lip now and tightening his mouth. “There’s nothing more to say.”
    “Well,” she said patiently, “why don’t you tell me again. What did—what did he say?”
    “He said nothing.”
    “He must have said something.”
    A ship was leaving Dun Laoghaire Harbor, they heard the sound of its siren shaking the stillness of the sunlit evening. Once when they were crossing to Holyhead they had been on deck when the horn went off like that, like the last trump, and Davy, her Davy, who was four or five at the time, had been so frightened by the terrible sound he had burst into tears and clung to her legs and buried his face in her skirts. They had been so close in those days, the two of them; so close.
    “He told me a story,” Davy said, “about when he was a child and his old man took him out in the car one day and gave him money to buy an ice cream and drove off when he was in the shop.”
    “Drove off?”
    “And left him there. To teach him self-sufficiency, self-confidence, something like that—I can’t remember.”
    Sylvia pursed her lips and nodded. “Yes, I’m afraid that would be the kind of thing old Sam Delahaye would do, all right. What else?”
    “ What what else?” That whining note again.
    “Was that all Victor said? What happened then?”
    “‘What happened then,’” Davy said with heavy sarcasm, mimicking her and waggling his head, “was that he produced this pistol, a huge thing, like a cowboy’s six-shooter, and stuck the barrel up to his chest and fired.”
    Now it was she who began picking at the sheet. “Do you think—do you think he meant to do it—”
    “Jesus, Ma!”
    “—that he didn’t just mean it as a joke, or something, that went wrong?”
    Davy laughed grimly. “Some joke.”
    “He could be so—odd, at times. Unpredictable.”
    “He meant to do it, all right,” Davy said. “There was no mistake about it.”
    “But why ?” she almost wailed.
    Her son closed his eyes and heaved a histrionic sigh of exasperation and annoyance. “I told you. I—don’t—know .”
    And why, she wanted to ask, why did he take you for a witness—why you? “Something must have been terribly wrong with him.”
    Davy snorted. “Well, yes, I’d say so. You don’t put a bullet through your heart unless there’s something fairly seriously the matter.”
    She did not mind the sarcasm or the mockery—she was used to it—but she wished he would look at her, look her straight in the eye, just once, and tell her again that he did not know why Victor Delahaye—Victor, of all people—should have taken him out to sea in a boat and make him watch while he killed himself. “What shall I tell that detective,” she asked, “if he calls again? When he calls again.”
    He did not answer. He was looking about and frowning. “Give me my clothes,” he said. “I want to get up.”
    *   *   *
     
    Jack Clancy was walking fast along the front at Sandycove when he heard the sound of the ship’s horn behind him. It made him think of his schooldays, long ago. Why was that? There had been a bell, not a bell but more like a hooter, that went off at the end of the lunch hour to summon the boys back to class. That sinking feeling around the diaphragm, he remembered that, and Donovan and—what was that other fellow’s name?—waiting for him in the dark of the corridor where it went round by the