stopped breathing." I grabbed his bag off the floor, checked my watch. "You've got five minutes of mardy, just to get it out of your system. Then I start the engine. If you're not in the car by then, that's it. Adi-fuckin'-os."
I went out the caravan, stepped over Nora without looking at her, and headed right for the Volvo. My feet made a sucking sound as I walked. Water seeped in there. Stupid fuckin' countryside.
There were no sirens on the main road, no flashing lights. I didn't look back at her. Seen a few dead bodies in my time, and it wasn't like I was fuckin' squeamish or nowt, but it wasn't like I was all relaxed around 'em either. Way I see it, you get nonchalant around the recently-carked, you need to get an MOT on your fuckin' humanity toot fuckin' sweet.
The caravan door opened. Silence.
"Howeh," I said. "Time to go."
"Give me a second."
Fine, fuck it. He wanted to make peace with her, he was welcome. I lit another menthol and spat the shitty taste out my gob.
Farrell approached. There was something draped over his arm.
The leather.
"You are out of your fuckin' mind," I said.
"What?"
"You took that off her?"
He sounded tired. "No, she gave it to me herself, Jimmy."
"It's covered in blood."
Farrell looked confused. "It's my jacket. It's Italian leather. One of a kind."
"Class act, Sean. See if that fuckin' jacket gets us in the shit—"
"It won't."
"It does, you're on your own."
"Fine."
Farrell got in the car, slammed the door. I flicked the filter and got behind the wheel. After a couple of tries, I managed to rev the Volvo out of the mud long enough for the tyres to catch. Once we were on the road, I turned on the radio to fill the silence. Farrell stared out of the window, the jacket on his lap, his hands balled.
As he talked, he rubbed the bullet hole in the left shoulder. "She was young, Jimmy."
"Aye. Younger than some."
Onto the motorway now, and I gunned the engine. Wasn't in the mood to talk. Didn't want to set Farrell off accidentally. The Irish and their fuckin' grief, man, it could fill a book.
His mobile rang. He pulled it out of his jeans, checked the display. His face moved, flickered. He blinked.
"What is it?" I said.
"Nora."
"You what?"
"Nora's number."
Still ringing. Farrell broke the freeze, connected the call. I turned off the radio. Tried to keep my eyes on the road.
I heard someone talking at the other end, faint but obviously speaking clearly.
Farrell cleared his throat. It sounded painful.
"Yes," he said, "I know who this is."
A pause. More talking.
"What money?"
Beat. The other voice a bit louder.
"There is no money. Any money you were looking for disappeared when you killed Nora, you fucking gobshite."
Another beat. The voice at the other end dropped in volume.
Farrell's didn't: "You want to threaten me, you auld cunt? I'll beat you to death with your own fucking spine, you see if don't ... Yeah, keep fucking talking. Keep fucking talking so I can find you quicker, and I'll make you squeal like the cowardly fucking pig y'are."
Farrell stabbed the call dead with one finger. He closed his hand around the phone, held it tight in one white fist. Colour burned in his face. White stuff flecked the corners of his mouth.
The phone rang again.
Farrell rolled down the window, flung the phone out onto the road. A clatter, smash, and a mess of shattered plastic kicked out in the rear view mirror.
I let him seethe for a bit longer.
Then I said, "Who was that, your mam?"
Farrell looking like he trying to eat himself alive, starting with his own tongue.
"That was Frank O'Brien," he said.
"Right."
"And as soon as I find him, I'm going to murder the fuck."
FARRELL
It was all clear now. She hadn't ripped me off, not really. She'd been coerced into it. Kidnapped. Made to write the note that I found. Course that didn't jibe with her getting me drunk. That was premeditation.
But premeditation didn't matter now.
She was dead, she was the victim, and it
I went out the caravan, stepped over Nora without looking at her, and headed right for the Volvo. My feet made a sucking sound as I walked. Water seeped in there. Stupid fuckin' countryside.
There were no sirens on the main road, no flashing lights. I didn't look back at her. Seen a few dead bodies in my time, and it wasn't like I was fuckin' squeamish or nowt, but it wasn't like I was all relaxed around 'em either. Way I see it, you get nonchalant around the recently-carked, you need to get an MOT on your fuckin' humanity toot fuckin' sweet.
The caravan door opened. Silence.
"Howeh," I said. "Time to go."
"Give me a second."
Fine, fuck it. He wanted to make peace with her, he was welcome. I lit another menthol and spat the shitty taste out my gob.
Farrell approached. There was something draped over his arm.
The leather.
"You are out of your fuckin' mind," I said.
"What?"
"You took that off her?"
He sounded tired. "No, she gave it to me herself, Jimmy."
"It's covered in blood."
Farrell looked confused. "It's my jacket. It's Italian leather. One of a kind."
"Class act, Sean. See if that fuckin' jacket gets us in the shit—"
"It won't."
"It does, you're on your own."
"Fine."
Farrell got in the car, slammed the door. I flicked the filter and got behind the wheel. After a couple of tries, I managed to rev the Volvo out of the mud long enough for the tyres to catch. Once we were on the road, I turned on the radio to fill the silence. Farrell stared out of the window, the jacket on his lap, his hands balled.
As he talked, he rubbed the bullet hole in the left shoulder. "She was young, Jimmy."
"Aye. Younger than some."
Onto the motorway now, and I gunned the engine. Wasn't in the mood to talk. Didn't want to set Farrell off accidentally. The Irish and their fuckin' grief, man, it could fill a book.
His mobile rang. He pulled it out of his jeans, checked the display. His face moved, flickered. He blinked.
"What is it?" I said.
"Nora."
"You what?"
"Nora's number."
Still ringing. Farrell broke the freeze, connected the call. I turned off the radio. Tried to keep my eyes on the road.
I heard someone talking at the other end, faint but obviously speaking clearly.
Farrell cleared his throat. It sounded painful.
"Yes," he said, "I know who this is."
A pause. More talking.
"What money?"
Beat. The other voice a bit louder.
"There is no money. Any money you were looking for disappeared when you killed Nora, you fucking gobshite."
Another beat. The voice at the other end dropped in volume.
Farrell's didn't: "You want to threaten me, you auld cunt? I'll beat you to death with your own fucking spine, you see if don't ... Yeah, keep fucking talking. Keep fucking talking so I can find you quicker, and I'll make you squeal like the cowardly fucking pig y'are."
Farrell stabbed the call dead with one finger. He closed his hand around the phone, held it tight in one white fist. Colour burned in his face. White stuff flecked the corners of his mouth.
The phone rang again.
Farrell rolled down the window, flung the phone out onto the road. A clatter, smash, and a mess of shattered plastic kicked out in the rear view mirror.
I let him seethe for a bit longer.
Then I said, "Who was that, your mam?"
Farrell looking like he trying to eat himself alive, starting with his own tongue.
"That was Frank O'Brien," he said.
"Right."
"And as soon as I find him, I'm going to murder the fuck."
FARRELL
It was all clear now. She hadn't ripped me off, not really. She'd been coerced into it. Kidnapped. Made to write the note that I found. Course that didn't jibe with her getting me drunk. That was premeditation.
But premeditation didn't matter now.
She was dead, she was the victim, and it
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