Eight Ball Boogie Part 24

Her eyes bugged out like a frog on a promise.

"I was on the bridge. He hit me in the side, knocked me into the river. When I got back out I rang you. The rest you know now."

"You're having me on. Gonzo's outside, isn't he? Having a laugh. You're a sick f.u.c.ker, Harry."

First anger, then denial she was ploughing through the cla.s.sic symptoms at a rate of knots. I pulled the fleece over my head, unb.u.t.toned the Puffa, hauled my sweater and shirt off. The blood on the edge of the bandage was dry and crusty but there was still a dark pool of thin raspberry jelly at its centre.

She stared at me for a long time, forehead furrowed, searching my face for the tic or tremor that might suggest I was playing a bizarre joke. I shrugged.

"I'm sorry, Dee. That's the way it happened."

Her shoulders shook, then the sobs ballooned their way to the surface and she bawled like a stubborn calf. I went around the table, put my arm around her shoulders but she shrank away, folding her arms, cradling herself. Then the shock hit, a runaway train. She put her arms on the table and cried into them until the nervous energy finally evaporated. She sat up, her face the colour of raw liver, snuffling and tugging at her sleeve for a non-existent paper tissue. I gave her a sheet of kitchen towel and she buried her face in it. Finally, nose blocked and voice m.u.f.fled, she asked: "Why?"

"That's what I don't know."

"Well... who?"

"That's what I don't know as well."

"Do you know anything?"

"I know we have to keep a cool head and dry trousers until we figure out what's going on." I handed her a dry sheet of kitchen towel. "No sense in us b.i.t.c.hing at one another. We have to think of Ben."

She took a deep breath, let it out slow, dabbed at her eyes.

"Okay, okay. Christ." She thought for a second. "What do the Guards say?"

"They're following a couple of leads." I softened my tone. "Hey, Dee?"

I reached out, took her hand. It was shaking. She didn't pull back, but she didn't respond when I squeezed it either.

"It's going to be okay," I said. "All we have to do is sit tight. We don't go out, we don't answer the phone. We don't even open the curtains."

"Jesus, Harry." She sounded helpless, the kind of lost they don't have maps for. "Gonzo's dead."

"We can deal with that later, Dee. Nothing we can do about it now."

Her lip curled.

"You're a cold b.a.s.t.a.r.d, Harry," she said. "A cold and crippled b.a.s.t.a.r.d. You know that?"

"I do now. Can you hear Ben?"

Her eyes widened.

"Ben! Jesus!"

She went to look for Ben. I scouted out the cupboards for something edible. I settled for some soup, a sandwich and a gla.s.s of Maalox, turning the mobile on when I'd finished. It was almost three-thirty.

The phone rang before I had a chance to dial Dutchie's number, letting me know I had a message waiting. There were two. The first was from Dutchie, telling me Conway was dead. I thought about Conway for about three seconds, his cold, black piggy eyes. Then the second message arrived. It was from Katie.

"Harry "

A northern voice, deadpan, cut in.

"The Odeon, ten bells. Play it straight and everyone walks away."

I heard a gentle click, the sound of a giant jigsaw piece slotting neatly into place. I looked at the picture and wanted to cry, then wasted half-an-hour trying to think of people I could trust, coming up with a one-name list, but then I have high standards. I made the call and filled in the details, devised a plan. I turned the mobile off, not feeling entirely confident.

Denise came back in, red-eyed. I rolled a smoke, braced myself. Told her I was heading back to town.

"You're what?" She was angry, bewildered and scared. I could empathise. "You said we were going to sit tight. Don't even open the curtains, you said."

"I said you were going to sit tight," I lied. "I have to go back to town."

"Why, for Christ's sake?"

"That doesn't matter."

"Doesn't matter?" She was distraught, working herself into a frenzy. I couldn't blame her. I was pretty strung out at the prospect myself. "Someone tried to kill you last night and the reason you're going back doesn't matter? What are you, suicidal?"

"I need to get us sorted. To get us somewhere safer than this."

It was a bargain-bas.e.m.e.nt answer and Denise wasn't buying.

"What can you do back there that you can't do from here?" She thought for a second, and her face took on a stricken expression. "And why do we need somewhere safer? What's wrong with here?"

And suddenly I was tired again, my nervous system steeling itself for the onslaught of adrenaline.

"You wouldn't understand, Dee."

"I wouldn't understand?"

There was menace in her voice, the implication impossible to ignore, but Katie had something I needed, something Denise couldn't give me, and you only start that kind of conversation with a woman once. You don't get to finish it, either.

"What number were you ringing this morning?" I asked.

"What?"

"The mobile number, Dee. What number did you ring?"

She told me, sullen.

"It's oh-eight-four," I said. "Not oh-eight-three."

"You told me oh-eight-three."

"Yeah well, now I'm telling you it's oh-eight-four."

I pulled on the Puffa and the fleece. Stood there, hands in pockets, sweating in the warm kitchen. The smell of soup made me want to puke. My fingers touched something cold. I put the key of the bicycle lock on the kitchen table.

"Ben's bike is locked to a skip behind the shopping centre. Give it a while, send a taxi down to collect it."

"f.u.c.k Ben's bike!"

I made for the door.

"If you go," she warned, "I won't be here when you get back."

"If I get back."

I stopped at the door. She was leaning against the table, arms folded, defiant, struggling to hold back the tears. That made two of us, except I had nothing to lean on.

21.

The snow was coming down hard. Visibility was almost zero, the wipers barely able to cope, and the road was gla.s.sy under two or three inches of soft snow. It was impossible to drive faster than twenty miles an hour without running the very real risk of saving the pros a bullet or two. I pushed the needle up to forty and prayed that Dutchie hadn't skimped on the radials.

I made town just after eight. The storm was blowing itself out, the streets deserted, all sound m.u.f.fled under the coloured lights. Everyone was at home, wrapping presents and knocking back the mulled wine, or in the pub, hoping they wouldn't be chucked out early and already too p.i.s.sed to know what time it was.

I pulled into the car park, crossed the river by the footbridge, slipped in the side door of The Cellars. The place was heaving, the punters three deep at the bar, a bloke with a fiddle giving it large just inside the front door. Dutchie was red-faced behind the ramp, taking three and four orders at a time. I shouted his name. He ignored me twice, but when he finally looked around his jaw dropped. He forced his way through the punters knotted around the hatch, leaving Marie to deal with the mob. He dragged me down to the poolroom, locked the door, gave me both barrels.

"You thick b.a.s.t.a.r.d! Are you looking to get killed? Get us all killed with you?"

"Easy, Dutch. I'm being cute, remember?"

"This is cute? You don't know who you're f.u.c.king with."

"I'm not f.u.c.king with anyone, Dutch. Everyone's f.u.c.king with me."

"The East Belfast boys want to f.u.c.k you, you bend over for the soap and wash their d.i.c.ks with it when they're finished. Alright?"

"East Belfast?"

"Your party favour buddies. The ones Conway was trying to screw."

"They issue a press release or something?"

He stared.

"Jesus, Harry, this is serious. I don't think you realise what you're into here."

"Hey, Dutch? It was me they tried to blow off the bridge last night. Alright?"

"Alright, alright." He puffed out his cheeks, exhaled, chewed his gum. "These boys are hardcore, though."

"It was them? For certs?"

He nodded.

"I heard different, Dutch. So just cut to the chase. Tell me who."

"Who what?"

"Who bought you who."

He stopped chewing.

"What?"

"Come on, Dutch. You sold me out. You know it, I know it, Herbie knows it. Or he will, when he's able to hear again. I found him this morning, f.u.c.ked over like you wouldn't believe. They mashed his face in, Dutch."

"Who mashed his face in?"

"Santa's little helpers. Who do you think mashed his f.u.c.king face in?"

"Jesus, Harry "

"Whoever put the hammer on me mashed his face in. Whoever tried to blow me off the bridge. Whoever bought you. That's who mashed his face in."

"f.u.c.k you."

"Join the queue, Dutch. And you're last, because you've already blown your load."

His face was a mask, hard set. I sympathised. He was mad at me for accusing him of selling me out, mad at himself for doing it, and mad at the world because he'd had no choice.

"It's simple, Dutch. The pros thought Herbie had compromising pictures of Tony Sheridan, and Herbie got hammered because they thought he was holding out. What I couldn't figure out was how they found out Herbie developed the pictures, and how they knew where to find him." I shrugged. "The answer to the first question is that I pretty much told them who developed the pictures. It was a stupid thing to do, but that's the kind of thing I do best and I'll deal with that later. But it shouldn't have mattered anyway, because even if they knew Herbie developed the shots they shouldn't have known who he was or where to find him. That's where you came in, Dutch. You put them on to Herbie. You had to. n.o.body else could have."

He denied it with his eyes, pleading.

"You called me on the mobile, Dutch. I gave you the wrong number, like I gave it wrong to Dee and Katie, but you still called me. Who gave you the number?"

His face crumpled and his hands started to shake.

"Harry "

I looked away.

"All I need to know is who, the who will do it. Don't tell me why, because I'm pretty sure it'll be a good enough reason and good enough is never good enough. Just tell me who."

He took a deep breath that wobbled on the way down.