Alex Barclay - Darkhouse

O’Connor pulled out a cigarette and lit up. He closed his eyes and sucked in a deep breath. His mobile vibrated once, then rang at the highest volume he could have set.

‘Myles, it’s Frank Deegan.’

‘Where have you been?’ barked O’Connor. ‘I’ve been trying to get through to you all afternoon.’

Frank hesitated. ‘The Ballyhoura mountains, the coverage is up and down like a yo-yo. I’m nearly back now. I’ve a bit of news for you. I’ll tell you when I see you.’

‘No, you fucking won’t,’ snapped O’Connor.

Frank was stunned. ‘Pardon?’

‘You’ll tell me now, Frank, what the hell is going on.’

‘What do you mean? About what? I was finding out about that Mary Casey woman in Doon. That Duke Rawlins man that Joe Lucchesi was talking about — I’ve seen what he’s done to women back in the States. And it’s exactly what happened to that woman in Limerick, except the Americans were arrow wounds, instead of knife wounds. But if all someone had was a knife... I’ve a feeling this crime was more about opportunity than anything else. The man’s in the country. I’ve no doubt about it.’ He couldn’t hear O’Connor shouting over him to shut up and listen.

‘That’s Limerick’s case,’ boomed O’Connor when Frank stopped talking. ‘If you kept your eye on the fucking ball here—’

Frank’s face burned.

‘Look,’ said O’Connor, ‘you’ve passed on the information and that’s enough—’

‘What?’ said Frank. ‘But what about Katie Lawson? I think he changed his M.O. to make us think that Shaun or Joe—’

‘Something’s come up with Katie Lawson,’ snapped O’Connor. ‘Just go straight to the Lucchesi house. Don’t go in. I’ll see you there.’

Joe ran towards Richie, ready with his explanation, but he didn’t need it.

‘What the fuck was that?’ said Richie. ‘Some psycho pulled open my door and smashed in my radio.’

‘I need an ambulance for Anna,’ said Joe. ‘It was him. Rawlins. He’s done something to Anna.’ They both looked at the shattered radio, sharp shards of plastic sticking out, its wires hanging, useless.

‘Where is she?’

‘With Shaun in the lighthouse. But...’ Panic flared in Joe’s eyes.

‘I know,’ said Richie. ‘You need to get the fucker. Get in. The ambulance won’t take long. I’ll use my mobile.’

Richie moved away from the car to find a signal. He spoke urgently, then ran back to the car, starting the engine and screeching across the grass and onto the road.

‘He’s in a white Ford Fiesta van. He only has about five minutes on us,’ said Richie. ‘He’s gone up the hill. I won’t use the lights or siren, he’ll panic. Where do you think he’s headed?’

‘He knows he’s screwed,’ said Joe. ‘He’s wanted for too many crimes back home, he knows that now. He’ll want to get the fuck out of Dodge, but he won’t make it onto any plane.’

‘But he could get to England or Wales,’ said Richie.

‘On the ferry.’

‘From Rosslare? Would he know that?’

‘The guy is not stupid. He would have planned every bit of this.’

‘Do you think we should call Frank?’

Richie raised an eyebrow, ‘And follow the rules?’ He glanced over at Joe. ‘This guy tried to kill your wife...’

He got his answer in Joe’s silence. They rounded the next bend and sped past the right-hand turn into Manor Road that would have brought them past the church and up through the village. They both glanced right. Richie braked.

‘Jesus Christ,’ said Joe, slamming his fist onto the glove box. Richie reversed and the abandoned white van came into view. ‘What the fuck is he doing in the village?’

Shaun cradled his mother’s head on his lap, feeling strange to have her so close. Her eyes were shut, her face pale. He had been rubbing her forehead compulsively for the fifteen minutes since Joe had left. A chill wind was whipping rain around the lighthouse and his ears hurt. He stopped and put his hand over Anna’s ear so she wouldn’t feel it. His sweatshirt lay across her stomach. He pressed it against her wounds. But he knew there was blood everywhere and he couldn’t look down.

Richie parked the car at an angle, its headlights trained on the battered van. Joe jumped out, quickly wrenching the back door open with a crowbar. Empty, the small space seemed huge. He ran back to Richie, squinting against the light.

‘Go! Let’s go! There’s nothing there. He’s gone.’

‘Fuck,’ said Richie, turning the car towards the village, flooring the accelerator.

He hit seventy as he took the next bend, his mind on the chase, not on his driving.

‘Jesus Christ, look out!’ said Joe.

Richie jammed on the brakes, stunned by the scene ahead. There was no way through. The road outside the church was filled with cars, most of them parked, some of them moving and one at a ninety degree angle, its driver frozen by the speeding squad car bearing down on it. Richie jerked the steering wheel to the left and they spun out of control, skidding across the wet surface, sending up a spray of muddy rainwater, finally shuddering to a stop inches from impact.

‘This is fucked up,’ said Joe.

Richie jumped out and slammed the door violently. The glove box popped open. An icy fear flooded Joe’s body. He grabbed Richie’s mobile from the dash and ran. All around him, people were rushing for their cars, struggling with umbrellas in the wind. Drivers flashed headlights and honked their horns. As he ran, Joe hit redial to find Frank’s number. Rain splashed onto the screen. He wiped it away and read through the list of dialled calls. Then he bolted, past the church steps where the crowd was at its thickest, where people were beginning to notice something wasn’t right. He kept running. A cigarette tip caught on his sleeve, shedding a spray of sparks. Someone cursed behind him. As the crowd thinned out, he caught up with Richie. He dived for his legs, tackling him to the wet tarmac. He turned him over and punched hard, splitting the skin under Richie’s eye.

Shaun heard the wail of a siren. Tears started to stream down his face. Lights flashed again outside the lighthouse. He heard the engine cut and shouts in the distance, slowly getting closer.

Joe sped through everything he knew. Richie’s anger, his road rage. Ray’s puzzled face when he had mentioned it. Ray hadn’t said road rage, he’d said ’roid rage. Steroids. Drugs. The edgy cokefuelled arrogance. Jumpy Richie by Mariner’s Strand a month after Katie’s death. He was probably there a month before, and would be there the following month too... a regular meeting with a dealer he could tip off. An image of Katie standing alone in the dark flashed into his mind. She was holding her mobile and she was calling Frank Deegan because she knew he was the only person she could trust. But she never got the chance to finish the call because a drug-addled six-foot-three keeper of the fucking peace—

Richie punched him in the jaw, sending pain rocketing through him. He staggered backwards and landed hard. A reluctant crowd had started to gather and Richie gestured for them all to stay back. He walked over to where Joe was lying and crouched down beside him.

Frank Deegan took the steps, two at a time, up to the lantern house. He climbed the ladder and raised his head carefully through the trap door. The first thing he saw was blood. He had to put his hands in it to push himself up. He had to sit in it before he could stand. His voice cracked as he called down to O’Connor,

‘Get an ambulance, for the love of God, Myles.’

‘Shaun,’ said Frank gently. ‘Who was here?’

‘The guy who did this,’ he whispered, squeezing his mother. ‘My dad’s gone after him. He’s with Richie.’