Adrian McKinty - Dead I Well May Be

There was nothing much left, and after a while Fergal, myself, Sean, and Mikey Price were dismissed downstairs. Bob came with us to use the bathroom, gave us a pissed-off look, and went back up.

The bar was pretty full, and Pat had to find us a poky table in the corner. It was Mikey’s shout, but I went since Fergal was well into the story of the first part of last night’s adventures. When I got back carrying-rather precariously-four pints, Fergal was finishing up the story at McDonald’s, except in this version we all got Big Mac meals to show what hard bastards we were.

Mikey was lapping it up, but Sean McKenna had been to federal prison in Texas and had done four years upstate at Ossining or Attica or one of those places and therefore wasn’t that impressed by our little tale. You could tell he had something better on the back burner. In his narrative someone was going to be beheaded by a jigsaw or disemboweled with pliers or crucified to a ceiling or tortured with arc-welding gear. I went to the bathroom before it got started.

I chatted to Pat and Mrs. Callaghan and asked around for Bridget, but apparently she was out with some girlfriends.

When Scotchy came down, he said that Darkey and Sunshine wanted to see me.

This is the moment when I really should run for the bloody door, I told myself, but I didn’t have the bottle for it and went upstairs.

Darkey, Sunshine, and Big Bob looking at some papers.

Uh, wanted to see me? I said.

Darkey, not looking up, Sunshine smiling.

Yes, Michael, come over here, Darkey said.

I sat. Darkey turned and looked at me. Bob stood up. To free his weapon hand?

Michael, we talked last night and Sunshine and I were discussing you earlier. I just want you to know that if you continue to be loyal and work hard you will go far with us, Darkey said and handed me an envelope containing five twenty-dollar bills.

Thank you, Darkey, I said.

Sunshine grinned. Now be off with you, he said.

I tried not to appear like I was running out of there.

Try to see Andrew, Darkey said as I was just at the door.

I’d had my regulation four rounds anyway and so I said goodbye to the lads. It was a long ride back and, following Darkey’s hint (despite my exhaustion), I wanted to stop at 168th to drop in and see how Andy was doing. Not to visit-visiting hours were probably only daytime anyway-just to look in and see how the big wean was.

Try to see Andy, he’d said. As an example of what might happen to those intimate with Bridget? Hmmm.

The hospital was spread out all over the shop, and I had to ask four different security guards before finding the right place, and even then I walked into a huge homeless shelter by mistake.

’Course, no visiting in the ER, and once the nurse found out that I wasn’t family, she sent me on my way with instructions to come back at a presumably more Presbyterian hour.

I tried to exit after that but instead found myself in a different part of the hospital entirely. I discovered a bog and went and relieved myself and was just trying to figure out how in the hell I was supposed to get out of there when who should I see but Mrs. fucking Shovel. She was standing there, staring right at me with murder in her eyes and a shaking cup of coffee in her hands. I’m sure Scotchy would have turned and legged it. I should have bolted too. It would have been the sensible thing, but instead I went over to her and said:

Look, I’m not here because of Shovel. I was seeing someone else and I got lost and I’m just heading out. I didn’t mean to upset you. Sorry.

She stared at me for a long time, and I thought she was going to lash out or throw the coffee at me, but instead she started to cry. She was sobbing and the coffee was spilling out over the sides of the cup, burning her fingers. I took it out of her hands and led her over to the plastic seats. She cried and pulled out a hanky and blew her nose and cried some more. After a while, she stopped and looked at me again. It was unsettling, and I felt I had to say something.

How is he?

He’s awake. Four hours of surgery. Four hours under the knife, pumped full of anesthetic and painkillers and he’s fucking awake. Typical of him. The nurses were impressed.

He’s a tough guy, I said.

Not against three, she said.

No.

We sat there and didn’t say anything for a while. I looked at her.

It doesn’t help, but I hope he gets better, I said.

Why did Scotchy have to shoot him? He would have paid. He always pays, she said.

She thought Scotchy had done the whole thing. That I was just help. Well, I didn’t enlighten her.

Scotchy thinks he beat up big Andy, cold-clocked him, really gave him a hiding, I said, letting Scotchy take the guilt.

He didn’t do that, she said sadly.

Yeah, I know, I said.

There was a bruise turning blue on the side of her face where Scotchy had pistol-whipped her. Her hair was short and blond and it suited her, and it made me wonder why she’d had the wig on yesterday. The wig didn’t become her at all. The thought became word.

Are you Jewish? I asked her.

No, why?

You were wearing a wig.

His idea, she said and jerked a finger behind her towards the ward.

Shovel’s? I asked stupidly.

She nodded, then shook her head.

I cut my hair short and he hated it, and he said he would make me wear that thing until it grew, she explained.

I wasn’t sure if she was serious or not. It was certainly an odd occasion for levity. She was younger than Shovel by a good ten years. She seemed to come from a more elevated social sphere. It made me wonder how they’d met, how they’d got together. It seemed an unlikely pairing now, big boozy Shovel and his demure, soft-spoken wife, but then again, love’s a wild card.

Why a brunette wig? I asked.

She laughed. Ask him, she said.

He went out and bought it? I asked.

I don’t know, she said and laughed again.

Jesus, he’s a bit of a bloody nutter, that Shovel. You look so much better without it.

You think so?

Without a doubt.

She bit her lip and sighed.

I’m surprised at you and Fergal, following that monster Scotchy. He’s a mental case. You two must be born stupid.

I hadn’t thought that she knew us that well. Certainly I don’t recall speaking to her before. But probably she’d seen us in the Four P. or somewhere. I said nothing, and we sat there for a minute or two.

Let’s get out of here, she said.

That’s what I was trying to do. It’s bloody impossible. I’ve been here since this morning, and I only came to get a prescription, I said.

She gave me a thin smile.

Get me a cab, she said.

She stood, and I got up with her. She led me to the exit.

So I hear he’s not going to be out until Christmas? I said.

Who said that?

What I heard.

Be out in a couple of weeks. He’s a strong motherfucker.

Aye.

We waited on the street for a while, and she pulled out a gold-covered pack of cigarettes. She offered me one.

I’m trying to quit, I said.

How long? she asked, conversationally.

Since last night, I muttered.

That’s when I started, she said.

I saw a cab and hailed it. She got in.

See me home? she said.

I go downtown, I said.

See me home, she insisted.

And that was that. We rode up together, and I paid the cabbie since I was flush.

She walked me up the stairs of yesterday. You hear stories of female Provos who lure Brits into their houses where they or an Active Service Unit kills them. Classic honey trap. And all that time it wasn’t completely out of the back of my mind that at some point a pistol was going to be shoved in my face, followed by furious yelling and recrimination and then a muzzle flash, and that would be the end of it. Even as she took off my T-shirt and jeans and took off her blouse and pants and led me into a pink bedroom and a big bed, I wasn’t entirely sure that everything was as I thought it was.