Adrian McKinty - The Bloomsday Dead

“I think it is you,” he said rhetorically. “The foot too, bit of a give-away.”

“You want to tell me what this is all about?” I asked.

“No, I want you to put these on,” he said and threw me a pair of handcuffs. I let them drop on the floor.

“And if I don’t?”

“Just put on the cuffs,” he said.

“Bridget sent you?”

He didn’t offer any information, but perhaps that was a tell in a very slight shake of the head.

“I won’t put the cuffs on unless you tell me what’s going to happen after I do.”

“You’ll be going on a journey, see some old pals. Now put the cuffs on. You’ll be fucking sorry if you don’t, it’s all the same to me.”

“Did the madam tell you I was here?”

“Yeah, she did, now get those things on,” he yelled.

“At least let me get dressed first.”

He thought about it for a second.

“Ok. No funny stuff or I’ll top ya.”

I put on my clothes, taxing his patience with my Stanley boots. I picked up the handcuffs. Standard cop jobs. I placed one over my wrist and casually tilted my arm so he couldn’t see exactly what I was doing, and closed the cuff about halfway. I tugged the metal between my finger and thumb to show him that it was locked. The man seemed satisfied. Of course it wasn’t locked at all. I put the second loop over my other wrist and closed it, this time all the way. I held my hands in front of me with the big gap on the right side, underneath my wrist where he couldn’t see it. If he had any brains he’d kick me in the balls, kneel on me, put the gun in my face, and make sure the handcuffs were really bloody tight.

But he was a trusting son of a bitch and either not very good at this or was under orders to go softy softly with me.

“You walk ahead of me, we’ll wait downstairs, there’ll be a car along in a couple of minutes.”

“Where are we going?”

“Doesn’t concern you.”

“The Garda is looking for me. You can’t just take me away, they’ll spot you in a second.”

“Aye, heard about that. How long have you been in the city? About four hours? And they already have a photofit of you up on the telly for attempted murder. Nice work. But don’t you worry about the Garda, mate, we know all the ins and outs of this town, believe me.”

“Where we going?” I tried again.

“North,” he said ominously.

So it was Bridget.

I walked along the oak-paneled corridor and into the foyer. It had been cleared of girls, clients in pig noses, and Albanian cleaning ladies.

He was behind me. I looked at our reflections in the polished oak. He was following me about four feet back.

I wriggled out of the right handcuff. A tiny clinking sound, but he couldn’t see what I was doing.

I wouldn’t have long to make my move. A car was coming. Presumably with more men inside.

Three steps led down from the hallway into the foyer.

It would have to be now.

I tripped and fell down the steps, keeping my hands in front and landing on what looked like my unprotected face.

“Jesus,” the man said and ran over to help. He transferred the revolver from his right to his left hand and pulled me up by the hair. I let him lift me six inches off the ground then I made a grab for the gun. My left hand found his wrist, I stuck my knuckle into the pressure point an inch below his life line.

He screamed, his grip loosened, and I grabbed the pistol. He threw a punch at me with his right, missed, smacked his fist into the hardwood floor. I kicked his legs and he fell on top of me. He landed with a two-hundred-pound crash on my back, crushing the air out of my lungs and nearly opening my stitches.

Painfully I rolled to the side just as he was drawing back a big fist to smash into my face, but there wasn’t going to be a fight. I wriggled my arm free, held the gun out horizontally, and pulled the trigger. A bullet caught him in the armpit. He screamed and writhed, and I pushed him off. And as he made a desperate lunge for the gun, I shot him in the shoulder. The second bullet knocked him on his spine.

I stood up and backed well away from him.

“Who do you work for?” I asked.

Through one of the brothel windows I could see that a red Range Rover had pulled up outside. Men getting out. Bollocks. No time for twenty questions.

“Ammo,” I said.

He pointed to his jacket pocket. I reached in and pulled out a bag full of assorted.38 shells. Old, new; still, they would do the job.

“Handcuff key?”

“Other pocket.”

I reached in and took out the key.

“Don’t kill me,” he pleaded.

“This is your lucky day, pal,” I said and ran back up the foyer steps and along the corridor, kicking open doors until I found a room with a girl inside.

Mousy little brunette taking a break.

“Is there a back way out of here?” I asked her.

“What?”

I put the gun on her forehead.

“Is there a back way out of here?” I asked again.

Running. Those stars again. My eyes were definitely fucked up. Couldn’t see properly. I rubbed them. Big red birds sitting around a black mark in the road. As I got close they turned into kids in Man. United shirts.

I looked back.

No one behind me.

“Over here, mister,” a voice said, and a tiny hand tugged me down a narrow lane. Dogs barking. Papers. Cardboard boxes. Beer cans. Bottles. Narrow streets. An outdoor toilet. Smell of bacon fat. Curtains of gray slate, yards of washing.

“This way,” the voice said.

Finally I stopped seeing the stars. But Jesus, I’d have to get to a doctor for that.

We went into a court between some back-to-backs and then across a yard full of burned-out cars. In front of us was an open space where a block of flats had once stood and now was derelict. Kids playing in the cement, women talking. Caravans. Trailer homes.

“You’re safe now, mister,” the voice said. The kid was a boy of about thirteen. A dark-haired wee mucker with a scar on his face below the ear. He was wearing a patched sweater, dirty plimsolls, and trousers miles too big for him. Clearly he was a Gypsy kid, or a traveler, if you wanted to be politically correct about it.

“Who ya running from? The poliss?” the kid asked when he saw that I had my breath back.

“Sort of.”

“Aye, thought so. I just seen this eejit running and I thought the poliss are after him. That’s why I done come after ya, show ya a wee route.”

“Thanks.”

The kid looked at the handcuff still attached to my left wrist. It was also still holding a silenced revolver, but the boy didn’t give a shit about the gun.

“Did ya make a break for it? Outta the car?”

“Aye. Sure,” I said. I found the key, took the handcuffs off, and gave them to him.

“Did ya have that key made? How did ya get out of those things?” he asked.

“You ever heard of Houdini?”

“Nope.”

I drank in air, safetied the pistol, and shoved it down the front of my trousers.

“Ya want me to get ya a drink or something?” the kid asked.

“No. Thanks.”

“Are ya heading back?”

“Yes.”

“Where to?”

“Belfast,” I found myself saying. “I’m going to Belfast to get some answers.”

The boy was looking at me funny now. Squinting as the sun came out and then smirking as it went back behind the clouds. I stretched my shoulders where they hurt and reached in my pocket. I found a twenty-euro note.

“Buy yourself some candy,” I said.

“I will,” the kid said, with a trace of ungracious defiance, as if he was just begging me to tell him to say thank you, in which case he would be ready to tell me to fuck away off. But I wasn’t falling for it. I looked at the wee lad and found myself breaking into a grin.