Adrian McKinty - The Bloomsday Dead

What happened to you, Scotchy?

Ten years in some hellhole in Mexico. All the tortures of the world. But if nothing else, Scotchy is a wee ratfaced survivor. I know how he’d get through. Sell out his mates, his pals; he’d turn informer, dealer, pimp. He’d shank someone, kill his way out, lie his way out. And now this. Back to Ireland, rebuilding a life. Where would he go? Belfast? Dublin? South Armagh? He’d work his way up. Maybe he’d stay in Mexico until he had the dough and clout to come home.

Well, he’s got at least partway up the ladder. Those boys called him boss, didn’t they?

All this time hungering for revenge. I don’t have a monopoly on that. There’s enough out there for both of us. Hate has a big reservoir. He finds out that Bridget and Siobhan are in town and he grabs her wean. Where did he see her? Was he watching the hotel? How did he do it? How many men?

Certainly a good scheme.

A way to make his fortune and take revenge on Bridget at the same time. Kill two birds.

Literally.

Jesus, maybe he planned the whole thing from the start, years ago, back in Mexico, in the dog years of a jail cell, although maybe not. Scotchy’s an opportunist, not a planner. I like that about him. There’s a lot I like about him.

Scotchy…

One of the men lit a hurricane lamp. It was powerful and cast a good glow over the walls. I hugged the floor of the cave and slunk as far backward as I could.

Scotchy cocked his Pecheneg and stood. His mates tensed. They were both in their early twenties, kids. The type that Scotchy always liked to surround himself with, easily influenced, easily impressed.

“Marty, you go, meet her at the path. Check one final time she’s not being followed. I’m sure we would have fucking seen somebody by now, but you never know. Search her, search her fucking well, bring her in to see me. We’ll do this fast, but I want to have my fucking word,” Scotchy talking as fast as he could with his condition. You could tell that every time he spoke he was biting back pain. No, you could tell that he was in continuous pain, speaking just made it worse. Twelve years of that.

“Ok, boss,” Marty said and went outside.

“Cassidy, you stand way back there in the cave, like I say, any sudden move fucking shoot her, and don’t shoot me by mistake, you’ll regret it, I’m a hard fucking man to kill, easy man to piss off,” Scotchy said.

“Sure, boss.”

Cassidy made his way back toward me. If he turned around and had a good look, he was bound to see me hiding here against the wall. But Scotchy hadn’t ordered them to check out the cave first. I would have. I would have had a man here all fucking day. But Scotchy was Scotchy. Brilliant at some things, half-assed at others.

We waited. Not long.

Marty appeared with Bridget. He had stripped her of her coat. She was standing there in a white turtleneck and jeans. Her red hair matted, soaked, plastered against her face and neck.

“Siobhan,” she gasped as she saw her baby hooded and tied.

Siobhan didn’t say anything. She was breathing shallowly and they’d clearly doped her. Bridget dropped the briefcase and made a dash for the girl.

“Don’t fucking move, Bridget,” Scotchy said, pointing the big Russian machine gun at her.

“What have you done to her?” Bridget demanded.

“A wee bit of Valium, she’s fine. For now,” Scotchy said.

“You’ve got your money. Now let us go,” Bridget said.

Scotchy laughed. Bridget’s eyes narrowed. She looked at him in fury, but she was trying to conceal her fear. Her hands were trembling. She hid them behind her back.

“You don’t recognize me, do you?” Scotchy said.

Bridget shook her head.

“Take a seat, Bridget. Something I have to tell you. Something we have to discuss,” Scotchy said.

“I want to see my daughter,” Bridget insisted.

Scotchy fired the Pecheneg into the ground, a short two-second burst, but the noise and ricochets were terrifying. Any of us could have caught a bullet in an enclosed space like this. Miracle that we didn’t. Bloody maniac.

“Take a fucking seat, bitch,” Scotchy screamed. Cassidy and Marty looked as shocked and as shit-scared as I felt.

Bridget sat down on a rock as close as she could to Siobhan.

“I’m going to speak and you are going to listen,” Scotchy began. “Every word is an effort. So every word is precious. I’ve had four operations on my throat in two years and what you hear now is the best they can come up with. The ten years I was in jail, I could barely grunt. You know what they called me? El Americano Quieto. It’s a joke, see. A famous book. You probably seen the fucking picture.”

“I don’t see what your problems have to do with me or my daughter. I’ve given you your money, count it and let us go and you can have all the surgeries you need,” Bridget said.

“Did I ask you to speak? Your job is to fucking listen, bitch. That’s all. You just fucking listen and you’ll understand. I want you to understand before I kill you. I want you to know what it’s been like. Darkey White, your beloved, sent us to Mexico, he left us there, the fucking deal went sour, and he left us there to fucking die. Only two of us didn’t die. Fucking young Michael Forsythe, he managed to get out. Aye, you remember him, don’t ya. I heard what he did. He killed Darkey and Sunshine and Big Bob. Proud of him for that. Fucking disappeared into the WPP after that. Some say he was a fucking quisling, ratting out the whole organization to save his hide. But I don’t blame him. He did right. Only thing, though, he didn’t finish the job.”

Bridget was stunned with recognition. Her hand went to her mouth. Her eyes widened, first in amazement and then horror.

“Scotchy, is it you? Is it really you?” she whispered.

Scotchy smiled.

“It’s me. Me llamo Señor Finn… what I mean is, you can call me Mr. Finn, the name Scotchy is only for mates,” Scotchy said.

“Everybody said you were dead. Even Michael said you were dead,” Bridget said, horrified.

“Oh aye, but it takes more than a few fucking dagos to kill oul Scotchy boy. Estoy vacunado against death.”

Scotchy shook his head.

“No more of that. Making me angry, Bridget, slipping back. But you’re right, everybody did think I was topped. Me and Bruce tried to break out, I didn’t make it. I was nearly killed dead, so I was. But somehow they fixed me up and after near a year in hospital they transferred me to a sweat-box jail in Baja. You know what it’s like there? Fucking desert. Hundred degrees on the chilly days. Hundred and thirty wasn’t so unusual. Nine years there until the amnesty under President Fox. I won’t even begin to describe the horrors I went through, love. Every day of my life. Dreaming of you and Darkey and Big Bob. Dreaming of the moment when I’d get to see you all again.”

Scotchy started to cough. Marty came over to help him. Scotchy waved him away.

Marty looked at the briefcase full of money.

Bridget looked at it too, in a different sort of way.

My heart skipped a beat.

Oh-ho, she had something up her sleeve.

Scotchy caught his breath, pulled a flask out of his jacket pocket, and drank from it. He continued with his diatribe.

“Aye, President Fox pardoned a couple of hundred of us foreigners. Fucking good man. And when I got out, I learned that Bruce had gone on a killing spree back in 1992. He had robbed me of some of it, but not all. Not my piece. Hadn’t done a thing to you, had he? Oh aye, and Darkey had a daughter, didn’t he? Well, well, well.”

“You better not have hurt her,” Bridget snarled.

“Not a pretty hair on her pretty head. Yet. Oh yeah. Coming to you, love. Fucking surprised when I heard Bridget was the boss now. Aye. Well, she inherits the empire as well as its fucking debts. And that’s why you’re here, love, to repay your debts.”