Adrian McKinty - The Bloomsday Dead

“Ten million will go a long way,” Bridget said, still not understanding what Scotchy meant to do. But I did. Bridget and the girl. The girl first to show Bridget the meaning of pain. Then her.

It was clever on Scotchy’s part, it would establish him as a bad lad, the one who topped Bridget and her wee girl. Nobody would fuck with him after that. And ten million quid. Nearly eighteen million dollars with the weak greenback. Scotchy could return to America and ride out any storm he wanted. Or stay here. Belfast was on the up and up. If there was prosperity he could move into drugs and protection. And if it went the other way… Maybe by the 2011 census, certainly in the five years after it, the Catholics would have a majority in Northern Ireland. And any fool could see what that would mean. A Catholic majority in Ulster would mean a vote for union with the south and a million Protestants, many of whom had served in the armed forces, would suddenly find themselves in a foreign country. Think Bosnia, Rwanda, Kosovo. Oh, for a player like Scotchy, the possibilities would be endless.

Kill Bridget, kill Siobhan, establish his kudos, rise, rise, rise.

He could go far, that boy, especially with a smart consigliere like me beside him. His old mate. He’d take me back. I know he would.

Reveal myself, hugs, tears, slaps on the back, and then ride with Scotchy into the good times. He’d provide protection from Moran, from the peelers, from everybody. He was destined for great things.

Aye, you could say that that was the right and only move. Just close your eyes, Michael. Stick your fingers in your ears. All be over in a moment. The smart play. Crouch down and let it happen.

But no.

Siobhan had changed everything. Even if she’d only been Darkey’s kid I wouldn’t have let him do it.

And certainly not after what I knew now.

“Well, it’s painful for me to talk. And it’s the end of my story, bitch. You’re going to pay without further fucking ado. Say goodbye to your wee girl,” Scotchy said and stood back from her. He pointed the machine gun at Siobhan.

“The money, you have to count the money,” Bridget said desperately.

“Fuck the money,” Scotchy said, raised the gun.

I stood.

“Scotchy,” I said.

Scotchy looked like he been electrocuted. He shook, froze, turned. His jaw opened. His good eye bulged in its socket. Cassidy almost shot me on the spot but reacted just in time.

“Bruce. You fucker,” Scotchy said and the delight on his face would have curdled milk from fifty paces.

He ran to the back of the cave and embraced me.

“What the fuck are you doing here?” he screamed, literally jumping for joy.

“Scotchy, I-”

“Boys, boys, this is me old mate Bruce,” he said to the other two, who were looking at me with a mixture of suspicion, horror, and disbelief. This whole scene was tense enough already without some ghost from Scotchy’s past appearing like a magician at the back of cave. I mean, what the fuck else was back there? The Heavenly Choir, the FBI, the Irish Guards Pipe Band?

Cassidy kept one gun on me, Marty kept his on Bridget.

At least, it appeared that I was unarmed.

Scotchy grinned at me with false teeth, a pockmarked face, a reconstructed nose, a jaw that could never close properly, a white left eye.

“What the fuck are you doing here? You’re dead,” I said in amazement.

Scotchy smiled.

“How did you find this place?” he asked.

“I found your boy McFerrin. I asked him. He told me,” I said.

Scotchy laughed.

“Bruce, Bruce, Bruce, you have no fucking idea. You have no idea how badly I’ve been trying to get you. Fucking hell, Bruce. I have moved heaven and earth. And I even sent a couple of guys to Australia. You were in Australia for a while, right?”

“No, Scotchy, I was never in Australia. But what about you, how the fuck are you still alive? When did you get out?” I asked, slapping him on the back.

“Two years, Bruce. Two years.”

I hugged Scotchy and looked at Bridget behind him. I looked at her to get her attention. She saw my glance and it helped. She was a tiny bit less afraid, a wee bit reassured. I gave her the slightest inclination of my head, a hint to get as near to Siobhan as she possibly could. If bullets were going to fly, I needed them together and out of my kill box. I let go the hug and held Scotchy at arms’ length. I punched him on the shoulder. He was fighting it, but the tears were welling up.

“Scotchy, I saw you fall on the razor wire, it nearly took your fucking head right off,” I said.

“Aye,” Scotchy said and his scarred and hideous face broke into a leer. “I was lucky. More lucky than I deserved to be, and the fucking wogs, they did me right considering everything, the fuckers. Those fucking bastards.”

Scotchy sagged, his body almost tumbling into mine with the memory of it.

“It must have been terrible,” I said.

“Bruce, I’ll never tell you, we’ll chat about old times, but I’ll never talk about that with you because it’ll break your heart,” he said sadly.

I believed him. He wouldn’t tell me and wouldn’t blame me. He’d protect me from what I couldn’t know. He’d look after me.

Scotchy clipped me around the top of the head.

“I heard about you in Mexico, killed Darkey White,” he said, grinning.

“I finished it,” I said.

Scotchy shook his head. He wasn’t having that. He wanted his piece and he wasn’t going to be denied. It would be pointless trying to talk him out of it. But I had to try.

“You survived, Scotchy, you’re a tough son of a bitch, and now you’ve got some dough, a wee crew. It’s great,” I said.

He nodded, stretched, held his gun tight, turned around to look at Bridget.

“Bruce, wee bit of business to take care of, then we’ll talk,” he said.

“Aye, boss, we should head,” Marty said.

“Wait a minute. You said you were looking for me?” I asked.

“Aye,” Scotchy said.

“You didn’t send a couple of guys to Dublin to pick me up, by any chance?” I asked him.

“Fuck aye, Bruce, I’ve been desperate, you are my right-hand man missing these twelve fucking years. Tell ya, half the reason I snatched the bairn in Belfast was the fucking hope that Bridget would send for you. Who did she know that knew Belfast? I knew she could get a message to you through the FBI. Maybe she’d promise you immunity or a couple of million. Christ, it couldn’t have worked out better. Bridget and Siobhan, the money, and now you, Michael. It’s like fucking Christmas,” Scotchy said, laughing.

He leaned against an outcrop of rock.

“I think this is even better than the day I got out,” he whispered to me with an affectionate smile.

I looked at Bridget and she began slowly moving next to Siobhan.

“So you sent a couple of clowns to get me in Dublin?” I asked.

Scotchy laughed.

“Aye, I had a couple of blokes try and pick you up in Dub. Put a local crew on it. Said just keep an eye out at the airport, pass the word around. Had a wee crew at Belfast airport too. Told them both: bring him to me. Don’t hurt him, but make sure he bloody comes,” Scotchy said.

“They were too heavy, Scotchy,” I said.

“Aye, well, I allowed them a wee bit of leniency; I had to get you, Bruce, if you were coming, I couldn’t allow you to see Bridget, knowing your weakness and all,” he said, laughing.

“Aye, Scotch,” I said.

“’Course, forgot who I was dealing with, not bloody Bruce at all, Michael fucking Forsythe, the man who killed Darkey White,” he said with a laugh that became a cough. A whole series of long speeches for Scotchy. He was done in. His finger slipped off the safety on the Pecheneg and he leaned on me.