Borderlands (14 page)
"Tell
me, Liam, I have to ask. Angela Cashell was a good-looking girl. Whatever
attracted her to you?"
"Animal
fucking magnetism, isn't it?" he said, not missing a beat, his teeth exposed
in a grin.
"But
seriously," Costello said, not breaking his stride either, "what
attracted her? Drugs? Money? What?"
"I gave
her things nobody else could," McKelvey said, almost offended that his
charms were not immediately apparent.
"What?
Scabies?" I asked and thought I heard a snort from behind the mirror,
where Williams and Holmes were still watching. I immediately regretted the
comment, but Whitely spoke before I could apologize.
"Aye,
babies," he said, though I was unsure whether he actually misheard me or
just chose to ignore what I had said.
"There
must have been something else," Costello said. "Were you paying
her?"
"No!"
McKelvey replied, beginning to redden. "She needed money sometimes. That's
the way she is. I gave her it if she was stuck. Said her da was a bleeding
tightwad."
"Did she
ask you for money when she said she was pregnant, Liam?" Costello asked
with conspiratorial warmth.
"Aye.
Said she needed two hundred quid to take care of it, know what I mean? Couldn't
ask her da."
"What did
you tell her?"
"Told
her it wasn't my problem."
There was a
pause while Costello seemed to consider something, biting at the inside of his
cheek. Finally he asked, "Would you have taken care of her and the
baby?" The relevance of this question was lost on me.
"Not my
problem. She got a shag. What more does she want?" He folded his arms on
his chest and nodded once, with arrogance, as if to emphasize his position.
"Know what I mean?"
Costello
shook his head sadly, and I realized the question had been personal: a vain
attempt to see if there was even a shred of decency in Whitey McKelvey.
"Liam,"
I said, redirecting the interview, "I want to go over some stuff, because
I think you've not been totally honest with me. So I'm going to ask you once
more. Were you giving Angela Cashell drugs?"
"I said
no already."
"Were
you buying her drugs or giving her money for drugs?"
"I gave
her money for stuff. I don't know what she spent it on."
"What
about the ring, Liam? Did you give her the ring?"
"What
ring?"
"Gold
ring, greeny-blue stone in the middle with diamonds around it. You know the
one. You lifted it in Letterkenny a month ago. Tried to sell it in Stranorlar.
Refreshing your memory now, Liam?"
"That. I
sold it," he said, refusing to look at me, staring instead at the mirror
behind me. "Some bitch bought it off me in a disco."
"Who?"
"Don't
know."
"Where?"
"Don't
know," he said, smiling.
Costello
stood up, suddenly. "This interview is concluded at 7.55 p.m. on Wednesday
24th December." Then he turned off the tapes and called into the intercom
beside the machines. "Would someone come in and take this piece of shit to
the cells?" He added softly and a little sadly, "Then hose this place
out . . ." Finally, he turned to McKelvey and said, "You disgust me,
you...
fucking animal,"
as if he could think of nothing worse to say. His shoulders slumped, as though
he realized that Whitey McKelvey, of all people, had somehow inveigled him into
revealing a side to his character that he would rather not have acknowledged,
and he left the room.
"You
shot yourself in the foot with this one, buddy." McKelvey said nothing,
but gave me the finger. Then, when Harvey came over to take him down to the
cells, I too left the room and joined Costello and Williams and Holmes next
door.
"Well?"
I said.
"Not
much, is there?" Williams said. Then she smiled, "I liked the scabies
line though."
"It was
a cheap shot," I said.
"It's
him," Holmes said. "He's a liar through and through. We know he was
with her on Thursday night; sure we have it on tape. If he's lying about that,
he's lying about the whole lot." He snorted with derision. "I say we
charge him now."
"No,"
Costello said. "We've seventy-two hours. Hold him over Christmas. We'll
start again on Boxing Day. If we need to, we can charge him then. Let the wee
shite stew for a few days without his turkey and ham. Agreed?" We all
shrugged assent. "The only problem now is who'll do tonight?"
It's
difficult on any night, never mind Christmas Eve, to get volunteers to man a
station in a village the size of ours. Generally, one of us takes a mobile and
the station is locked up for the night. McKelvey had screwed that up. Someone
needed to be in the station while he was being held.
"I'll do
a session before midnight," I said. "Debbie will divorce me if I do
the whole night. Anyway, Penny is singing solo at midnight Mass tonight and I
can't miss it or
she'll
divorce me, too."
"I'm
out," Williams said. "I have to play Santa all alone."
"I'll do
the nightshift," Holmes piped up. "I have no one waiting for me; I
don't mind. Everyone else has someone to go home to.
"Aren't
you going home for Christmas?" Williams said, and I realized that I didn't
even know where "home" was for him.
"No. My
mother died years ago. My father is in care but he's so far gone I could stand
right beside him and he wouldn't even know I was there. So that's me. Little
orphan Jason."
Williams
looked taken aback by his sincerity. "Come to mine for dinner tomorrow.
It'll just be me and Peter ... and the cat." She seemed to have blurted
the offer out without thinking, and instantly blushed.
"Thanks,
Caroline," he said. "I might."
The two of
them looked at each other momentarily, before turning back to me and Costello
to dispel the awkwardness which we all felt.
"Fine,
Jason. If you're happy enough to do it, that's great," Costello said.
"We'll get Harvey to hold the fort
until...
eight?"
I nodded my
agreement - if I did 8.00 to 11.30 p.m., I'd still be in time for Mass.
"Benedict,
you take the mobile just in case." He began to walk away, then called over
his shoulder, "And a happy Christmas to you all!"
As he turned
to walk away, I saw Williams mouth
"Benedict?"
to Holmes, who shrugged.
"Only to
Elvis," I said, with a wink, realizing that they hadn't known my full Christian
name.
"I heard
that," Costello shouted, from his office.
By the time I
got home it was almost seven o'clock. Debbie was getting Penny changed into
her Christmas clothes, which she had been given early as a special treat for
singing at midnight Mass. I watched as the two of them fixed one another's hair
and giggled about girlie things. Shane and I did the manly thing by sitting in
front of the TV and not speaking. But then, he was only ten months old.
Around five
to eight, I got ready to go to the station. I left the house with Debbie's
warning ringing in my ears: "If you miss Penny's solo, the door will be
locked when you get home. Sleep with Frank."
I made it to
the station in five minutes or so, the traffic was so light. Harvey opened the
front door, yawning. "What's up?" I asked.
"Nothing,
sir," he said. "Quiet as a mouse in there. I took him tea and a
sandwich about an hour ago." "Fair enough, John. Best get home,
eh?" "Going to see my sister, sir. Christmas presents and that."
"Have a good evening. Happy Christmas, John. Thanks for your help
today."
"My
pleasure, sir," he said, shrugging on his Garda overcoat. "Merry
Christmas."
I checked on
McKelvey a few minutes later: he was sleeping on his side, his breath wheezing
slightly, presumably a result of the blows he had received during his arrest. I
lifted the empty cup and plate which he'd left at the side of his bed. He
muttered quietly in his sleep and shifted onto his back.
I sat in the station
until 11.30 p.m. reading three-day-old newspapers. When Holmes arrived, I
packed up and headed to Mass, not bothering to check on McKelvey, who was
getting a better night's sleep than the rest of us.
I sat in the
church and listened to my daughter sing 'O Holy Night', her voice cracking a
little on the top notes. I looked at Debbie to see tears well in her eyes as
she watched our little girl stand at the lectern and hold the attention of all
the people in the church. I was aware of a sensation deep in my mind, an
awareness of what the doctor had said about hepatitis or HIV. I would have to
ensure that I did nothing which might endanger my family. Debbie would
sometimes use my razor to shave her legs. What if I nicked myself and she used
it? What if Penny or Shane picked up something from my cutlery - or if I kissed
them goodnight? Something in my breast felt raw and exposed as my daughter's
voice rose above the choir's in the final chorus, and I wished to be a child
again myself, to be held in my mother's arms and told that everything would be
alright.
As if
instinctively sensing my need, Debbie took my hand without looking and
squeezed it tenderly. Her thumb ran across the back of my hand, caressing the
knuckles, and I felt her tense when she rubbed the gauze dressing where
McKelvey had bitten me. Instinctively, afraid that some blood may have soaked
through with which she might come into contact, I pulled my hand away. She
looked down at my hand and then at my face. Smiling a little bewilderedly, she
took my hand again in both of hers. Her openness and generosity made me
grateful all over again that she had ever married me. This thought would come
back to haunt me later that evening, as I almost threw away such a precious
gift.
It was
raining as we drove home, a thin steady drizzle which created dirty haloes
around the neon of the street lamps and smeared the windscreen with each sweep
of the wipers. The journey passed in silence as Penny lay dozing, stretched
across the back seat.
As I swung
the car into our driveway, the headlamps raked across a silver BMW which had
been abandoned in front of our doorway, and I felt something in my stomach
collapse in on itself.
"I
wonder who this could be," Debbie said, then got out of the
car.
My parents
had watched Shane for us while we were at Mass and my mother opened the door.
"You've got company. In a bit of a state, too," she said, rolling her
eyes.
Miriam Powell
was sitting on the old leather armchair facing the door as we entered the
living room, attempting to affect an air of sophistication, despite the smell
of gin that hung around her. Her eyes were bloodshot and she was clearly having
difficulty focusing. My parents excused themselves and left as Debbie carried
Penny up to bed. Miriam watched with a fixed, insincere smile as I kissed my
daughter on the forehead and told her I loved her. "I always knew you'd
make a good father, Benedict," Miriam said. "I've always said
that."
"There's
little to it, Miriam. When you have kids as good as those two of mine, you
can't help but be good."
"I have
no children," she stated matter-of-factly.
"I
know." I felt I should add some note of commiseration, but I had always
suspected that their childlessness was by choice.
"Could
you offer a lady a drink?" she said, in a slurred attempt at humour.
"Gin.
Right?"
"You
could be a barman, do you know that, Benedict?" she replied, and laughed -
a shrill, empty laugh that rang out too long.
In the
kitchen, I fixed her a gin and tonic, omitting the gin because she was driving.
When I returned, she was standing at the hearth, admiring our family
photographs.
"Thank
you, Benedict. I have always relied on the kindness of
...
well, not strangers
certainly, but—"
"That's
a role you were never any good at, Miriam," Debbie said, standing in the
doorway. "Even at college, you were never weak enough for Blanche."
"Deborah!
Happy Christmas, dear," Miriam said, turning suddenly and moving to kiss
Debbie. In her haste, the cuff of her woollen jacket caught on a picture of
Penny on her first day at school and the picture fell to the ground, shattering
the glass.
"Oh
fuck! Was that me?"
"Don't
worry, Miriam," I said, reaching down to pick up the pieces as she did the
same. Hunkered down, wavering unsteadily, she fell against me, gripping my arm
for balance and spilling some of her drink over my shirtsleeve and the picture
lying on the floor. Then she started to giggle, as I helped her to her seat.
She held out her glass, presumably in a request for a refill, and I noticed
Debbie surreptitiously shake her head.
