Little Criminals (33 page)

England, he had a friend there, in Nottingham, friend enough to show him the basics. But even if that worked, he would never recover even a shadow of what he was losing. It wasn’t the money that mattered, it was the shop and its merchandise and its customers and the role it gave Dolly in the culture that began with the instruments of faraway musicians, mostly dead now, and spread around the world through a network of people with the ears to appreciate the music. The shop and the flat and the routine they supported were Dolly Finn’s life, and they were gone.

From downstairs, the endless
Huh! Huh! Huh! Huh!
of the hostage.

‘No, wait,’ was all Dolly said to Frankie when it started. ‘Just
wait
.’

Doing this didn’t make sense. There was an argument for disposing of the hostage, if it meant saving all of them from disaster. You could weigh such drastic action against all the harm they might suffer if she was a witness, and that would be a reasonable decision. That was business. Not this.

This didn’t make sense.

What this did was take them down beyond ruin, to nightmare.

‘Wait!’ he said, his mind scrambling to find the words.

And Frankie said, ‘Fuck off,’ and Dolly stood there for a moment, then he left the kitchen and passed Brendan and Milky, standing in the hall, both of them looking sick. That was when Dolly came upstairs.

The
Huh! Huh! Huh! Huh!
of the hostage continued. Dolly Finn realised there were tears on his cheeks.

*

She knew, just from the way he stood when he pulled her out of the closet, what was about to happen. Standing there, the mask over his head, breathing hard, poised, almost inviting her to try to get away. Knowing it was hopeless, she tried to run and as she did she heard him grunt with satisfaction. He caught her in the kitchen, knocked her feet from under her, her thigh raked by the corner of a table, her back slamming against the tile floor.

Somewhere behind her, one of the others said something. The gang leader said, ‘Fuck off.’

Slapping her face, pulling at her clothes, his knee pushing down the tracksuit bottom.

She cried out.

The punch in the face sent darkness rushing through her head, flecks of coloured light arcing and dying.

Then it was like she was waking suddenly, lying on the floor – seconds later, minutes, if she’d been unconscious at all – a rhythm coursing through her body, his weight on her, his panting, his rutting, her body rocking, the hard floor painful against her shoulder blades.

Jesus, Jesus, Jesus
.

The kidnapper’s eyes stared down from the holes in the mask. It didn’t matter that she couldn’t see the rest of the face – the eyes alone were enflamed with hatred. She felt liquid trickle along the side of her nose and down her cheek. He was making noises, in time with his thrusting, she cried out, he told her to shut the fuck up. He thrust violently, she screamed and that was when he punched her a second time and she felt something move inside her face. She didn’t lose consciousness this time and after a while she became aware of her non-stop panting,
Huh! Huh! Huh! Huh!

He had one hand pressed to the floor for balance. Her eyes glimpsed a familiar image. Inches from her face, the Rolex she’d bought for Justin’s birthday said that it was just after seven.

She heard him whisper,
Bitch!

Now he had one hand on her left breast, gripping hard, twisting. The other hand came up and his forearm pressed against her throat. The arm forced her chin up, her head back. The forearm pressed and relaxed in time with his thrusts. It was a crushing pressure. Her breath came in irregular gulps.

Knowing it would make no difference, she strained to plead with him not to kill her, but her mouth wouldn’t make the sounds she needed. Blinking, sweat seeping into her eyes, she struggled to grasp the words, to put them in order. Half-constructed sentences broke inside her head and the words came out as a series of gasping noises.

From him, the panting had dissolved into just one word now, a pulsing hiss that kept time with his rutting.

Yes! Yes! Yes! Yes!

He hit her again, this time a clumsy glancing blow to the side of her head. He screamed, ‘
Say it!
’

Through the roaring of the blood coursing through her faltering brain she understood, and her mind scrambled to grasp the word and her throat forced it out through her quivering lips, more of a moan than a word.

‘
Yes
—’

Within seconds, he bellowed and it all stopped and he was standing up, fixing his clothes. He bent over, grabbed her by the hair and by one arm, pulled her up and dragged her out of the kitchen. She wanted to plead but all that came out were wordless noises. He pushed her into the hall, pressed her head down and flung her backwards into the closet. Her back hit the wall, the top of her head collided with the underside of the stairs and she collapsed on to the floor. The door of the closet banged shut. In darkness, she heard the chair being slammed into place under the doorknob.

She realised she was making hissing sounds. She lay still, her wet cheek touching the cold floor.

*

Martin told the taxi driver to stop. It was a couple of roads past Milky’s place and he walked back through the quiet neighbourhood. Way back when, this was the kind of area he and Frankie and their mates might canvass for opportunities. Maybe a fanciable car in a driveway, or a pitch-dark house that might be worth a visit through an upstairs window. Back then, you got to pick and choose. These days, they all had burglar alarms and reinforced windows.

Passing a gateway, he saw two people talking on a doorstep. At another house an open window let out a belch of canned TV laughter. Around the corner, a car passed and turned into a driveway. He looked at his watch – half nine.

A couple of years back, Martin and Deborah had been to view a house for sale on this road. Just for the crack. Even though the banks were shovelling money at borrowers, stoking house prices, there was no way a librarian and someone on the lower rungs of the thieving business could raise the kind of scratch it took to buy a place around here. Not that that mattered any more.

Before they left the Omni, when the conversation with Deborah had become no more than a muttered sentence every few minutes, Martin had given up trying to convince her. By now, his own belief in what he was saying had evaporated. When they parted, he held her close and they meant the things they said about the future, and they knew that nothing they said or meant mattered very much. Then they got into separate taxis and Deborah went home and Martin went back to Milky’s house.

When he got there, he stood in the hall, his face pale, the fingers of one hand pinching his mouth, as Milky explained what had happened.

‘Is she OK?’

‘I had a look,’ Brendan Sweetman said. ‘She’s a bit of a mess, but she’s alive.’

‘Jesus, could none of you do nothing?’

‘You know yourself,’ Brendan said, ‘I mean, when Frankie’s like that. Christ, it’s not like I know her or anything. I mean, interfering with something like that, when there’s guns around—’

‘Where’s Frankie gone?’

‘Just gone.’

‘And we’re supposed to hang around here, cleaning up after him?’

‘He’s going to pick up the money, the place he hid it,’ Brendan said. ‘Soon as Milky knows the address of the new place, the rental, we ring Frankie, he meets us there lunchtime tomorrow, split the money, turn her loose.’

Martin shook his head.

When Martin opened the door of the closet, the hostage leaned back from the light that spilled in. Martin hunkered down and said, ‘It’s OK. Look, I heard what happened.’ He moved nearer and she made a shrill noise.

‘I wasn’t here. I didn’t know. I knew nothing.’

Silence.

‘Look, let me help, please?’

Her voice was a whisper. ‘Go away.’ She moved her head into the light and Martin saw the bruised eyes, swollen cheeks, the eye on the right closed, a trickle of blood on her cheek. She was holding a piece of blood-smeared cloth to the left side of her face. It was hard to tell where the blood ended and the bruises began.

‘Jesus, Angela, I’m sorry.’

The whisper again. ‘Fuck off.’

Frankie Crowe had a whole night to kill before heading off in the morning to pick up the money from Leo Titley’s place. He wanted to say goodbye to Joan and Sinead, but not tonight. Sinead would be in bed, Joan wouldn’t want her disturbed. Anyway, there’d be cops watching the house from every angle, best to contact Joan away from there. Most of all, he didn’t want to spend the night in Milky’s house, with all the bullshit he could expect once Martin got back. After he’d told the others he was going to get the money, and he’d given them a mobile number to ring and told them how he’d meet them next day at the new rental, Frankie went down to the seafront and found the red Mégane.

He drove around for a long time, then he parked in a lane behind a string of shops in Santry, and settled down in the back seat. On one side of the lane were the backyards of the shops, on the other the backyards of houses. The walls were easels for the local graffiti artists, the ground looked like everyone in the neighbourhood who had a bottle to smash had brought it here. The only legitimate use the lane got was during the daytime, when deliveries were made to the shops. There were three security lights overlooking the lane and the one in the middle was broken, so Frankie parked directly beneath it. In the morning, he’d go see Joan and Sinead. Then, drive down to Leo’s place outside Harte’s Cross, collect the money from the attic.

He checked his watch and realised he must have dozed off for at least an hour. It was after eleven. He rolled down the window an inch or two and filled his lungs with fresh, cold air. He took out the imitation leather wallet Sinead had given him and found a scrap of paper. He tapped out a Belfast number on his mobile.

‘It’s me. That work out?’

‘You’re booked in, you’ll pass as crew.’

‘You sure?’

‘Ring me as soon as you get here. Wouldn’t get a better service from a travel agent.’

‘Thanks. You’re a lifesaver.’

‘Bring cash.’

Frankie stretched across the back seat, used an arm to cradle his head, pulled his leather jacket around him and within minutes he drifted off again. He woke suddenly and thought at first he was in trouble. The car was rocking, there was a repetitive banging noise. Through the misted glass he could see a girl lying on her back on the bonnet, her long dark hair touching the windscreen. Frankie stared in disbelief. Above the girl, a teenager with a tight haircut, his chin up, his eyes shut tight, was pounding away between her thighs.

Frankie held his watch close to his face. It was after one in the morning.

Some fucking people
.

He watched. It was like there was no end to it. The rhythm didn’t speed up or slow down, it just kept going. Frankie slowly reached between the front seats, stretching until he could touch the key in the ignition.

Seconds later, the two were halfway down the lane, all jerky movements and little yelps, attempting to pull their clothing into some kind of order. It took a while before Frankie stopped laughing. Feeling the need, he got out of the car and pissed up against a wall.

Back in the car, he was wide awake.
Not a good day
, he told himself.
Don’t sweat it. Tomorrow, leave all this behind
.

Well over an hour later Frankie was still awake. He turned on the radio, found a music station and curled up on the back seat. Things start out to go a certain way, people make moves, things go in another direction, and before you can straighten them out you’re somewhere you never thought you’d be. Fuck them. All of them. Martin and the bitch. Dolly, Brendan and Milky, the whole fucking lot of them. Tomorrow, go see Joan, pick up the money from Leo’s place, make tracks. Larne to Troon on the boat, take a couple of days moving down through Britland to Dover, and then he had a whole continent to get lost in. Fuck them, each and every one.

Martin most of all.
‘Tell me the truth, Frankie, is this what you had in mind?’

Martin would never believe him. Things start out to go a certain way, then they go in another direction.

It’s as simple as that, Frankie told himself.

Some moron DJ started cranking on about some stupid phone-in competition. Frankie climbed over into the front seat and switched off the radio. When he woke several hours later, he was still lying crumpled in the front seat, cold and aching.

As they got out of Nicky Bonner’s car in the car park of Carbury Street garda station, John Grace said, ‘Anyone asks, you’re here because you gave me a lift. After that you’re on your own. Hogg himself comes along, he’ll have you out on your ear.’

Nicky said, ‘As my old dear used to say, it can’t hurt to show willing.’

Even in the lacklustre light of the early morning, the station had the air of excitement that went with a big case moving into a critical phase. Everyone involved in the inquiry knew that no matter which way it went this was one that would be talked about for years. There was a life involved. And in the wake of some thug’s ambition, reputations could be made or broken. Grace was on no more than nodding terms with Hogg’s regular team, he’d exchanged hardly a handful of sentences with any one of them. He could feel the competitive urge between them, and he shared it. He knew that, like the rest of them, he was stirred in equal measure by the hazard of failure and the excitement of opportunity.