Of Blood and Honey (Fey and the Fallen) (33 page)

“I know you can talk,” D.I. Haddock said. “Heard you squawk when Johnston gave you that thumping. So, you can just answer the fucking question.”

Not going to talk. So, you can toss me back in the cell,
thought Liam.
But you can’t, can you? Time is up. If you were going to ship me off to prison you’d have started the process already. Right? So, this is just the last gasp before you let me go.

D.I. Haddock slammed both fists down on the table, and Liam involuntarily jumped.

“Answer the question!”

Turning away, Liam thought of how the beast would resume its work. First on the list was the big ginger Peeler. Liam didn’t need a name. Now that he knew where the man was stationed, tracking him to his home would be easy. Then would come the questions. Liam couldn’t believe his luck. He hadn’t even had to search the city—just endure a few days of shortened sleep and the occasional hiding. D.I. Haddock with his empty threats was not important. D.I. Haddock wasn’t even worth worrying about.

“Fine, then. Don’t talk, and we’ll let you go. You’ve done your seven days. That’s how this plays out, is it?” D.I. Haddock asked. “But there’s more. See, here’s the best part, young Mr. Kelly. I may know you didn’t talk. And you may know you didn’t talk. But your friends aren’t going to be so sure, are they? And you’re in enough trouble with them already, aren’t you?”

D.I. Haddock grabbed Liam’s arm and shoved his sleeve up, exposing the track marks inside his elbow.

“I don’t know where you found heroin in this godforsaken country. I don’t particularly care because frankly, I don’t give a damn what you fucking Paddies do to yourselves,” D.I. Haddock said. “But your friends do care don’t they? And who’s to say you didn’t sell out for a hit? Maybe even a whole supply?” He set his teeth in a vicious grin. “Yes. That’s right. I think maybe I should have someone contact you outside. Once a week. Be sly about it but not quite sly enough. Make sure they know. Make a few calls. Keep an eye on you. Maybe even leave you something for your trouble. Whether you accept it or not won’t make a difference. It’s their perception of the situation that matters.”

Liam jerked his arm free and glared.

“Got to you, have I?” Haddock asked. “Yes. I have. I can see. Welcome to the rest of your life, you piece of shit. You think you can fuck with me? You’re wrong. I can make bloody sure the last moments of your life are a living hell. And the nice part is, I won’t even have to lift a finger. Your Fenian scum friends will do it for me.”

Haddock lit a cigarette and blew the smoke in his face. Liam didn’t move.

“Way I see it, this is your last chance.” Haddock said, “All we really have to do is shoot you up and plant a kit on you. A pretty picture, that. One even a Paddy could put together.”

Looking away, Liam listened to the sound of his heart. His whole body quivered with each thudding beat.
He’s lying. He can’t do it. He won’t. He’s a Peeler. It’s a threat, that’s all. Peelers are bastards, but he won’t do it. Calm down. Don’t show him anything. They’ve fucking revoked political status. You’ll go in for good. Don’t say anything. Don’t give him anything. Don’t—

“Nigel!” D.I. Haddock reached inside his coat and brought out a zippered bag. “It’s time!”

The door slammed open and a Peeler came in. Liam recognized him from the beatings. He was a few inches shorter than Liam and weighed at least twice as much. Of course, after two months of Jimmy’s smack Liam couldn’t have fought Oran’s Granny. Constable Nigel Johnston had blond hair, a crooked nose and a really unpleasant right hook. He stepped behind Liam’s chair and placed a meaty palm on each shoulder. Haddock unzipped the bag.

“Hallway is clear,” Constable Johnston said, “We’ve fifteen minutes. No more.”

“Time is running out fast,” Haddock said, holding up a spoon. “Don’t get the idea I don’t know what to do. I worked narcotics for six years. Undercover.” He set the spoon on the table and unbuckled his belt. Then he came around the table and looped the belt around Liam’s arm and drew it tight. The detective’s hands were cold.

“One minor infraction,” Haddock said, “And they send me to this… shit hole. Fucking Belfast.”

Liam watched in horror as Haddock cooked the heroin in the spoon using the cigarette lighter from the zippered bag. The syringe plunged into the cotton ball. Haddock’s movements were efficient. Practiced. “Hold him tight, Johnston. Don’t want him to wiggle and make a mess, now do we?”

Fear shot ice shards into Liam’s stomach, and sweat trickled down his sides.
It’s only a threat. He’s not really going to—

“This is high-grade smack. Shame to waste it on the likes of you. One last time,” Haddock said in his terse accent. “What’s your name?”

Liam tried to get up from the chair but was slammed back down at once. He wasn’t in shape for a fight, and Constable Nigel Johnston knew exactly how to handle himself. Liam had learned that much the hard way.

Haddock held up the syringe. “Your choice,” he said and then pinned Liam’s left wrist to the steel table with the other hand. The needle stabbed down and sharp pain rocketed up Liam’s arm.

“No!” He tried to escape, to dislodge the needle and failed.

“Too late,” Haddock said, clucking like a disappointed school teacher. “You had your chance.”

The heroin was still warm as it entered Liam’s veins. Struggling, he didn’t notice when the belt had been removed. Either Haddock had been none too gentle when he’d removed the needle or it’d been his own struggles, but blood dripped on the floor. Liam blinked, feeling dizzy. He had a whole inventory of bruises, cuts and a number of cigarette burns courtesy of Constable Johnston. Small pains. All of them vanished in a warm haze and then Liam’s eyes fluttered closed.

“Oh, no. You’re not sleeping here.”

“Did you give him too much?”

“He’s just being stubborn. Fucking Paddies.”

Liam’s head rocked back.

“Wakey, wakey.”

“We’ve only four minutes, boss.”

“Get him out of here.”

Then movement. Grey tiles. A car. Ribbed vinyl upholstery sticky against his cheek. The smell of old cigarettes. Door open. Outside. Cold. Pavement. Steps. There were steps, and he was using the rail to keep himself from falling. Marveling at the cold steel in his palm and no pain. Water oozed from the sky in icy silver sheets, but he couldn’t feel it. The warmth in his veins burned out all other sensations. The colors. Everything outlined in gold. Beautiful. A woman stood in front of him. She had dark wavy hair, freckles and amazing brown eyes. Her flower print dress bulged about the middle. Pregnant. She spoke but he couldn’t make sense of the sounds she made. Pretty sounds. He sat, unable to go any further. His hand in a water puddle. Threads of bright red swirling in cloud-filled water.
Reflection,
Liam thought.
It’s a reflection.
Red liquid stained the sky, and he wondered if it would rain blood. He thought of the plagues in the Bible and started to laugh. An angel came for the first born. Had it been a fallen angel? Someone screamed. Oran appeared. A dark bruise over his left eye.

“Didn’t,” Liam said, seeing the anger etch lines in Oran’s face.

Oran’s mouth moved, but again Liam couldn’t make any sense of what was being said. His head grew too heavy to hold up. So he rested it on the walk and watched black patches form in the clouds. The inky spots bled over everything until there wasn’t anything else.

Chapter 22

Andersonstown, Belfast, County Antrim, Northern Ireland

April 1977

A knife blade of pain shot up the inside of Liam’s left arm and lodged into his spine somewhere between his shoulder blades. “
Mac an mhadaidh sráide!
”

“Stop jumping about,” Oran said. “Let me change the bandage.”

Seven-year-old Brian sat next to his father, his little face intent under thick brown curls. “What did Uncle Liam say?”

Oran jerked the dressing free none too gently, taking parts of the scab with it. Liam pressed his lips together to keep from screaming something else little Brian would regret repeating.

“Never you mind,” Oran said. “Why don’t you go outside and play?”

“It’s raining,” Brian said. “What’s wrong with his arm?”

“Then go finish your homework,” Oran said.

“Finished already,” Brian said. “He got measles? Is he going to be sick again?”

“Go play with your sisters!”

Looking hurt, Brian stood up and then retreated into the next room.

“Sorry,” Liam said.

“Watch yourself,” Oran said. “Elizabeth hears the little ones repeat one more phrase the likes of that one, we’ll both be looking for new lodgings. Had a rough enough time with her over the last bout of this.”

Liam’s throat constricted, and he looked away.

Tying off the new bandage, Oran said, “You’ve done some less than brilliant things on occasion but nothing this stupid. Was the drugs that tempted you, you’d have been more careful about it, I’m thinking. Cagey. Said so to Éamon, myself. Christ, your arm is a mess.”

Liam changed the subject. “What about the job? Is it still on? What are we going to do?”

“Nothing, mate,” Oran said. “Not a damned thing. You’ll go back to your cab, and I’ll see to the shop. Someone has to run it while Bobby is inside.

You were right. Should’ve had you lift the wheels.”

“But—”

“They’re watching us. Can’t do anything out of the ordinary. Not for months—maybe even a year. We’re out of the war for a time, you and me.”

Thinking of the ginger-haired constable, Liam inwardly disagreed.
Wait until I get my strength back,
he thought.
Then we’ll see.

Stopping his taxi, Liam let Mr. Gower and his sons out and waited for Mrs. Burney to get in. “Where to, Mrs. B.?” Since the taxi was now empty Mrs. Burney’s destination would determine the taxi’s and any subsequent passengers would be dropped or picked up along the way.

“My sister’s bakery on the Springfield Road. The bus isn’t running today because of the bombing. Poor wee Kevin. Ten years old. Bombing an Easter parade. What’s the world coming to?”

“How’s the McMenamins getting on?”

“Not well at all,” Mrs. Burney said. “Such a tragedy. Will you be going to the funeral?”

“Aye.”

“Still, we must go on.”

“I’ll get you to your sister’s, Mrs. B.”

His arm was taking its time healing, and it ached with every gear change or sudden move. He wanted to grab a cup of tea from the thermos Elizabeth had been kind enough to provide, but he needed to concentrate. The cab was new to him. Although most people would argue that one couldn’t tell one black hack from another, he knew the difference. The new cab hadn’t been as well maintained as his cab had been. It had a looser clutch and tended to hitch in second gear. Even the seats were worn-out and could use a bit of cleaning. At least the carburetor was in decent shape. He made a note to himself to give the cab a wash when his shift was done. It was warm enough. He could give the entire car a thorough go over. Maybe even get the little ones to help. It’d keep them all distracted for an hour or so, and grant Oran and Elizabeth a bit of much-needed privacy.

Liam glanced in the rearview mirror in preparation for merging back onto the street.

Detective Haddock stood just behind the cab, one step from the curb. His lips pulled back into a vicious smile. He waggled his fingers by way of a wave hello.

A surge of hatred poured through Liam, his fist tightened on the gear shift knob, and he checked an urge to slam the car into reverse. This was the second time that fucker had appeared in the past three hours.

“Is something wrong?”

“No, Mrs. B.,” Liam said. “I’ll have you to the shop in no time.” He rolled down the window and gave Detective Haddock the two fingers.

Mrs. Burney gasped. “What are you doing?”

“Sorry, Mrs.,” Liam said. “Was signaling we could take two more passengers.”

She glanced at the interior of the empty cab which had space enough for at least five more and harrumphed in disbelief. Haddock just grinned and waved again. Oran had said not to react to Haddock, but Liam couldn’t help himself. The day before, two undercover constables had gotten into his cab and tried to offer him an envelope full of smack. He’d told them to stuff it. Luckily, two passengers signaled they wanted a ride or there may have been blows—or worse. Frightened by the prospect of being forcibly shot up again, Liam had explained what had happened to Oran. When he was finished, Oran gave him a nervous sideways look that Liam didn’t like. The whole situation was getting to him, and Liam began to second-guess everything he did—worrying over what it must look like to Oran. He knew it only made him look guiltier, and understanding that this was what Haddock wanted made him hate the bent Peeler more than ever.

He drove while Mrs. Burney talked about her daughter’s upcoming wedding. Attempting to calm himself after the encounter with Haddock, Liam made the requisite noises of agreement and pretended to listen while he thought about his preparations for the evening ahead.

It’d taken several tries, but he finally had been able to make the change from human to monster and back at will. Locking himself in the washroom hadn’t been the smartest idea as it had turned out. The transition hurt like anything, and he’d come back to himself to the sound of Oran pounding on the door. Once inside, Oran had searched the washroom and then checked Liam’s pupils. Liam understood why. That was, after all, the reason he was staying there. However, he was getting damned sick of the arrangement, and he was certain Elizabeth was reaching the end of her patience as well. He needed his own place, but that wasn’t likely to happen anytime soon with Detective Haddock and his friends making their appearances. Not that Liam looked forward to the vulnerability of living alone, given his history with Haddock.

Accepting his fee from Mrs. Burney, Liam breathed a sigh of relief as she made her way to the bakery’s door. She latched onto Mrs. Lawson at the entrance, machine gun blasts of chatter rebounding off the glass and through the open cab window. No one was waiting for a ride. As he continued on down Springfield Road he popped in his new favorite mix tape.